Breaking the Rules

  Caresse nodded and felt her eyes filling with tears. Turning her head swiftly, she blinked them away, not wanting M to see. Her heart felt suddenly heavy as she realized she was not going to see M for quite some time. Caresse had grown attached to her and valued her friendship. She would miss her so much.

  With great speed, S. Herbert Samson managed to disengage himself from Howard Dart. “I’ve got to make a few of my European calls before it gets much later,” he said. “I’m gonna grab a cab, Howie. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’m sorry the deal didn’t work, S.H.,” Howard answered. “I’ll continue looking for prime real estate, and something’ll come up, never fear.”

  “Great. Keep at it, Howie,” S.H. replied and jumped into the cab which had miraculously drawn up next to him. After giving the driver the address of his office on Madison Avenue, he settled back against the seat, reliving that moment in the Farantino studios when the black-haired woman had walked into reception. She had knocked the breath out of him. He focused his mind, assessing everything, and eventually knew he was right in his conclusion. Also, he knew exactly what to do.

  Once he had paid off the cab, he rushed through the lobby of the building, went up in the elevator to his fifth-floor office, a rented space that was more than adequate for his needs. He had no employees because he didn’t need any. He had a laptop, which he was skilled at using. He prided himself that he didn’t have one scrap of paper in this office. All of the filing cabinets were empty. Everything was in the laptop or in his head.

  Once he was in the office, he locked the door and went to his desk. Taking out his cell phone, he was about to dial, then remembered how dangerous cell phones were. There was so much “chatter” these days, “chatter” picked up by hundreds of surveillance organizations, investigation companies, the FBI, the CIA, MI5 and MI6, and other U.S. and U.K. government agencies, not to mention foreign agencies like the KGB. He slipped the cell back into his jacket pocket and pulled the landline toward him. A landline was a bit safer but not much. He would talk in riddles, as the Boss preferred.

  After dialing the number, he sat back in the chair, waiting patiently.

  “Hullo?”

  The voice was faint, but S.H. was positive he had reached the person he wanted. “It’s me, Boss.”

  “S.H., I presume.”

  “Correct,” he answered, relief flooding him as he recognized that posh voice.

  “It’s rather late here. This must be important,” the upper-class voice intoned.

  “It is. I’ve found her.”

  There was a silence. “Found who?”

  “You know who. The lady who ran away.”

  “Aha, aren’t you the clever one! How did you manage that?”

  “You know I’ve been looking for her for months, and with no luck. But my luck changed, I found her this afternoon, Boss. What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know. Fill me in. What has she been doing? Where has she been hiding? And exactly where did you . . . find her, if one can call it that.”

  “Stumbled over her at the Farantino photographic studios. I admit it, Boss, it wasn’t cleverness on my part. She’s become a model. I don’t know much, but I can find out more tomorrow. When I was up there a few weeks ago, I heard the woman who runs the place talking on the phone. She was telling someone that Luke Hendricks, the photographer, was tied up for a week doing a big shoot for Jean-Louis Tremont, the French designer. And that their new model, whom they had discovered, was going off to Paris to work for him. I know it’s the girl . . . she’s going to Paris to become a supermodel, Boss.”

  There was a silence and then a soft, amused chuckle. “A supermodel, eh? Fame is the spur. So our little girl is going to become famous. Well, well, well, this is an unusual turn of events.”

  “Boss, what do you want me to do?” S.H. pressed. “Shall I pay her a visit? Get it over with?”

  “Tut, tut, S.H.! Why would you want to do that? It’s far too soon to leave your calling card. Let’s wait, shall we? Once she’s famous, if that does indeed happen, we could have a bit of fun with her before completing the mission. Or at least you could.”

  “Shall I stay on in New York, Boss?”

  There was a long sigh. “Find out as much as you can about her in the next few days and then move back to Europe. Permanently.”

  “Okay,” he answered. “How’s Bart?”

