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Lars zoomed in on the elegant Parisian woman walking her dog past the entrance to Marit’s building. He snapped a picture. Whoever said dogs and their owners looked alike was definitely on to something. A long, narrow nose and white curls pulled onto the top of her head—the description of the woman could be used for her giant poodle too.

They continued down the road, and Lars studied the assortment of new photos on his camera. He’d taken several candid shots of passersby, but as far as he could tell, the only people who’d entered Marit’s building since Cole had left were half a dozen young women, who looked to be models, and a locksmith. He’d taken close-up shots of the locksmith and his assistant along with their van that boasted the name of the company and a phone number. It shouldn’t be too hard to check their legitimacy.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up. A text from Cole.

Leaving the hotel now. Stopping to pick up Isabelle and Marit. Want to grab dinner for all of us? We could eat at our place .

Dinner in Paris. And he got to choose the menu. He grinned. He’d pick up some kind of vegetable to appease the girls, but eating something loaded with spinach was not happening on his watch.

On it , he texted back. Then he pulled up a list of the takeout restaurants closest to their hotel and started scrolling through his choices.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Lars was unloading the last of the cardboard containers onto the table in the hotel room when he heard the lock click.

“Hey,” he said, setting down the carrier bag to greet Marit, Isabelle, and Cole as they entered the room. “How did it go?”

“Isabelle was unbelievable,” Marit said, smiling as she moved into his embrace. “Three casting sessions, three callbacks. Esmee was thrilled. She thinks she’s discovered a new rising star.”

“Pretty sure it was beginner’s luck,” Isabelle said. “And I think I’ll stick with studying a screen full of spreadsheets. It’s much less stressful than strutting down a catwalk in front of fashion industry professionals.”

Lars couldn’t think of much that sounded more boring than studying spreadsheets—except maybe watching surveillance videos—but he understood Isabelle’s reluctance to be the center of attention at a fashion show. Standing behind the camera was a much more comfortable place to be. “Well, it’s great that you made the cut,” he said. “What happens next?”

“Callbacks and fittings,” Marit said. “Tomorrow will be another busy day.”

“You know,” Cole said, thoughtfully, “taking a look at the schedule for the next few days and for the Fashion Week shows themselves might not be a bad idea.”

“What are you thinking?” Isabelle asked.

“Ralph mentioned that if another designer showcased the stolen designs before he had a chance to launch his line, it would be almost impossible to prove that they were his concepts first. It seems to me that one way to start eliminating designers from the suspects list would be to take off any of the ones scheduled for shows after Ralph Molenaar’s. Our crook would want to be up first.”

“Good idea,” Lars said, drawing Marit toward the table. “But I vote we eat before we go over the schedule.”

“Agreed,” Isabelle said with feeling. “Whatever calories I consumed at brunch disappeared in nervous energy during the first casting.”

“What did you pick up?” Cole asked.

“Crepes,” Lars said. “I have a variety of fillings, from chicken, mushroom, and b é chamel sauce to ham, egg, and swiss cheese to ratatouille.”

“What?” Marit raised her eyebrows in mock disbelief. “No Nutella?”

“Oh, yeah. I have those, too, but I figured we’re supposed to eat the other ones first.”

Cole chuckled. “Sounds great.”

Isabelle and Cole took the two chairs at the table, and Marit and Lars sat on the edge of the nearest bed, holding their food on paper plates. For a few moments, they each focused on their meals.

“Nice work, Lars,” Cole said, breaking the silence. “That hit the spot.”

“You haven’t even had a Nutella one yet,” Lars said.

“It still may happen,” Cole said, pulling out his phone, “but there’s a p a tisserie three doors down from here, so I’d better pace myself.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes, and Marit giggled.

Cole ignored them both, his attention on his phone screen. “Hmm. Ralph told me his show is on the second-to-last day. It looks like there are five shows after his.”

“Marit already told Esmee to only have me audition for shows before Ralph’s,” Isabelle said. “How many are before him?”

“There are usually at least twenty-five shows,” Marit said. “That leaves fifteen to twenty that will go before Ralph.”

Cole ran his fingers through his hair. “That’s a lot of suspects.”

“We’re going to have to come up with another way of sifting through them,” Isabelle said.

“Any ideas?” Lars asked.

“Not yet,” Cole said, a familiar look of determination glinting in his eyes. “But they’ll come.”

***

Paris at night. With a sigh of pleasure, Marit looked out at the reflected lights dancing across the surface of the Seine and the brilliantly lit Eiffel Tower standing sentinel on the other side of the river. Lars’s arm tightened around her, and she set her head on his shoulder, soaking in the wonder of this moment. This beautiful evening stroll was what she had envisioned—had hoped for—when she’d first heard that Lars would be joining her here.

“It’s magical,” she said. “And I’m so glad you’re here to experience it with me.”

He pressed a gentle kiss on the top of her head. “Me too.”

