French Kissing Read online

  Uh-oh. In a business notorious for being bitchy, Peacock managed to stand out. His syndicated column was widely read because his wit was so waspishly cruel. He usually targeted the most defenseless: the model returning to her first season after rehab, the passé designer trying to stage a comeback, and former anythings. Peacock lived by the motto that the pen is mightier than the sword—in his case, the computer mightier than the lawsuit—and his column had slashed many a reputation and probably a few delicate psyches into ribbons.

  Even though he always treated Kimi like a favored insider, and had actually nominated her as one of the best-dressed women in fashion in his column, she was as wary of him as she would be of a nest of rattlesnakes.

  A smart woman would leave tall, dark and badly dressed to the rattler. But, she’d been brought up to consider the less fortunate. Thanks to her mother, she likely knew more about the plight of women in the third world than most women in the third world. The photographer wasn’t disadvantaged in any of the ways that always pricked her conscience and had her writing out her monthly donation to several of her favorite charities before she paid her phone bill, but he was clearly disadvantaged in a way that was liable to ruin his career in fashion before he’d snapped his first photo.

  She edged her way closer to the odd pair. Brewster’s real name was Boris Pushkoski, but his self-chosen nom de plume suited him much better. He tended to go to the extreme ends of fashion and was, in fact, partial to the peacock’s colors. Today he wore a royal-blue velvet smoking jacket, a vintage piece from the twenties. Dior, at a guess. His hair was bleached blond and cropped short. He wore flawless two-carat diamonds in his earlobes, and claimed to have started the fashion in men. He probably had.

  He was somewhere between forty and fifty, she thought, and suspected he’d look the same for several decades, thanks to a judicious nip here and a tuck there.

  She came close enough to hear Brewster say, “And what do you think of the trend to navel-plunging décolletage?”

  A tiny pause ensued while she held her breath and considered bolting.

  “I don’t speak any French,” said the photographer.

  Without stopping to think, she laughed as though the line was the richest joke she’d heard in months. “I couldn’t help overhearing. It’s so nice when someone can laugh at our industry. Brewster,” she said, leaning forward for the obligatory air kisses, “I’ve missed you.”

  “Kimi, ma petite.” He turned his deceptively soft-blue eyes her way. “You are as fabulous as ever.” He held her away from him, looking her up and down. “And who did you have to sleep with to get that skirt?”

  The photographer looked startled and dropped his gaze to her skirt. She smiled sweetly. “My secret.”

  Brewster cut his gaze to the photographer. “Our friend here also has a secret source for his wardrobe.”

  “I told you. His sense of humor is reprehensible.”

  One black eyebrow rose. “You know him?”

  What on earth was she doing? Practically throwing away her reputation in the fashion world for some dope who didn’t know couture from his elbow patch? She shrugged. “We’ve met.”

  She knew she was being mysterious and that Brewster loved nothing more than a mystery. Mostly so he could solve it and tell the world whatever secrets one was attempting to hide.

  In a desperate bid to move the conversation away from the scruffy photographer, Kimi said, “Simone is in fine form.”

  Brewster glanced over his shoulder to where Simone was still gesturing extravagantly, her mouth moving quickly. From here it almost looked as if she was saying her rosary.

  “Spilling her words of wisdom to her acolytes. As if she’d ever tell them anything worth hearing. And, darling, have you seen her latest boyfriend? Some mangy Czech who used to play hockey.” He fanned himself with a perfectly manicured hand. “Hockey.”

  “I didn’t know she had a new boyfriend. What happened to her husband?”

  “Oh, he’s off somewhere, trying to look up some anorexic’s skirt.”

  “I see ApplePie’s here. Any idea what the dress is like?” she asked.

  “Well, I haven’t actually seen the dress, of course,” he said, looking enormously pleased with himself. “But one hears things.”

  As horrible as he was, she couldn’t help liking him a little. Especially when he always had the best gossip. “What things?”

  He glanced around like a conspirator then dropped his voice. “I hear there are two dresses.”

  “Two dresses?” She whispered too.

  Oh, this was going to be good. She could tell from the derisive gleam in his blue eyes. He looked like Elton John about to burst into song. “One for the bride, and a tiny matching gown for the baby of the bride.”

  Pietra and Apple had a two-year-old child, which was no secret, but the idea of the toddler wearing a matching bridal gown was news indeed. “You are kidding me.”

  He’d succeeded in shocking her, which of course had been his intention. He smiled. “Wait and see. And now, tata, darlings, I must have a word with Valentino,” Brewster said, and strutted away.

  She contemplated the man she’d met outside who looked as though he wanted to wipe his brow. “Thanks for rescuing me,” he said.

  She caught his gaze and held it. “Who are you?”

  “I told you. I’m a photographer from the Minneapolis Daily Tribune.”

  “Cut the crap. You don’t know a décolletage from a demi-train. No one would hire you as a fashion photographer.”

  2

  ONE EYEBROW ROSE, but the eyes behind those glassesglanced at her sharply. He pulled out a business card.

  She took what seemed to be an authentic Tribune business card and read aloud, “Holden MacGreggor, photographer.”

