Page 70 of Nothing More

“Well,” he said, “I’m afraid it is about the gala.”

She made a noise of concern, and checked the clock above the coffee cart. Ian would be arriving with Cass soon.

“It’s nothing to do with us,” he continued, as if he hadn’t noticed her distraction; he was so dedicated to this performance, perhaps he hadn’t – “with Donovan and me. We’re thrilled to have your participation. And especially since it’s a chance to debut some of your new joint collection with Jardin Designs–”

“Wait.” A pulse of worry in her stomach, flutter of nerves. “How do you know I’ll be offering some of the joint designs?”

He froze with his mouth half-open; his brows snapped together. “Oh. Well. I guess we assumed. It’s all over the posters out in the office pool.” He nodded toward the door. “And that article inVoguelast month, you and Jean-Jacque de Jardin photographed together. The spread with all the black.”

She recalled it with a wave of relief. “Oh. Right.”

The shoot had been her idea, in fact: a way to establish Ian’s “Jean-Jacque” persona in a concrete way that customers and buyers alike would not only believe, but find alluring. Both of them wearing all black, her with her hair pulled back severely, high wings of eyeliner and fake lashes, him with his beanie, sunglasses, jewelry, and a little tasteful application of cosmetics to render him unrecognizable. They’d stood just downstairs in the alley, the dirty brick a contrasting backdrop for their spotless, tailored clothes. It was all very nineties grunge-band-chic, and everyone she’d talked to about it had exclaimed over how striking they looked together.

But as quickly as it had arrived, her relief was doused, because Ian – as Ian – was on his way in right now.

“Like I said,” Greg said, and she held up a finger.

“One moment.” She pulled out her phone and fired off a text telling Ian to send Cass in but to not come into the office himself, then tucked it away again. “Sorry. You were saying?”

He didn’t look put-out to be interrupted; if anything, he was even more apologetic than before. “We met yesterday with the other hosts, and laid out all the prizes being offered. There were two hosts who expressed some…concern…over your involvement.”

She was offended. Immediately, automatically, familiarly. Throughout her career, she’d been sneered at, mocked, and dismissed; people had assumed she was stupid or gullible, because she’d gotten her start on the runway. Another pretty face with nothing behind it. She’d worn offense as armor; had wielded it as a weapon, until she’d watched men in their forties and fifties trip all over themselves in an effort to escape her cold, composed wrath.

Now, though, was not the moment to unleash it. She smoothed her slacks and said, frowning, “But I’m notinvolved, really. I’m only providing a silent auction item.”

He nodded. “I know, and I explained that, but they still have reservations.”

“Who has reservations? And why?”

“Well, I don’t want to cause any sort of professional friction–”

“Who?”

He hesitated, and then his gaze skated away across the rug as he said, with resignation. “Blaire Blanchard and Milo Conrad.”

She only knew them from a half-interested flip through an issue ofForbes. An heiress and her beau, the former dropped face-first into a CEO position, entrusted with piles of money, always on every list of young movers and shakers, photographed outside every New York and LA hotspot wearing the trendiest looks.

“Please,” Greg continued, “if you talk to Donovan, don’t tell him I said anything. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

She lifted a single brow. “Then why are you here?”

He looked even more uncomfortable. She had the impression he wasn’t used to frosty; that his big-grin, good-boy routine usually worked with women. “Donovan wanted me to see if I could talk you into contributing some other way. Perhaps through a donation. A little more low profile.”

“To keep the Prom King and Queen of New York happy?”

“Er…essentially.”

Raven took a slow breath in and out. “Greg,” she said, crisply, “your friend Donovan sat in this very chair I occupy and wheedled and simpered until I agreed to provide outfits and stylings. He sent emails. He went to some effort. And now you’re saying he sends you to brush me off because two spoiled brats have ‘concerns’? What sorts of concerns could they possibly have?”

He fidgeted, fingers knotting, then pressing flat again on his thighs. He smoothed his tie and cleared his throat and looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

To be honest, Raven was enjoying it.

“It’s nothing thatwe’reworried about,” he said, pressing a hand briefly to his chest. “But Miss Blanchard said she wasn’t comfortable with the fact that you acquired most of Nikola Howard’s models immediately following her…”

“Death? You can say death. The woman died.”

His lips compressed. “She was murdered.”