Page 95 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“We’ll call you when the ballistic reports come back.”

“Merci.”

The officers escorted their prisoner away.

Taking advantage of Cole’s nearness, Isabelle put her arm around his waist, grateful when he drew her closer. “Thank goodness that’s over.”

“Not quite.” Marit shot her a look of determination. “There’s one more thing we need to do.” She turned to Lars. “You should go back into the photographers’ area. You won’t want to miss this.”

Lars loosened his hold on her enough to see her face. “Miss what?”

Marit glanced at Isabelle briefly before she said, “It’s time for everyone out there to know the truth.”

Chapter 33

Limping slightly, Marit cut throughthe gap in the partition and entered the backstage area with Isabelle at her side. There were at least a dozen models in line. Most of them were wearing Adams’s designs, though a couple of them wore Ralph Molenaar’s.

Three of the American models stood off to one side, their assistants hovering nearby. If the strained look on each of the assistants’ faces was any indication, they had yet to locate the dresses Isabelle had hidden away. Marit mentally applauded Isabelle’s quick thinking. It would enable Ralph to use those pieces in his show tomorrow. She eyed the stage director standing at the curtain. If her plan worked, Ralph could use the ones that had already been showcased, too, but that decision would be up to him.

“The director’s going to do everything in her power to prevent me from going out there,” Marit spoke softly.

“Oh, I know.” Isabelle appeared completely unruffled. “But it won’t be a problem.”

Marit smothered a grin. Together, she and Isabelle had just battled and disarmed a gunman. The poor woman with the clipboard didn’t stand a chance.

“Glad you’re on my side,” Marit said.

This time, Isabelle smiled. “Me too.”

As they walked past the waiting models, heads turned and whispers ran along the length of the line.

“You’re causing a stir,” Isabelle said.

“Yeah. The blood on Adams’s jumpsuit is not going to be well-received.”

Isabelle frowned. “If that’s all they care about, you should change professions.”

“Probably,” Marit said, “but right now, I’m going to make use of it in the best possible way.” She glanced at Isabelle. “Ready?”

“Absolutely. I’ll take care of everything back here; the stage is yours.”

Marit’s pulse quickened. Though she was well used to walking the runway, making a public announcement was out of her comfort zone. But it had to be done. Adams needed to be exposed, and Ralph deserved credit for his creations.

“Miss Jansen.” They’d reached the curtain, and the stage director was studying the purple jumpsuit with a horrified expression. “I hope you have a good explanation for the state of this outfit and your absence when the show began.”

“I do,” Marit said.

Another model appeared through the curtain, her time on the catwalk over. The director gestured at the first model in line, but before the young woman wearing an oversized lacy blouse and leather trousers could take a step toward the stage, Isabelle moved in front of her.

“You’re going to have to wait,” Isabelle said. “Marit’s going first.”

The model gave the director a frantic look, and the woman turned her glare on Isabelle.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Marit didn’t wait to hear Isabelle’s response. With the stage director’s attention diverted, she slipped through the curtain and onto the runway.

The spotlight hit her immediately. Ignoring her instinct to start down the catwalk, she glanced to her right, catching sight of the microphone used to introduce the designer and his team at the end of the show. In three limping steps, she crossed the distance and tugged the microphone off the stand.

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