  “I’m Holden MacGreggor,” he said, as though she might think the card wasn’t his. She was glad he had the sense not to try to shake hands, since she’d insinuated to Brewster that they already knew each other.

  “Kimberley Renton, fashion editor, Uptown magazine.”

  She gazed at the card as though it might tell her more than the skimpy information so far revealed. “Who’s your editor?” She knew most people in the business, including the fashion editor at his paper. A woman who’d chew this guy up and spit him out if she saw him show up at a couture event dressed as though he did his clothes shopping at Goodwill.

  “Marsha Sampson. I’m supposed to meet her here.”

  “You’ve never met your editor?”

  He shook his head.

  “You meet her looking like that and your first day will be your last,” she promised him. Something was off here. Way off.

  “I’m a photographer,” he said, sounding irritable. “Not a model. Who cares what I wear.”

  “See, this is how I know you’re not really a fashion photographer.”

  His eyes were hazel, she thought, very attractive. “I’m doing this on a trial basis.”

  “Who hired you?”

  It was his turn to look her over as though trying to decide about something. Finally, while the question hung in the air, he looked at her face, his expression thoughtful. “Rhett Markham hired me.”

  “The publisher? But—”

  He glanced around. “How would you like to get out of here and get a drink somewhere?”

  In truth, she’d already made nice to everyone she needed to tonight. She’d planned to hang around a little longer, but there was nothing stopping her from leaving. Curiosity was what had led her to journalism in the first place, and her curiosity was so aroused right now it was going to need a cigarette when this was over.

  “Why?”

  “I need some help with something and I think you might be the person I’m looking for.”

  Something sizzled between them when he looked at her, in a way that she hadn’t experienced in a while. “Well, it’s an original line, I’ll give you that.”

  His grin was slow and sexy and suggested he’d felt the sizz
le too. “When I make a move, believe me it won’t be subtle. I need your help as a fashion professional. Really, I can’t talk about it here.”

  She was a modern woman with as much native caution as any woman who spends most of her life in Manhattan. However, she had her cell phone, and her mother had sent her for martial arts training as a teenager, so she felt reasonably safe with this guy. Besides, she had good instincts about people.

  “Okay, I suggest we go right now,” she said, taking his arm and urging him toward the exit. “That frightening-looking woman with the bright-red hair is your new editor.”

  He took one look at Marsha Sampson and ducked his head. “Got it.”

  With as much speed and subtlety as possible, they made their way to the entrance, where he retrieved his backpack, and they went out into the night.

  It was cool and quiet after the noise of the party. Second Empire apartment buildings with wrought-iron balconies lined both sides of the street. It even smelled like Paris. Like green trees and good bread.

  “Do you know this area?” he asked her.

  “Yes. Anywhere near here we’re likely to be spotted by someone in the industry.” She thought. “But a couple of blocks from here there are brasseries that should be safe.”

  “Sounds good.” He started off with long, loping steps but soon shortened his stride to keep pace with her killer heels.

  “How do you walk in those things?”

  “They were designed for beauty, not hiking trails,” she snapped.

  He grinned down at her. “I bet you’ve never hiked in your life.”

  She didn’t bother answering, but he’d lose that bet. God, when she remembered those miserable summer camps for girls she’d been packed off to as a teenager. Camps intended to build self-esteem and self-reliance. When all she’d wanted was to go to the mall with her friends.

  Her poor mother, who’d tried so hard to raise a daughter in her own braless, Birkenstock-wearing image and instead got stuck with a fashion-obsessed girlie girl. What a mismatched pair they were. She had a feeling she got the fashion sense from her father’s side. He was an Italian playboy and one of her mother’s craziest mistakes. He hadn’t been much of a father, but she figured she had him to thank for her current career.

  Her mother, a Yale senior at the time she got pregnant, characteristically had refused to marry him, which he, being both Catholic and family oriented, had wanted. However, Evelyn Renton had also demanded that he support the child financially, so Kimi had ended up with a nice trust fund and a father she’d never met. She understood that she was an embarrassment to a high-level businessman with a wife and four children. Her childish ideas of falling into a big, happy, noisy Italian family had died a painful death when it became clear that her father had no intention of ever introducing her to his wife or her half siblings.

  She tried to be philosophical about his choices, and as it turned out, the Italian and French she’d studied since high school, in the stubborn belief he’d change his mind, had come in extremely handy in her profession.

  She kept up with her father via Google, and liked to believe he followed her career the same way.

  “How does this place look?” Holden asked, dragging her out of her memories, as they passed a small bar on a quiet corner.

  “Perfect,” she said, and they went inside. Normally, she liked to sit outside and watch the world go by, but she had a feeling that their conversation would be better conducted inside where there was less chance of them being seen together.

  Once they were settled and she had a glass of wine in front of her and Holden a beer, he excused himself, but he returned in a few minutes with his cell phone flipped open, as if he was in the middle of a call. “It’s Rhett Markham. He wants to talk to you.”

  She’d assumed he’d gone to the bathroom. Instead he was making a phone call to his publisher?

