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Marit took Cole’s arm, and they started down the pavement toward the historic Conciergerie. All along the side of the road, taxis pulled up to drop off the Fashion Week party guests. Women dressed in gowns of every description were accompanied by men in elegant and extravagant tuxedos.

“For the record,” Lars said from his position beside Isabelle and behind Marit and Cole, “walking into the Conciergerie like this feels very weird.”

“You’re telling me,” Cole said. “We’re going to a fancy party in an old prison.”

Marit glanced back at Lars’s face and stifled a giggle. She knew exactly what Lars was feeling; she wished they were going in as a couple too. “I don’t think that’s what he meant, Cole,” she said.

Cole frowned. “Well, it should’ve been. We’re walking into a building with doors thicker than most walls and bars on the windows.”

“And heightened security,” Isabelle added as they walked past three armed police officers.

“Hopefully, that’s just routine procedure at these kinds of events,” Cole said. “I’m pretty sure my boss would have let me know if they were on heightened alert.”

Marit eyed him warily. Was there any particular reason why that would be an issue for Cole tonight? “Heightened alert or not, you know they’re not going to let you in if you brought a weapon, right?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Cole,” Marit pressed. “We’re not redoing what happened in Vienna.”

“No, we’re not. That time, we were flushing out a bad guy; this time, we’re getting to know people.”

For some reason, Marit didn’t feel the slightest bit better. “Isabelle”—she turned her head—“he’s your boyfriend. Talk some sense into him.”

“Sorry, Marit. He’s yours for the night. But if it’s any consolation, I’ve learned it’s better not to fight it.”

Cole offered her a half smile. “Isabelle’s right.”

“That’s a big ask,” Lars muttered. “Your track record at these kinds of events isn’t stellar.”

“Don’t stress over it,” Cole said. “I’ve got this.”

They’d almost reached the security checkpoint at the main doors. Marit’s chest tightened. How many of these people would recognize her when her “date” set off the alarms with his concealed weapon? Even if the number was only one, word would reach Esmee and Ralph in no time, and when it hit social media, things would go from bad to worse. No one in the fashion industry wanted scandal—especially when the eyes of the world were on them.

Marit gave her and Cole’s names to the woman who was checking in guests, and Cole stepped up to the metal detector. Bracing herself for the worst, Marit watched as he pulled something out of his inside pocket and showed it to the nearest officer. The officer studied it for a moment and then waved Cole around the equipment. Barely believing what she’d seen, Marit walked through the detector and met him on the other side.

“How did you do that?” she whispered.

“I have the right credentials.”

“And you couldn’t have told me that before I almost had a heart attack?”

He grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Remind me again why Isabelle puts up with you?”

“It’s one of the great mysteries of the universe,” Cole said, leading her down a set of stone stairs and into a room labeled The Hall of the Men-at-Arms. “And I’ve decided it’s best not to ask her.”

Notwithstanding the anxiety he’d just put her through, Marit couldn’t help but laugh. On that subject, at least, Cole was using his head. “What about Isabelle? Does she have your other gun with her?”

“No. I’m carrying both tonight. I’ll pass it to her if we think she’ll need it.”

“Wow!” Lars said as he and Isabelle joined them. “This isn’t exactly how I envisioned the inside of a prison.”

Marit took a moment to appreciate the sight before them. The large room was built completely of stone. The flagstones on the floor were polished smooth. Stone walls rose to meet an elaborate network of gothic arches that were further supported by rows of marble pillars. Lights surrounded each pillar, illuminating the beauty of the ceiling above. Ornamental trees, tall urns, and elaborate flower displays had been tastefully added to the vast room, but the biggest splashes of color came from the clothing its current occupants wore.

Most people stood conversing in small groups. A few were wandering the room with a glass in hand, while others remained on the fringes, silently watching the interactions of others.

“What’s the plan?” Lars asked quietly.

“We mingle as couples,” Cole said. “Make note of any subtle rivalries, jealousies, or contentions between the designers. Watch for anything that seems out of the ordinary—no matter how insignificant.”

“And try the food,” Lars added.

