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Limping slightly, Marit cut through the gap in the partition and entered the backstage area with Isabelle at her side. There were at least a dozen models in line. Most of them were wearing Adams’s designs, though a couple of them wore Ralph Molenaar’s.

Three of the American models stood off to one side, their assistants hovering nearby. If the strained look on each of the assistants’ faces was any indication, they had yet to locate the dresses Isabelle had hidden away. Marit mentally applauded Isabelle’s quick thinking. It would enable Ralph to use those pieces in his show tomorrow. She eyed the stage director standing at the curtain. If her plan worked, Ralph could use the ones that had already been showcased, too, but that decision would be up to him.

“The director’s going to do everything in her power to prevent me from going out there,” Marit spoke softly.

“Oh, I know.” Isabelle appeared completely unruffled. “But it won’t be a problem.”

Marit smothered a grin. Together, she and Isabelle had just battled and disarmed a gunman. The poor woman with the clipboard didn’t stand a chance.

“Glad you’re on my side,” Marit said.

This time, Isabelle smiled. “Me too.”

As they walked past the waiting models, heads turned and whispers ran along the length of the line.

“You’re causing a stir,” Isabelle said.

“Yeah. The blood on Adams’s jumpsuit is not going to be well-received.”

Isabelle frowned. “If that’s all they care about, you should change professions.”

“Probably,” Marit said, “but right now, I’m going to make use of it in the best possible way.” She glanced at Isabelle. “Ready?”

“Absolutely. I’ll take care of everything back here; the stage is yours.”

Marit’s pulse quickened. Though she was well used to walking the runway, making a public announcement was out of her comfort zone. But it had to be done. Adams needed to be exposed, and Ralph deserved credit for his creations.

“Miss Jansen.” They’d reached the curtain, and the stage director was studying the purple jumpsuit with a horrified expression. “I hope you have a good explanation for the state of this outfit and your absence when the show began.”

“I do,” Marit said.

Another model appeared through the curtain, her time on the catwalk over. The director gestured at the first model in line, but before the young woman wearing an oversized lacy blouse and leather trousers could take a step toward the stage, Isabelle moved in front of her.

“You’re going to have to wait,” Isabelle said. “Marit’s going first.”

The model gave the director a frantic look, and the woman turned her glare on Isabelle.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Marit didn’t wait to hear Isabelle’s response. With the stage director’s attention diverted, she slipped through the curtain and onto the runway.

The spotlight hit her immediately. Ignoring her instinct to start down the catwalk, she glanced to her right, catching sight of the microphone used to introduce the designer and his team at the end of the show. In three limping steps, she crossed the distance and tugged the microphone off the stand.

The only model left on the runway approached the curtain. Giving Marit an uncertain look, she disappeared backstage.

Marit started down the runway, her uneven gait a stark contrast to her normally fluid movement. Shocked whispers followed her, and she heard the chorus of camera clicks as she approached the photographers lining the catwalk. All being well, Lars was among them. He’d know exactly what needed to be documented.

She raised the microphone to her mouth. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “I regret to inform you that several of the outfits showcased this evening were not Kyle Adams originals. The designs were stolen from Ralph Molenaar’s collection. Mr. Adams has been taken into police custody, and the remainder of this show has been canceled.”

In the audience, the slight murmur that had begun when Marit had first appeared became an indignant rumble.

Alongside the catwalk, Peter Wade leaped to his feet. “I knew it! Those denim overalls were a signature Molenaar creation.”

All around the room, people were rising. A couple of cameramen jumped onto the end of the catwalk, turning their cameras on the indignant crowd. Near the exits, security guards and police officers were filtering in, taking positions around the room as the show’s shocked attendees began to move. Almost everyone held a mobile phone, and those who weren’t taking pictures or typing messages were making calls.

Lowering the microphone in her hand, Marit released an unsteady breath. Her job was done. Social media and the official news outlets would take over from here.

