Page 38 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“No.” Marit shifted her bag more firmly onto her shoulder and hooked her free arm around Isabelle’s waist to draw her forward. “Come on. We have the Henri LaRue fitting next.”

“More time to pretend to be a human pincushion. Great.” Isabelle fell into step with Marit.

“Trust me.” Marit weaved past a rack of clothing encased by a black fabric cover. “The designers don’t want your blood on their clothes any more than you do.”

“It’s not the designers I’m worried about.” Isabelle brushed past another fabric-covered clothing rack. “It’s the pin-wielding assistants who scare me.”

Isabelle caught sight of a man in his late forties with thinning black hair. He scowled in their direction, his focus on Marit.

Without pointing, Isabelle asked, “Who’s that? The man at my ten o’clock.”

To Marit’s credit, she barely glanced in the man’s direction before returning her focus to Isabelle. “That’s Giuseppe Bianchi.”

Isabelle recalled the name of the Italian designer coming up when they’d gone over the various designers who had shows before Ralph, but she couldn’t remember any details beyond his nationality.

“Any idea why he would be staring at you?” Isabelle asked.

“No clue. I didn’t audition for his show.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like the way he objectifies women.”

Isabelle bristled. “I’m glad that wasn’t a show I had to audition for. I’m sure I’d feel the same way.”

They reached the spot where one of Henri LaRue’s assistants was checking in models. Nadia currently stood on a stool, wearing a bright-pink hoodie that hung well past her hips.

Marit and Isabelle gave their names before moving to their dressing rooms to put on the clothes they had been assigned for this show.

Isabelle picked up the green hoodie that was slightly shorter than Nadia’s.

“Believe me,” Marit said. “These are much better than Bianchi’s short skirts. Plus, we have the added benefit of not needing to accessorize with fishnet stockings.”

“I totally owe you for that,” Isabelle said.

Marit flashed her megawatt smile. “You’re welcome.”

Isabelle stepped behind a changing screen and slipped into the hoodie and pair of black jeans that had been laid out for her. After slipping on the white-and-black-checkered Keds that went with the ensemble, she headed toward where Marit now stood on a stool. The way the woman could change clothes so fast was truly remarkable.

“Ah, this is the perfect color for you,” Henri announced in French.

Marit’s coral hoodie was cropped at the waist, leaving her midriff bare for nearly an inch over the waistband of her fitted white jeans.

Marit’s time on the stool took mere seconds. Isabelle, on the other hand, ended up changing shoes six times before Henri was pleased with his choice.

They each went through one more change before completing their fitting.

As they left, Isabelle said, “Please tell me we’re done for the day.”

“Almost.” Marit led her toward an elevator.

“Where are we going?”

“To pick up dresses from Ralph.”

“Why?”

“For the party tonight.”

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