The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1)

by Chris O'Neill

  “Your pills make me sleepy, Doc. That’s why I don’t want any more.”

  “But you can’t leave like this. You need at least another day of rest and observation in case of concussion.”

  “Gotcha. I’m leaving today, soon as the circus downstairs leaves town.”

  “I thought as much,” he said and smiled, then left her alone. Once he was gone, Lara pulled herself off the bed, holding on to the IV pack connected to her arm. She felt unsure on her feet, as though she were at sea, everything off balance. Her thighs fluttered and she buckled to her knees.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. Come on, you can do this. Come on!”

  Slowly, painfully, she got back on her feet, then spent the next hour walking back and forth from the bed to the window, seeing Paris and the river that had spat her back out in to the world in the near distance. She had all the motivation she needed.

  She was going back out there.

  PART TWO

  Paris Fashion Week

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Night had fallen on Paris and the Fashionistas were already three drinks in at the Pret-A-Porter fashion show in the Salles de Louvre. The shopping area, now home to such modern marvels as Starbucks and an Apple Store, had become a popular and high end venue during Fashion Week to exhibit new collections. The choice of venue had caused some controversy among the city’s elite and intelligentsia at first, but then, so had the arrival of American cafes; it was a stone and marble monument to classic art, not to modern consumerism. Some thought it was tasteless to hold catwalk shows there in the huge convention rooms, pulsing dance music throbbing off the same walls that were home to some of the most renowned art works of the last century. But, there was an argument that fashion was an art in itself and had every right to be there. The revelers enjoying the open bar didn’t seem to mind.

  Beth Hollaway was in from New York for Paris Fashion Week and it was going to make or break her advancement to the next step in the firm and she knew it. The pressure was fine, she was used to that, having spent the last five years working her way up through various boiler room offices and fly-by-night apparel companies, but now she had her chance to swim in the big leagues and show everyone she had what it took to be a sharp eyed buyer.

  An arresting five seven in flats, athletic from spending far too much time in the gym and not enough time dating, she looked every inch the industry player as she watched the show from near the back of the sloping audience area. The catwalk took the centre of the room, the big names in the business sat on chairs up front surrounded by celebrities while peons like her were thrown together, fighting for standing room only views of the show.

  She nursed a glass of champagne and tried to control her nerves. She knew it was important to take a moment to be proud of all the nights she had spent at college studying and learning everything she could about the business because here she was, in Paris, at Fashion Week and she had a mission. Her assignment was to find that one new designer, the one that had unmistakable talent and bring it to the US. Or, more simply, her job was to make her boss, Dane Osprey back in New York, very rich and very happy by bagging the diamond in the rough of the new designers. She had to spot the true haute couture genius- one that would sell in department stores and make the company of Osprey and Singer an industry titan. That was all on her right now. Dane would have come but he was busy with a messy divorce from his third wife and was out in the Hamptons with one of his mistresses.

  Her assistant, Melinda, stood beside her, gulping down her fourth glass of champagne in the last hour. She was a pinball of energy, excited to be in Paris, even more excited to be out of America for the first time. Beth saw the Melinda trademark grin that exploded across her face. She was a tiny, elfin thing in her twenties, recently graduated from some west coast liberal arts college where she had divided her time between class and as much hardcore debauchery as she could throw herself in to. Her party girl exterior masked the fact she was actually razor sharp and even her professors were shocked to see her make the Dean’s List and graduate Cum Laude. She was making eyes at a tall, tanned, extremely thin man a few rows down.

  “What do you think?” Beth asked.

  “I think he’s fucking hot is what I think,” Melinda said, not taking her eyes off the thin man for a second. Beth laughed to herself- if Melinda was one thing, she was focused on what she wanted when she saw it.

  “I mean the designer,” Beth said, trying to direct Melinda’s attention to the stage, where the models were almost finished exhibiting the entire collection. The designer’s name was projected on the rear wall in print that looked like a signature. Pascal Noir.

