Page 41 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“Ralph seems like a pretty level-headed guy.”

“He is. He’s also brilliant. Somehow, he takes a familiar look and makes it appear completely new.” She glanced at him. “Which is why the tuxes you and Lars are wearing appear both classic and original at the same time.”

“And why you and Isabelle look so stunning.”

She smiled. “That red gown really does look good on her, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Cole’s gaze darted to the other side of the room, and Marit caught the slight softening in his eyes when they landed on Isabelle. “Amazing.”

Marit’s smile widened. If Isabelle ever wanted further proof that Cole’s feelings for her were deepening every day, he’d just handed it to Marit.

A server carrying a platter filled with crystal goblets cut across Cole’s line of vision, snapping his attention back to Marit and the job at hand. “Ralph’s over there on the left, talking to a handful of people, so let’s start with a designer who doesn’t seem to be so chummy.”

“How about three at once?” Marit said. “I see Giuseppe Bianchi talking to Camille Allard and Kyle Adams. They’re standing two pillars away from us.”

“The Italian with three of his four former wives suing him for more alimony, the Frenchwoman who just took out yet another multimillion-euro loan because her last two lines aren’t bringing in enough to keep her business solvent, and the American desperate to make a big mark on European fashions,” Cole muttered. “Sounds like a good place to start.”

Marit stared at him. “How do you know all those things?” She really shouldn’t be surprised. The fact that Cole hadn’t even needed her to point out which of the three designers was which simply proved his ability to access any number of sources.

“You and Isabelle have been busy with castings and fittings.” He shrugged. “Lars and I had to keep ourselves occupied somehow.”

“So, Lars is going into this with some background information too?” she asked.

“Yep.” He placed his hand on her elbow and gently steered her toward the three designers. “It seemed like a good idea to have a basic knowledge of who we’re dealing with. Especially if one of them is desperate enough to commit intellectual-property theft and murder.”

Marit released a tense breath. Cole’s blunt appraisal was a good reminder of why they were here.

It was time to make some introductions.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Allard,” she greeted her in French. “Mr. Adams. Signore Bianchi. It’s nice to see you again.”

“Mademoiselle Jansen.” Camille Allard smiled. “You look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you.” Switching to English, she introduced Cole. “This is my friend, Cole Bridger. Cole, these are three of the top clothing designers in the world.”

“Nice to meet you,” Cole said, shaking the designers’ hands in turn. “Marit has told me a little about your work. I’m very impressed.”

Given their conversation of a few minutes ago, Cole’s compliment was pushing it a bit, but with their inflated egos fully intact, Marit was quite sure none of them would consider him anything but completely sincere. She was proven right when each one accepted the praise without comment—as if it were due to them.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Bridger?” Camille Allard asked.

“I’m a member of the US Diplomatic Corps,” Cole said.

Allard eyed Cole’s clothing and raised a critical eyebrow. “Forgive me for being impolite, but I confess, I’m surprised to see an American whose job it is to represent his country coming to this event in a Dutch designer’s tuxedo.”

Cole inclined his head. “You make a valid point, mademoiselle. Unfortunately, I neglected to bring my favorite Tom Ford tux with me to Paris, and when Marit invited me to attend this evening’s party with her, her countryman was gracious enough to allow me to wear one of his.”

Kyle grunted. “Makes sense. Molenaar’s not one to turn down any opportunity to showcase his designs.”

“I’ve seen several people wearing your clothing line this evening, Mr. Adams,” Marit said. “The red-checkered suit coat is particularly eye-catching.”

The American designer accepted the praise with a small shrug. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Creating clothing that rises above mediocrity.”

“Indeed.” Giuseppe Bianchi joined the conversation for the first time. He raked his gaze up and down the length of her. “And to that end, Miss Jansen, as delightful as Molenaar’s light-blue gown looks on you, might I suggest that next time, you choose a gown that hides less of your attractive figure.”

Marit struggled to suppress a shudder. Nothing had changed since the last time she’d spoken to the unsavory Italian. He still gave her the creeps.

Cole set a reassuring hand on her back, the twitching muscle in his jaw the only indication that Bianchi’s comment had infuriated him. “You obviously have a very different approach to your work than Molenaar does, Bianchi, and as someone who knows very little about the industry, I’d be interested to hear your thoughts on his current line.”

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