Chapter 7
Gare du Nord was busy. Pushing the case full of his photographic equipment in one hand and hauling his duffle bag in the other, Lars wove his way across the crowded railway platform. It would be nice to think that once he made it out of the station, he’d clear the congestion, but he had a sinking feeling that most of these people were headed to the taxi line too.
He walked outside. The skies were overcast, and there was a nip in the air. Pulling his knit hat out of his pocket, he put it on. As expected, the queue for taxis was long. He was going to be here a while.
He thought about texting Marit to tell her he’d arrived, but she probably wouldn’t have her phone until her fitting was over, and he’d be seeing her soon after that. Instead, he used his time in the queue to pull up the local news on his phone. Marit had said she’d been questioned about a theft at one of the fashion houses. Would the networks have picked up the story yet?
A protest outside a car manufacturer’s plant. Teachers threatening to go on strike. A new baby giraffe at the Paris Zoological Park. He kept scrolling. There had to be some mention of Fashion Week this close to opening day. A couple of photos popped up. The caption under the first one read, “Lila Peters arrives in Paris for Fashion Week.” Lars glanced at the candid picture. The Academy-Award-winning actress was walking through Charles de Gaulle airport flanked by bodyguards.
The second caption read: “Popular model Marit Jansen takes time off work to visit the Champs-élys é es with her boyfriend, Lars Hendriks.” This photo had been taken at night with the iconic Arc de Triomphe barely visible over the shoulder of the man whose hand was lying protectively on the woman’s back. Lars raised a quizzical eyebrow. Even if he and Cole looked enough alike to pass for each other in the dark, that was no excuse for shoddy reporting. Though his cousin wouldn’t have appreciated having his name show up in the newspapers, not when he worked so hard to stay off everyone’s radar to protect his ability to function in his work with the CIA.
A red banner flashed up on Lars’s phone screen, covering the paparazzi photos with the words Breaking News . Lars continued to read the headline. Member of Dutch fashion designer Ralph Molenaar’s team found dead in Paris . Lars’s breath caught. Marit said she’d been taken in for questioning over a theft at one of the fashion houses. He knew she regularly worked for Ralph. Had the theft happened at his office? Could the crimes be related?
The young woman standing at the curb, directing the taxi traffic, shouted at him. Lars looked up. The six people in line ahead of him had all climbed into the same vehicle. He was up next. Moving forward, he waited for the ensuing car to stop, and then he opened the door and shoved his case onto the seat. Running around to the other side, he signaled the taxi driver to remain behind the wheel. Lars didn’t have time to wait for him to open the boot. He needed to find Marit.
The restaurant had a small front. About a dozen chairs were positioned around four small round tables on the pavement outside. So far, only one hardy Parisian had claimed a seat there. Guessing that Marit would prefer the warmth of an indoor table, Lars pushed open the door and hauled his baggage inside.
A server dressed in a white shirt and black trousers met him. Politely ignoring Lars’s cumbersome luggage, she smiled a welcome. “ Bonjour, monsieur .”
“ Bonjour ,” Lars responded in French. “I’m meeting my girlfriend here, but I’m not sure if she’s arrived yet.”
“Ah, yes. Is it Marit?”
Relief mingled with excitement. She was here. “Yes.”
The server nodded. “Follow me, please.”
Navigating his camera case and duffle bag through the tight spaces between the restaurant’s chairs, Lars followed the young woman to the back of the room. Marit was sitting alone at a table set for four. As soon as she spotted him, she rose to her feet. Lars dropped his duffle bag on the nearest chair at their table, ignoring the server and the menu she set on the table, and pulled Marit into his arms.
She held him tight, raising her lips to meet his as he pulled her close. “I’ve missed you so much,” she murmured.
“The last twelve hours have been torture,” he whispered, reluctantly releasing his hold on her. “And if we weren’t standing in the middle of a restaurant right now, that kiss would have lasted significantly longer.”
