by Amanda Boone
Jake paled. “What did he do to you?”
“He set me and the other girls free. The Englishman was a spy working against an international human trafficking ring. After he threw my abuser in jail, he arranged for me to be placed with a good family. He even paid for my education.” She sighed. “Once I became an adult, he came back and asked me to work for his people in the U.K. I’ve been a field operative ever since.”
“So they’ve had you all your adult life. It’s my turn now.” Jake turned her toward him. “I want you to stay here, with me. So don’t go to Barcelona.”
“I still work for British intelligence,” she reminded him. “And how do you know about Barcelona?”
“My friends at the CIA were very grateful.” He nodded and tugged her closer. “MI-6 doesn’t own you. Resign. Then you don’t have to go.”
“Jacob, please. Don’t do this to me.” She knocked her forehead against his chest. “The sex was amazing, and all this espionage seems exciting, but it’s not enough.”
“Love is. You love me, don’t you?” When she reluctantly nodded, he grinned. “Good. It would have been lousy to be in love with someone who just liked the sex.”
“You’re in love with me.” She couldn’t believe it.
“With all my mind, heart, body and soul. But I can show you, too.” He lifted her off her feet. “All you have to do is say no to Barcelona.”
Kameko smiled. “No to Barcelona.”
THE END
The Designer’s Obsession
Bound to the Alpha Billionaire
Book 4
(Can be read as a standalone book)
By: Lucy Wynand
The Designer’s Obsession
Chapter One
Backstage at the House of Belanger fashion show at the Castle of the Three Swans, chaos reigned. Dressers sorted garment bags on crowded standing racks, checking the photos pinned to each garment to match models to their looks. Hair and makeup stylists danced around the girls in their chairs, plying their cosmetics and tools. Voices prattled in Spanish and English, while others swore in French. Smoke from a dozen cigarettes, surreptitiously smoked in corners, curled up to form a haze around the light poles.
“Wait.” Thierry Belanger put his mobile on mute and tugged a six-foot tall blonde from the line of models. “No.” He turned his head and bellowed for his American. “Kate.”
“One moment, Monsieur,” a brisk voice called back.
He put his mobile back to his ear and demanded, “What do you mean, Saito is still in New York? I need her here, in Barcelona. Now. Put her on a plane.”
“She was attacked yesterday,” Simon Denning, his British intelligence liaison, advised him. “She can’t make it.”
“What?” As his show seamstress’s sleek head of braided apricot hair appeared under his nose, Thierry gestured to the model’s breasts, which threatened to spill over the too-tight bodice. “Kate. Please. Before she pops.” He walked out to an adjoining hallway before he told Simon, “So bandage her, give her some painkillers, and put her on the plane.”
“Kameko has resigned.” Simon paused, listening to Thierry swear before he said, “Wren Calhoun can be there on Saturday.”
“This goes down tomorrow night, Denning. Not Saturday, not next week, not next month. Tomorrow.” Thierry strode out into the castle’s fragrant grove of citrus. “Rodrigo will be here for one night only. We’ve been working for a year to set this up. The contact won’t pass the plans to me. She is expecting a woman. My mistress. My supermodel mistress.”
“Then you’ll have to find one,” Simon said, “because Saito is through, and Wren can’t leave Tokyo until Friday night. None of our other female operatives can pass as a supermodel.”
Thierry considered hurling his mobile into the oranges. Since he liked oranges, he went with his second option. “I quit.”
“You can’t,” the British agent countered.
“I should.” Thierry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why am I doing this? I have more money than your Queen. I could be in Paris now, eating real food and drinking good wine. Do you know what they have in Barcelona, Denning? Gazpacho. I hate gazpacho.”
“Find someone, old boy.” The Englishman’s tone turned flinty. “This attack the cartel is planning has every country in Europe on high alert. We have to know what the target is.”
Thierry switched off his mobile and swore until he saw Kate come out of the castle. “The blonde? You fixed it?”
“Nothing wrong. Right look, wrong blonde.” She handed him an insulated tumbler. “Here. They’re walking in two minutes. Drink fast.”
