“I wonder if someone isn’t playing one now,” Brewster murmured in her ear, then pulled away and, before she could think of anything to say, turned to Holden.
“Zanetti’s a good choice for you. And their prêt-á-porter collection is really quite good.”
She was about to rush in and try to save Holden, when he spoke with cool assurance. “I agree. Nobody does a better pinstripe. Classic with a touch of whimsy. Not sure I’m ready for the return of the double-breasted suit, or those wide ties. Remind me too much of my dad’s wardrobe. I like the recent trend to tweed, however. I’m adding to my Burberry position.”
Kimi could have kissed Holden. He really had read all those magazines. Boot camp had worked! He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. Whether Brewster Peacock was as impressed with his fashion blather was impossible to say. With an enigmatic smile, the columnist drifted over to a group surrounding Daniel LeSerge, one of the top hat designers in Europe.
Marcy glanced at him in surprise. “I thought Brewster would try and pump me for information like he usually does, and so sneakily that you end up telling him things you never meant to. But he seemed more interested in you two. Are you up to something?”
“No. He’s just sniffing around for trouble as usual.”
“Well, I’d better run. If Simone sees me talking to you for too long she’ll get suspicious.” She shook her head. “This is going to be a very long week.”
“Before you go,” Holden said, “do you have a card?”
“Sure. Of course.” Marcy dug one out of the tiny beaded bag hanging at her side.
“Thanks.” He took out his wallet and slipped the card into it. Then he offered her one of his. Kimi didn’t realize he had new cards. Obviously, he couldn’t use the ones he’d started with. She saw, when he offered the new one, that it said simply, Holden MacGreggor Photography. And his cell number. He must have had them printed since she’d last seen him.
“What did Peacock whisper to you?” Holden wanted to know as they walked away.
She was watching Brewster chatting animatedly and never sparing her a glance. “He said he wondered if we were playing a practical joke. He took a stab in the dark trying to provoke me into saying something indiscreet, unless he knows something about why you’re really here.”
“If he knows anything more than where to pick up Liberace’s old wardrobe, I’d be surprised.”
“He’s deliberately outrageous. It’s his thing, but he’s also extremely smart, powerful in the world of fashion and very well connected.”
“In what way?”
“There isn’t anybody in fashion who won’t take his calls. Even if he cuts you to shreds in his column, it doesn’t matter. If he calls, you talk.”
“Why not tell him to shove his column up his ass?”
“Because the only thing worse than being hacked to pieces in Brewster’s column is not appearing in his column at all.”
6
“GOOD MORNING.”
Heat shot through Holden. All she had to say was two words in that sexy, cool voice of hers and he felt himself stirring with desire. He was naked in bed and the sexiest woman in Paris wasn’t naked in bed with him. She was phoning him. He squinted at the bedside clock—and calling him at a stupid hour.
“I don’t need a wake-up call. I set the alarm.”
“For what time?”
“Nine.” He’d been going over files last night, also trying to conduct a little business. His partner, Mandy, was handling everything with her usual efficiency, but there was a theft case they were working that was heating up. They’d been cops in the same precinct and learned they both liked working together a lot more than they liked the routine and bureaucracy of police work. So they’d opened their agency. So far it was working out well. After they’d mutually debriefed each other, and he’d asked Mandy to do some digging into the stolen couture gowns on her end, he’d finally packed it in at 3:00 a.m. Getting up at nine didn’t feel like sleeping in.
Kimi gasped. “Nine? But I’m picking you up at nine-twenty. Didn’t you listen to a word I said last night?”
He yawned hugely. “Every word. I’ll be there.”
“I suppose you’ll roll out of bed and stuff yourself into the first thing you pull out of your closet.” She sounded as though she was hyperventilating, so he couldn’t help teasing her a little.
“You could come over and help me dress.” He only meant to loosen her up a bit, but the second he said the words he pictured her walking into his room wearing one of her fancy dresses—one of the shorter ones that showed off her legs—and the high heels he scoffed at but secretly loved. That woman had some shoes.
The idea of her walking in here like that had the bed-sheets tenting as he, of course, imagined that instead of going to his closet she’d be overcome with his manly chest—not to mention the manly tent—and she’d climb right in bed with him, high heels and all.
In the second or two the exciting picture flashed across his brain she spluttered a bit and then said, “I think I’ll dress you from a remote location.”
His grin went wide. “You don’t trust yourself to walk into my room while I’m in bed.”
A muffled snort. “I don’t trust you.”
“Smart lady.”
“Now that you’re awake, pay attention.”
“Okay.” He yawned again.
“Today you put on the gray Marc Jacobs jacket with the pants by Bottega Veneta. The black-and-white Dolce & Gabbana shirt.”
“For a press conference?” He’d studied the schedule she’d sent him yesterday. She’d obviously tried to keep his schedule fairly light so he’d have more flexibility, which he appreciated.
“It’s followed by lunch. Rule of thumb. Always dress for the most important occasion of the day if you don’t have time to change between events.”
