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Lars adjusted the height of his tripod as a model approached wearing a navy gown and a necklace that looked very much like the five-carat teardrop diamond pendant he’d help load into the armored vehicle in Amsterdam. The pendant was stunning, but Lars wasn’t fooled. Even if he hadn’t already known that the models would be rehearsing with costume jewelry, the absence of heavily armed security personnel this morning would have been clue enough. The priceless pieces would stay in the bank’s safe-deposit box until right before the actual show.

Lars understood the reasoning behind it, but it didn’t make his job any easier. He was basically trying to capture something that still didn’t exist. Not only did he have to make a decision on the best way to photograph Coster’s jewelry while the models were wearing fake pieces, but he also had to set up his equipment in the rented rehearsal space many of the designers were using rather than at the location of the final shows.

The quality of the lighting would play a huge part in how well his shots turned out. And unfortunately, that would be very different in the Carrousel du Louvre than it was here. Not only would the runway be awash with artificial lights, but they’d also have the natural light coming in from the glass pyramid above them. Of course, that lighting would change according to the time of day and the cloud cover. He shook his head slightly. The whole thing was crazy. He was basically working with a moving target.

The model stopped in front of the small group of photographers and posed. Lars took a few photos, adjusted his zoom, and took a few more.

“Thanks,” he said in Dutch.

With an accepting nod, she moved back up the catwalk.

“Who’re you with?” the photographer at his right asked, speaking English.

“Coster Diamonds,” Lars replied.

“Ah, that explains why you just arrived. You’re only here for Molenaar’s show.”

“Yeah. What about you?”

“I’m with Elegance Magazine , based in London.” The Englishman gestured to the men at his other side. “ Vogue , Elle , and Vanity Fair . We’ve been here since they started this morning.”

Lars did a rapid mental review of the long list of designers he and Cole had scanned through last night. How many of them had been here before Ralph’s group? It might be worth a few questions to find out.

“Lars Hendriks,” he said, offering the Englishman his hand.

“Tony Watkins. Nice to meet you.”

Another model was approaching. Lars turned his attention back to his camera. This one was wearing the ruby earrings with a dress of a similar color. She paused in front of the cameras, and Lars zoomed in on the jewelry. The shutters clicked, and she moved away.

“I’ll hand it to your fellow countryman,” Tony said. “He puts his models in things that actually look like clothes. Can’t say that for all the designers here.”

Lars raised his eyebrow curiously. “What else would they be wearing?”

“Good question. Li Du’s collection looked like oversized black rubbish bags tied at the neck with holes for the arms and legs.”

Lars smothered his laugh with a cough. “Yeah. That sounds a bit weird.”

Tony snorted. “They were nothing compared to what Giuseppe Bianchi’s models were wearing. I’m just glad the shows are indoors. Fish netting should not be considered a fabric.”

Desperately hoping that Marit and Isabelle had stayed clear of that particular casting call, Lars attempted to redirect the conversation.

“How many of the designers have been around today?”

They both paused to take photos of the next model before she moved on.

“At least half a dozen of them,” Tony said. “Peter Wade was here. Thinks he’s all that, he does. You could hear him yelling at his models from out here. Then there was Camille Allard.” Tony shrugged. “Her line was okay but nothing to write home about. Kyle Adams was next. He’s supposed to be up-and-coming—at least that’s what my editor says. Henri LaRue. He’s another one who’s a bit off his rocker, if you ask me. Why would he put all these beautiful women in giant hoodies? The only thing that changed from one piece to the other was the color of the fabric and how far down their legs it went.”

This time, Lars allowed himself a chuckle. “Not a huge fan of cutting-edge fashion, I see.”

“Bonkers, isn’t it? I’ve been doing this gig for twelve years, and I still don’t get what all the fuss is about.”

Tony bent down to adjust his lens, and Lars looked up to see Isabelle approaching. She was wearing a flowing floral dress and was moving with as much finesse as any of the models before her had.

“This way, please,” Tony called to her.

She pivoted in front of the cameras.

“Nice,” Tony said.