  “He’s getting better. I would prefer not to talk about Bart. I’m afraid he blew his chance with me. Watch your step, Sam. I wouldn’t want you to follow in his footsteps.”

  “How can you think a thing like that? I’m smarter than him.”

  The chuckles that flowed down the line from across the Atlantic were louder. “Good night, Sam,” the man said, still chuckling as he hung up.

  Part Two

  DODGING THE ENEMY

  January–April

  2007

  Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles.

  William Shakespeare, Macbeth

  Twenty-eight

  She felt different.

  Was it because she was head over heels in love? And marvelously loved in return? Was it because she was now living in married bliss with the man of her dreams?

  Or was it because she was about to be launched as a supermodel by one of the greatest fashion designers in the world? Then again, perhaps it was because she was in Paris, a city she loved more than any other in the world. Yes, it could be that. Paris had forever cast its spell over her. The very thought of it made her drool.

  Perhaps she felt different because all of these wonderful things were rolled into one big ball of absolute perfect happiness. Whatever it was, she felt fabulous. And free as a bird . . . liberated.

  She clutched Larry’s hand tighter and stole a surreptitious look at him, smiled to herself. He was in disguise. So was she. They weren’t really, they had no reason to be, but what they were wearing felt like a disguise. Pants, heavy sweaters, and boots, covered by bulky quilted coats, wool caps pulled down over their ears, scarves around their necks, woolen gloves on their hands, and dark glasses. All of this clothing was to combat the icy January weather, and the chill wind. Nonetheless, it was a beautiful day, with a bright blue sky without a cloud and shimmering sunlight. A perfectly lovely day except for the freezing cold.

  They walked at a steady pace down the Avenue Montaigne, heading for the Champs-Élysées. When they turned onto it, they were both surprised how busy it was, chockablock with people, and Larry said, “I think this is a city where people never worry about the weather, unlike London and New York. Paris is so bloody beautiful the weather doesn’t matter one bit.”

  “You’re right, darling, I’ve always thought that. Isn’t it funny how we often think the same thing? Anyway, it’s the wind that’s a bit of a problem. It comes down from the steppes of Russia, blows right across Europe to Paris, where it seemingly stops.”

  He looked at her swiftly, grinning. “I bet you just invented that, you clever little minx! A wind down from the steppes of Russia! What an imagination you have, M, and how clever you are.”

  “Neither. I just have a good memory, and that was what I was once told by a very famous concierge in a very famous Paris hotel. And as you well know, being a seasoned traveler in La Belle France, concierges know everything.”

  “Touché, my little chickadee.”

  “Well, it’s true! I’ll call him at the hotel later, and if he’s on duty you can speak to him, and he’ll confirm what I just said. His name’s Vincent, and he’s a very good friend of mine.”

  Larry tightened his grip on her hand, laughing, and they walked on, in complete harmony. She pinched herself every day to make sure she wasn’t dreaming all this, and he thanked God that he had found her when he had.

  Once they got to the bottom of the avenue, they waited for the lights to change, then crossed the road to the other side, going toward the Rond-Point des Champs-Élysées. They hurried on, heading for the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Ho
noré, and they didn’t slow down until they arrived at Hermès, which was their actual destination.

  “We can’t go in, not looking like this!” M suddenly exclaimed.

  “Don’t be so silly, of course we can. Who cares about clothing these days?” Larry gave her a puzzled stare.

  “I’m sure they do. How awful we look, Larry.” She jabbed his arm. “Just look at our reflections in the window. We resemble huge bumblebees.”

  “No, we don’t. We’re not yellow and brown, we’re almost all black, actually.”

  His sudden hilarity was infectious, and she laughed with him, then said, “I’m going to take this ghastly woolly cap off. There, that’s better.” As she spoke she shook out her glossy black hair, smoothed her hands over it, pushed it back from her face. “At least I put some makeup on before we left the hotel.”

  “You should have done an Audrey in the makeup department, and they’d let you in no matter what. They’d be convinced you were her, that you’d suddenly come back to life or been reincarnated, something like that.”

