Page 1 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

Chapter 1

Marit shifted the plum-colored velvetcushion at her back, adjusted her position in the gray-tweed wingback armchair, and recrossed her ankles. Elegance. Grace. It was what her agent, Esmee, demanded of all her models, particularly when they were meeting with clothing designers. And today, it wasn’t just any designer; it was Ralph Molenaar, the Netherlands’ foremost authority on fashion and the man whose designs were causing the biggest buzz at this year’s Paris Fashion Week.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, ladies.” Ralph walked in wearing a black turtleneck and black trousers. His assistant, Adriana, was only a couple of steps behind, carrying a sheaf of papers. “Casting went longer than I’d anticipated.”

He hardly needed to tell them that. Esmee had had at least thirty models standing in line for casting today. Marit was grateful that she and her colleague Nadia had been spared the torturously long wait. Several weeks ago, Ralph had requested that they both work his show. For Esmee, his singling out two of her models was a huge feather in her cap. For Marit, the personal invitation was a dream come true.

“I don’t think those lines are getting shorter any time soon,” Esmee said as she, Marit, and Nadia rose to their feet to greet him.

Ralph gave a rueful smile. “A designer’s only as good as his next season’s designs, Esmee. You know that better than anyone.”

“Yes, well, if the pieces Marit and Nadia tried on earlier today are any indication, you have nothing to worry about for a while.”

This time, his smile was genuine. “You liked them, huh?”

“They’re magnificent,” Esmee said.

He reached for the papers in Adriana’s hands and rifled through them. “So, you’ve already had your fittings?”

“Yes,” Marit said. “We’re ready.”

“Excellent.” He marked something on his papers. “I’m glad you’re both here. It’s good to work with models I know.”

Marit smiled. The feeling was mutual. She was always more at ease working for someone familiar, because every clothing collection was different, and it helped when she knew how the designer liked to run his or her show. She was quite sure Nadia felt the same. The two of them had modeled together more often than not, which wasn’t necessarily surprising since they were both Dutch, worked through the same agency, and had contrasting appearances that gave designers like Ralph a chance to showcase a variety of colors to their best advantage. Marit’s long blonde hair and fair skin was a perfect foil for Nadia’s short, tight black curls and darker complexion.

“Do you have any particular concerns?” Marit asked.

“Coster is supplying us with jewelry,” he said. “I’ve approved each piece, and there isn’t a single one that’s not eye-catching. As much as I appreciate the opportunity to feature Dutch gems in my show, your job is to make sure the buyers are more interested in the clothing than the accessories.”

Marit could not prevent the excitement that rose within her at the reminder. Her boyfriend, Lars, was Coster Diamonds’ official photographer, and he was coming to Paris with the jewelry, which meant they’d have almost two whole weeks together in the city. Even though they’d both be working, she could hardly wait for him to arrive.

“We can do that,” Nadia said, bringing Marit’s attention back to Ralph’s request. “Your designs don’t need bling to set them apart.”

Nadia was right. Ralph’s lack of sparkles or ornamentation was one of the things that made his designs so universally popular.

Even his office reflected his style: classic lines, subdued tones, with a few strategically placed accent colors. His large desk was uncluttered, and the lone decorations in the room were the half dozen framed award certificates and an oil painting of Dutch tulip fields hanging on the wall. The only thing that glittered in the entire room was the light gleaming off the metallic trim on the closet door’s keypad lock.

“Well then, I don’t think we have anything else to discuss.” He handed the papers back to Adriana.

“Thank you, Ralph.” Esmee reached for her coat and put it on.

Marit and Nadia did the same. Then, lifting her shoulder bag from the floor, Marit pulled out her red beanie. Late February in Paris was chilly, especially in the evenings, after the sun went down.

Waiting for the women to precede him out of the office, Ralph locked the door behind them.

“Ralph!”

They all turned. A man with tousled brown hair was standing with one hand on the doorframe of an office down the hall.

“Maggie needs you to sign off on something right away,” he called.

“And so the pre-Fashion Week emergencies begin,” Ralph said. “If you will excuse me, ladies.” He inclined his head toward them. “Marit and Nadia, I’ll see you both backstage. Esmee, always a pleasure.” He headed down the hall at a brisk walk.

The three women went the other way, toward the lift.

Unfortunately, their departure was poorly timed. It seemed that almost everyone in the building was leaving work for the day. The lift stopped at each of the five floors on their way down from Ralph and his team’s floor, and by the time they reached the lobby, Marit was more than ready to exit the confined space. She, Esmee, and Nadia joined the general exodus toward the outer doors, and as she walked, Marit opened her bag to retrieve her gloves—but found only one. With a sinking heart, she rooted through her bag again.

“Hang on,” she said. “I’ve lost a glove.”

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