Chapter 28
Isabelle rubbed her lips together, the final touches of her makeup now complete. Adrenaline surged through her, the time remaining until she would walk in yet another fashion show quickly pressing in upon her. Unlike the other shows she had been in so far, this time, her schedule had been compressed to uncomfortable levels. Whoever had let the previous show run so late should be fired. Now, here she was with only minutes until she was supposed to walk and she wasn’t even dressed yet.
“ Fini ,” the makeup artist said as she made the final touches to Isabelle’s hair.
“ Merci .” Isabelle stood.
Marit’s assistant approached. “Have you seen Marit?”
“Not for a while.” Isabelle turned in a circle, searching. “I don’t see her anywhere.”
Felicia pointed across the backstage area. “Last time I saw her, she was standing over by Chloe.”
“I’ll keep looking. Thanks.” Brookelyn scurried off the way she’d come.
“Who is Chloe?” Isabelle asked. She didn’t recall any models or assistants by that name.
“Chloe Brown. She’s one of the girls who arrived from New York yesterday.”
Isabelle pondered the logic behind bringing in a new model at such a late date. The woman’s name wasn’t familiar, but Isabelle supposed it was possible that she was in high enough demand that she hadn’t been required to go through the fittings and rehearsals. But from what Felicia had said, it sounded like Chloe was one of several.
The fittings. Why would any designer bring in a model without making sure the clothes fit correctly? Unless she had been fitted for her clothes in New York.
The many conversations she’d had with Marit, Cole, and Lars flooded through her mind, and her suspicion heightened. If she was right, they had eliminated some of their suspects prematurely, and these new models were proof that Adams had added new clothes to his line that very well might not be his own.
Needing to run her theory past Marit, Isabelle hurried down the line of stylist stations. She passed by one of the new models as the woman in her early twenties yawned. Judging from the heavy makeup under the woman’s eyes and the fatigue in her posture, she had been out far too late last night. Or she had only just arrived in Paris and was fighting jet lag.
Isabelle nearly made it past her dressing area before Hannah, her current assistant, intercepted her. “Hurry. We don’t have much time.”
Resigned to preparing for the show before speaking to Marit, Isabelle quickly changed out of her clothes and stepped into the floral dress belted at the waist. Hannah zipped her up, and Isabelle leaned down to ease her feet into the white strappy sandals waiting to abuse her blisters.
“Let me help you.” Hannah leaned down and buckled the first sandal before quickly moving to buckle the second one.
The moment she was dressed, Isabelle rushed to the backstage area where the other models were lining up.
Someone grabbed Isabelle’s arm and guided her to the piece of tape on the floor that marked the twelfth spot, the woman scolding her for being late as she did so. One of the new models took her place two spots up. The presence of several new faces had shifted the walk order around far more drastically than when Camille had swapped her to the number-three spot. Were all the changes due to Adams making room to showcase the designs he had stolen from Ralph?
Isabelle shifted to the side so she could see the front of the line, where Marit would take the third spot in this show, but Marit and the bright-purple jumpsuit were nowhere in sight.
Isabelle checked the time on the clock hanging beside the runway entrance. The show was supposed to have started two minutes ago.
A seed of concern planted inside her. One of the first lessons Marit had taught her was to always be on time. So where was she?
Isabelle turned in a circle, scanning the throngs of people in all directions. One of the new models stepped into the spot Marit was supposed to occupy, her fitted dress one that Isabelle had never seen before.
Every model was in place now except for Marit. Isabelle scanned the area again. Several assistants fiddled with accessories and last-minute adjustments, and Isabelle suddenly realized that Marit wasn’t the only person missing. Kyle Adams also wasn’t anywhere in sight. The oddity of that ranked right up there with Marit’s absence. Every other designer had been beside the staging area long before the models had arrived on their marks.
Isabelle’s unease grew, and she stepped out of line.
Olivia, one of Adams’s assistants, grabbed her arm. “Where are you going? You go on in four minutes.”
“I’ll be right back,” Isabelle said, not bothering to make up an excuse. She broke free of the woman’s grip and hurried to the dressing area assigned to Marit. “Marit?”
No response.
Isabelle pulled aside the curtain. One of Adams’s designs hung on the rack, an empty hanger beside it. Marit’s clothes were folded neatly on the chair in the corner of the tiny space. Clearly, Marit was already dressed for the show. So where was she? And where was Adams?
