Blonde Ops (9 page)

Kevin pointed to a heap of sweaters I'd dumped in a pile with one of his pointed two-tone brogues. “What's this?”

It seemed obvious to me. “Those are the dirty clothes. Is there a laundry basket or bag to put them in?”

He nudged the offending pile. “These are very expensive, one-off
loaners.
You don't
dump them on the floor
.”

Then you shouldn't be touching them with your shoes.

“So what do I do with them?” Me, intern, new here,
capisce
?

“You. Hang. Them. Up. On a rack, with notes saying to which designer they have to be returned.” He sighed. “I can't believe Parker, Candace—and now I—got stuck with you. Serena doesn't know how lucky she is.”

My cheeks burned while everyone paused to listen to my dressing down.

“Kevin!” called Serena.

He stalked away to join her. She was sulking in a corner with “the Book”—the infamous
Devil Wears Prada
binder that was the ever-evolving draft of the current issue. I didn't see why she was so upset. Apart from the official title and the nameplate on the door, Serena had gotten what she wanted. Candace seemed too busy to concern herself with running
Edge
. I hadn't seen her do a single work-related task for the magazine since she arrived. Serena made all the decisions—which models wore what clothes, what copy would be used. Everything.

I hoped that she'd keep Kevin busy for a while, but of course I would never be so lucky. He came back a few moments later and shoved a USB drive and a stack of marked-up papers at me.

“Serena needs you to enter these corrections.”

He jerked his head at a table set up with laptops and printers for me to use. A model whose name I couldn't remember was parked in front of one and playing solitaire. She was killing time while she waited for Angelo to call her to do the photo shoot for the half-dozen pages dedicated to new fall footwear. All the others were occupied by people doing real work—photo editing, page design, and e-mailing.

“Sorry, but I have to use this computer,” I said to her.

She huffed and strutted to the kitchen like she was walking a runway.

Shaking my head, I exited the game and got to work on an article about some new designer they were featuring. Kevin's résumé was shoved between the last two pages. It definitely wasn't meant for my eyes, but I looked it over anyway. He was updating it to include a freelance article he wrote on menswear for Italian
Vogue
. If I didn't know better, I would say that he was gunning to ditch
Edge
soon.

Actually, that could be a good thing for me. I made a mental note to look into his e-mail to see where he'd be sending this. Maybe I could give him a little extra help, a shove out the door. Yeah, technically it was breaking my promise to Mom—but I was helping him, right? That had to count for something.

“Wonderful. You
can
follow directions,” he said when he reviewed the fresh copy I handed to him. Then, turning to answer his phone, he waved me out. I slipped his résumé onto a corner of the desk facedown and gave him my best Botticelli angel smile. I couldn't move fast enough.

When the clock struck 4:30—delivery time—Sophie and I staked out a window on the second floor behind a stack of boxes, perfect for peering out onto the street below without Kevin, Serena, or Candace stalking us. The window was open, and we leaned out, waiting.…

There it was—the buzz of Dante's Vespa. He parked, kicked the stand down, and cut off the motor. He took off two packages and paused to look up. Seeing us, he smiled and waved.

With a happy sigh, I waved back. “Let's go downstairs!”

When he came in, I could hear Agent Case demanding to see ID and examine the parcels. Dante complied, giving him no trouble. Case made him open everything so he could check the contents. When he was done, he had Ortiz hustle Dante out the door before we could even say good-bye. I went back upstairs, following Sophie and grumbling that the one thing I'd been looking forward to all day was cut short.

I was helping Ugi set up when my phone buzzed with the arrival of a new e-mail. Three new e-mails, actually. Mom's itinerary, Dad's travel schedule (which didn't include any slots for me coming home yet), and a cautionary reminder that my credit card was not to be abused. I'd barely even used it! I wondered if Mom sent a copy to Parker's e-mail as a heads up in case I started bringing lots of shopping bags back to the hotel. She had to have sent Parker their schedules at the least. Since there was no mention of Parker, my parents probably didn't know about her situation. I wasn't going to say anything—yet. Things were going on as planned.