He kind of liked her little rules, the way she imparted her lessons like a schoolteacher priming kids on the Civil War. Of course, he’d always been the kid in class who challenged the teacher, on principle. Which had made him popular with the best teachers, the ones who actually appreciated an inquiring mind in a kid who thought for himself, and made him equally unpopular with the plodding types who dragged out the same lesson plan year after year and spent their lunch hours calculating how soon they could retire with a pension.
“Why wouldn’t I dress for the most casual event? It’s more my style.”
“Because you can take off your jacket and slip your tie in your pocket, even throw a sweater overtop to dress down your look. Then you slip back into the jacket and tie and you’re ready for the lunch. Make sense?”
“You’re a good teacher.”
There was a tiny silence. “Are you mocking me?”
“No. I like having things explained. Now I get it.”
“Okay then. So, what are you wearing?”
He repeated the ensemble back to her word for word. And the very idea that he could even think the word ensemble in relation to his own wardrobe had him thinking he should demand an extra bonus for doing this job.
“Excellent. And for your hair—”
“Oh, no. Don’t even go there. I had my hair cut. That’s it. End of story. I shower, I comb it. No hot rollers, no straightening irons, no dyes, highlights or lowlights.”
“You seem to know a lot about hair products,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.
“I’ve been with a few women.”
There was another short pause. “I was only going to suggest some pomade to keep it from blowing around in the wind. Plus a slicked-back look would bring out your eyes and your cheekbones.”
He could not believe it. “You want to bring out my damn cheekbones?”
“You have nice bone structure.”
There was only one bone he wanted her interested in and currently it was giving up the ghost. His tent was now as flat as a Kansas farm. She wanted him in slicked-back hair and cheekbones. Pomade. Shit.
&
nbsp; “No.”
“At least blow dry it?”
“Not a chance. I will shower, shave, brush my teeth and apply deodorant. That’s it, Manhattan.”
“All right. But please take your time dressing. Fashion is an art.”
“I’ll see you at nine-twenty.”
“Oh, and Holden?”
“Yeah?”
“Bring your camera stuff.”
“Very funny.”
HE WAS READY on time and she arrived promptly. They might not have one damn other thing in common, but at least they were both punctual. She stepped out of the limo before he could get in and came toward him clickety clicking on today’s totteringly high heels. These ones were navy with a big bow on the front. And she wore them with a navy-and-white dress that looked crisp and cool.
She narrowed her eyes slightly and looked him up and down as though she might be thinking of buying him for her collection. Then she walked slowly around him. Once back at the front, she eased his collar away from his neck and straightened his tie. “Do I pass?”
“With flying colors. Let’s go.”
The driver was getting out, but Holden waved him back in and opened the door for Kimi himself, then followed her into the limo. It was luxurious and the privacy screen was up.
“Most of the media will be at the press conference, and a lot of industry people, of course. I’ve also arranged for you to have access to photograph the models practicing their run-through for Simone’s big fashion show after lunch. They’re doing it on location in the opera house.”
“Good thinking.” He was impressed. “If I can get in there with them, I can shoot the dressers and the entrances and exits. I’ll make sure I get all the security guards and anybody who seems to be wandering around.” He reached over and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Really. Great work.”
“Thanks. Um, you will make sure and shoot the girls too, right?”
“You think the models could be in on the thefts?”
“Just take the pictures, will you?”
He looked at her and suddenly her brilliant stroke of genius didn’t seem quite so much like the gesture of someone who was helping him solve a case. “You don’t think I can take pictures of models, do you?”
“Of course I—” She stopped. Sighed. Looked at him with those deep, seriously blue eyes of hers. “I have no idea. While you are taking pictures of everything else, do you think you could take some fashion shots simply for the practice?”
“They won’t even be wearing the real gowns.”
“I know that. But they’ll be working on staging, timing, choreography and so on. I’ve told the house that we’re going to do a feature on the details that go into fashion week. A behind-the-scenes kind of thing.”
“Terrific idea.”
“Except that nobody really cares.” She shrugged. “I can probably do a short piece, maybe something longer online, but my job is to showcase the actual fashions. And I need great shots. So do us both a favor and practice on the real live models, okay?”
“Okay.” He leaned over, brushing her knee with his hand. “Sorry.” He reached his camera bag and unzipped it. Dug around in the bottom and pulled out the instruction booklet that came with the camera. He adjusted his glasses and flipped open the book.
“What are you—”
“Shh, I’m trying to read. Let’s see…f-stops. Aperture. Where’s point and click?”
She whacked him on the arm with her bag. “You may think this is funny, but it’s my career on the line, buddy. You mess this up and I’ll be using freelance stock photography. I’ll be humiliated. I’ll never be able to show my face in Paris again.”
“I promise, you won’t be humiliated by my photography.” He didn’t like to boast, but he was damn good with a camera. He could have made that his career, except he liked detective work. Still, the photography was an exciting and lucrative hobby, as well as being useful in his line of work. He laid a hand above her knee, thinking to soothe her or maybe just get her mind on something other than his imagined photographic shortcomings. But the second he touched her he felt the fabric slide against her slim, muscular thigh. She might mock him for his outdoor ways, but she was doing something to stay in shape.