  “I like this girl, her stuff’s cuuuute!” Melinda was moving to the deep thumping base from the speakers arranged around the room.

  Pascal Noir (not her real name, of course, but most designers went by an alias) had been getting a lot of buzz from the other buyers and the photographers who Beth had managed to talk to in an effort to get the inside track. She was fresh to the scene, with a small couture label she had started on her own in her tiny studio apartment with a sewing machine, a cutting table and a lot of heart, which she had now parlayed in to a guest spot at the emerging designers showcase at the biggest fashion week on the industry calendar. The fashion crowd loved a secret. Now, all eyes were on the last of her pieces of her collection and it seemed like she was a hit. It would not be long before the offers came in, which meant, if she was the hidden gem, Beth would have to get to her first.

  “I’m gonna go ambush her. I’ll meet you outside,” Beth said, getting ready to move. She looked over at the thin man who had caught Melinda’s eye and saw him kiss the much older man he was sitting with on the lips.

  “Shit,” Melinda said, her shoulders dropped in defeat and she pouted with disappointment. “It’s like being back in New York.”

  Beth hurried off, moving through the crowd down the steps to the backstage area. A burly looking security guard eyed her as she approached. Back home, Beth’s well groomed natural beauty and stunning brown eyes would be enough to make any security guard go week at the knees. Here, though, she felt the security guards found her to be like Kryptonite. Beth smiled disarmingly at the huge security guard and gave it her best try, visualizing success about getting through the curtain to the backstage area.

  “Hi,” she said with a little laugh and felt a sudden electric thrill as she breezed right past him right without a problem. All that build up and nerves for nothing. The trick, it seemed, was to look important and keep moving.

  Back stage was the usual scene for a fashion show- chaos. Stylists, models, agents, hangers on and assistants all vying for the attention of someone- anyone- to feel important and part of the scene. Beth figured the best place to intercept Pascal would be the entrance to the stage when she returned from her triumphant trip down the runway. She could hear the applause thundering on the other side of the enormous curtain that separated the audience from the staging area. The air was thick back here with cigarette smoke and the cloying smell of marijuana. God, she hated that smell. She moved to the steps leading up to the stage. The models were coming back in, hurrying to their next designer assignment. A PA with a headset was hustling them down, the next line of models already waiting casually chatting on the other side of the stage. Then Pascal Noir came out and teetered down the steps towards Beth.

  “Pascal?” Beth said to the petite little beauty carrying the biggest bouquet of flowers she had ever seen.

  “Yes?” the woman asked, her eyes showing she was obviously on the hunt for a similar break tonight. She had a shock of orange in her hair, a smile as wide as the room and a genuine likability.

  “I’m Beth Hollaway from Osprey and Singer in New York. I love your work.”

  “Thank you so much. Excuse me, I have to pack up,” the woman moved to her area where the models were stripping down and handing the clothes to assistants who were hanging them up on a mobile rack against the wall.

  “I want
ed to see you before the jackals showed up.”

  “Oh, you’re not a jackal?” Pascal asked, amused.

  “No,” Beth laughed, willing Pascal to laugh with her. It didn’t work. Time to go for the kill while she had the chance, this wasn’t the place for small talk.

  “I’d really like to represent you in North America.”

  Pascal stopped and looked at her. Beth saw now that the woman was very good looking, a EuroAsian mix. Stunning, actually. As her mind processed what Beth had just dropped in her lap, she looked like an awkward high school girl who’d just been asked out on her first date. Beth knew that look, she had carried it on her own face many times, despite herself.

  “Um..sorry, I’m a little distracted. That sounds great. I’m not brushing you off but can we talk after the show?” Pascal asked.

  “Absolutely. It’s a serious offer. We’d fly you to New York, set you up with your own show. What do you say?”

  “Wow. Thank you. You have no idea what it took for me to get here tonight.” Pascal grinned. Beth felt it had been a long struggle for Pascal, but here she was, doing it. She handed the designer one of her business cards.