The credit card warning had me thinking there were going to be a lot of “necessities” I'd need while in Rome. I wasn't just a student anymore; I was an employee at a world-famous fashion magazine by day, and by night, secret techno-detective with an expanding social life. And I was about to meet the First Lady—tomorrow! Certain wardrobe standards had to be maintained—after all, I worked with Candace. Not even Mom could argue about a few style updates. It might even thrill her that I was dressing up.

Candace came out of Parker's office—it was still Parker's office—bristling in another power suit, this one khaki with gold buttons and tailored pants. Did she ever wear flats? She had to be near six feet, four inches tall barefoot—did she really need the extra height?

She strutted about, her sharp gaze taking in everything. “Francesca, put those files away. Sophie, if you're done with that copy, send it to the layout designer. Kevin, check on the status of the payroll. Bec!”

“Yes?”

She looked around then waved her hands. “Is the whiteboard current? Everything has a place, let's get it there, people!”

Yes, ma'am!

While Sophie rushed to finish the pile of edits, I updated the whiteboard schedule, returned messages, and filed everything within sight. The last chore was to put away the outfit Taliah was wearing as soon as Angelo finished his shoot. Thumbing through the countless dresses, I took a slinky, clingy neon green sheath off the waiting wardrobe rack and held it against me.

“What do you think?” I asked Sophie.

She made an amused face. “It's … colorful. Especially with your hair.”

“Taj will hate it, and I have to be seen in it!” Taliah snapped.

“Okay. Who's this Taj everyone's talking about?” I asked. Maybe I would finally get an answer.

Taliah's jaw hung slack and her head jutted back. “Of course
you
wouldn't know.” Then she cat-walked away.

I turned to Sophie.

“I don't want to spoil it for you,” she said with a sly grin. “Google him.”

Snagging one of the office laptops, I searched. There were thousands of pages of results, and they told me all pretty much the same thing: he was a guy who traveled the world blogging about fashion. And he was one of those “single name” people. Madonna. Bono. Ke$ha.

Taj.

Dark eyes, bronzed skin, and great clothes, he was eighteen, the same age as Dante. Judging from the cocky grin he wore in most of the photos I saw, he looked like a typical rich kid, probably with an attitude to match. I knew enough guys like him from my various schools to spot his type instantly—without hearing a snide insult.

Not impressed.

Sophie sighed. “That's Taj,”

“Uh-huh.”

“I've heard that he only dates models. Francesca's pathetically desperate to snag him, but he doesn't like pushy divas,” she confided.

“Then at least he has some brains.”

“Wait till you see him in person,” she whispered breathily in my ear before she sauntered away, an infatuated look on her face. “There's just something about him.”

It was after six when Candace was finally satisfied enough to dismiss us.

“Wanna get dinner?” I asked Sophie when we were safely outside.

She pouted. “Wish I could, but Kevin has me taking this outfit”—she shook the garment bag in her hand—“back to the designer to be altered. I have to drop it off before seven. Tomorrow, okay?”

I shrugged, feeling more alone than ever. Then I thought guiltily of Parker. Could she even eat dinner, or was she being fed through tubes? I shook my head to shatter the thought.

“All right. See you.”

With a little wave, she flung the obscenely expensive and definitely-sized-for-a-double-zero outfit over her shoulder, and disappeared into the evening crowd.

I started making my way back to the hotel. It would be room service again for me. I would try to collect the other prints that I needed and worm my way into the
polizia
database for accident reports.… They'd be in Italian, but flagging key words like
Parker Phillips
,
Edge
,
editor in chief
, and
American
would narrow the search and I'd get some hits pretty fast. My mind whirled with what else I could do.

Glancing around I could see that the traffic and tourist crowds were a bit lighter now, but a number of scooters and cars whizzed by. Shop windows were stuffed with handmade leather goods, sugared confections in a rainbow of pastel colors, baroque jewelry in gold and silver, and religious trinkets.

