“Don’t. We know. You didn’t hide your actions very well.”
CHAPTER 12: ZARA
Arson pulls up in the SUV just as we exit the building. Both men glance around, but neither seems tense. I’m guessing they haven’t seen any of the Bushrangers, so I relax and listen to Tony’s ramblings about the upcoming show.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says. “I can picture it, can you?”
I smile at him. “I can. It still feels like a dream. That will change once the show starts. Then it will be wild. Especially since we only have four models. That’s not going to be enough.”
“I talked to one of them,” Tony says. “She said they are looking for additional models. They’re hoping to get another four. Eight will still be tight, but doable.”
“That’s good.”
When we arrive back at the hotel, I’m relieved to see there are no bikes parked out front. Maybe the Bushrangers gave up or realized they missed us.
“Stay in the SUV, let me check out the lobby,” Piston says before exiting the SUV. He returns a few minutes later and opens the rear door so we can exit.
“I’ll park and meet you inside,” Arson tells Piston.
The hotel lobby smells like lemon polish and fresh coffee—clean, warm, and trying very hard to be impressive without crossing into pretentious. Cream-colored tile floors reflect the glow of modern brass chandeliers. A wide staircase curves along the back wall, but Piston steers Tony and me toward the bank of elevators instead, one massive hand hovering at the small of my back as I might bolt.
“I’m not going to run,” I murmur.
His mouth twitches. “Didn’t say you would.”
The hotel set the meeting up in one of the hotel’s mid-sized conference rooms on the second floor. Not a ballroom—thank God—but big enough to hold eight folding tables arranged in a U-shape. Designers have racks behind them, garments zipped into clear bags or hanging free like colorful promises. Buyers move from table to table, clipboards in hand, expressions sharp and assessing.
Tony squeezes my shoulder before we split up. “You’ve got this, Z.”
I nod, even though my stomach is performing acrobatics.
Piston takes up position against the back wall, arms crossed, scanning the room like a predator in a herd of very well-dressed gazelles. A few buyers glance his way, then glance again. I ignore it and focus on steaming my last sample dress.
The first buyer to approach my table is a petite woman with silver-framed glasses and a shock of natural curls. Her badge reads: Lila Moreno – Moreno Boutique, Wicker Park.
She runs her fingers over the sleeve of my cropped leather jacket, tracing the embroidered phoenix rising across the back. “This is exquisite,” she says, voice reverent. “The stitching is clean. And this lining—custom print?”
I nod. “Hand-designed.”
She smiles widely. “My clients eat up statement pieces. Strong silhouettes. They want to walk into a room and be seen.”She flips through my lookbook. “These wide-leg trousers? I’d order them in every size.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. “I can send line sheets this afternoon.”
“Please do. I’m thinking a fall trunk show.” She taps the phoenix again. “You’re going places, Zara.”
By the time she moves on, I’m floating a few inches off the ground.
The next buyer brings me back down.
Tall, sleek ponytail, lips pressed into a permanent line. Caroline Hurst – Hurst & Co., Gold Coast.
She studies my rack without touching anything. “It’s… bold.”
“I design for women who don’t want to blend in,” I reply evenly.
“Yes, well.” She finally pinches the edge of a deep red sheath dress between two fingers. “My clientele prefers understated luxury. Clean lines. Minimal embellishment. This feels… aggressive.”
Aggressive.