***
Lars adjusted the focus on the camera slung around his neck. He’d chosen to stand to one side of the runway, away from the other photographers and their equipment. He didn’t need professional shots of Kyle Adams’s new line; he just wanted to blend in.
From this angle, he had a good view of the catwalk and the models as they first stepped under the bright lights. He could also keep an eye on the audience. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for exactly. It wasn’t as though they were expecting any kind of real threat during Adams’s show, but he’d been around Cole enough to know that being alert and observant was always a good thing.
His gaze traversed the front-row seats that ran the length of the runway. Having finished his show, Peter Wade had claimed one of the chairs. Not far from him, a couple of celebrities were seated together, laughing over something. An air of anticipation hovered over the audience, and Lars could only imagine the tension on the other side of the curtain. He fingered the backstage pass lying against his chest, tempted to slip through the curtain to see exactly what was going on. Some candid shots of the hidden frenzy behind the elegance would give people a completely new view of a fashion show.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the time just as someone stepped out from between the curtains at the end of the catwalk. The show was about to begin. Abandoning his idea to relocate for the time being, he raised his camera. Marit had told him she would be the third model out, and he didn’t want to miss her.
The first model appeared at the head of the catwalk and started her journey down the runway to a ripple of applause. When she reached the bank of photographers at the runway’s end, a second model stepped out from between the curtains. Lars kept his eyes on the heavy black fabric. After the second model cleared the way, the curtain twitched, and the third model emerged. Her dark hair was cut short and glistened with gel. Confused, Lars lowered his camera. Marit had told him she was to be the third one out. He was sure of it.
Ignoring the dark-haired model’s journey down the runway, he kept his attention on the curtain. The next model appeared. Another stranger. Lars tightened his grip on his camera. What was going on? He was pretty sure Isabelle wasn’t scheduled until later in the program, but Marit was one of the industry’s lead models. She often opened the shows and rarely started this far down the line.
Lars waited until two more models had walked the length of the runway before acting on his mounting misgivings. Placing his camera in the bag at his feet, he zipped the bag closed, set the strap on his shoulder, and made for the backstage entrance.
The attendant security guard saw him coming and stepped in front of the partition. “Sorry. This is a restricted-access area.”
“I know.” Lars showed him his pass, offering up silent thanks to the person who’d supplied him and Cole with one.
The guard eyed the backstage pass before grudgingly moving aside. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he warned. “It’s crazy back there right now.”
Crazy enough that Marit would have missed her entrance? Lars didn’t think so. Not unless someone or something had prevented her from getting to the curtain.
Grateful that he already had a pretty good idea of the layout backstage, Lars made directly for the area near the front curtain. If Marit had been bumped to a later spot, she’d be standing in line, awaiting her turn. Weaving his way around all the equipment, harried assistants, and tech-support personnel, Lars reached the long queue of models. A few assistants milled around them, straightening sleeves and adjusting collars, but there was no sign of Marit. Come to that, there was no sign of Isabelle either.
Pivoting, Lars headed for the makeup and hair stations. One model was in a chair having pins added to her elaborate hairstyle. Other than her and the waiting stylists, however, the area was empty. After thoroughly scouring the vicinity, he crossed to the changing area.
“Marit?” he called.
He didn’t want to pull back the curtains at each cubicle, especially since there may be models using them, but he was getting desperate.
“Marit?” he called again.
“Lars!”
He swung around. Isabelle was hurrying toward him from the area beyond the changing cubicles. She was wearing a floral dress and was moving remarkably quickly given the height of her heels.
“Where’s Marit?” Lars asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me.” She looked around the cluttered space. “She never showed up at the line. I’ve searched all the obvious places and haven’t found her.”
Lars’s misgiving was rapidly becoming full-fledged fear. The woman he hoped to marry was in danger. He could sense it. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Have you called Cole?”
She shook her head. “I was going to get my phone when I heard your voice.”
He dialed his cousin’s number.
Cole answered on the first ring. “What’s going on?”
Was it Lars’s imagination, or was Cole out of breath?
“Marit’s missing,” he said.
“What about Isabelle?”
“She’s with me backstage. She doesn’t know where Marit is either.”
“I’m in the building. I’ll be right there.” The sound of running footsteps echoed through the phone. “And, Lars, tell Isabelle: Kyle Adams is our man.”