He took a sip and closed his eyes. For him savoring the taste of real Parisian dark-roasted coffee took a moment. He looked at his seamstress and sighed with pleasure. “I love you, Kate.”
“Yesterday you hated me,” she reminded him as they walked back into the castle. “You fired me, too.”
“I am an idiot.” As they entered the backstage area, he scanned the line of models. Thanks to Kate every look in his spring collection appeared flawless. He stood with her to watch the models saunter down the cat walk. The audience gaping and the cameras flashing made him feel just a little smug.
Beside him his slender American kept her shrewd, jade-colored eyes on the garments. He knew she was tracking each one to see how it fit, moved, and a thousand other tiny details. A genius with fabric and thread, Kate had been translating his designs from paper sketches to reality for almost three years now. She worked as obsessively as he did, and never complained. No matter where they traveled, she always found French coffee, which made her the perfect woman.
Thierry knew he was too selfish to love anyone, but he truly adored his American. He bent his head to hers and murmured, “Marry me.”
Kate chuckled. “One day I’m going to say yes, just so I can watch you drop dead with a heart attack.”
Thierry glanced down at the American’s long, lean body. Work, not starvation, kept Kate as slim as the girls on the cat walk. She never wore make-up so she wouldn’t accidentally smear it on the looks she worked on, but she had the smooth ivory skin and bone structure to showcase any cosmetic enhancement.
“Congratulations.” As the final walk music cued, Kate plucked the tumbler from his hand. “You pulled it off again, Monsieur. Beautifully.”
“Yes.” An idea began to form in his head as he took the arm of his featured model. “Somehow we always do, don’t we, Katie?”
#
Kate carried the last cases out of the castle to stow them in the House of Belanger van. After rubbing a sore spot on the small of her back, she nodded to the driver. “That’s the last of it. See you in the morning.”
From the castle she walked down to a café where her co-workers had gathered and hailed her with waves and grins. She liked hanging out with the other seamstresses and dressers after a show. Everyone still bubbled with adrenalin, and partied happily with relieved satisfaction. She also knew only too well that tomorrow morning they’d all be grumpy and bitching as they checked out of the hotel to head for the airport.
It helped her to blow off a little steam as well. As the head seamstress and show manager for the House of Belanger, Kate worked hard. She had to; hers was one of the fashion industry’s most stressful jobs. Insanely talented and demanding, Thierry Belanger could be a real pain in the ass, too. Before hiring Kate he’d gone through a half-dozen of her predecessors like razor-sharp shears through organza.
She probably would have quit herself, long ago, if she hadn’t fallen for the big, dark Frenchman. He’d owned her heart from the first moment she’d looked in his soulful midnight eyes. She knew he’d never see her like that, but she didn’t care. At least he fueled her fantasies occasionally by asking her to marry him.
Tonight he’d given her such a strange look, though, before he’d walked out to take his bow with the featured model. Kate wondered what he’d been thinking when he’d studied her with his beautiful dark eyes.
“Marcel said you had to switch two looks a minute before the girls walked,” a hair stylist said. “How do you do this so fast, cherie?”
“Scissors, hem clips, and body tape.” She lifted the beer someone gave her to acknowledge the knowing hoots. “A show seamstress’s three best friends.” She took a long drink before she saw some horrified expressions around the table. “Don’t look so petrified. Monsieur never knows.”
“Ah, Kate.” The stylist nodded past her shoulder. “He does now.”
Kate glanced back to see Thierry Belanger standing just behind her, his strong arms folded and his expression dark. “Well, damn. I guess I’m fired again.”
“Not yet.” The big Frenchman took hold of her arm to tug her to her feet. “We need to talk. Come with me.”
Kate brought the beer bottle. Once they were a block from the café, she offered it to her boss. “I just snipped off a few buttons so I could switch the looks quicker,” she told him. “You know I’ll sew them back on when we get home.”
“We’re not going home, Kate.” He dropped the bottle in a trash bin. “At least, not tomorrow. I need you to do something for me.”