She smiled impishly. “Next time, we’ll make sure there’s no one else around.”
“Deal.” He slid his case behind the chair and then waited for her to reclaim her seat before sitting beside her. “You’re really okay?”
“Yes.” The light in her eyes dimmed slightly. “But I have more to tell you.”
He reached for her hand. “What is it?”
The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of more guests. Lars ignored it, but Marit looked up.
“I’ll tell you as soon as Cole and Isabelle join us,” she said.
“Cole and Isabelle?” Lars turned to see his cousin and his cousin’s girlfriend following the server toward their table. “When did Isabelle get here?”
“She flew in this morning,” Marit said.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Lars rose to greet Cole as Marit moved around the table to give Isabelle a hug.
“How close to Paris were you when Marit called?” Lars asked Cole.
Cole grinned. “Closer than Amsterdam.”
Lars offered him a grateful nod. “Thanks for coming.”
“Anytime. I didn’t do much more than make sure she ate and walk her to the hotel.”
“I saw the photos of you walking her back.” Lifting his phone so Cole could see the screen, Lars pulled up the screenshot he’d taken.
Cole frowned. “Where was this posted?”
“On Le Monde ’s website.”
His cousin muttered something under his breath, and then he pulled out Isabelle’s chair. “Let’s all sit down,” he said. “We’ve got some things we need to talk about.”
***
Isabelle passed her menu to the waitress, a sense of d é j à vu washing over her. Although she and Marit spoke often on the phone, she and Cole hadn’t seen Marit and Lars since spending a few days together at Falcon Point in early January. And though Isabelle had a few colleagues at the bank who she was close to, Marit was the only real friend she had here in Europe.
“I really wish we didn’t live so far apart,” she said.
“Me too,” Marit said. “And I wish we had a better reason to get together than me getting questioned by the police.”
And her room getting ransacked. Cole had filled Isabelle in when she’d met him at his hotel. This quick weekend getaway was feeling much more like a protection detail than a vacation, right down to the motion sensors and security cameras tucked into the bottom of her suitcase.
As though sharing her thoughts, Lars said, “Hey, at least we haven’t had to deal with any guns being pointed at us.” He shuddered. “I still have nightmares from the last time you were in Amsterdam.”
“I still have nightmares from when Beckett found out we borrowed his skis,” Cole muttered.
Isabelle stifled a laugh. She didn’t know all the particulars of how Cole had ended up using Beckett’s brand-new skis at Falcon Point or how they had ended up in Lars’s room afterward, but Beckett had chewed Lars out for a good twenty minutes before Anna had come to his rescue.
Lars shook his head. “How did you make him think it was me?”
Cole shrugged. “Sorry, cuz. Some secrets I can’t share.”
“This isn’t exactly espionage we’re talking about.”
Isabelle glanced at Cole. No, they might not be working as spies right now, but Cole clearly wasn’t taking any chances. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have a gun holstered at his back and another at his ankle.
“What can you tell us about last night?” Isabelle asked, changing the subject.
Marit relayed her story, beginning with when the police had shown up and ending with when they had questioned her.
Lars put his hand on her back, love and concern shining in his eyes.
Envy shot through Isabelle, quick and fierce, and she fought against it. She loved Cole. She loved her relationship with him, but sometimes she wished to move beyond where they were now, to move into a relationship that included the absolute adoration that was nearly tangible between Lars and Marit.
Marit continued her account, breaking Isabelle out of her thoughts. “They never told me what was stolen, but someone must have seen me around the time the theft occurred.”
“It was the custodian,” Cole said.
Marit’s eyebrows lifted. “Did you talk to Ralph this morning?”
“Yeah. It was definitely an inside job.”
“How do you know that?” Marit asked.
“First of all, it’s a double-safe system. With the right tools, a pro could probably break through it within an hour or two, but the security cameras didn’t show anyone entering Ralph’s office after you left, except the custodian, and he was only in the room for seventeen seconds.”
