Page 51 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“You’ve got this,” Isabelle encouraged.

Though Lars looked skeptical, he motioned to Cole. “My cousin gave you permission to beat up on him. You should take advantage of the opportunity.”

“I’d rather not beat up on anyone,” Marit said.

“You can’t think that way when you perceive a threat.” Cole moved to the open space of the room at the end of the bed, hoping this distraction would help Marit’s mindset. “It’s you or him.”

“Okay.” Marit approached. “What do you want me to do?”

“Let’s start by pretending I’m an attacker coming at you from behind.” Cole twirled his finger so she would turn around.

Marit took a deep breath and did so.

Not giving her a chance to prepare, Cole grabbed Marit around the waist with one hand and hooked his other arm around her throat.

Marit gasped. Then as though she did so all the time, her foot stomped on his, and she thrust her elbow into his ribs.

Cole’s hold loosened, and Marit elbowed him again.

Cole stumbled back a step and dropped onto the edge of the bed, stunned.

“Oh, Cole!” Marit rushed forward and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry!”

Cole rubbed at his ribs. He looked up at Isabelle’s face, her expression caught between disbelief and laughter.

“Looks like Isabelle and Marit are both good teachers.” Cole drew a deep breath. “But you know what they say.”

“What?” Marit asked.

Cole rubbed his ribs again. “Practice makes perfect.”

Chapter 17

Lars flashed his press IDat the security guard standing at the entrance of the rented warehouse. With a nod, the guard waved him through, and Lars walked inside. A temporary catwalk had been set up in the center of the large space. On one end of the runway, large curtains cordoned off the portion of the room being used by the models; on the other end, a cluster of photographers was gathered behind a row of tripods and cameras.

Sliding the strap of his camera case more securely onto his shoulder, Lars moved toward the group of photographers standing behind their tripods, waiting for Camille Allard’s rehearsal to begin. When he spotted Tony, he smiled. The English photographer had been more than eager to engage in conversation at Ralph’s rehearsal. If Lars were lucky, a few well-placed questions this morning might lead to some useful information.

“Hey, Tony,” Lars greeted the older man.

“Lars! Nice of you to join us.” Tony shifted to his left to make room for Lars. “I heard Molenaar helped Allard out last year, but I didn’t know he went as far as sharing the Coster jewelry with her.”

Lars blinked, scarcely believing his luck. Tony had tossed out that valuable nugget of information before he’d even formulated a leading question. Tamping down his impatience to know more, he shook his head. “No shared jewelry. I just know that on the day of Molenaar’s show, I won’t get many chances for the right shot. The more practice I have with the models on the runway, the more confident I’ll feel in the moment.”

“Makes sense,” Tony said. “If we told people how many photos we take before we get the winning shot, they wouldn’t believe us.”

“Right?” Lars unscrewed the legs on his tripod and set it next to Tony’s. “So, what can you tell me about Allard’s show?”

Tony shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, it’s classic Allard pieces. The lady’s French, but she’s less dramatic than most of her colleagues—with her clothing line and her temperament. I don’t suppose we’ll hear much shouting at this one.”

Lars desperately hoped Tony’s assessment proved right. After what Marit and Isabelle had gone through the night before, they could use a drama-free rehearsal.

“What did you mean when you said Molenaar and Allard have worked together in the past?” he asked.

“Well, it was a bit hush-hush,” Tony admitted. “But word on the street was that Allard was forced to close her manufacturing plant for three months because of a fire.”

“Whoa. That can’t be a good thing for a big-name designer.”

“Nope,” Tony said. “And it happened a couple of months before the London shows.”

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