“If you want to,” Cole said. “The platter that just went by looked suspiciously like frog legs.”

Lars pulled a face, and Isabelle laughed.

“Don’t tell me frog legs rank up there with spinach, Lars,” she said.

“If they don’t have decent hors d’oeuvres and pastries on any of those platters, we’re going out to eat when this is over,” he warned.

“Deal,” Cole said. “How about we meet back here in about an hour?”

With nods of agreement, Lars and Isabelle headed off across the room. Cole led Marit in the other direction. A couple passed them. Marit acknowledged them with a smile. She recognized the male model.

“Explain to me why so many designers equate weirdness with skill,” Cole said.

Marit raised an amused eyebrow. “You don’t appreciate a dress made of tulle filled with artificial flowers?” she asked, describing the nearby woman’s gown.

“Nope. And I like my tuxes solid black, not half black-and-white stripes, half red-and-white checkered.”

She chuckled softly. “I don’t know. Maybe they think the crazier the design, the more vivid their imaginations.”

“I think it’s more like: the crazier the design, the crazier the designer.”

“There may be some truth to that,” Marit said, sobering slightly. “A lot of designers are a bit eccentric.”

“Ralph seems like a pretty level-headed guy.”

“He is. He’s also brilliant. Somehow, he takes a familiar look and makes it appear completely new.” She glanced at him. “Which is why the tuxes you and Lars are wearing appear both classic and original at the same time.”

“And why you and Isabelle look so stunning.”

She smiled. “That red gown really does look good on her, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Cole’s gaze darted to the other side of the room, and Marit caught the slight softening in his eyes when they landed on Isabelle. “Amazing.”

Marit’s smile widened. If Isabelle ever wanted further proof that Cole’s feelings for her were deepening every day, he’d just handed it to Marit.

A server carrying a platter filled with crystal goblets cut across Cole’s line of vision, snapping his attention back to Marit and the job at hand. “Ralph’s over there on the left, talking to a handful of people, so let’s start with a designer who doesn’t seem to be so chummy.”

“How about three at once?” Marit said. “I see Giuseppe Bianchi talking to Camille Allard and Kyle Adams. They’re standing two pillars away from us.”

“The Italian with three of his four former wives suing him for more alimony, the Frenchwoman who just took out yet another multimillion-euro loan because her last two lines aren’t bringing in enough to keep her business solvent, and the American desperate to make a big mark on European fashions,” Cole muttered. “Sounds like a good place to start.”

Marit stared at him. “How do you know all those things?” She really shouldn’t be surprised. The fact that Cole hadn’t even needed her to point out which of the three designers was which simply proved his ability to access any number of sources.

“You and Isabelle have been busy with castings and fittings.” He shrugged. “Lars and I had to keep ourselves occupied somehow.”

“So, Lars is going into this with some background information too?” she asked.

“Yep.” He placed his hand on her elbow and gently steered her toward the three designers. “It seemed like a good idea to have a basic knowledge of who we’re dealing with. Especially if one of them is desperate enough to commit intellectual-property theft and murder.”

Marit released a tense breath. Cole’s blunt appraisal was a good reminder of why they were here.

It was time to make some introductions.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Allard,” she greeted her in French. “Mr. Adams. Signore Bianchi. It’s nice to see you again.”

“Mademoiselle Jansen.” Camille Allard smiled. “You look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you.” Switching to English, she introduced Cole. “This is my friend, Cole Bridger. Cole, these are three of the top clothing designers in the world.”

“Nice to meet you,” Cole said, shaking the designers’ hands in turn. “Marit has told me a little about your work. I’m very impressed.”

Given their conversation of a few minutes ago, Cole’s compliment was pushing it a bit, but with their inflated egos fully intact, Marit was quite sure none of them would consider him anything but completely sincere. She was proven right when each one accepted the praise without comment—as if it were due to them.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Bridger?” Camille Allard asked.

“I’m a member of the US Diplomatic Corps,” Cole said.

Allard eyed Cole’s clothing and raised a critical eyebrow. “Forgive me for being impolite, but I confess, I’m surprised to see an American whose job it is to represent his country coming to this event in a Dutch designer’s tuxedo.”