  “But if you take your woolly cap off, and your dark glasses, they’ll know you’re you, and they’ll let me in with a handsome, very much alive actor who’s a big number in France.”

  “Only in France,” he shot back, faking a pout, and pulled off his red-and-black striped cap, stuffed it in his coat pocket.

  Reaching up, M smoothed his hair and nodded. “You look divine, my lad.”

  “Oh, shucks, you’re just prejudiced, babe.”

  Searching in her pocket, M found her lipstick, took it out, and staring in the window of the shop, she outlined her lips. “There, that’s better.”

  “It sure is. The lipstick makes such a difference,” he teased. “Come on, let’s go in. I’m determined to buy you a brand-new Kelly to call your own.”

  “I don’t mind the old ones, you know,” she answered. “After all, they were passed down to me by some very chic women.”

  “What color do you want?” Larry asked, pushing open the door.

  “I don’t think I’m going to have my pick, you know. The store has a waiting list, and it’s usually full of Japanese tourists buying up everything.”

  “A waiting list for a handbag?” Larry threw her an incredulous look. “That’s unbelievable.”

  “I know it is. But I didn’t invent the rules. They did.”

  They walked around the store for a few minutes, looking in the display cases at belts, silk scarves, gloves, enameled bracelets, all sorts of things, including a few handbags. But there wasn’t a Kelly in sight.

  M took hold of Larry’s arm and whispered, “See, I told you. My sister says they keep the Kellys and the Birkins hidden in the basement. You’re going to have to pull rank and play the movie star. But listen, darling, it doesn’t matter if they don’t have a bag available. Honestly, I have the one thing I want in the whole world, and he’s standing next to me.”

  He kissed her cheek, squeezed her arm.

  At this moment an elegant, well-groomed saleswoman came hurrying over to them. After smiling at M, she looked at Larry, and in a reverential voice she said, “Good morning, Mr. Vaughan. My name’s Ginette, can I be of assistance?”

  Larry gave her one of his dazzling smiles. “I’m sure you can. I was wondering if we could look at some Kellys and Birkins, Ginette?”

  The saleswoman let out a small, almost inaudible sigh and made a tiny moue. “I’m not certain we have any in stock at the moment, Mr. Vaughan.”

  “How disappointing,” Larry answered, focusing his improbably blue eyes on her. “Perhaps you could check. I’d be ever so grateful . . . Ginette.”

  The saleswoman smiled, murmured, “Let me ask the manager,” and disappeared.

  “Talk about butter melting in your hand. I thought she was going to swoon at your feet.”

  “A little charm doesn’t hurt,” he said, grinning. “Especially if it’s going to get my darling her Kelly.”

  “It would be nice to have one of my very own that’s brand-new, but basically it doesn’t really matter, as I just told you.”

  “I know that. But I wanted to give you a gift, darling. To celebrate this coming Monday. D Day. How do you feel? Are you nervous?”

  M shook her head. “I don’t think so. Neither am I frightened, which Kate asked me the other day. I told her I was impatient, and I guess that’s exactly what I still feel now. I’m itching to put my feet on that runway.”

  “You get to do that tomorrow, don’t you?”

  “Yes. A rehearsal. Kate wants me to walk down it a few times, just to get the feel of it, to be sure of myself. You can come with me if you want, she said you could.”

  “Naturally I’m coming. Try and stop me.”

  Ginette returned carrying two orange cloth bags with the Hermès insignia stamped on the front in brown. “Only two Kellys, I’m afraid, Mr. Vaughan, and definitely no Birkins in stock. However, we can put you on our waiting list if you wish.”

  Larry threw her a lovely smile and turned to M, raising a brow.

  M shook her head. “But I would like to look at the Kellys, please, Ginette.”

  Ginette smiled. “Here is the black one,” she said, taking it out. “And the other one is this interesting tan color. Both bags can be worn with many colors.” The tan bag also came out of the orange cloth cover and was placed on the counter.

