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Cole waited until Marit and Isabelle walked into the building where they would rehearse for the Peter Wade show for the next several hours. His heart went out to both of them. That man really was obnoxious with a capital O .

Cole glanced at Lars, who stood beside him. “You ready?”

“Where are we going?” Lars asked.

“To see Giuseppe Bianchi’s ex-wives,” Cole said. “I need you to be my lookout.”

“Why are we visiting Bianchi’s ex-wives?” Lars asked skeptically.

“Because there isn’t anyone better to dish dirt than a former spouse or significant other.”

“Sometimes, I really worry about how you know this kind of stuff.” Lars narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t Bianchi Italian?”

“Yeah.” Cole lifted his hand to flag down a cab.

“If you tell me we’re flying to Rome, I’m going to have to put my foot down.”

“Relax. We only have to go down the block. Three of his four ex-wives are here for Fashion Week.”

“They’re staying in the same place?”

“One is at the same place Bianchi always stays at. Apparently, ex number two’s family is a part-owner of the hotel.” Cole waited until a taxi stopped in front of them, and he climbed inside.

Lars took the seat beside him. “Don’t you think that’s a bit weird, an ex-wife staying at the same place as the ex-husband?”

“Very weird.” Cole gave their destination to the driver before turning his attention back to Lars.

“Where are the other ex-wives staying?”

“They’re both at hotels on the same block as Bianchi and ex number two.”

“And the weirdness continues.” Lars shook his head. “What makes you think they’ll talk to you?”

“Because they’re going to think I can help them.” Cole didn’t particularly look forward to deceiving the three women, but he needed information, and he needed to identify the person behind the theft of Molenaar’s designs before the thief had a chance to pass them off as his or her own. Based on what he had witnessed at the party last night and in Bianchi’s bank accounts, the Italian designer topped his list of potential suspects.

“What exactly do you want me to do while you’re interrogating the ex-wives?” Lars asked.

“Just make sure Bianchi doesn’t show up.”

“Sounds like I’m getting the easy job,” Lars said. “I doubt these women are going to lay out all of Bianchi’s secrets for a complete stranger.”

“I won’t be a complete stranger,” Cole said. “I’ll be posing as a private investigator.”

“If these women are suing Bianchi, they’ve probably already hired private investigators.”

“I know, but I doubt the other PIs know where Bianchi is hiding his money.”

“And you do?”

“Oh yeah.” Thanks to a contact at CIA headquarters.

The drive to the hotel took five minutes. When they arrived, Cole led the way inside. They had to go only as far as the hotel restaurant to find Viviana Bianchi, ex-wife number two. The dark-haired beauty sat at a table in the center of the room, a waiter standing a short distance away, as though prepared to cater to her every need. Viviana appeared to be a few years older than Cole, maybe early thirties, but if her physique was any indication, she worked out regularly to fight any outward appearance of aging. Her short skirt and fitted top suggested that she shared her ex-husband’s taste in fashion.

“There’s one of them.” Cole nodded in Viviana’s direction.

“How did you know she would be here?”

“Because her hotel bill for the last three days showed her eating here at this time.” Cole glanced at the nearly empty lobby. “Keep an eye out for Bianchi. Call me if he shows up.”

“You got it.” Lars headed for a nearby seating area and lowered himself into a plush chair facing the door.

As soon as Lars was settled, Cole crossed to the woman’s table. “Viviana Bianchi?”

She lifted her gaze. “ S ì ?”

“Do you mind if I join you?” Cole asked.

“Who are you?”

“A friend of Tomasso Ricci,” Cole said, supplying the name of the woman’s current private investigator. “He thought we might be able to help each other.”

“How so?”

Cole lowered his voice. “I have a few questions about your ex-husband, and I also have some information that might be helpful in your current lawsuit against him.”

The woman’s expressive eyes darkened. “Such as?” she asked, her Italian accent tinting her words spoken in English.

Cole took her question as an invitation and sat beside her. “I believe I can help you locate Giuseppe’s extra funds.”

Suspicion colored her words. “What do you want for this information?”

“I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“And you said Tomasso sent you?” she asked warily.

“That’s right,” Cole lied. “When we found out our cases intersected, I offered to help you if you’re willing to help me.”

She tilted her head as though waiting for him to begin.

“How much do you know about your ex-husband’s business?” Cole asked.

“I know everything. I met him while working as a model and ultimately managed most of his business affairs until after the divorce.”

Which explained why she was suing Bianchi for a larger monthly alimony payment as well as partial ownership of his company.

“Does Giuseppe create all his designs, or does he hire young designers to help with each year’s line?”

“He has other designers, but he directs everything. He has a very particular style,” Viviana said. “No one at Fashion Week can quite compare.”

Cole hadn’t personally seen the man’s clothing line, but he’d heard enough from Lars, Marit, and Isabelle to know Bianchi’s line tended toward plunging necklines and high hemlines. He’d also heard that Bianchi had trouble keeping his hands to himself when it came to his models.

“Do you think he’s likely to make any changes to his style this year?”

Viviana barked out a short laugh. “Never.”

“How is his relationship with the other designers who are in Paris right now?”

“He tolerates them, but Giuseppe is confident in his ability to be unique.”

That was consistent with what Lars had told him.

“Who would he consider his biggest competition?”