Lars snapped a shot of the diamond choker at her neck and smiled. No matter what she said to the contrary, Isabelle was crushing this assignment.

“See what I mean,” Tony said as Isabelle disappeared. “How many women do you know who want to go out in a black bin bag? That dress was new and fresh and something a normal person would happily wear.” He pointed at Marit, who was now walking toward them in denim overalls with red trim. “And that one. See how good she looks?”

Lars’s heart warmed as Marit approached. It was no wonder she was a favorite with so many designers. Her natural grace and beauty shone on the runway. And if Lars had his way, it wouldn’t be long before she had a diamond ring shining on her left hand as well. He already had ideas for a design that would suit her perfectly. Fortunately, he also had the right connections at Coster to make his sketches a reality.

He heard the cameras click beside him. It was a good reminder of why he was there. Zooming in on the sapphire and diamond studs in Marit’s ears, he took a couple of photos before pausing to look up at her. She turned to face him. He winked, and he caught the smile in her eyes right before she made a professional turn and started back the way she’d come.

“I’m telling you,” Tony said. “As someone who’s been around this business a long time, Molenaar’s on to something big. He’s making the kind of stylish clothes every woman wants. And the other designers are going to have to scramble if they want to keep up.”

Lars reached into his case for a second lens, his thoughts whirling. Was this what was behind the theft at Ralph’s office? Had another designer recognized the same thing as Tony, but rather than applaud the fresh direction as the Londoner was doing, had he or she decided to put an end to it by stealing Molenaar’s patterns? But what was the ultimate goal? Discredit Ralph as a designer, or beat him to the punch with his own designs?

Tony’s insight into the character of many of those in the industry was discouraging, but it was also enlightening. And if Cole could dig up some background information on the designers currently in Paris, they might learn more. Some motivations were easier to spot on a bank statement or after a deep dive into their backgrounds than they were by simply watching someone at work.

He released a tense breath. Marit was more observant than most. If there were any clues to be had in her work environment, she’d likely spot them. And that terrified him. As grateful as he was that Isabelle was backstage with Marit, he hated that the woman he loved was caught in the middle of all this.

Attaching the new lens, he attempted to shrug off his disquiet. With the number of rehearsals and fittings the girls had over the next few days, he and Cole could make use of all that time to look through some not-supposed-to-be-public information on certain designers. Knowing Cole, he’d also be checking police reports. But Lars was okay with that. The sooner they got to the bottom of this, the better.

***

Isabelle still couldn’t believe she was doing this. Seven casting calls in two days, and she had landed five jobs, all of which matched Marit’s schedule.

Technically, she had six since being added to Ralph Molenaar’s show. How Esmee had managed that, Isabelle wasn’t sure, but she was grateful to be behind the scenes for that particular one.

“Isabelle.” Peter Wade snapped his fingers.

Feeling far too much like an obedient puppy, Isabelle lifted the long skirt of her current outfit and stepped onto the stool Marit had vacated a moment ago.

Peter stared at the gown, his eyes narrowed. Then he snapped his fingers again. This time, a woman in her early twenties stepped forward.

“Take the hem up a quarter inch.” Peter reached out and tugged at the fabric at Isabelle’s waist. “And take this in. It should be fitted.”

The young assistant hurried forward, pincushion in hand. She quickly adjusted the length before moving to the fabric at Isabelle’s waist.

Isabelle stood perfectly still, afraid to breathe for fear of getting stabbed with a straight pin.

Once the adjustments were made, Peter waved his hand. “Next!”

Isabelle stepped off the stool and moved to one of the curtained-off dressing rooms. She changed out of the dress into the slacks and blouse she had put on this morning, then grabbed her purse, opening it long enough to confirm her weapon was secured inside.

Marit approached. “Are you ready?”

“If I say no, can I go back to our flat and take a nap?” Isabelle asked.

“No.” Marit shifted her bag more firmly onto her shoulder and hooked her free arm around Isabelle’s waist to draw her forward. “Come on. We have the Henri LaRue fitting next.”

