Chapter 24
Cole headed for the service door designated for those carrying backstage access passes, Isabelle and Marit flanked between him and Lars. He wasn’t thrilled that Isabelle would no longer be able to carry his spare weapon with her due to the higher security measures present at the Louvre. His determination to stick close to both her and Marit was rising by the minute.
Lars slowed as they approached the entrance and the guard standing beside it. Despite the meter of space and two women between them, Cole didn’t miss the way Lars gripped the forged pass hanging from his neck.
Lars put his arm around Marit and leaned toward Cole, his voice low. “Are you sure this is going to work?”
“Trust me.” Cole slid his arm around Isabelle, both to draw closer to Lars and to take advantage of her nearness. “Act like you’re supposed to be here.”
“I am supposed to be here,” Lars said. “Just not like this.”
“Keep that to yourself,” Cole whispered.
“Everything will be fine,” Isabelle assured Lars. She cast a glance at Marit. “At least with getting inside.”
“You’re going to be great today,” Marit said. “Just remember, one step at a time.”
“Right.”
They reached the entrance, and Cole held up his backstage pass. He had to admit, whoever at the CIA had created it was seriously talented. After picking it up from the Paris station, he had compared the forged passes to Isabelle’s. Even when placed side by side, Cole couldn’t tell which one was real and which was fake.
The guard leaned closer to inspect Cole’s pass. Then he waved him through. Lars followed without incident.
Cole waited for Lars to catch up to him. “See? I told you not to worry.”
“In my defense, you’ve told me that a lot of times, including when people have been pointing guns at us.”
Cole paused and thought back to the few times when he and Lars had ended up in dicey situations together. “I’m pretty sure you’re exaggerating. I don’t think I’ve said that when anyone was shooting.”
“The fact that you had to think about it is proof enough for me.”
“He may have a point.” Marit took the lead, guiding them past signs that would soon direct ticket holders to where they needed to go.
Above him, light filtered through the pyramid-shaped windows in the ceiling, competing with the harsh lamps set up along the path that would be used as the runway. Beyond it, partitions and heavy black curtains created the backstage area.
Another guard stood by an opening in the curtain of the cordoned-off area reserved for the models, designers, and support staff for the upcoming show.
Now Isabelle’s steps slowed.
“Are you okay?” Cole asked.
She shook her head. “You realize how insane this is, right?” She leaned closer and whispered, “I’m not a real model, no matter how much I’m pretending to be one.”
“No, but you’re doing a great job of making everyone believe you are.” Cole pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m sure you’ll be fantastic.”
“Just pray that I don’t trip.”
“I can do that.”
Marit walked past the guard and through the gap in the curtains. After flashing his pass again, Cole followed with Isabelle by his side.
He wasn’t sure what he expected, but the scene in front of him wasn’t it. Two long rows of styling stations ran down the center of the open space, the mirrors facing each other. It was as if a hair salon and a high-end makeup counter had joined forces and multiplied.
Racks of clothing lined the far wall, a few privacy screens interspersed among them.
Pieces of tape marked the floor like a ladder missing its side posts.
What appeared to be marble pillars framed the far side of the room where white curtains hung beside myriad portable lights. A couple of rolling cabinets had been pushed to the side of the nearest partition, both of them closed.
Camille Allard approached, relief on her face. “Isabelle, come with me. We changed the walk order.”
Panic flashed in Isabelle’s eyes.
Marit put a comforting hand on Isabelle’s shoulder. “I’ll see you in makeup.”
Cole gave Isabelle’s arm an encouraging squeeze. “Good luck today.”
“Thanks.”
Marit took several steps forward. “I’ll see you later.”
Cole fought the urge to remind Marit where to plant the hidden cameras. Marit and Isabelle knew what they were doing. They had already gone over their plans. He needed to trust her to execute her part of it.
“Where do we start?” Lars asked.
Cole reached out and pulled on the handle of the nearest cabinet. Locked.
