But that was different, of course. Or was it?
But as to the agency being legitimate…
It was so above board, in fact, that only her family and friends had even looked twice at the agency when a girl had disappeared on a shoot. Bryson hired beautiful girls and offered them the world; the disappearance of one would-be model was not enough to keep the star-seekers away. Two months ago, Colleen Rodriguez—a typical young Miami woman whose Cuban and Irish-American genes had combined to create a green-eyed, raven-haired beauty—had disappeared while on a shoot for the agency in the Keys. Both the Monroe County and Miami-Dade authorities had been mystified, with some believing the girl had been the victim of foul play, while others believed that though she had been seeing a man named Mark Johnston, she was young and impressionable—and ambitious—and might have run off with someone who could offer her a bigger career and the promise of big money. Alive and well or dead and gone, Colleen had been over twenty-one when she had taken the job and sailed off to the shoot on the privately owned island. With no body and no evidence of foul play, she was officially classed as a missing person, and her case remained open.
Luke didn’t think she’d left of her own volition, though. Her best friend, Rene Gonzalez, was listed through the agency, as well. Rene was avoiding her parents, certain that their over protective instincts in the wake of Colleen’s disappearance were going to cost her a career, so whether she really believed it or not, she was insisting that Colleen had disappeared on purpose. And so he was here, suddenly an up-and-coming designer, to find a way to speak with Rene and see what she knew that could help him discover the truth about Colleen.
“Hi there.” A lissome blonde uncrossed long legs and stood as she saw him coming, then offered him a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Lena Marconi. And you’re…?”
Luke produced a card. “Jack Smith, Mermaid Designs,” he said. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Mermaid Designs?” Lena asked, her gray eyes smoldering. “Beach clothing?”
“Exactly, women’s beach clothing,” Luke said. “Bikinis, tankinis—‘inis’ of all kinds.”
“How wonderful,” Lena gushed.
A dark-haired woman rose with a fluidity that might have been spellbinding if it hadn’t been so practiced. “A bathing-suit designer! How perfect. They’re just starting to plan the next agency swimsuit calendar, you know,” she said as she offered an elegant hand. “Maddy Trent, late of Amarillo, Texas, and quite fond of South Beach. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith.”
“Likewise,” he assured her.
There were two more women sitting on the porch, both blondes. The first, very light, with huge blue eyes and a look of friendly amusement about her, rose. “Hi there, Mr. Smith. I’m Victoria Preston. Please, come in. I’ll introduce you to Myra—Myra Allen, the head of the Miami office—and see that you get something to drink.”
The fourth woman, seated on a gently swinging wicker love seat, didn’t move, though she looked at him assessingly. There was a touch of red in the smooth fall of blond hair that curled around her shoulders. Her eyes were green, lime-green, almost like a cat’s eyes. She continued to survey him thoughtfully, without speaking. Strange—she didn’t look as if she was trying to appear cool and aloof; she was just more interested in studying him than introducing herself.
Interesting.
“Chloe?” Victoria Preston said quietly.
“Oh, of course.” The woman with the sunset-streaked blond hair rose. She was tall, five-nine, maybe, hard to tell. She was wearing sandals with small, weirdly shaped heels, probably the newest thing. She wasn’t the most classically beautiful of the four—that title would have gone to Victoria—but she was the most intriguing. It was her eyes. They were light colored, but also large and well set, and just slightly tilted, giving her a look of mystery. She had a wide smile and full lips, perfect white teeth. A necessity, he imagined, in her business. She wasn’t quite as thin as the others; she looked more like an athlete or a runner.
She offered him a hand at last. “Chloe…Marin,” she said.
It was a strange hesitation, as if she didn’t really want to identify herself. The first name came easily, the surname not so much. Maybe it was a model’s equivalent of a pen name because she had a tongue twister of a last name with twenty syllables or six consonants in a row. Awkward to say. Schwartzenkopfelmeyer or Xenoskayanovich or something.