Cole inclined his head. “You make a valid point, mademoiselle. Unfortunately, I neglected to bring my favorite Tom Ford tux with me to Paris, and when Marit invited me to attend this evening’s party with her, her countryman was gracious enough to allow me to wear one of his.”

Kyle grunted. “Makes sense. Molenaar’s not one to turn down any opportunity to showcase his designs.”

“I’ve seen several people wearing your clothing line this evening, Mr. Adams,” Marit said. “The red-checkered suit coat is particularly eye-catching.”

The American designer accepted the praise with a small shrug. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Creating clothing that rises above mediocrity.”

“Indeed.” Giuseppe Bianchi joined the conversation for the first time. He raked his gaze up and down the length of her. “And to that end, Miss Jansen, as delightful as Molenaar’s light-blue gown looks on you, might I suggest that next time, you choose a gown that hides less of your attractive figure.”

Marit struggled to suppress a shudder. Nothing had changed since the last time she’d spoken to the unsavory Italian. He still gave her the creeps.

Cole set a reassuring hand on her back, the twitching muscle in his jaw the only indication that Bianchi’s comment had infuriated him. “You obviously have a very different approach to your work than Molenaar does, Bianchi, and as someone who knows very little about the industry, I’d be interested to hear your thoughts on his current line.”

Bianchi sniffed. “The man has no vision for anything that has not already been done.”

“That’s a little harsh, Giuseppe,” Camille Allard said. “He has a remarkable eye for color. The shade of blue he chose for Miss Jansen’s gown cannot be faulted.”

“His use of color is good, but he lacks the bravery to combine them in a unique way. Look at Peter Wade’s fabrics this year. Brilliant splashes of every hue imaginable,” Bianchi said.

Marit and Isabelle had worked Peter Wade’s rehearsal. The shirt Marit had modeled had been a new twist on the old tie-dye effect. The flowing trousers Isabelle had worn had made it appear as though she’d fallen into an assortment of paint cans.

“Is Peter Wade here?” Cole asked.

“Yes. He’s over there, talking to Molenaar.” Kyle gestured to the small group standing a few meters away, his lips curving into a mocking smile. “Maybe they’re discussing the use of colors.”

“Whatever they’re discussing,” Camille Allard said, “it will not last long.”

“Why’s that?” Cole asked.

“Because only a saint could put up with Peter’s forceful opinions for more than five minutes.” She took a sip of the sparkling liquid in her glass. “Molenaar may be a decent designer, but he’s not reached sainthood yet.”

“Maybe we should go and rescue him,” Marit suggested.

“Great idea,” Cole said, seizing the out Marit had offered. “I still need to thank him for the loan.”

“Good luck to you,” Camille Allard said.

“And reach out next time you need a tux,” Kyle added. “I can set you up with an American one.”

A server walked by. Bianchi drained his glass in time to exchange it for a full one and raise it at Cole and Marit.

Grateful she didn’t have to spend any more time with him, Marit forced a smile. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said.

Cole took her elbow, and they moved away. “Nice people,” he said dryly.

Marit grimaced. “That was a solid reminder of why I’ll never work for Giuseppe Bianchi.”

“Yeah. It’s not hard to see why his former wives are suing him. Maybe I should double-check to see if there’s anyone else he’s already paid off.”

“And in the meantime, you’d better gear up for a heavy dose of English arrogance.”

“Arrogance, I can handle,” Cole said. “A discussion on colors may be a bigger issue.”

“Really?”

“I learned the ‘Rainbow Colors Song’ on Sesame Street when I was a kid. That’s about as much as I’ve got.”

With a soft laugh, Marit tucked her hand under his arm. “It’s a start. And I’ll back you up if the conversation veers into heathers, neons, and tertiaries.”

Cole gave her an alarmed look. “If those are real words, then you’d better.”

***

“Can someone please explain to me why they never have pizza at the parties of the high-and-mighty?” Lars said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “They could serve anything they want, and they choose to have snails, frog legs, and fish eggs.”