He could feel the heat of her skin through her clothing and he couldn’t stop his fingers from venturing a little higher. He heard the hitch of her breath and saw her eyes darken. Making tiny, teasing movements against her thigh until he could feel the muscle quiver beneath his fingers, he leaned slowly forward. “Trust me,” he said, and then he kissed her, taking a long, slow taste of her. He’d intended nothing more than a little pleasure for both of them, a taste of what they both knew was ahead, but when their mouths met lust hit him like a freight train. Wham.
Knowing he had to hang on to his control, he pulled reluctantly away, enjoying the shock of her stunned expression and wet lips. “Later,” he promised them both.
KIMI WAS INDULGING in a soak in the deep, decadent tub in her hotel. She had a glass of wine in her hand and a knot of tension in her belly. She thought she might as well enjoy this week since it might be her last one in Paris. Sure, her publisher had arranged for Holden to be her photographer so it wouldn’t really be her fault if he screwed up, but she’d know her coverage wasn’t top notch.
If they hadn’t already reassigned her Milan photographer she’d call him and pay him out of her own pocket to make sure she got some decent shots.
She drank some more wine. Edith Piaf was playing in the background, and whatever very expensive salts she’d poured in the bath smelled heavenly.
There was a knock on her door. “Merde,” she said as she was immediately jerked out of her blissful moment.
“Qui est-ce?” she demanded.
“Kimi? It’s Holden.”
“What do you want?”
“Got some proofs for you.”
She was out of that bath so fast, water sloshed to the marble tile. “Wait. Wait. I’m coming.” She grabbed a thick, monogrammed towel, dried herself quickly and slipped into a hotel robe. Then she ran to the door while belting the luxurious cover-up.
7
SHE OPENED the door and her visitor’s eyes widened. “Sorry. Were you in bed already? It’s nine-thirty. I didn’t think I needed to call first.”
“No. It’s fine. I was taking a bath, that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s why your hair is wet down here by your ears.” He took one fingertip and traced a wet ringlet. She was sure he only meant the gesture to be teasing, but the second his skin touched hers it didn’t feel much like teasing anymore.
He’d changed into jeans; at least they were his new jeans, the ones she’d picked out for him. And he wore them with one of the three sweater-and-shirt combos she’d approved. Excellent.
She saw the brown envelope in his hand and was torn between wanting to know what the contents looked like and not wanting to know.
Curiosity won over cowardice. “Come on in.”
“I could leave them.” She felt that he was uncomfortable, and she realized he was worried she’d hate his work. Which reminded her that he wasn’t a trained fashion photographer, he was an undercover private detective and no matter how bad his proofs, she’d find something nice to say.
Then she’d get right on the phone and wake her publisher up and demand that they bring in somebody else to help with the photos. She had her pride.
“No. Come in. Sit down.” She gestured to the sofa. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Maybe in a minute.” He walked over and sat on the sofa, but he leaned forward, as if he had somewhere else he had to be.
She couldn’t stand keeping either of them in suspense any longer, so she lifted the unsealed flap and spilled a dozen or so eight-by-ten proofs out onto the table. For a second there was absolute stillness and silence in the room. A dozen gorgeous women sprawled on the table, some upside down, some right side up, some sideways.
She picked up the closest proof. It was
clear, in focus, perfectly centered in the frame. Already he’d exceeded her expectations. But he’d caught more than simply a model in a dress—not even the real couture number, but whatever they’d stuffed her in to practice the timing. He’d caught the flair of drama in her. Kimi knew the model. She was a young Australian with a guileless wide-eyed stare and cheekbones sharp enough to slice cheese. She had no idea how he’d done it, but he’d caught something magical.
She looked at the next one and appreciated the arrogance in the upturned arms and the way the model’s eyes flirted with the camera—or with Holden as he’d taken the shot, it didn’t matter. He captured not only her flirtation, but somehow made the dress part of the come on. It worked. She went through all of them before speaking, but she was enchanted.
It was impossible for her to explain to someone how to take a good fashion photo, but she knew them when she saw them. “Holden, these are amazing. I can’t believe you could so instinctively know how to shoot a model.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Glad you like them. I gotta tell you, I wasn’t looking forward to facing you if you decided I suck.”
She glanced up at him. “You must know you don’t suck.”
“I kept telling you that. You didn’t seem to believe me.”
“You didn’t develop this instinct from shooting pictures of animals.”
He snorted. “You think there’s no drama in the wild? That animals don’t have idiosyncrasies?” She kept looking at him steadily. He shrugged, his eyes crinkling around the edges. “And you forgot my work. I use my camera to catch people doing things they’d rather no one saw. You get good at reading faces and develop an instinct for timing.”
She went through the photos one more time, feeling the tension in her shoulders relax and excitement begin to build. “You, my friend, have hidden talents.”
“You have no idea.”
The tone of his voice was warm and promising, like hot-fudge sauce as it hits ice cream, making it melt.
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