Or maybe, instinctively, she just didn’t trust him.
“Chloe, nice to meet you,” he said.
“You’re a designer?” she said.
He nodded.
The ghost of a smile played over her lips, and skepticism touched her eyes.
“Chloe, let’s introduce Mr. Smith to Myra,” Victoria urged.
“Oh, look who’s coming!” Maddy drawled. “It’s Vincente!”
“Vincente…who?” Lena asked.
“Vincente. Just Vincente,” Maddy said. “There was just a huge article on him in GQ!”
Luke tried not to laugh out loud; he had just become dog chow as far as Maddy from Amarillo was concerned.
“Come on in, Mr. Smith,” Victoria told him, and led the way. Chloe followed them.
The house was even more elegant inside than out. They had barely stepped into the travertine entryway before a uniformed server was there to offer him champagne from a silver tray. He accepted a glass with thanks, noticing that the women didn’t follow suit.
Maybe it was the expensive stuff, reserved for clients and the other guests.
They kept going, to a living room with mile-high ceilings, a curving white staircase and white marble flooring covered with expensive rugs. The house boasted a huge fireplace and mantel, though he was sure the fireplace hadn’t been used in decades.
Three pairs of French doors led to a massive patio with a pool and adjacent hot tub. They stepped out and headed for a tiki bar set up at the south end of the pool, weaving past small groups of extravagantly dressed people on their way.
“That’s Myra,” Victoria said, pointing out a woman to the left of the bar. She was speaking with two women who appeared to be in their early forties, attractive in simple black dresses, short black hair and medium black heels. “She’s talking to the women from Rostini. You’ve heard of the label?”
Not before today, when he had crammed on the fashion industry. “Rostini,” he said, nodding. He felt Chloe watching him, and sensed that she was suspicious. Of what?
“They make a lovely couple. When you think that they met at college and have lasted longer than a lot of marriages…They’re the name in cocktail dresses, if you ask me,” he added.
Myra looked up from her conversation just then and saw the three of them drawing near. He’d met the woman once before, to set up his invitation for the evening, but he kept his gaze bland, as if he’d never seen her before.
She smiled, and waved them over, her own expression a match for his. He might only have met her once, but he found her fascinating. Myra Allen had once been a super model herself, until shooting a commercial on the beach had left her with a scarred cheek. She had accepted an administrative job with Bryson Agency while she convalesced, and she had also accepted a nice settlement from the client’s insurance company. Rather than accept plastic surgery or rely on makeup and go back to work in modeling, she had risen swiftly in the company and now managed one of their most lucrative locations, the Miami Beach mansion.
She was still a beautiful woman. Tall, slim and capable of turning on a warm smile.
“Mr. Smith,” she said. “You’ve made it. I’m delighted.”
She extended a hand, and he stepped forward to take it, wondering, from the way she presented it, if he was supposed to kiss her fingers. No, a French man certainly would, but he was an expat Brit living and working in the U.S.
He shook her hand.
She smoothed back a lock of sable brown hair cut at a sophisticated angle. “Mr. Smith, Josie Rowan and Isabel Santini. I’m sure you know they—
”
“Are Rostini, of course,” he said, smiling at the women.
After that, Myra took over, leading him back into the living room, introducing him to various people in the business.
Jesse and Ralph Donovan, a young couple who designed evening wear together. Bob—or Bobby—Oscar, flam boy ant and arrogant, but hardly someone who seemed liable to seduce a young woman into disappearing. Cindy Klein, dramatic and conceited, but a powerful player with one of the biggest labels in the world.
Harry Lee was there, too—a big shot with the Bryson group. He was a man of about sixty, slim, articulate and impeccably dressed. Another man, nondescript—small, slim and wearing large black-rimmed glasses—seemed to be his assistant, completely at his beck and call. Not unexpectedly, a veritable flock of women also surrounded him.