“Probably just long enough to empty the trash,” Isabelle said.
“Did Ralph tell you what was taken?” Marit asked.
“Yes.” Cole looked around the room before he leaned forward and spoke quietly. “He said he lost the designs for his entire line for this year.”
“That can’t be right,” Marit said. “I’m sure he had multiple copies of the computer designs, not to mention the muslin forms.”
“It’s all gone.” Cole shook his head. “The thief stole the designs Ralph put on a flash drive and wiped them off his hard drive. I don’t know what those muslin things are, but those are gone too.”
“You can’t be serious.” Marit clearly looked distressed. “The muslin patterns are the master designs. Without those, he can’t re-create the clothes he’s designed. Especially if he’s lost the digital format too.”
Isabelle couldn’t imagine that an outsider would be able to access Ralph’s office and computer, and it seemed even less likely that they would know where everything was located. “It really does sound like an inside job.”
Lars took a sip of his water. “Could someone have overridden the security cameras?” he asked. “You know, plugged in a fake feed?” When Cole shot him a look of disbelief, he added, “Hey, I’ve seen the movies.”
“Yeah, they could have. But I checked the security access rooms. No sign of tampering, and there were guard sightings multiple times outside Ralph’s office, at least once every half hour. Not many people could get in and out without leaving a trace.” Cole leaned in again and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Not to mention, Brinton James, the man Marit saw in Molenaar’s office, didn’t report to work today.”
“Of course he didn’t show up for work.” Lars focused on Cole. “He was killed last night.”
“Wait.” Marit grasped Lars’s hand. “What?”
Cole straightened. “Where did you hear that?”
“The news broke on it a little while ago. I saw it right after I spotted the photo of you and Marit.” Lars pulled out his cell and tapped on the screen. He then passed it to Cole.
Isabelle leaned forward so she, too, could read the article. “They didn’t give many details.”
“There probably aren’t a lot of details to share yet.” Cole’s jaw tightened.
Isabelle didn’t have to hear Cole’s thoughts to share them. Someone involved in Monday’s theft was eliminating witnesses, and Marit could be next.
“Marit, maybe you should consider staying with me while we’re here in Paris,” Isabelle said.
“Where are you staying, Isabelle?” Lars asked.
“I’m not sure yet, but it might be best to keep you out of sight, especially after what happened last night.”
Concern lit Lars’s eyes, and he focused on Cole. “You think she’s in danger?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Cole said. “But I’d like to know who was in her flat last night and what they were looking for.”
Lars whirled to face Marit. “Someone was in your flat? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“We didn’t realize it until this morning.” Marit squeezed Lars’s hand. “Nadia thought I left a mess, and Cole insisted I get a room at his hotel last night, so I had no idea until I went to grab my stuff before my fitting.”
“Then, Isabelle’s right. You need to stay somewhere else,” Lars said. “Either that, or Cole and I are crashing in your living room.”
“I appreciate the offer, but as I already told Cole, men aren’t allowed on the upper floors, and the entire building is for models only.”
“Then, we’ll find a place we can all stay together,” Cole said. “I have a friend who might have a flat we can borrow.”
“I appreciate that, but even if I can convince Esmee, I’m probably more vulnerable when I’m going to fittings and casting calls than when I’m in my flat.”
“She’s right.” Isabelle hadn’t been around the modeling scene for years, not since one of her best friends had entered the circuit for a brief two years of crazy travel and had ended up finishing high school online. On the two occasions that Isabelle had accompanied her to New York’s Fashion Week, the backstage area had been complete chaos.
“We need someone with Marit who can access everywhere she goes,” Isabelle continued.
“I’ll have backstage access at the Ralph Molenaar show because of the Coster jewels his models will be wearing,” Lars said. “Other than that, I have media access, and that’s it.”
Cole shifted his attention to Isabelle for a moment; then he exchanged a long look with Lars, one that communicated something without words being spoken.