  “I’m staying at the George Cinq hotel. Will you call me tomorrow and we can go over everything at lunch?”

  “Absolutely,” Pascal said, beaming as she looked at the card.

  “I’ll let you get back to it. Thank you, Pascal, you’re going to take New York by storm, I promise.”

  “You’re the first person I’ve met in the business whose smile comes from the heart. I appreciate that, Beth Holloway.”

  “Uh…thank you,” Beth blurted, feeling embarrassed at not knowing the appropriate response. She had never been good with compliments. She knew this was her cue to leave before she became a nuisance and she retreated to the exit that led out in to the shopping level where the drinks were being served. She needed one.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  What she really wanted was a cigarette. Maybe she could find somewhere quiet and have a few drags while she called the office back home. She moved through the brightly lit shopping area, past the enormous statue of a handbag and up the escalators to the main exit. She was wearing a lanyard that had her industry pass and credentials so coming back in would be no problem.

  She walked out to the main square outside the museum and saw it was just as busy up here as it was inside. There were market stalls set up, selling all manner of apparel and accessories. The red carpet led to the entrance of the museum and the incessant flash of cameras was almost enough to induce an epileptic fit. She walked in the opposite direction, headed towards the fountain. There were tourists over here, watching the red carpet, getting a taste of the energy in the air. She pulled out her cigarette case and lit one up with the gold lighter an ex had bought her with the inscription, “Life’s a Drag.” She liked men with a sense of humour. It was shame that guy was just an asshole.

  She exhaled smoke and felt all her nerves tingling with excitement. Pascal was going to be a hit, she knew it. She pulled out her cellphone and speed dialed the office. The conversation was short and to the point. Dane was busy, after all, Beth could hear the voice of a woman much younger than him in the background, begging him to get off the phone and come play. When she was finished, she hung up and laughed in excitement. She turned around and saw the sketch artists.

  They were gathered along this corner of the fountain, drawing portraits for the tourists. Some of them were pretty good from the ones Beth could see. There was one sat off to the side, away from the others. His eyes were locked on hers. He was about twenty feet away and he was beckoning for her to sit at the folding chair he had out before him. She shook her head, “no”. The man stood up, pointing to his easel.

  “Please, I’ve already started. Want to see it?”

  Feeling curious and a little reckless, her inhibitions melted in the face of success, she didn’t think twice as she made the short walk to Guillotine’s station. He stepped forward, offering her the chair.

  “Let me finish it. No charge, my pleasure. Allow a stranger to show you how utterly stunning you are,” he said.

  She looked at him- his eyes were captivating. She saw the scars on his face and felt a warm blush inside her. There was something oddly beautiful about him and he had a smile like none she had ever seen. She sat down.

  “Don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” she asked, taking a drag. He sat on the other side of the easel.

  “Not at all. How’s the show?”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “The lanyard gives it away.”

  “I think I just scored a promotion. Finally. Which means I can move out of the rat hole apartment I’ve been living in the last three years and go uptown.”

  “I bet the hotel they’ve put you in is bigger.”

  “It is!”

  “Twice the size?”

  “Three times, actually.”

  “Let me guess; you’re staying at the Ritz?”

  “George Cinq, actually.”

  “Well, now, aren’t you fancy?”

  “I wish I had more time to see this place. It’s so beautiful. You’re lucky you live here.”

  “Paris has that effect on people with creative minds. It stirs up the imagination and the emotions. Do you have a place that does it for you back home?”

  “There’s a point on the bridge near my place in Brooklyn. I like to go there sometimes and just zone out.”

  “Let the rest of the world just melt away…”

  “Right….”

  She watched him working the easel, never taking his eyes off hers.

  “What does it for you?” she asked.

  “This. My work.”

  “Is it hard? Sketching, I mean...”

  He smiled.