***

Cole let himself into Marit and Isabelle’s flat, his limbs heavy with fatigue. He’d been torn between going to the police station and staying with Isabelle, Marit, and Lars after Marit had put a stop to Kyle Adams’s show. Ultimately, he had opted to get answers firsthand by accompanying Capitaine Dupont and Brigadier Blanchet to the police station so he could observe their interrogation.

Cole had to admit, Adams did a pretty good job spinning his story to make it look like Isabelle and Marit had tried to undermine him. Ultimately, the ballistics report had ended the interrogation and Adams’s willingness to answer questions. The gun Adams had pulled on Marit was the weapon used to murder James and Bernard.

Cole closed and bolted the door to the flat behind him and flipped on the light.

Across the room, Isabelle lay on the shorter of the two couches. She squinted and cracked both eyes open.

Cole crossed the room so his voice wouldn’t wake Lars or Marit, both of whom he assumed were sleeping in their respective bedrooms. “What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting for you.” She swung her legs over the edge of the couch and sat up. “What happened at the police station?”

“Adams claimed that you and Marit were stealing his clothes and trying to undermine his show.”

“The police didn’t buy that, did they?”

“No.” Cole dropped onto the couch beside her. “The abrasions on Marit’s ankles and wrists made it pretty obvious that Marit’s story was the accurate one. And the ballistic report confirmed the gun was the same one used to kill both James and Bernard.”

“Did he confess?”

“No, but with the financial records the CIA sent over and Marit’s testimony, the case against him is pretty strong.” Cole rolled his head from one side to the other in an attempt to relieve the stiffness that had settled there. “He’s going to prison one way or another.”

“That’s good news.” Isabelle put her hand on Cole’s shoulder. “Here. Let me give you a shoulder rub.”

Cole shifted to give her easier access to his back, and Isabelle put both hands on his shoulders. She kneaded at the tight muscles there.

“I talked to Marit about skipping the LaRue show on Saturday, but she’s determined that we need to be there.”

“Why?” Cole asked. “Between the blisters on your feet and how raw her wrists and ankles are, I’m not sure a couple days off will be enough to heal.”

“I know, but she thinks that if people see her on the runway, it will keep them talking about tonight’s show and what Adams tried to do to Ralph.”

“Marit does have a strong sense of right and wrong.”

“Yes, she does. She also handled herself remarkably well when we faced off against Adams.” Isabelle continued to massage his shoulders, and Cole hummed his approval.

“If it weren’t for the fact that Lars would kill me, I’d seriously consider recruiting her,” Cole said.

“I had the same thought.” Isabelle moved her hands from his shoulders to his neck, pressing her thumbs against a particularly tight spot.

The worst of the tension left his body, and Cole let his head fall forward. “I really love you right now.”

Isabelle’s fingers stilled. “Right now?”

Cole’s words caught up with him. Had he really just said the L word? He straightened and turned to face her, sheer panic streaking through him.

Would admitting his feelings scare her off? Or would it complicate their relationship?

The vulnerability in her expression pushed him to share the truth he had kept buried since the moment he’d discovered his true feelings. “Not just right now.” He forced his gaze to meet hers. “I always love you.”

Isabelle blinked twice, as though not sure if she was awake or dreaming. “Really?”

Her dazed expression gave him hope that his feelings weren’t one-sided. “Yes, really.”

Unable to resist, he lifted both hands to her cheeks and leaned in until his lips met hers. The familiar spark ignited between them, and his heart swelled. Isabelle settled her hand on his shoulder, and he indulged himself by deepening the kiss.

For so long, his focus had been on the next mission, on simply staying alive. With his lips warm on Isabelle’s, he now knew that there was more to living than simply keeping his heart beating.

His fingers slid into her hair, the silky strands brushing against his skin. He changed the angle of the kiss, and his love for Isabelle flowed into it.

When he drew back, he kept his face close to hers. “Is this too fast for you?” he asked. “I can pretend I never said I love you.”

Isabelle shook her head, her eyes fixing on his. “It’s not too fast, because I love you too.”

Pure joy filled him, and he leaned in for another kiss. “I’m really glad you came to Paris.”

“Me too.”