Blonde Ops (14 page)

“What did I tell you?” said Sophie.

I turned to stare at her in disbelief. Was she
drooling
?

“Huh” was all Kevin offered.

“Kevin likes to be the style–alpha male around here,” she whispered, fighting a grin. “I think he's jealous of all the females hot for Taj.”

Candace steered Taj away from the door, past us. Her head snapped in our direction. “Kevin, standing there gawking is
not
on my schedule or yours.” She jabbed a pink nail at Sophie and me. “And not on theirs either. I'm sure there's work for all of you to do, especially since we're already behind schedule. Do it.”

Kevin's face flushed. “Of course,” he stuttered.

Gee, was it only yesterday that he was treating
me
that way?

Sucks, right?

Taj's eyes roamed over each of us. “Do I need to know them?” he asked in an aside to Candace. He sounded vaguely British. Thanks to my off-grid buddy DR#4, I knew Taj of the single name was from a nice, rich Indian family, which meant UK-run schools and private tutors for when he was globe-trotting. Only the best for T-bone, the code name DR#4 had given Taj. That was all we could dig up.

Looking exasperated, with her lips pursed Candace said, “This is Kevin Clayton,
Edge
's managing editor, Sophie Gaston, copyeditor intern, and Bec Jackson, short-term probationary intern, of sorts.”

Ouch. It stung more with every additional adjective.

“And I'm Francesca,” said the receptionist. She had that ability to materialize out of nowhere when she was least wanted. Francesca stepped in front of Sophie and struck a pose, putting one of her slim perfect hands on her chest. Taj gave her a curt nod, then turned to me.

Why didn't I have my phone ready to capture that moment: Francesca's expression caught between snooty—and shot down.

“Hi.” I couldn't resist thrusting a hand at him—he deserved a handshake for that. But he didn't take it, and only stared at my empty, open palm.

“How American.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “Nice hair,” he added. I couldn't tell whether his tone was was praising or mocking. People were usually easy for me to read, but not this Taj. Dropping my hand, I felt unsettled and didn't like it.

Or him. No matter how …
intriguing
he was.

Candace led him upstairs to her office. Kevin turned to me, one hand on his hip, and started to open his mouth.

“I have stuff to do!” I rushed. I knew exactly what he was thinking: Candace yelled at him, so he had to pass it on to me. I retrieved Ortiz's coffee from the kitchen and delivered it to her.

“Me too!” Sophie scooted over to a table and buried her nose in a stack of copy.

Without a word, Kevin retreated to his office and quiet returned. I worked hard to get through all the filing, finishing just before lunch. I retrieved my backpack from its hiding place underneath the couch in the common room and was about to leave when—

“Bec!” Candace called.

Groaning, I hiked up the stairs.

Parker's desk nameplate was gone. Did Candace have to obliterate her presence completely? I shifted uncomfortably as I waited for her to say something. She scrutinized me from roots to boots, all the while keeping a bland expression. She tapped an uncoordinated staccato on the desk with her long pink nails, then grabbed a folder and thrust it at me. Receipts spilled out of it.

“I think you're underutilized. I want you to feel challenged,” she said.

Ugh. I could see where this was going; she was trying to keep me busy—too busy to get into trouble, but close enough to keep me under her pointy heel.

“Expense reports,” she said in explanation. “I'm sure you can figure it out. Every expense needs to be verified with its proper receipt. For
everyone
, no exception.” Her emphasis sounded a little overdone, and I had my suspicions that she was hoping to distract me from thinking about Parker—or from doing some investigating on my own. There had been no updates today.

“Sure,” I said. What else could I say?

Clutching the folders to my chest, I stole down into the kitchen. I opened the fridge to get a bottle of water and when I turned around, Taj stood there.

“May I have one?” he asked, eyeing the bottle.

I handed him the one I'd just retrieved, grabbed another for myself, and then went out into the common area. Finding a large table where I could spread out, I sat and started sorting through the receipts. Serena's were up first. I sorted the papers into piles: travel, tips, food … One caught my eye. Primo Electronica for ninety-eight euros.

Serena bought some cables, ports, and other equipment. Not much, and not very significant—although I could think of a few unconventional uses for most of the things she'd picked up. What would she need with them—especially since she wasn't exactly known for her technical expertise? She had trouble retrieving her voice mail.

I felt eyes on me. Head down, I peered through my bangs—and was surprised to see that Taj had joined me. Why was he staring at me? I could see him looking in my direction but our eyes didn't meet. It was a bit unnerving, but I tried to ignore him.

“Do you have a thing against Candace?” he asked finally, his voice deep and smooth.

I lifted my head and looked him in the eye. “Excuse me?”

“You looked almost angry talking to her.” He slowly spun the mostly empty water bottle in his hands, his elbows on the table.

I had to be careful; he was very friendly with Candace and I was an outsider. The last thing I needed was for him to have a good long sit-down with her about “what Bec said.” And I didn't like the idea that he was able to read me and I couldn't do the same to him.

“She pops up when I least expect it. Takes me by surprise. Bosses do that.”

His eyes were directed right into mine. “And you don't like surprises.”

I stared right back. “No.”

He smiled, easing the tension a bit. “I don't either. And Candace is full of surprises.”

Tell me.

I merely nodded. Finished with his water bottle, he crushed it—and put it in his courier bag. What was he, a hoarder? Or maybe he thought someone would take it and sell it on eBay for a small fortune—him being who he was. Ha! If there was one thing I had already learned in my few days abroad, it was that these fashion types were crazily delusional when it came to their own importance.