  As decisive as she always was, M knew immediately which one she preferred, and she looked at Larry. “I like the tan bag best.”

  “So do I,” he replied and took out his credit card.

  Patience was a virtue. Her mother had always told her that, and Kate Morrell had believed her. And so she had trained herself to be patient. As a child, as a teenager, and as a young woman. Now, at the age of thirty-eight, she considered herself the most patient woman on the planet. But she was about to demolish her record. She was going to go berserk. At least with Peter Addison when he arrived. If, indeed, he ever did. She had been waiting for him for four hours, and he was still not here . . . here being her suite at the Plaza Athénée hotel on the Avenue Montaigne.

  When he had called her last night from London, he had said he would be at the hotel no later than eleven. It was now three o’clock. She had checked her cell phone constantly for missed calls, there were none; she had checked with hotel reception, and yes, they said, Monsieur Addison was expected but had not yet checked in. And of course she had tried to call him on his cell. It was turned off.

  The phone rang again, and she snatched it up, realizing she was feeling more impatient than ever. “Hullo,” she snapped.

  “It’s me, Kate.”

  “Who’s me?” she demanded, knowing full well who it was.

  “Please, Kate, be nice. It’s Peter.”

  “Where the bloody hell are you?”

  “In my room. I’ve just checked in.”

  “To this hotel?”

  “Of course this hotel. Where else?”

  “God only knows where you might check in, you’re so undependable.”

  “Can I see you?”

  “You’d better come and see me immediately if you know what’s good for you!” she shouted and slammed the phone down.

  A moment later there was a knock on the door of the suite. “What now?” she muttered and went to answer it.

  Peter was standing there, looking extremely troubled.

  “That was certainly quick,” she said, ushering him inside.

  “I’m across the corridor,” he mumbled and walked into the sitting room, sat down in a chair.

  “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been waiting here for four hours. Not a word from you, that’s the worst. If you’d only called me or left a message, everything would have been fine. But you let me hang, and I’ve been worried about you, frustrated, and growing bloody angrier by the minute. I’ve actually lost my patience. Finally.”

  “For the first time in your life, I’ve no doubt,” he said, very softly.

  “What’s
that supposed to mean?” she demanded, her voice rising.

  “Exactly what I said. . . . There’s no hidden meaning or double entendre.”

  “What happened, Peter? Why are you so late? And why didn’t you get in touch?”

  “Where have I been? Sitting in the bar of the Ritz Hotel on Rue Cambon in a blue funk. Not knowing what to do. What to say to you. I needed to come to you, to tell you what’s been going on in London in the past week. But . . . well, to be brutally honest, I lost my nerve . . .”

  Kate knew him extremely well, understood him completely, and had been intimately involved with him for six years. He was her big, huggable teddy bear of a man, who constantly neglected himself, forgot meals, and was an unrepentant workaholic.

  Now, Kate frowned, sat scrutinizing him, suddenly growing conscious of the strained look in his usually sparkling brown eyes, the tautness of his face. He was not himself; in fact he looked drained and tired.

  “What’s happened, Peter?”

  “A devastating thing occurred this week. But before I go there, I just need to say that everything you wanted me to set up for M’s launch and the spring collection for Tremont has been done. I have all the material in my briefcase, I’ll give it to you later. But just so you know, I have the entire British and American press coming over, all the major national newspapers and magazines—Hello!, OK!, Vogue, Harpers & Queen, Tatler, Elle—and all the major networks, including the BBC, ITV, CNN.”

  “You’re a genius, darling, and I’m thrilled. You’ve obviously done a great job yet again, and thank you. But I want to know why you’re disturbed, what happened? Please tell me.”

  Peter pulled all of his diverse thoughts together. “Allegra has done something completely foolish and selfish. It’s disastrous. And I’m not sure how to make it right.”

  Kate stared at him intently, not daring to say a word. She had always liked his daughter but had known from the first day she met her that the girl was a walking time bomb. Self-involved, impulsive, irrational at times, and so gorgeous every man fell for her instantly.