Oh, the things she wished she could do for him. She’d start by running her hands through his lion’s mane of black hair while she kissed his beautiful mouth, and work her way down his hard, ripped body until she got to his toes. Then she’d go back up again. A hundred times.
His midnight eyes searched her face. “Katie?”
“Sure,” she said, feeling flustered now. “What do you need?”
Thierry stopped by a park bench and drew her down to sit beside him. “I want you to go to a party with me tomorrow night.”
Kate frowned. “You’re showing looks at a party? You never do that.”
“It is not a fashion party.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’ve made some new contacts here, and they invited me to join them for a special gathering. They are expecting me to bring a date, too. My supermodel girlfriend. If I do not, I lose face, and then everything is ruined.”
Now she felt really confused. “Monsieur, you don’t date models. Or supermodels. You don’t date anyone.”
“This is why I need you to come with me,” he said. “So they will believe you are my girlfriend.”
Kate stared at him. “You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend. Your supermodel girlfriend. Me.” She pressed her lips together, but a giggle still escaped her. “That’s a good one, Monsieur.”
Thierry took her hands in his. “The thing is, I am not joking, Kate.”
Chapter Two
Thierry paced the length of the salon’s lobby before he checked his Rolex for the third time. “Luis, how much longer?”
“You bring me clay, amigo, and demand a diamond,” the darkly handsome stylist reminded him. “This takes time, no?”
A screech of outrage made both men glance at the curtained back room. One of Luis’s assistants working back there snapped something in angry Spanish.
“Poke me with that mascara brush again, lady,” a furious voice replied, “and I’m going to break your face.”
Luis eyed Thierry and shrugged. “Americans.”
A few minutes later the curtains parted and a tall, elegant beauty in skimpy, body-hugging emerald and gold lace stalked out.
Luis’s assistants had swept up her strawberry-blonde hair in a sophisticated twist. Several long, red-gold wisps framed a face made gorgeous by bronze-shadowed jade eyes and gleaming crimson lips. Sparkling topazes glittered in her small ears and around the base of her long neck. When she stopped in front of Thierry, she teetered for a moment on the golden stiletto heels of her skyscraper pumps.
For a moment he considered hauling her into his arms and kissing her breathless, but this was Kate. His little workhorse. Steady, dependable, tireless . . . and now so lovely it made his heart hurt to behold her.
Thierry kept his expression bland as he nodded. “You are perfect.”
“Are you kidding?” She threw out her arms. “I look like a Victoria’s secret hooker.”
“Quiet.” Thierry walked around her, mostly to cover his shock at seeing her transformation. His American had been hiding lovely breasts, and a heart-shaped bottom that made his cock twitch. “This is good, I think. Very convincing. Luis?”
The Spaniard gave Kate the once-over. “I would take her to bed. She busy later?”
“Shut up, Luis,” she snapped at him. To Thierry she said, “I can’t walk in these shoes. I’m going to fall on my ass.”
“So you’ll hold onto my arm.” He offered it to her. “Come. We can’t be late.” He bowed his head to the Spaniard. “Luis, you are still the master. Merci.”
“I’m glad I’m unhappy,” Kate told Thierry as he marched her out to the waiting limo, “because if I smile my face is going to crack and fall off. Do you know how many pounds of make-up they troweled on me?”
“You are the trooper,” he assured her as he helped her into the car. Once inside he gave the driver the address for the party and raised the privacy screen. “Kate, once we are inside a woman will come to you with something for me. It will be small.”
“Is it an aspirin? I need one,” she assured him.
“No, something else. A disc, perhaps.” He tried to think of how to tell her to safeguard it without giving away the game. “Don’t put it your clutch. It can’t be . . . lost.”
“You want me to stick this thing down my bra, Monsieur?” she asked sweetly. “Because here’s a news flash: I’m not wearing one. Luis stole mine.”
He couldn’t help glancing at the ripe curves of her pretty breasts. Why had he never noticed until now what a luscious body she had? “Very well, keep it in your purse until you can pass it to me, or put it in my pocket.”