Harry Lee seemed to take Luke at face value and was glad to welcome him to the party. “Nothing like Miami Beach. Each of our offices does a swimsuit calendar, but this one is, arguably, the most important. Miami is known for—frankly—hot bodies. Beach bodies. Of course, too many women walk around in suits too small to hold a teacup Yorkie.” He paused to shudder. “But the beautiful bodies are here, as well, and naturally we take full advantage of that. Myra tells me you’ll be shooting your first catalogue in tandem with our calendar shoot. So, welcome. As you’re about to see first hand, Bryson will always be known for the most spectacular and most talented models. Nothing will ever change that fact.”
Luke politely agreed with him, then moved on.
To the young women.
To the “most spectacular and most talented models.”
He couldn’t help recognizing Lacy Taylor, the wholesome beauty who had graced the covers of at least a dozen major magazines. She was pleasant but vague, and he was sorry to realize that she was high, as well as more than a little drunk, which was when he noticed the small, mousy brunette following her everywhere, making certain she didn’t crash into a table or drown in the pool. Lena Marconi, energetic and sweet, reappeared and granted him a few minutes when she wasn’t chasing down Vincente. Lena seemed to have the energy to cover all the bases—and in her mind he might just be the next hot thing, which made him a base worth covering. Then there was Jeanne LaRue—a professional name, he was certain—who was tall, slim, angular and, he assumed, ultra chic, but she was also hard-edged, the opposite of the naturally stunning Lacy, who didn’t have to work to draw as much attention as she could possibly desire. Lacy was like a golden-retriever puppy; Jeanne was like a pit bull. There were plenty of other models in attendance, but he saw no sign of Rene Gonzalez.
He managed not to embarrass himself in conversation, because everyone else seemed happy to do most of the talking. As long as he nodded appreciatively now and then, and agreed with whatever other people said, they seemed to like him.
He still managed to find out a few things, though; he just had to be careful with his questioning. He asked Myra first about Rene, learning that oh, yes, certainly, she would be along at some point.
Jeanne LaRue was uninterested in the subject when he sat down beside her at the bar. She knew Rene, but in her opinion the girl was gawky, and she had no experience, so if he was planning on doing a beach shoot, he wouldn’t be getting much for his money by hiring Rene. “Victoria knows her stuff. She would be good. And Lacy, of course. As long as you can keep her sober, though she has done some exquisite doped-out shots for that new perfume, Dream. And naturally you’ll want me. I’m the best. Especially in a bathing suit.”
He frowned. “What about that other girl? Colleen Rodriguez? For a couple of weeks, her disappearance was all over the news, and then people seemed to forget all about her.”
Jeanne wrinkled her nose. “Because the little twit obviously fell in love and decided to hightail it.”
“Odd. If you fall in love, don’t you announce it to the world?”
Jeanne was clearly getting bored with so much conversation about another woman. “Maybe it’s some kind of a publicity stunt. You know, some kind of scam. I hope they put her in jail when they find her—she nearly ruined everything.”
“Oh? Aren’t you worried about her? Was—isn’t she a friend?”
“Sure—we’re all friends. But she behaved like a selfish brat. We were all on the island, shooting an ad, and everyone was happy—then she just up and disappeared. With her purse and passport, I’d like to point out.”
“But she didn’t take all her things?”
Jeanne waved a hand in the air. “I don’t know what she did and didn’t take. I didn’t room with her. I don’t room with anyone. It’s in my contract. You could talk to Lacy. They roomed together. That Colleen, she was clever. Lacy is the golden girl, and Colleen knew that and hung around her, looked out for her. If anyone knows anything, it’s Lacy. Of course, Lacy is tweaked half the time, so if Colleen walked by her on the way out and told her where she was going, Lacy might not have noticed.”
He made a mental note to talk to Lacy about Colleen Rodriguez, preferably when she was sober. But tonight he needed to find Rene.