Lars offered him a curious look. “What are you checking that for?”
“Just wondering what’s inside.” Cole scanned the area. Several models had arrived before them. He recognized Nadia talking to someone beside a rack of clothing. A couple dozen stylists and makeup artists already manned the mirrored stations in the center.
Suspecting they wouldn’t have much time before they would be in the way of the show’s preparations, Cole said, “I’ll work my way around that side of the area. You check out this side.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Anyone who doesn’t belong.”
“Besides us?” Lars asked.
“Yes. Besides us.” Cole pointed at Lars’s camera bag. “And take photos. Lots of photos.”
“Now you’re talking.”
***
Isabelle was still recovering from Camille Allard’s announcement that she had moved Isabelle to third on the runway when she found Marit sitting in front of a mirror, a hair stylist teasing her blonde hair into a windswept look.
Marguerite, the makeup artist assigned to help Isabelle for this show, circled behind her. “Sit. Sit. We have work to do.” Marguerite pressed her hands against Isabelle’s shoulders and guided her to the chair beside Marit.
“What did Camille change in the order?” Marit asked.
“She swapped me and Nadia.”
Marit’s eyes widened. “In the opening series?”
“Yeah.” Isabelle swallowed hard. “How did I get myself into this again? I’m a banker, for heaven’s sake.” And a spy , Isabelle thought.
“You’re a good friend. You’ve already saved my life more than once because you’ve been willing to do this.” Marit reached out and put her hand on Isabelle’s arm. “Thank you for being here.” The sincerity in Marit’s voice eased Isabelle’s nerves slightly.
“Close your eyes,” Marguerite instructed.
Isabelle obeyed. Within seconds, Marguerite had applied eye shadow to Isabelle’s eyelids.
“Just so you know,” Marit said. “There is one good thing about going early in the lineup.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll get to take your shoes off sooner than the rest of us.”
“Only to have to put on a new pair a few minutes later.”
“Yes, but the first pair you’re wearing is an inch higher than the second.”
“True.” Concentrate on the positives . Isabelle repeated that thought over and over again. For the next twenty-five minutes, Isabelle continued to follow her stylist’s instructions: Look up. Look down. Purse your lips. Turn this way. Now the other way.
Her hair came next. First, the stylist used a curling iron to create ringlets in Isabelle’s long, auburn hair, followed by more hair spray than should ever be released in an indoor setting. The stylists then pinned white forget-me-nots into her curls, the white petals contrasting against the darkness of her hair.
“One hour!” one of Camille’s assistants shouted from the front of the backstage area.
The next forty-five minutes passed by in a blur, all the models getting dressed, Camille inspecting each of her designs. She reached Isabelle, and Isabelle lifted her chin slightly, the way Marit had taught her.
Camille stared at her creation, Isabelle little more than the hanger displaying it. After several seconds, she tugged at the edge of Isabelle’s sleeve. “Good. Very good.”
“Ten minutes!” came the next warning.
This was really happening. Isabelle was standing backstage at Fashion Week, in the Carrousel du Louvre, no less, wearing a beautiful gown that would take two paychecks of her bank executive’s salary to buy, and she was going third down the runway of her first fashion show ever.
She tried to wiggle her toes, unable to do so in the four-inch heels currently squeezing her feet. Maybe Marit was right about going early so she could take these off. She could already feel the blisters forming on her little toes.
“Five minutes!”
Isabelle’s stomach lurched uncomfortably.
Her assistant, Ellie, adjusted the sleeve of her dress again. “Breathe.”
“Right.” Isabelle drew in a deep breath. In her head, she repeated Marit’s many instructions. Chin up, eyes forward, one foot in front of the other, attitude, a little smile.
Lights flickered for several seconds, signaling the beginning of the show. Then the music started.
Isabelle’s chest tightened, her whole body trembled, and then suddenly, the two women in front of her were walking the floor, and it was her turn.
