Page 42 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

Bianchi sniffed. “The man has no vision for anything that has not already been done.”

“That’s a little harsh, Giuseppe,” Camille Allard said. “He has a remarkable eye for color. The shade of blue he chose for Miss Jansen’s gown cannot be faulted.”

“His use of color is good, but he lacks the bravery to combine them in a unique way. Look at Peter Wade’s fabrics this year. Brilliant splashes of every hue imaginable,” Bianchi said.

Marit and Isabelle had worked Peter Wade’s rehearsal. The shirt Marit had modeled had been a new twist on the old tie-dye effect. The flowing trousers Isabelle had worn had made it appear as though she’d fallen into an assortment of paint cans.

“Is Peter Wade here?” Cole asked.

“Yes. He’s over there, talking to Molenaar.” Kyle gestured to the small group standing a few meters away, his lips curving into a mocking smile. “Maybe they’re discussing the use of colors.”

“Whatever they’re discussing,” Camille Allard said, “it will not last long.”

“Why’s that?” Cole asked.

“Because only a saint could put up with Peter’s forceful opinions for more than five minutes.” She took a sip of the sparkling liquid in her glass. “Molenaar may be a decent designer, but he’s not reached sainthood yet.”

“Maybe we should go and rescue him,” Marit suggested.

“Great idea,” Cole said, seizing the out Marit had offered. “I still need to thank him for the loan.”

“Good luck to you,” Camille Allard said.

“And reach out next time you need a tux,” Kyle added. “I can set you up with an American one.”

A server walked by. Bianchi drained his glass in time to exchange it for a full one and raise it at Cole and Marit.

Grateful she didn’t have to spend any more time with him, Marit forced a smile. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said.

Cole took her elbow, and they moved away. “Nice people,” he said dryly.

Marit grimaced. “That was a solid reminder of why I’ll never work for Giuseppe Bianchi.”

“Yeah. It’s not hard to see why his former wives are suing him. Maybe I should double-check to see if there’s anyone else he’s already paid off.”

“And in the meantime, you’d better gear up for a heavy dose of English arrogance.”

“Arrogance, I can handle,” Cole said. “A discussion on colors may be a bigger issue.”

“Really?”

“I learned the ‘Rainbow Colors Song’ onSesame Streetwhen I was a kid. That’s about as much as I’ve got.”

With a soft laugh, Marit tucked her hand under his arm. “It’s a start. And I’ll back you up if the conversation veers into heathers, neons, and tertiaries.”

Cole gave her an alarmed look. “If those are real words, then you’d better.”

***

“Can someone please explain to me why they never have pizza at the parties of the high-and-mighty?” Lars said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “They could serve anything they want, and they choose to have snails, frog legs, and fish eggs.”

Marit eyed the large white serviette she’d insisted he tuck under his shirt collar. “Maybe because they don’t want to risk the guests dripping marinara sauce on multi-thousand-euro outfits.”

Lars glanced downward. As far as he could tell, the serviette was still spotless. “The risk is totally worth it.”

“For you and Cole, maybe,” Isabelle said from her position across the restaurant table. “But Marit and I have worked with these designers. We have a better feel for how they’re going to react if their loaned-out tuxes come back stained.”

“So eat carefully,” Cole warned.

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