Marit eyed the large white serviette she’d insisted he tuck under his shirt collar. “Maybe because they don’t want to risk the guests dripping marinara sauce on multi-thousand-euro outfits.”

Lars glanced downward. As far as he could tell, the serviette was still spotless. “The risk is totally worth it.”

“For you and Cole, maybe,” Isabelle said from her position across the restaurant table. “But Marit and I have worked with these designers. We have a better feel for how they’re going to react if their loaned-out tuxes come back stained.”

“So eat carefully,” Cole warned.

Lars pointed at the red smudge on the serviette covering Cole’s tux. “Right back at you.”

Marit shook her head, worry evident in her beautiful eyes. “Seriously, guys, I know you were hungry, but coming to a pizza place in these clothes probably wasn’t the smartest idea.”

“Since we’re not allowed in your flat, it was this or our tiny hotel room,” Cole said. “We needed somewhere to debrief that was far enough from the Conciergerie that we wouldn’t run the risk of being overheard by someone who was there.”

Isabelle looked around. The only other customers were four casually dressed teenagers and an older man wearing the uniform of a Metro official. “I think you’re safe.”

“Good,” Cole said. “What did you learn besides the fact that Marit deserves a medal for working with these people?”

Marit managed a small smile. “They’re not all as difficult to work with as Bianchi or Wade.”

“That’s true,” Isabelle said. “Lars and I talked to a handful who were really quite pleasant.”

“What about the ones who might have an axe to grind?” Cole asked.

Lars exchanged a look with Isabelle. “Do you want to tell him, or shall I?”

“Tell me what?” Cole asked.

Isabelle sighed. “Henri LaRue had nothing good to say about Ralph. He recognized me from rehearsals and was quite put out that I’d chosen to wear a Molenaar gown rather than a LaRue gown. He threatened to pull me from his show because of my poor judgment.”

“Are you serious?” Marit asked, her eyes wide. “That’s terrible.”

“It was a bit awkward,” Lars said. “But Isabelle took it all in stride. She didn’t even seem concerned.”

Isabelle laughed. “Oh, I was concerned. I didn’t want to be pulled from that show. It’s the one right before Molenaar’s. But when you’ve calmed irate businessmen who’ve come to the bank to blame a cashier for a perceived error as many times as I have, you learn to roll with the misplaced anger.”

“She was pretty amazing,” Lars said. “By the time we moved on, not only had she placated him, but he’d told her all about his worry that Molenaar’s line was taking more than its fair share of the media’s attention.”

“Nice work.” Cole leaned over to brush a soft kiss on Isabelle’s cheek. “One designer conquered and a possible motive unearthed.”

“What about Li Du?” Marit asked. “Did you talk to him too?”

“We did.” Lars put his arm around Marit and pulled her closer. As much as he’d appreciated working with Isabelle at the party, he’d missed being with Marit. “His English is sketchy, and my Chinese is nonexistent, so it wasn’t a very productive conversation, but when we brought up the names of his competitors, he nodded and said, ‘Very good work’ to every single one of them.”

“He’s probably one of the humblest big-name designers,” Marit said.

“Okay,” Cole said thoughtfully. “It sounds like LaRue bears watching, along with Allard, Adams, Bianchi, and Wade.”

“What did you find with that group?” Isabelle asked.

Cole reviewed his and Marit’s experience with the designers they’d spoken with. His account of Bianchi’s distasteful comments made Lars fume.

“I’m sorry you had to put up with that,” he said softly.

“It was over before it really began,” she said. “I know to keep my distance from Bianchi.” She turned her head to smile at him. “Thanks for caring.”

“Always.” Lars pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, a familiar thrill of attraction quickening his pulse. It was probably a good thing he hadn’t been there. He’d have taken a swing at the disrespectful idiot. And it wouldn’t have mattered what Bianchi was wearing; it would have ended up drenched in whatever he’d been drinking.

“It sounds like it would be worth looking more carefully at Bianchi,” Isabelle said.

“I agree.” Cole pulled out his phone and began entering something. “But the others aren’t off the hook yet either.”