“That’s a big ask,” Lars muttered. “Your track record at these kinds of events isn’t stellar.”
“Don’t stress over it,” Cole said. “I’ve got this.”
They’d almost reached the security checkpoint at the main doors. Marit’s chest tightened. How many of these people would recognize her when her “date” set off the alarms with his concealed weapon? Even if the number was only one, word would reach Esmee and Ralph in no time, and when it hit social media, things would go from bad to worse. No one in the fashion industry wanted scandal—especially when the eyes of the world were on them.
Marit gave her and Cole’s names to the woman who was checking in guests, and Cole stepped up to the metal detector. Bracing herself for the worst, Marit watched as he pulled something out of his inside pocket and showed it to the nearest officer. The officer studied it for a moment and then waved Cole around the equipment. Barely believing what she’d seen, Marit walked through the detector and met him on the other side.
“How did you do that?” she whispered.
“I have the right credentials.”
“And you couldn’t have told me that before I almost had a heart attack?”
He grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Remind me again why Isabelle puts up with you?”
“It’s one of the great mysteries of the universe,” Cole said, leading her down a set of stone stairs and into a room labeledThe Hall of the Men-at-Arms. “And I’ve decided it’s best not to ask her.”
Notwithstanding the anxiety he’d just put her through, Marit couldn’t help but laugh. On that subject, at least, Cole was using his head. “What about Isabelle? Does she have your other gun with her?”
“No. I’m carrying both tonight. I’ll pass it to her if we think she’ll need it.”
“Wow!” Lars said as he and Isabelle joined them. “This isn’t exactly how I envisioned the inside of a prison.”
Marit took a moment to appreciate the sight before them. The large room was built completely of stone. The flagstones on the floor were polished smooth. Stone walls rose to meet an elaborate network of gothic arches that were further supported by rows of marble pillars. Lights surrounded each pillar, illuminating the beauty of the ceiling above. Ornamental trees, tall urns, and elaborate flower displays had been tastefully added to the vast room, but the biggest splashes of color came from the clothing its current occupants wore.
Most people stood conversing in small groups. A few were wandering the room with a glass in hand, while others remained on the fringes, silently watching the interactions of others.
“What’s the plan?” Lars asked quietly.
“We mingle as couples,” Cole said. “Make note of any subtle rivalries, jealousies, or contentions between the designers. Watch for anything that seems out of the ordinary—no matter how insignificant.”
“And try the food,” Lars added.
“If you want to,” Cole said. “The platter that just went by looked suspiciously like frog legs.”
Lars pulled a face, and Isabelle laughed.
“Don’t tell me frog legs rank up there with spinach, Lars,” she said.
“If they don’t have decent hors d’oeuvres and pastries on any of those platters, we’re going out to eat when this is over,” he warned.
“Deal,” Cole said. “How about we meet back here in about an hour?”
With nods of agreement, Lars and Isabelle headed off across the room. Cole led Marit in the other direction. A couple passed them. Marit acknowledged them with a smile. She recognized the male model.
“Explain to me why so many designers equate weirdness with skill,” Cole said.
Marit raised an amused eyebrow. “You don’t appreciate a dress made of tulle filled with artificial flowers?” she asked, describing the nearby woman’s gown.
“Nope. And I like my tuxes solid black, not half black-and-white stripes, half red-and-white checkered.”
She chuckled softly. “I don’t know. Maybe they think the crazier the design, the more vivid their imaginations.”
“I think it’s more like: the crazier the design, the crazier the designer.”
“There may be some truth to that,” Marit said, sobering slightly. “A lot of designers are a bit eccentric.”