  Who wanted to talk to her?

  She took the offered cell phone. “Hello?”

  “Kimi? It’s Rhett Markham here.”

  “How are you, Mr. Markham?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “How’s your wife?”

  “Fine. Louise is fine too. She misses the newsroom, but she’s looking forward to the baby coming next month, of course. I’ll tell her you asked after her. Look, there’s something going on and you’re the perfect person to help out. I’ve given MacGreggor permission to tell you everything. We’re relying on your discretion. You understand?”

  This sounded like a bad B movie. “Yeah. You’re telling me not to blab.” But blab what? “So? What’s going on?” She’d recognized Rhett Markham’s voice, and if he’d understood she was trying to confirm his identity when she asked about his wife, he’d given her exactly what she needed, since she seemed to be acting as though she were in a B movie too. Trusting no one.

  “I’ve hired MacGreggor to do an important job. Any cooperation you can give him, I’ll be grateful for.”

  She had no idea what he meant. She didn’t work for the man, so it wasn’t like he was going to make sure she got a bonus, or an extra couple of days of holiday. Oh well, she’d listen to what this Holden MacGreggor had to say, then she’d decide for herself what was going on and whether she should involve herself.

  When she finished the call she handed back the cell phone and raised her brows. “Did you call him to check up on me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, enough goofing around. I feel like I’m in a Bond movie. What is all this?”

  “You have to keep everything I tell you in confidence.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve already figured that out.”

  “I’m a private investigator. Markham officially hired me, but I’m an independent and unofficial part of an international investigation into a fashion crime ring. We’re doing everything we can to keep this completely quiet.”

  “Keep what quiet?” She was completely intrigued. Not so much a Bond flick, this was turning into a Philip Marlowe detective novel.

  “It started a couple of years ago in the spring couture show, which was in the fall, right?”

  “Right. Couture shows are always two seasons ahead. Fall for spring.”

  “A major couture piece went missing from House of Sienna.”

  She nodded. “I remember that. The dress was listed but never showed up on the runway. The emcee only said it had been pulled from the show.” That happened sometimes and for a variety of reasons, most often because the garment had been damaged beyond quick repair.

  “The dress was stolen.”

  Her eyes widened. “But the security is so tight. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. It was never found. Seems like every major house has had a gown disappear in the last five years. One outfit is annoying, but won’t break the house, and they figured the loss was carelessness or accident. But somebody talked to somebody else and they realized there was a pattern. After that there were a few hush-hush meetings, and a few of the houses decided to do some quiet investigating.”

  “And you’re here to try to find out who allegedly stole, what, one gown a season for five years?”

  “No. We have reason to believe there will be another theft. This season. I’m here to prevent the theft and gather evidence against the perps.”

  “Cool.” She’d always loved detective fiction, and, frankly, the man across from her, with his barely touched beer, was more convincing because he looked exactly like the movie and television version of a P.I. Tough-guy gorgeous, inscrutable. Badly dressed. “So you’re undercover posing as a photographer.” Which would be fine so long as he didn’t have to take any pictures.

  “I’m a pretty good photographer, by the way,” he said, as though he’d read her mind. “It’s become a lucrative sideline.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I bet. Catching cheating couples going at it on film. Must be a great job.”

  “I don’t do divorce work,” he said, sounding mildly offended. Whether about the way she viewed his
profession or his camera skills, she wasn’t sure. “I photograph wildlife.”

  “Wildlife. Bears and deer and things? And you think that qualifies you to come to Paris, and shoot super models wearing top couture designs?”

  “I capture some of the most elusive and dangerous animals on film. My work may not appear in Vogue, but it does appear in National Geographic, Nature and Midwest Outdoors to name a few.”

  “Impressive credentials. But you’ve never worked with fashion models. Do you have any idea how fast models move?”

  “Many of my subjects move pretty damn fast. I’ve been bitten, spit at, stung, clawed and peed on, but I always got my shot.”

  “Maybe you do have the skills to deal with high-fashion models, after all.”

  How he and Rhett had thought this was a good idea was beyond her. It was obvious that Rhett was fronting for interests here in Paris. Equally obvious that Holden MacGreggor had no intention of sharing more information with her than he absolutely had to. Of course, she was intrigued. Did they know which house was being targeted? Or was the whole detective thing based on guesswork? He’d been so vague with details, she didn’t even know which houses had been victims of theft in the past five years.

  Well, fashion week was never boring, but she had a feeling this one was going to be especially memorable.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You’re the insider. The one who knows all the players and can help me navigate.”

  “What were you planning to do if I hadn’t come along?”

  He scratched his chin. “I thought I’d blend in. Had no idea it was going to be like that.”

  And of course Rhett wouldn’t know either.

  “Fact is, my partner was supposed to take this gig. She knows a lot more about fashion than I do.”

  She glanced up sharply. His partner. Could mean a purely business relationship, or not. Not that it mattered, of course, this was business they were discussing. Serious business, even if he took it somewhat lightly. “But she got called in to testify on a big case we worked on last year—” he shrugged “—so we changed the cover story and here I am.”