Page 69 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“Bonjour!” A young woman approached them with a smile.

“Bonjour,” Cole said. “Do you speak English?”

It would have been just as easy for Lars to talk to the hostess in French, but Cole was obviously buying him time to scan the occupants of the restaurant.

“Of course.” She smiled politely. “Welcome to CaféEugenie. May I show you to a table?”

The restaurant was busy, but there was no sign of LaRue anywhere in the room. Lars and Cole had purposely arrived five minutes after the designer’s appointment to ensure that he’d already be seated.

“That would be great,” Cole said. “Do you have a preference for where we sit, Lars?”

Lars skimmed the room again, and this time, he spotted a narrow wooden staircase in the corner that appeared to lead up to another floor. Perhaps this restaurant wasn’t quite as small as it had appeared from the outside.

“Do you have more seating upstairs?” he asked. “Something a little more private maybe?”

The hostess smiled. “The upper room is a favorite with our regular customers, but I believe there are still a few tables available.” She picked up a couple of menus. “If you’d follow me, please.”

They followed her across the polished wood floor and up the narrow staircase. She waited for them at the top.

“You’re in luck,” she said. “There’s a vacant table beside the window.”

For a restaurant with such an exclusive ambiance, it undoubtedly was lucky. And under normal circumstances, Lars would have been happy to sit there. But this wasn’t a normal day, and LaRue was sitting at a small table in the far corner, talking animatedly to an older man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

“Actually,” Lars said, “would you mind if we took the table over there in the corner?” The fact that the table next to the one LaRue was using was also vacant was taking their luck to the next level. Lars could only hope it would remain in their favor.

The hostess offered him a polite, albeit surprised look. “Certainly.”

“He’s heard so much about the food here, he doesn’t want anything—including a view—to distract him,” Cole said.

Their hostess laughed lightly. “That I can understand. We French take our food very seriously. And I’m confident our chef will not disappoint.”

Cole stepped in front of Lars as they walked across the room, blocking him from the view of the other men. Cole took the chair facing LaRue, leaving Lars to take the one that backed up against the designer’s business manager. The space was tight, but Lars slid onto the seat without giving the older gentleman reason to adjust his chair or glance his way.

Their hostess handed them the menus. “Jean will be your server today,” she said. “And he’ll be with you momentarily.”

“Merci,” Cole said.

Lars managed a nod and a smile. He was already focused on the intense conversation going on behind him.

“Fournier has given us his ultimatum, Henri.” The business manager was speaking. “If he does not see anything that excites him in this year’s show, he’ll offer your retail space to a different designer.”

“He can’t do that,” LaRue said. “We have a contract.”

“It ends in August,” his business manager reminded him. “Which would be just right for someone else’s fall line to make an appearance.”

“It won’t happen.”

Lars wasn’t sure whether to categorize LaRue’s tone as belligerent or alarmed. Perhaps both.

“Fournier may think he knows what’s coming, but he’s in for a surprise.”

Lars tensed, cocking his head slightly so as not to miss a word. All he needed now was for LaRue to let his business manager in on what that surprise was—a fresh new line that closely resembled Molenaar’s style—and they’d have the proof they needed.

“Bonjour!” A man dressed in a white shirt, a black tie, and black trousers stepped up to the table.

Lars glanced at the menu. He hadn’t even opened it yet.

Cole took one look at him and spoke to the server in English. “I’d like this omelet.” Cole pointed to something on the menu. “Along with a glass of orange juice and a croissant.”

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