  “Right now, only you and I exist. The pencil has to brush the paper, lightly, delicately. Teasing it as I get to know your face. Then I push a little harder and longer and it starts to build up. You cannot break eye contact. Find the rhythm that the face responds to and keep going and going until…”

  She realized she was leaning forward, listening to his every word.

  “…you’re done.” Guillotine sat back, lowering the pencil. He let out a long sigh and smiled. She took a drag of the cigarette and started laughing. Somehow, he had managed to turn the act of sketching her face in to an almost sexual experience.

  “Want to see?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she said as she got up and stepped around the easel.

  The sketch took her breath away. Her face on the paper was amazingly detailed, smooth and perfect. No woman had ever looked this beautiful. She was genuinely impressed.

  Guillotine looked at her and saw Marie and Madeleine standing behind her. The young woman was glowing, a brightness emanating from behind her, blooming in to a blinding bright light that eclipsed his Aunts and made them disappear until all he could see was her face. Guillotine was about to fall on his knees in reverence when she placed a hand delicately on his shoulder as she leaned closer to examine the sketch and he almost came. He closed his eyes as she spoke.

  “I look like an angel…” she said.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Beth found Melinda at the bar with a good looking Italian man. He was olive skinned, had a wide and easy smile, tall at around six feet and svelte to the point she thought his snake hipped waist could have fit in one of her socks. His aftershave was deep and musky but pleasant and arousing. There was no mistake, the man was very sexy. God, she loved Paris.

  “My name is Fulvio,” he said in a thick, deep accent, holding out his hand to her as she joined them by the bar. She shook hands and flashed him a warm smile. The man was clearly on a charm offensive, but it was sincere and made him more endearing.

  “I would kiss you on the cheek but I hear American girls consider that harassment,” he grinned.

  “You don’t hear me complaining,” Melinda said and took a pull on her wine, offering him her cheek, which he d
uly kissed. Despite his model good looks, there was something goofy about him and he seemed happy to even be here.

  “So what do you do, Fulvio?” Beth asked, wondering if he was with one of the big Italian fashion houses.

  “Anything that gives me pleasure,” he said and somehow managed to make it not sound cheesy. It was the accent. Had to be. Melinda ran a hand through his hair. Beth was about to find an excuse to leave them alone but needed to get business out of the way first.

  “Oh, I got her,” Beth informed Melinda.

  “You got her?! Pascal Noir?! Oh my god, that’s amazing!”

  “Yeah, she’s coming by the hotel tomorrow, we’re gonna sign her and we are going home golden. We did it.”

  “Awesome!!”

  Melinda jumped up and down with uncontrollable excitement. Melinda’s inability to filter herself was one of the main reasons Beth liked her. She grabbed Beth and hugged her so hard she spilled her drink on Fulvio’s suit.

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Melinda cried, taking hold of Fulvio’s arm, frantically patting it down with a napkin.

  “Benne. Benne. If only you had spilled it down my throat, then it would be a party,” he grinned.

  “We’ll save that for later,” Melinda smiled mischievously. As she dabbed Fulvio’s arm with her napkin, he put a hand on her hip and when she was finished, she put a hand on his and they pulled each other close. Beth figured this was her time to make her gracious exit and go back to the hotel and get some sleep. If she could. The adrenalin from scoring the hottest designer at Paris Fashion Week was still blasting through her and she felt so wired like a high speed train, she might not sleep the rest of the week.

  “Is this man bothering you?” a British voice called from behind her. She half turned to see a man in his early thirties with a goatee, built like a rugby player, stocky but manly, dressed in a nice suit, two beers in his hand and a gleam of mischief in his blue eyes. He handed one of the beers to Fulvio and broke out a wide and quirky grin at Melinda that was more than enough for Beth to know that this man was clearly a good time and probably a lot of trouble. He hadn’t seen her yet, distracted by the closeness of Melinda and his friend, but Beth found herself tucking her hair behind her ear in a subconscious nervous reflex.