One foot in front of the other , she repeated in her mind. She stepped past the white gauzy curtains and got her first look at the audience. Chairs lined either side of what was basically a wide hallway, with more chairs at the end of the space designated as the runway.
Isabelle strode forward, her chin up until she reached the spot where she was supposed to pause. She struck a pose the way Marit had taught her, pivoted once to allow the audience to see her from the other side, and then again to turn back. Placing each step deliberately, she continued up the runway to where she had started. The moment she passed by the curtains, a sigh of relief escaped her.
Marit, who was currently five spots back, grinned at her. “Congrats. You’re now a runway model.”
Isabelle simply shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “But thank you for making it possible for me to pretend.”
Ellie rushed forward and tugged at Isabelle’s arm. “Hurry up. You need to change.”
Isabelle simply nodded. “I’m coming.”
***
As far as Marit was concerned, Paris was at its finest at night. The full moon shining down on the Seine, the lights, the romantic music spilling out from the caf é s and restaurants, and the people strolling along the pavement, soaking up the ambiance of the city. If it weren’t for the fact that muggers and pickpockets also thrived in this environment, it would be practically perfect.
She shifted a little closer to Lars, and the arm he’d placed around her waist tightened. Tonight would be different. After Camille Allard’s show had ended, they’d stopped at the flat long enough for her and Isabelle to drop off their purses and change into comfortable shoes and had then gone to the restaurant Cole had booked for them. Without her purse, she was no longer a target. At least, she hoped not.
Cole and Isabelle were walking hand in hand a couple of meters ahead of her and Lars. They stopped at the corner of the street, waiting to cross.
“I think we should celebrate Isabelle’s success like this after every show,” Lars said as they came up behind them.
Cole looked over his shoulder and grinned. “The b ? uf bourguignon, the profiteroles, or the walk along the Seine?”
“All of it,” Lars said.
“How about we do all those things without me having to work any more shows?” Isabelle suggested hopefully.
Marit shook her head. “I hate to break it to you and your tired feet, Isabelle, but you’re a natural. I’m not kidding. Very few women could pull off what you did today, and you did it with only a few minutes’ instruction.”
“You both did a great job placing the hidden cameras backstage too.” Cole took his phone out of his pocket and pulled up a couple of images. Now that the show was over and the overhead lights were off, the area where the models left their personal belongings was in shadow. The security lights were just strong enough to outline the empty white cubbies and a meter or so of the floor around them.
“Even though no one went after the purse today, it’s probably a good thing we set the cameras up when we did,” Marit said. “Tomorrow’s going to be a whole lot crazier backstage. Valentino’s show will bring in a lot of big names and a huge number of models. They’ll barely have time to clear out Valentino’s crew before Li Du and his people need to set up.”
The traffic signals changed, and they crossed the road together. Weaving around the trees lining the pavement, they continued walking toward the closest bridge.
“I’m glad we’re not working Valentino’s show,” Isabelle said. “Apart from the stress, I’m not sure that my feet would survive two shows back-to-back like that.”
“They’re going to have to,” Marit said. “The day after tomorrow, we have Peter Wade in the morning and Kyle Adams in the evening.”
Isabelle groaned. “I knew that. How could I have forgotten?”
“For a model at Fashion Week, taking one day at a time is a matter of self-preservation,” Marit said.
“Is Henri LaRue’s show in the morning or evening?” Lars asked.
“His show’s in the evening, three days after Wade’s and Adams’s,” Marit said. “And two days after that is Molenaar.”
“LaRue caught a lucky break, being placed ahead of Molenaar in the lineup,” Cole said.
“He did,” Marit said. “Even though most designers hope for the last spots so that their designs are the ones fresh on people’s minds when everyone leaves.”
“They each aspire to end Fashion Week with a bang,” Lars said.
Cole grimaced. “Pretty sure there’s going to be a bang this time round. I just don’t know how big it will be.”