They stood quietly for a couple of minutes, taking in the iconic scene even as droves of tourists passed by. Work had brought her here, and she was grateful. She loved her career and the opportunities it provided, but she loved the man standing beside her even more. It wasn’t the view that made the evening so special; it was sharing this moment with Lars. Truth be told, she wanted to share every moment with Lars.

“Do you want to take a photo?” Marit asked.

“I probably should, huh?”

She smiled as he released her to lift the camera hanging around his neck to his eye. He would take more than one, but it made her happy that he’d seemed as reluctant as she was to end their enchanted moment together.

“And then we can head over to the bridge and catch up with Cole and Isabelle,” he added.

Marit looked left, where the pavement joined the Pont Alexandre III bridge. Lamps shone above the decorative stone balusters that ran the full length of the structure, illuminating the crowds of people gathered there. Voices and laughter filled the air. Men standing above cheaply made trinkets and souvenirs called to passersby, urging them to buy an illuminated plastic Eiffel Tower or a glow stick.

“Do you know where they are?” Marit asked. The two couples had arrived together, but it was proving hard to keep track of each other among so many people.

“Yeah.” Lars lowered his camera and took Marit’s hand. “They stopped a couple of meters onto the bridge. I saw Isabelle pointing out something to Cole through my camera lens.”

“Great.” Repositioning the straps of her oversized purse on her shoulder, Marit stepped away from the low retaining wall. “It shouldn’t take us long to meet up again.”

Weaving through the milling tourists, they crossed the short distance to the bridge, but by the time they reached the spot where Lars had seen Cole and Isabelle, the couple had moved closer to its center.

“I understand why they stopped here,” Lars said. “That’s a great view.” The beams of light emanating from the top of the Eiffel Tower swung in a slow circle, piercing the dark night sky above and the iridescent water below. He glanced at her. “Can I have you in this photo?”

With a laugh, she released his hand and stepped up to the balustrade. “Only for you.”

Lars grinned and raised his camera.

He’d taken three or four shots when a man rushed by, knocking Lars’s elbow and jostling the camera as he passed.

“Hey!” Lars exclaimed.

Ignoring him, the stranger in dark clothes and a dark knit hat lunged for Marit’s bag, yanking it off her shoulder. Pain shot down her arm as he tugged it free, and almost before Marit knew what had happened, he was running away with her purse under his arm.

“Cole!” Lars yelled, whipping his camera strap off from around his head and thrusting the camera at Marit before taking up the chase.

Up ahead, Cole and Isabelle swung around. The man darted into a crowd of teenagers, but he wasn’t fast enough. Cole had spotted him. Lars had already shortened the distance between him and the purse snatcher, but Cole and Isabelle were closer. They took off in unison, racing around the teenagers as Lars sprinted along the path the thief had taken.

Forcing herself to push past her shock, Marit chased after them. The man broke through the other side of the group, and Cole didn’t hesitate. Launching himself at the thief, Cole barreled into the purse snatcher’s right side. The man stumbled, giving Isabelle time to reach him.

“Not this time, mister!” She grabbed Marit’s bag and pulled it out from under his elbow as he was still trying to catch his footing.

Righting himself first, Cole dove for the thief’s arm just as Lars appeared beside him. Cole’s fingers connected with the thief’s sleeve, but it wasn’t enough. The man twisted, and Cole lost his grip. An authoritative shout was followed by the pounding of feet on the bridge. The crowds parted, and without a backward glance, the thief bolted.

Lars started after him, and a new fear struck Marit. To take on a purse snatcher among tourists was one thing. To follow him into the dark alleys of Paris was something else entirely. “Stop, Lars,” she called.

He spun around. His face registered his surprise, and he crossed the short distance between them in six long strides. “Marit! I thought you were still where I left you.”

“Don’t go after him.” She wrapped her arms around him. “He knows these streets much better than we do, and he might not be working alone. Isabelle has my purse, and that’s the most important thing.”

“As much as I hate to admit it,” Cole said as he and Isabelle joined them, “she’s right.” He gave the thief’s escape route one last frustrated look before settling his attention on the two uniformed men who’d just arrived at the center of the bridge. “It looks like the police were alerted to what was going on. Are you up for answering their questions?”

A nearby couple was talking to the officers. They pointed to Marit, Lars, Isabelle, and Cole. The officers turned toward them, and Marit’s heart sank.

Pulling away from Lars, she braced herself for another difficult conversation. “The local police are going to have my contact information on speed dial by the time I leave Paris.”

Isabelle gave her a sympathetic look and handed back her purse. “I’m sorry, Marit. But at least this time, you won’t have to face them alone.”

It was true. And the thought was remarkably reassuring. “Thanks, Isabelle,” she managed a weak smile. “Over the next couple of days, maybe we can mix some self-defense lessons in with our modeling lessons. I think it’s time I worked on those skills.”

Isabelle gave her hand a supportive squeeze. “Absolutely.”