2 Death of a Supermodel (33 page)

They nodded.

“You’re still wearing that absurd color on your arm.”

“Sorry, I was busy.”

“What on Earth is more important?”

The door behind her opened, and she was saved from having to answer. Pierre smiled and waved, and Laura clenched her fists and unclenched them, trying to release the tension before she looked at him or her, so she could be her most charming, sharp, erudite, and professional self.

She caught Ruby’s smile and looked around. Jeremy stood behind her, wearing a jogging suit and a wide grin. She wondered what he was doing there, when she’d told him she’d be there and why, then she realized. Jeremy was her new backer.

She stood up so abruptly her chair almost fell. She looked at Jeremy and said, “Outside.”

“Laura, really?” Ruby said.

Laura indicated Pierre and Ruby. “Stay here.”

When she got onto Third Avenue, she found Jeremy at her heels, smiling, which enraged her further.

“Not acceptable,” she said. “Not acceptable.”

Jeremy shifted his feet in the morning chill. “What’s the big deal?” he asked. “You need money, I have money. I believe in you. Look, I knew the Schmillers would bag for some reason or another. I stepped in months ago.”

“Not acceptable.”

“Why?”

“Were you
there
last night?” She lowered her voice. There were too many people around, and she was already ashamed to be having a lover’s quarrel in the middle of the street. “Because what we were doing precludes us from being business partners, and it especially precludes me from accepting money from you.”

“Oh, really?”

“This is exactly what happened with Gracie. You slept with her, and then she backed you, and she controlled you for your whole relationship. You’re just redoing the whole thing again, except backward. Now you’re the one with the cash, and what am I?”

“A pain in the ass?”

“You’re not helping at all.”

“I need you. I need you to mind the store with me. I can’t do it all, and I trust you. You can do Sartorial any way you want. You guys did a fantastic line. I don’t want to see it go under. You take my staff. Use my factories. But stand beside me. I bit off more than I could chew when I made my line bigger, and I can’t make this happen alone.”

“Are you my lover because you want to be in business with me, or are you in business with me because you want me to be your lover?”

“Why does it have to be a choice?”

“I can’t see how both things won’t go bad.”

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

That shut him up. He looked up at the buildings and closed his eyes halfway. She watched the curve of his jaw as he bit back whatever it was he was going to say.

Then he coughed twice, big phlegmy things that seemed only a prologue to more. “I have to get back. You have a week to think about the business part. The lover part is non-negotiable. You’re mine.” He kissed her quickly on the lips and jogged off.

She watched him weave through the crowd and turn left onto Twenty-Fifth Street with the grace of a cat and the confidence of a much bolder creature. It wouldn’t matter to him in the end if she took his backing. He would push himself and get sick, and she would step in and run whatever part of his business she needed to, because as much as she wanted to choke the life out of him at that moment, she loved him. His death was non-negotiable, even if it meant an uncomfortable merger of sex and money.

He was right. She was his, and she knew it.

THE END

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Death of A Supermodel
, please consider leaving a review where you purchased it. It would be much appreciated.

Acknowledgements

This book was written once without models. Three quarters through, I tossed it and started over. Lots of whining and puling ensued, and I have to thank my family for tolerating me, especially my husband, who is a superhero. He was totally behind me for NaNoWriMo, where I wrote those first 68 thousand trashed words, and thereafter, where I wrote what you see here.

I hate research. I hate it so much, I wrote a series of books about something I know so well, I’m the person people come to when they want to do research in the first place.

But, damn you imagination, new stuff keeps popping up.

So, I’d like to thank Art Van Hecke and the folks at leatherworker.net for help with a NaNoWriMo plot twist that got moved to a future story. Look for something about rare animal skins in
The Case of the Jealous Lover
. Or not. I have a way of deleting entire books.

Toward the editing phase of this book, I enlisted the help of Emily Schaller, an adult living with cystic fibrosis. This was way too late. Any errors within are completely mine, but I’ll be making her crazy throughout the rest of the series.

My beta, Alisa Tangredi, knows more about my characters than I do. Thank you, Alisa, for letting my badly punctuated parade of damaged, insecure, acerbic garmentos into your mind.

Speaking of poor punctuation, thanks, Lynn, for trying so hard to teach me where the commas go (and don’t) and for pointing out my tics and bad habits. I promise at least half of it gets into my long-term memory. Also, I’d like to shout out to Jim, one of my proofreaders who kept me from looking like a complete ass in
Dead Is the New Black
and has undoubtedly done so here as well. However, if I do look like an ass, it’s probably my own fault.

The fashion industry is no joke. Life-choking dedication is not only encouraged, it is expected. Like working 60 hours a week, Skyping China at 9 p.m. from the office, and being so committed there’s no time for family or… I don’t know… novel writing. I have the only fashion job in Los Angeles where the most important thing is getting the job done. For this attitude I have to thank Anne, my boss, without whom I’d have a job at this other life-sucking company I won’t name.

Renee Barratt of
The Cover Counts
helped with the cover and with overall partnership and friendship in my graphic design business. I won’t tell you what she did, but doesn’t it look great?

It would be a little peculiar to have an ugly book about designers. So my formatter is Heather Adkins. The fact that you’re reading this right now, without little weird tags and oddball justifications, and the fact that it’s so pretty in general, is due to her expertise.

The indie author community is lousy with whackjobs, narcissists, and psychopaths, which is what makes the sane communities I have found so precious. For the cream at the top of IWU, and that other little klatch who shall remain ever nameless, thank you for just being there. Sausage for everyone!

Christine DeMaio-Rice, Los Angeles, California.

About the Author

Christine DeMaio-Rice lives with her family in Los Angeles. She has been in the fashion industry for over twenty years, but would rather not talk about it.

If you want to occasionally hear about upcoming releases and events, get on the mailing list at
christinedemaiorice.com

Email her at
[email protected]

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Praise for
Dead Is the New Black
:

The book was first-rate in terms of humor, characters, and plot.
Dead Is the New Black
is a witty, entertaining book you won’t want to miss.

—
Silver’s Reviews

Dead Is the New Black
is a complex novel, woven with delicate finesse by the author. At it’s core is a heroine that underestimates herself on many different levels. But she’s smart, talented, and takes it upon herself to get to the bottom of everything. Which gets her into trouble. I will say that I really enjoyed this book. It’s been polished to perfection by the author and that really shows. The careful crafting and layering of details made me feel like a part of the novel, and not just a reader.