“The one he speaks about the most is Peter Wade.” Viviana waved her manicured hand as she spoke the name. “But that may be because he is so difficult to work with.”

“Thank you for your time.” Cole stood.

“You said you have information for me.”

Cole slid the banking information across the table. “If anyone asks, you don’t know where this came from.”

“I don’t know where this came from,” she said. “I don’t even know your name.”

“You don’t need to know it.” Cole left the table and headed for the lobby.

Lars joined him. “Did she give you any good information?”

“Yes, but nothing that points at Giuseppe Bianchi as the possible thief. It sounds like everyone would know if he used designs that didn’t belong to him.”

“After seeing what he’s planning to put on the runway this year, I would agree with that. He is unique, but not in a good way.”

“Let’s talk to the other exes.”

“Do you know where to find them?”

“Yes. Wife number three should be in the gym right about now. Her hotel is next door.”

“I doubt Bianchi is going to show up at a hotel that isn’t his.”

“I agree, but I’d like some warning if we’re wrong.”

“Act as a lookout,” Lars said. “Got it.”

“Thanks.” Cole put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “I’ll try to make this quick.”

“That would be appreciated. I’d like to get back to Marit’s rehearsal before too much of the day has passed.”

“I think we can make that happen.” Cole headed for the elevator. One ex-wife down. Two to go.

***

Isabelle slid into the taxi and wiggled her toes inside her canvas tennis shoes. “I never want to wear heels again.”

Marit gave the driver their address and leaned her head back against the headrest. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to put a pair on first thing tomorrow. We only have two more days of rehearsals before the first show.”

“I don’t know how you’re doing all this. Or how I ended up in six shows. This is insane.”

“What can I say? You’re a natural.”

Isabelle cast a look at Marit. “I think it’s more accurate to say you’re a good teacher.”

“If you didn’t have a look the designers wanted, it wouldn’t matter how many modeling lessons I gave you,” Marit said. “If Esmee has her way, this won’t be your only foray into modeling.”

“That’s sweet, but I don’t think I’m cut out for this.” Isabelle glanced out the window at the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the lights already illuminated in the darkening sky. “I’m just glad Ralph’s show will be my last.”

“I only have two beyond that,” Marit said. “And neither of them starts rehearsals for a couple more days.”

Chanel and Dior had both cast Marit to walk in their shows, but those events wouldn’t occur until the last day of Fashion Week. By then, Isabelle hoped to have all thoughts of modeling and runway work behind her, despite Esmee’s hopes to the contrary.

“I don’t know how you’re going to do eight shows.”

“Well I plan to sleep for three days straight after this is over,” Marit said.

“I may do the same thing. I told my boss I was taking off until the Monday after Fashion Week is over.”

Marit straightened and shifted in her seat to face Isabelle. “I really can’t thank you enough for being here.”

“Aside from the aching feet and having Peter Wade barking orders at me, it’s been fun.”

“Peter Wade is not known for his patience.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” The cab pulled up to the curb a short distance past their building, and Isabelle pulled her wallet from her purse to pay the driver.

“You don’t have to pay the driver. I can get that.”

“It’s fine. You paid the last time,” Isabelle said.

“Well, thank you.” Marit stepped from the cab and shifted her bag onto her shoulder.

Isabelle climbed out and barely closed the door before the taxi driver pulled away. She slid her wallet next to the gun she had concealed inside her purse. A shadow of movement caught her attention only a second before a man stepped in front of them, his face covered by a ski mask and a knife gripped in his hand.

Marit yelped in surprise. Isabelle took an instinctive step back and slid her hand into her purse, her fingers feeling for the rubber grip of her pistol.

“Give me your bags.” The man spoke in French and thrust the knife toward Marit.

Marit also had the good sense to step back. She held her hands out to the side. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Hand it over.” He reached his free hand out to take her purse.

Isabelle’s evaluation of their potential mugger took mere seconds. The solid grip on the knife, the steady hand reaching for Marit’s bag. This man wasn’t new to crime, and he was far too comfortable with a knife.

She also wasn’t buying the idea that Marit had been randomly targeted twice in one week.

Isabelle put her left hand on Marit’s shoulder to draw her farther from the mugger, then plunged her hand into her purse and got a firm grip on her gun. “Why us?”

“Just hand over your bags.” He waved the knife in front of them.

“I don’t think so.” Isabelle dropped her purse at the same time she pulled her gun and stepped in front of Marit. “Drop the knife.”

The mugger’s gaze lowered to the pistol, surprise flashing in his eyes. Then he turned and ran, darting into a nearby alley.

Isabelle lowered her weapon and glanced behind her at Marit. “Are you okay?”

Marit shook her head. “Not really.”

“Come on. Let’s get inside.” Isabelle engaged the safety and slid her gun back into her bag. “We need to call the guys and let them know what happened.”

“Twice in one week,” Marit said, her words echoing Isabelle’s thoughts. “Why me?”

“I don’t know, but it’s time we start those self-defense lessons we talked about.” Isabelle opened the door and waited for Marit to walk inside ahead of her. “It will be my thank-you for teaching me how to model.”

Marit held up her trembling hand. “I need to stop shaking first.”

“With what I’m going to teach you, it won’t matter if you’re shaking or not.” Isabelle headed for the lift. “Trust me.”