The horde descended upon him, making their way toward the front doors of the hotel in formation, their voices glancing off the marble ceilings and walls in an unintelligible cacophony. He closed his eyes and listened. Once he’d parsed the syllables—Russian and Mandarin, mostly—he became aware, finally, of their youth.
Some were impossibly young, barely legal, though each member of the pack had enormous diamonds hanging from their ring fingers. Ropes of gold banded the prominent sinews of their necks. When the first—a brunette, eighteen if she was a day—passed him, she turned her painted lashes up flirtatiously and let her mouth go slack, parting her lips. He tried to look away but found it impossible, and so he moved, to make his way past their bodies to the counter, but they insisted on passing him closely. Each one touched his jacket or brushed his arm. Hutton closed his eyes again and waited for the clacking of their heels to meet the whoosh of the revolving door at the front of the hotel.
When the last one had exited into the throng of photographers waiting outside, Hutton opened his eyes to find the mustachioed desk attendant staring at him with bemusement.
“Monsieur?” he asked.
“I’m here to see Catherine Ono,” Hutton explained, showing his passport. The Premiere Classe ticket was still jammed into its pages, and the desk attendant smiled a twitchy little grin. “It’s a surprise,” Hutton explained lamely, though the concierge did not hesitate; this was a place where first-class men received first-class service.
“Bonjour, welcome, you must take the private elevator over there,” he replied, handing Hutton a key and pointing to a small gold door at the end of the lobby. “Thank you, enjoy your stay.”
Hutton dashed toward the elevator. Moments later, he stepped into a huge foyer and found himself facing a very large door. Hutton waved his key over the lock and ran inside to discover a room so elaborate it made the lobby look like a dentist’s office—where Cat and Bess sat calmly sipping coffee.
“You’re okay,” he said, surprised, anxiety leaving his body.
“Hutton?” Cat said in disbelief. Shocked, she stood up from the table. “How did you get a key to our room?” she asked warily.
“Bad security,” he said. “I found out who’s funding Bedford Organics.”
“Lou,” Cat and Bess said together. He looked surprised again.
“She tried to poison us,” Bess said.
“We’re fine, though,” Cat explained quickly. “We were discussing what to do.”
“Don’t do anything,” he said firmly. “I’m here to arrest her.” Both women smiled. “Where is she?” he asked.
“I would guess that she’s on her way to the hotel,” Bess answered. “Do you need us to find her?”
“Could you?”
Bess glanced at Cat, then nodded, shut her laptop, and walked past him. “I’ll look for her. I’ll be back,” she said, then closed the door behind her.
The room was empty except for the two of them. Hutton stared hard at Cat with an expression she didn’t understand. She rubbed the top of her shorn head self-consciously. “I cut my hair.”
Unexpectedly, Hutton grabbed Cat and pulled her into his body, holding her so tightly that she thought he just might squeeze all the air out of her. He rested his chin on her head and she felt his chest heave. She tried to look up at him, but he wouldn’t let her move. The air around them shifted. After a minute passed, she relaxed, resting her sallow cheek against the copse of gray and white and golden hairs on his chest, and she was so glad he was here. Though Cat had saved herself, Hutton had finally shown that he cared, first and foremost, about Cat’s personal safety.
“I’m so sorry,” he finally said, and she understood that he was apologizing again for the arrest, and for what he’d learned about her role in Callie’s death, for her pain, for disappearing from her life. “I’m so, so sorry.” He meant it.
“I’m sorry for you,” Cat replied. “I didn’t know about you and Callie. That must have been really hard,” she said, her voice small. “I’m sorry for your loss, I truly am.”
He pushed his cheek against her head and went quiet again. A nearby church bell chimed the hour, the bells ringing ten times, loud and clear, until he relaxed his grip and let her go before kissing her on the mouth.
Cat reached up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him back. He still tasted and smelled like cut grass. Their kisses grew frenzied. She dragged him into her green bedroom and shut the door tightly. He peeled off her dress. She shoved him against the wall, leaning over to grab a condom out of her bag.
He picked her up. Cat dug her fingernails into his back and bit his shoulder—hard—before he moaned and put his mouth back on hers. They moved together until her face contorted and her cunt shuddered. With his face buried in her neck, Hutton gripped her body so tightly that Cat thought her ribs might snap.
“I have to find Lou,” he said into her ear. “But I want you to know that everything is going to be okay, Cat. I won’t screw up your life this time.”
She leaned back and looked into his eyes, shining with the same sincerity she’d seen on the day they met. “I know,” she said decisively, using her bare fingernails to trace the line of his jaw through his golden stubble. “But tell me your plan anyway.”
Molly had been up since well before dawn, working with a set of local construction workers to transform the historic ballroom of Le Narcisse. Scaffolding had been erected above each of the seventeenth-century murals that lined the room—each one depicting a different scene in the Narcissus myth—so that the models could be hung from above, floating on air for each shot. Hillary’s sketches and notes for the shoot envisioned the models as marionettes. The inspiration board was covered with images from a Valentino campaign that had been plastered all over New York during the previous spring: a young woman’s abundant body, her face cropped out, was squeezed and wrapped into a tiny wedding gown. Laces split and pearl beadwork popped off as the model’s velveteen skin brimmed over the fabric, a vagina and a breast and a dress all at once.
Molly watched a construction worker climb down from the final set of scaffolding. “Fini,” he called out. “Mercieee,” she called back, then checked her watch. This was getting ridiculous. Was she expected to begin the shoot without them?
Cat and Bess had been sleeping when she’d left the suite, but Molly had scheduled their wake-up calls for over two hours earlier. The models were nearly done with their hair and makeup. The remaining RAGE staffers had arrived on the morning flight, and they stood over the breakfast buffet, drinking coffee and chatting. Molly smiled awkwardly at Constance Onderveet. Constance did not smile back. It was almost eleven. Molly sent her tenth frantic text message to Cat and Bess.
“Beans!” a voice echoed behind her. Molly turned to find Lou Lucas zooming across the room on her plastic Barbie-doll feet with astonishing speed.