in rapid-fire French, English, and Italian.
“Why am I here?” he grumbled to Keeley as his right eye was nearly taken out by the wildly gesticulating editor of Italian Vogue sitting next to him.
“Because I need clothes for our honeymoon,” she snapped, “and because Maison Laroche’s show is the absolute best. People would kill for front row seats. Klaus’ clothes are genius.”
Dominic snorted. “Don’t know why any of this lot bothers going to fashion shows. All they wear is black.”
But as the lights dimmed and the show began, Dominic leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. Clouds of fog, pulsing techno music, and long-legged models striding out on the catwalk combined to create a throbbing spectacle of light, sound, and beauty. The clothes were all right, he supposed…
…but the models were bloody amazing.
Keeley poked him sharply in the ribs. “You can roll your tongue back in your mouth anytime,” she hissed in his ear.
When the show ended – all too soon, in Dominic’s opinion – Keeley grabbed him by the arm and dragged him backstage to meet the iconic fashion designer. Klaus von Richter was bald, and he wore black, from the cashmere scarf flung around his neck to his black-booted feet. What was it with fashion people and black? Dominic wondered.
“Klaus!” Keeley gushed. “The show was fantastic.” She air-kissed him on both cheeks.
He took her hand in his black fingerless gloves and lifted it to his lips. “Merci, my dear,” he said in German-accented English. “What can I possibly create that is beautiful enough for you to wear, eh?”
Keeley smiled. “Everything you create is beautiful, Klaus. I love the black velvet strapless dress – stunning…”
Although Klaus nodded distractedly, his eyes lasered in on Dominic. “You,” he purred, “you are Keeley’s fiancé, non?”
“Yeah,” Dominic muttered. The way this German bloke stared at him – like a half-starved alley cat eyeing up a dish of Devonshire cream – made him more than a bit uncomfortable.
Klaus reached out and grabbed Dominic’s jaw in his hand, tilted his head this way and that, and pronounced, “You haf excellent bone structure. You haf modelled before?”
Dominic scowled and jerked his head free. “No! I’m a rock singer, not a bloody model.”
“You will model for me, for Maison Laroche,” Klaus announced. It wasn’t a question; it was a command.
“I don’t do that modelling shit.”
“But you will, for me. You’re perfect.” Klaus narrowed his eyes and walked slowly around Dominic, one hand on his chin. “You haf exactly the look I want. However, your clothes—” he eyed Dominic’s faded Levis and Motörhead T-shirt “—must go. We will dress you in von Richter, no?”
“No!” Dominic snapped.
Klaus snapped his fingers at one of his assistants. “Bring the sample suit to my dressing room. Jetzt!” He turned back to Keeley and Dominic. “Come back with me, and we will talk.”
“Come on,” Keeley hissed, tugging on Dominic’s arm as he balked. “Are you mental? Do you know what an honour this is?”
“Honour, my arse,” Dominic hissed back. “He’s a nut job!”
The designer came straight to the point once they were seated in his dressing room. “I haf created my first men’s fragrance. I want Dominic to be the face of Dissolute. He has exactly the look I want – insolent, aristocratic, a touch dissipated. Perfect for the print ads…like a modern-day Dorian Gray, no?”
Dominic had no idea what the old queen was banging on about. “I don’t know shit about modelling, and I don’t know Dorian Gray, neither. I can’t do it, anyway. I’m starting a new tour next month. Then I’ll be in the studio. Sorry, mate.”
“We’ll work around your schedule.” Klaus flipped open an enamelled case and withdrew a tiny pinch of snuff, then thrust it delicately up first one nostril, then the other. “You will pose for print ads in the fashion magazines, and film a television commercial. Nothing more will be required of you.”
“Nah, sorry, can’t do it,” Dominic said firmly. “My fans would say I’d sold out.” He paused as one of the models came in to get a cigarette and blatantly eyed him up. He smiled. Hm…perhaps he should reconsider. How bad could it be, if doing this gig for Klaus meant he could hang out with girls like that?
Klaus saw the mingled lust and indecision in Dominic’s eyes, and moved in for the kill. “You’ll be well paid.” He leaned forward almost coquettishly, and whispered a sum in Dominic’s ear.
“Blimey.” Dominic blinked. With the amount of dosh Klaus had offered him, he could pay off his debts, buy that new Maserati Ghibli he’d had his eye on, and still have enough left over to buy a ‘57 Strat…
“So?” Klaus said finally, with a touch of impatience. “What do you say? You will sign with Maison Laroche to be the new face of Dissolute?”
Keeley looked over at Dominic, her eyes shining, and nodded imperceptibly.
Dominic let out a short breath. He hated to sell out. But he really needed the dosh that von Richter was offering him.
Sod selling out. Sod his fans. Filthy lucre won the day.
“OK,” Dominic said finally, and stood. “Send me the contract and I’ll have my lawyer take a look.”
“Excellent.” Klaus clasped him firmly on the shoulder. “We haf a deal. You’ve made a very wise decision.”
Dominic made no reply. Why did he suddenly feel as if he’d made a deal, all right…
…a deal with the devil?
“I can’t decide between the Missoni or the Cavalli,” Natalie said with a frown as she emerged from the dressing room with two dresses draped over her arm. “They’re both gorgeous.”
“Well, at least you’ve narrowed it down to two,” Tarquin said with resignation. He’d spent the past hour slumped in a chair as Natalie tried on dress after dress.
“I have to find the perfect outfit for your wedding.”
“What about this?” Tarquin suggested hopefully. He plucked a dress from a nearby rack that cost much less than either of Natalie’s choices.
“I’m not buying off the rack for your wedding, Tark. I need something worthy of the occasion.”
“The newspapers say that Dashwood and James aren’t doing well, Nat,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Perhaps you should be a bit more – erm, frugal.”
“Frugal?” Natalie echoed. “I know you Scots are famous for thrift, but I refuse to scrimp when it comes to your wedding!”
“Perhaps you should get them both,” Tarquin said finally, defeated.
She beamed. “Brilliant!” She dropped an impulsive kiss on the top of Tark’s head on her way back to the dressing room. “I’m almost done.”
As she changed back into her clothes, Natalie considered possible wedding gifts. She wanted to give Wren and Tark something special – Waterford crystal, perhaps, or one of those hideous metal sculptures Tark fancied – something suitable for his Scottish castle…
…something to show how much his friendship meant to her.
“I have to get you a wedding gift,” Natalie told him a few minutes later when she emerged from the dressing room. “We’ll shop once I pay for this lot.”
Alarmed,