“What?” Isabelle asked. “Do you have someone in mind?”
“Oh yeah.” Cole nodded. “What do you think, Lars?”
“I’ve always said Isabelle could pass for a model.”
“Me?” Isabelle shook her head. “I’ve never modeled. And I haven’t been backstage at a fashion show since I was a teenager.”
“You’re infinitely more qualified than either of us.” Cole wiggled his thumb, indicating himself and Lars.
“I don’t want Isabelle to be in danger because of me,” Marit said.
“I’m not thrilled about the idea myself,” Cole said, as though he didn’t know she had the same basic CIA training that he did. “But we all know she has great self-defense skills, and she can handle a gun.”
Marit lowered her voice to a whisper. “I doubt Isabelle brought a gun.”
“No, but I have a spare,” Cole said.
Despite Cole’s declaration, doubt colored Marit’s expression. “Look, I know it seems like all I do is walk up and down a runway, but it’s way more involved than that.”
“She’s right.” Isabelle nodded vehemently. Just the thought of stepping out in front of hundreds of people made her stomach turn. “Women work for years to get a shot at modeling in Paris, especially during Fashion Week.”
“You can do this,” Cole insisted. His gaze fixed on hers, and Isabelle didn’t miss the plea reflected there. “Especially if Marit is willing to help you.”
“We don’t have enough time for Marit to help me,” Isabelle insisted. There had to be another option.
“That’s true,” Marit said. “Casting has already started.”
“It’s worth a try.” Lars took Marit’s hand. “Isabelle is a natural athlete. We’ve seen her fight. With your help, I bet she can do it. And we don’t have any better options.”
Marit seemed to consider the possibilities. “Esmee won’t go for me staying somewhere else. We already tried that.” She sighed. “It seems crazy, but maybe Cole and Lars are right.”
“Maybe they’re not,” Isabelle said. “I don’t know the first thing about how to prep for a casting call.”
“But I do,” Marit said. “And I think I know how to make it possible for you to stay at the flat with me too.”
“How?” Isabelle asked.
Marit pulled out her phone. “Give me two minutes, and keep your fingers crossed.”
The waitress returned with their food.
As soon as she left them, Marit dialed. “Esmee? Remember when I did you that favor last Christmas and worked during my holiday?” She paused briefly. “Now it’s my turn to ask a favor.” Marit focused on Isabelle. “I need you to put a friend of mine on the list for the rest of the casting calls I’m going to.” She paused, and the indistinct buzz of a woman’s voice carried over the phone. Marit tensed. “You’ve seen her photo already. She’s the one who was with me at Schonbrunn Palace in Vienna last fall. She was wearing the blue silk Monique Marin with the lace overlay.”
Now a little smile flitted over her lips. “Yes, that’s her. Auburn hair. Gorgeous green eyes.”
Isabelle’s jaw dropped as the full force of Cole and Lars’s plan hit her. They were all nuts! She wasn’t a model.
Another pause, and more buzzing coming through the line. Sincerity filled Marit’s voice when she spoke again. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
A flash of victory crossed Marit’s features. “Thank you so much. Her name is Isabelle Rogers.” Another pause. “Perfect.” Marit’s mouth curved into a grin. “Oh, and one more thing. Isabelle is going to be rooming with me.”
Marit paused again, the woman’s voice coming in a steady hum now.
Finally, Marit nodded. “Thanks, Esmee.” She hung up. “We’d better eat. Isabelle and I have a casting call at noon.”
“Oh, no.” Isabelle shook her head. “Pointing a gun at someone is one thing. Stepping onto a runway is way beyond me.”
Marit reached across the table and put her hand on Isabelle’s. “I meant what I said earlier. It won’t take me long to teach you the basics, and with how fast you pick things up, that’s probably all you need.”
Battling a new kind of apprehension, Isabelle looked down at the chocolate croissant on her plate. Somehow, she didn’t think she was off to a very good start.