Then I saw Candace.

She passed by on the opposite side of the street. I ducked behind a fruit cart. Thankfully, she didn't see me. Even though I was heading there, I didn't want her to order me back to the hotel. And I didn't like her. She came in and took Parker's place a little too quickly for me to be comfortable, and I was willing to bet that
she
knew where Parker was but refused to say anything, just because she could. She crossed the street up ahead. Where was she going now, alone, without even Varon?

I kept to the narrow sidewalk, following her, when I heard the familiar purring of a small engine. The yellow Vespa rolled to a stop beside me, and Dante pulled off his helmet and flashed his billion-dollar smile.

“
Ciao
, Bec!”

He held out an extra helmet to me. The invitation was clear—but I hesitated. I wanted to go.

Could I? Yes.

Should I? Don't know.

Would I? Then an idea came to me that convinced me I had to.

“Can you follow Candace? The woman in the beige suit?” I said, looking left and right to see if any of the agents were around. I saw none. “I don't want her to see me.”

His mouth opened but suddenly he grinned. “Like bad guys in the movies?”

“Yep!” I hopped onto the back of the Vespa, tugged on the helmet—making sure my pink hair was tucked in, just in case Candace turned around—and wrapped my arms around him. Leaning on his strong back, I felt his muscled, trim, solid middle. This could be a good thing.

“You ready?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Yes!”

We took off and joined the snaking train of traffic behind Candace and skirted down a side street. If anyone was following
me
, it wouldn't be for long.

 

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR
THE EDGE-Y GIRL

Music makes your mood! Need a jolt of energy? Put on a salsa dance beat. Feeling blue? Some soulful tunes will bring a little empathy. And for a romantic moment, you can't go wrong with an opera.

9

With a reckless confidence, Dante wound through traffic down Via Borghese. I strained to keep an eye on Candace as she wove in and out of foot traffic, but while we waited at a light and then for two drivers who cut each other off to stop arguing, we lost her. Dante drove around a bit, but we couldn't find her again.

He pulled over and half turned on the seat. “She's gone. Why did you want to follow her and not be seen?”

I looked around. Still no agents in sight. Then I met Dante's eyes. I didn't want to lie, but I couldn't tell him the truth—that would be given out on a need-to-know basis, and right now he didn't need to know why I wanted to follow Candace. I took a deep breath. “She's my boss. Don't tell anyone, but I heard that she's on her way to have dinner with Beyoncé.”

Dante's eyes widened.

I shrugged. “Guess we blew our chance to get some autographs.”

I was about to ask him for a ride back to the hotel when he said, “You hungry? My cousin Adriano has a nice
ristorante.
…”

My stomach grumbled, making the decision. “Let's go!”

He drove onto Via della Lupa past a number of churches, some with simple but elegant stonework, others more ornate with stained-glass windows, the light behind them bringing virgins and saints to life.

He took a sharp left turn down an alleyway, too narrow for cars to follow us, even the tiny Fiats. Terra-cotta pots filled with flowers and leafy herbs squatted next to narrow doorways, and homes sat squished next to each other in varying shades of sand and clay. My teeth knocked against each other as the Vespa bumped over the uneven cobbles. When I looked down I caught flashes of squared granite and worn river stones; roads past and present meshing and tangling together.

We rolled to a stop near a building with cracked plaster walls. Long black shutters framed the windows, the thick layers of paint peeling and curling from them like eyelashes. Bright fuchsia flowers hung down from baskets on the upper floors. A blown-glass lamp hanging from a scrolled wrought-iron sconce swung slightly in the small breeze that wended its way through the labyrinth of streets. It was like time had hopscotched over this place.

I pulled off my helmet and was assaulted with the scents of fragrant herbs and roasting meat. Dante took off his helmet and raked his hair back with a strong hand. I hopped off, and he swung a leg over and pushed the Vespa into a corral of others parked near the curb. I waited for him, smoothing down my pink waves.