“Why are you really going to this party?” When he didn’t answer, she heaved a sigh. “None of my business. I’m just fake supermodel arm candy. Gotcha.”
“You are more than that. When we get back to Paris, I am sending you to my beach house on the coast. You can spend a week sunbathing and flirting with Germans.” He saw the worry in her eyes and took her hand, raising it to his lips. “It will be fine, Kate.”
She made a rude sound. “You’re not wearing a thong made out of dental floss.”
“Waxed, or mint?” he asked gravely, and was rewarded with an unwilling chuckle. “See? Your face does not crack off.”
“Don’t stand me next to a hot lamp,” she warned. “I’ll start melting. Okay, Monsieur, what else do I need to know?”
He laced his fingers through hers. “Stay close to me tonight – and don’t call me Monsieur. I am your boyfriend, remember?”
“My boyfriend, Thierry. My billionaire boyfriend. Who dates me because I’m a supermodel.” Kate’s expression turned rueful. “Sure, everyone will believe that.”
#
The driver delivered them to a decrepit villa in Cuitat Vella, the oldest section of the city. As Kate got out, she eyed two rail-thin prostitutes flanking a burnt-out lamp post. Other silent guys prowled the sidewalks like strays, probably looking for careless tourists to pick pocket or roll. Just inside an alleyway Kate saw a third hooker on her knees, busy servicing a heavyset man braced against a crate.
“You take me to the nicest places,” she mentioned to her boss as he tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “So, are your new friends into the hourly escort business? Or do they just like living in the red-light district?”
“That’s El Barrio Chino, by the port.” He led her up to the villa’s entry, where a bald, linebacker-size doorman peered at them before nodding to Thierry and opening the door.
Inside flashing disco ball light dazzled Kate’s eyes for a moment. She froze as she found herself being briskly patted down by another beefy thug. “Excuse me?”
“Just a precaution, my dear. We can’t have weapons in the house.” A small, dark man in a glittering red sequined jacket waved away the guard. He then swayed and righ
ted himself with the unsteadiness of someone who was feeling no pain. “Belanger, so good of you to come. You are much taller than I thought. Rosalinda will be so pleased. She is very tall, too.”
“A pleasure, Rodrigo.” Thierry shook hands with him before he turned to Kate. “This is my mistress, Katrina.”
“Like the big storm, eh?” Rodrigo reached up to pat Kate’s cheek. “You blow me away, too, Guapa. Now, come. We have anything you want to drink or smoke. Or snort, if you care for that sort of thing.”
Kate could already smell the sickly-sweet stink of cannabis, and held onto Thierry’s arm as they waded across the crowded room. “Katrina?” she muttered to her boss. “My name is Kathryn.”
“I don’t want him to know that,” Thierry murmured back.
Kate felt confused. Instead of designer clothes, everyone seemed to be wearing leather, latex or spandex. The only accessories she saw were of the sexually titillating variety. She also felt a rampant, almost frightening lust pervading the room, as if all the other guests were about to jump on each other.
Her eyes widened as she spotted a busty blonde on all fours and yelping as an older man swatted her with a paddle. “Uh, honey? Are we at the wrong party, maybe?”
Thierry pressed a kiss to her temple and murmured, “Don’t freak out, Kate. When this is over, I’m giving you a raise. I promise.”
“Okay.” She passed by a mostly-nude woman in handcuffs performing oral sex on a very well-endowed marble statue. When they reached the bar, a young Spaniard wearing only nipple clamps and a Speedo offered her a drink. Kate eyed the white high heeled shoe he’d filled with red wine and shook her head. “Gracias, pero no. Gives me athlete’s mouth.”
As soon as Rodrigo got their drinks he waved to someone and said to Thierry, “Come upstairs when you’re ready. Rosalinda and I will join you there.” He elbowed his way over to an older, smiling man with a much younger woman on a leash.
“So.” Kate stood at Thierry’s side watching the festivities while she discreetly watered a potted plant with her champagne. “How big a raise are we talking here, anyway?”