Page 70 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“Very good.” The man—Jean, presumably—turned to Lars.

LaRue was saying something, and Lars couldn’t concentrate on both conversations. “Whatever he’s having would be great,” he said.

Jean inclined his head politely. “Of course.”

“Better make it a basket of croissants,” Cole said, amending his order.

“Oui, monsieur.” Jean gathered the menus, and Lars returned his attention to the conversation behind him. To Lars’s frustration, LaRue was speaking again. Whatever clarification he’d offered his business manager regarding the surprise at his show had been lost during the breakfast order. Lars frowned, and Cole raised an expectant eyebrow.

“What’s going on?” Cole asked softly.

Lars shook his head. Any explanation would have to wait until after he’d listened to the demands LaRue was now issuing.

“It’s less than a week before the show, so make sure Fournier has a front-row seat. If he’s after clothing that will suit any shape or size, he’ll be both pleased and impressed. It won’t matter whether he’s trying to appeal to the wealthy customers at his boutique on the Champs-Élysées or to those who buy off the rack in Lyon; he should see what he wants to see.”

“I certainly hope so.” LaRue’s business manager sounded grim. “You can’t afford to lose that account, Henri. Without it, the bank will offer you no more concessions—or money.”

Jean approached, a hot pot of coffee in his hand. He stopped at LaRue’s table, and for a moment, the only sound was the trickle of liquid being poured into a cup.

“May I get anything else for you, gentlemen?” Jean asked.

“No, thank you,” LaRue replied.

Jean walked away, and the light clink of a spoon hitting against the sides of a china cup filled the silence. Lars waited. Cole studied him, his curiosity simmering. Finally, LaRue spoke again.

“The show will generate the excitement we need,” he said. “You will see. And now, on to other things. Tell me what news you have from Delhi. Can they provide the cotton we need?”

As LaRue’s business manager launched into the details of an agreement with a cotton manufacturer in India, Lars leaned over the table.

“It doesn’t sound like things are looking good for our friend,” he muttered. “An awful lot is riding on the upcoming show.”

Speculation shone in Cole’s eyes, but before he could ask anything, Jean appeared at the table, carrying a large tray.

“Your juice and croissants,” he said, placing a glass of orange juice in front of each of them before setting a basket of fragrant croissants in the center of the small table. “And your omelets.”

Lars leaned back, and Jean set a plate in front of him. The fluffy omelet was enormous. Cheese oozed from its center, and flecks of orange, red, and green ran along its outer edge.

“This looks great,” Cole said. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Jean gave a pleased smile. “May I get you anything else?”

“Not right now, thanks,” Cole said.

Jean nodded and walked away.

Lars looked up from his study of the omelet. “What kind of omelet did you order?”

“Vegetable and brie.” Cole reached for a croissant and set it on his plate beside the egg.

“It has spinach in it,” Lars accused.

“Yep.” Cole shrugged. “Isabelle’s rubbing off on me.”

“You know how I feel about spinach.”

Cole grinned and took a bite of his croissant. “Next time, you might want to ask what I’ve ordered before getting the same thing.”

Lars glared at him. “I was slightly preoccupied. Besides, I thought you had my back.”

---