“More time to pretend to be a human pincushion. Great.” Isabelle fell into step with Marit.

“Trust me.” Marit weaved past a rack of clothing encased by a black fabric cover. “The designers don’t want your blood on their clothes any more than you do.”

“It’s not the designers I’m worried about.” Isabelle brushed past another fabric-covered clothing rack. “It’s the pin-wielding assistants who scare me.”

Isabelle caught sight of a man in his late forties with thinning black hair. He scowled in their direction, his focus on Marit.

Without pointing, Isabelle asked, “Who’s that? The man at my ten o’clock.”

To Marit’s credit, she barely glanced in the man’s direction before returning her focus to Isabelle. “That’s Giuseppe Bianchi.”

Isabelle recalled the name of the Italian designer coming up when they’d gone over the various designers who had shows before Ralph, but she couldn’t remember any details beyond his nationality.

“Any idea why he would be staring at you?” Isabelle asked.

“No clue. I didn’t audition for his show.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like the way he objectifies women.”

Isabelle bristled. “I’m glad that wasn’t a show I had to audition for. I’m sure I’d feel the same way.”

They reached the spot where one of Henri LaRue’s assistants was checking in models. Nadia currently stood on a stool, wearing a bright-pink hoodie that hung well past her hips.

Marit and Isabelle gave their names before moving to their dressing rooms to put on the clothes they had been assigned for this show.

Isabelle picked up the green hoodie that was slightly shorter than Nadia’s.

“Believe me,” Marit said. “These are much better than Bianchi’s short skirts. Plus, we have the added benefit of not needing to accessorize with fishnet stockings.”

“I totally owe you for that,” Isabelle said.

Marit flashed her megawatt smile. “You’re welcome.”

Isabelle stepped behind a changing screen and slipped into the hoodie and pair of black jeans that had been laid out for her. After slipping on the white-and-black-checkered Keds that went with the ensemble, she headed toward where Marit now stood on a stool. The way the woman could change clothes so fast was truly remarkable.

“Ah, this is the perfect color for you,” Henri announced in French.

Marit’s coral hoodie was cropped at the waist, leaving her midriff bare for nearly an inch over the waistband of her fitted white jeans.

Marit’s time on the stool took mere seconds. Isabelle, on the other hand, ended up changing shoes six times before Henri was pleased with his choice.

They each went through one more change before completing their fitting.

As they left, Isabelle said, “Please tell me we’re done for the day.”

“Almost.” Marit led her toward an elevator.

“Where are we going?”

“To pick up dresses from Ralph.”

“Why?”

“For the party tonight.”

Isabelle stepped into the elevator. “What party?”

“The one Lars is taking you to.”

Isabelle shook her head. “I’m sorry. Why would your boyfriend take me to a party?”

“Because Lars and I were invited, and we’re both allowed to bring a plus-one.”

“So you’re taking Cole, and Lars is taking me.”

“Exactly.” They reached the correct floor, and Marit headed down the hall to Ralph’s office. “I told Ralph that you were coming. He agreed to loan both of us dresses.”

“This reminds me of when we went to that ball in Vienna.” Isabelle had enjoyed that magical night right up until Cole had pulled out his gun to question a suspect.

Marit paused in the hall. “Do you think we can get Cole to leave his gun in his hotel room?”

Not a chance . Isabelle tempered her answer. “I’m sure he’ll be better behaved at this party than the last one.”

Marit eyed her warily. “You aren’t helping.”

“Sorry.” In fairness, it was the best Isabelle could offer her.

She and Marit entered the conference room, where a rack full of gowns stood against one wall.

Ralph was already there. He said something in Dutch to Marit before switching to English. Pulling a red gown off the rack, he held it up for Isabelle. “I think this is the one for you.”

Isabelle moved closer to inspect the floor-length dress. A slit separated the fabric on one side, rising halfway up the thigh. Perfect for mobility. And with the right handbag, she would be able to conceal her pistol.

She glanced at Marit, who held up a pale-blue gown. Maybe Isabelle would keep her thoughts about self-defense and concealing weaponry to herself.