Jeanne was going on about her competition again, though. “I don’t know about Chloe Marin. She’s best for something a bit sporty. She does have those unusual eyes, though. And great breasts—which, from what I understand, are all hers. Personally, I think a little silicone helps the puppies stay right up where they’re supposed to be. And I’ve yet to meet a man who objects, and most seem to prefer it. What do you have to say to that, Mr. Smith? I’m right, aren’t I?”
She was fishing for a compliment, he realized, leaning closer and actually coming on to him.
He lowered his head, trying not to smile and betray his amusement. She no doubt expected him to take her up on her not-so-subtle offer. There was a time in his life when he would have, those days of his youth when he was eager and raw, thrilled by the prospect of shagging just about anything that moved. But those days were long in the past. It wasn’t that his life had come to fruition with a deep relationship. In fact, his deepest relationship had ended bitterly. He didn’t know what he wanted yet, but he knew it wasn’t what Jeanne LaRue was offering.
No sharp edges, no daggers, no bartering. Not in the bedroom.
As he considered his response carefully, he was jolted—literally—by the arrival of someone at his side.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to push you out of your seat.”
He turned, saved from having to make a reply by the arrival of the all-natural assets in question.
Chloe Marin had come up on the other side of him, and he couldn’t have been more surprised by the effect she had on him, her eyes wide and intent, the soft and ethereal scent of her perfume sweeping over him. She was different from the others. He had an impression of the world’s most sinuous and elegant cat. It wasn’t overt, and yet she had an amazingly sensual allure.
She continued to stare at him with those cool jaguar eyes, and he realized he was being studied.
She accepted two beers from the bar tender and slid one in front of him, then leaned close to ask softly, “Do you need rescuing?”
“Well…”
“It’s not a complex question. You may not want to be rescued. If that’s the case, I’ll slip away and let you enjoy Jeanne’s…company. If not…”
“I’ll slip away with you, if I may,” he returned, his own voice low.
She didn’t smile flirtatiously. She hadn’t been flirting, had simply noticed his plight and given him a chance to escape if he wanted to.
She spoke more loudly. “Mr. Smith, Victoria’s cousin Brad has arrived. I mentioned him to you earlier.”
He turned to Jeanne. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss LaRue. Miss Marin has pointed out someone I need to meet.”
“It’s Brad,” Chloe explained. “He’s going to need to rent transportation for his catalogue shoot.”
“He should just hop on a company boat,” Jeanne said.
“He’ll want his own transportation. Anyway, the more
boats, the more fun,” Chloe said.
Jeanne frowned, as if wondering what experience Chloe was drawing on to support that statement, but Chloe didn’t wait for the other woman to continue the conversation, just slipped an arm through his and steered him away. “Brad owns a fleet of rental boats. And if you’re going to be going back and forth to the island while we shoot, you’ll be glad to have your own transportation.”
She was friendly, helpful, and yet she was also aloof. There was a contradiction somewhere in Chloe Marin that aroused his suspicions.
“Is Rene Gonzalez going to be part of the calendar shoot?” he asked.
She glanced over at him sharply. “Rene? I’m not sure.”
“I would have expected her to be here tonight.”
“Really? And what do you know about Rene Gonzalez?”
“I’ve heard that she’s very exotic looking, perfect for what I want for my catalogue,” he said. “She is lovely,” Chloe said, and offered nothing more.
At the far end of the pool, they found Victoria standing with two men, both of them late twenties or early thirties, dressed in the appropriate Miami-chic attire, handsome jacket, open-neck shirt, no tie, creased slacks, everything with a designer label. One was a sandy-haired man with a short, spiked-and-gelled cut, and the other was darker, his hair a thick fall that slashed across his forehead. They might have been a pair of rockers on their way up.
“Mr. Smith, you’ve met Victoria, and I’d like you to meet Jared Walker and Brad Angsley. Brad is Victoria’s cousin,” she added, nodding toward the dark-haired man.
“Nice to meet you,” Luke said. “Call me Jack, please,” he added.