Odder still was the twinge and flutter I felt in my stomach when he glanced my way with those intense brown eyes.
Okay, it's just a normal reaction to a guy you find intriguing, even if he is strange. Get over it, Bec.

“Are you doing an article on one of the designers in the shoot?” I asked before I said something stupid.

He leaned back, casually crossing his arms over his chest. “I'm doing a three-part post on the First Lady: her style, her favorite designers, and finally, what she hopes to contribute to Fashion Fights Famine. I'd made arrangements with Parker to talk to her between the shoots and interviews for
Edge
. I'm lucky Candace agreed to honor that request—all things considered.”

I nodded grimly. “You really like all that? Fashion, I mean.” I couldn't imagine spending day in, day out thinking about clothes.

He smiled faintly. “It's nonstop drama, controversy, and excitement.” He tilted his head. “It's true that ‘clothes make the man.' Or the woman. Take a guy who works with his hands, like a plumber. Give him a custom-made suit, a designer tie, and thousand-dollar shoes, and people look at and treat him differently. Anyone can be anything with the right clothes, and fashion is accessible to almost everyone.” He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my pink hair and then on my eyes. “You have a … unique sense of style. Betsey Johnson meets Alexander McQueen.”

“How'd you get started in this business?” I asked.

“I wrote an essay about a designer for my tutor and he entered it in a magazine contest.”

“And you won,” I cut in. Guys like him always did.

He made a wry face. “Actually, no. But the magazine editor sent me an e-mail saying that I had a good eye for style and I should follow it—when I got older. I decided not to wait and started my blog. Word got around. Boring story.”

I was impressed, in spite of myself. Thankfully I was saved from keeping the conversation going by the sound of Dante's Vespa outside. I glanced at the clock. Almost exactly on time. A few seconds later Dante strolled to the front desk. I leapt up to meet him.

“Hi, Dante,” I said.

“Hi, Bec!” He leaned over sideways to glance behind me. I turned to find that Taj had followed me. The two of them leveled measured glances at each other, then shifted their sights to me. Was it me, or was there a crackle of tension in the air? Francesca was just hurrying back to her desk, her face beaming at Taj.

Dante turned his attention to her. “
Ecco
,” and tapped on the envelope.

As she signed for it and handed back the receipt, Dante started to say, “I talked to—”

“So how are your cousins?” I blurted, and grabbing his hand, pulled him outside as he pocketed his pen. I didn't want Taj or anyone else listening in if Dante had info on Parker like he promised.

He looked confused. “My cousins?”

“I didn't want to talk inside, this is private,” I explained in a low voice. “This isn't the time or place. Tell me later. Dinner, my treat. Pick me up when you finish work.” Giving him a quick peck on the cheek, I hurried back inside, leaving him baffled and speechless.

 

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR
THE EDGE-Y GIRL

Save the professional wear for the professionals. Unless you're a doctor, nurse, or EMT, skip the scrubs and rubber clogs.

14

Going 2 eat

At five p.m. I typed in the text and hit send. Candace had left the office shortly after Dante made his delivery, escorting Taj out. I didn't know her plans, but I assumed they would include the First Lady in some way.

Surprisingly, the message that came back was almost Momlike.

Fine. Back at hotel b 4 10

Really? Ten p.m.? A junior high curfew?

I
was
sixteen—almost seventeen—

—and in a foreign country
and
going out with a boy who hadn't met my parents. Gift horse—shutting up.

“Dante's here,” said Francesca in a bored voice. He'd come back for me after his last delivery and was waiting patiently.

I gave him the thumbs-up. “Let's go!”

Taking the extra helmet he passed to me, I looked left and right before putting it on. No agents. Thankfully, Sophie was gone too, on some errand for Kevin, who was cloistered upstairs in a meeting with Serena. I hadn't told Sophie about my dates with Dante. I didn't know if she was interested in him, and I didn't want to find out by her catching me with him before I could talk to her about the situation. Then again, she seemed starry-eyed over Taj, more so than over Dante. Maybe I was stressing over this too much. If she was interested in him, wouldn't she have said something when she introduced me to him? Pushing it off my mental list of Things to Worry About, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and leaned over to whisper, “If you see any of the agents, or Candace, or Varon, we have to lose them.”

“Easy,” he said, his mouth crooking, making him look mischievous. He was up for some cat and mouse—Italian style.

Cinching the helmet straps, I hopped on the back of the scooter, ready for action. We zoomed away. No way could anyone catch us on foot.

Dante zipped through the streets, dodging traffic, pedestrians, potholes, and food carts. We flew over a pretty bridge into a newer part of the city, with broader avenues, more modern umbrella-decked cafés, small boutiques, and more cars. Every so often I'd glance in the sideview mirror, but I always saw a different car or motorbike. So far, so good.

The traffic thickened and the cars seemed to come within inches of the Vespa. More than once I held my breath, but Dante easily maneuvered us out of danger. Suddenly, over the buzz of traffic, I heard an engine rev. Hard. Peeking into the sideview mirror, I saw a small white car dodge in and out of traffic. Whoever was driving was in a hurry.

In seconds, the car was behind us, and I could see the driver more closely. He was tan, lean-faced, with dark hair and shades. He got dangerously close to the rear wheel, then unexpectedly zipped alongside of us. I clutched Dante's middle tighter. In the days since I'd arrived in Italy, I'd been with crazy drivers, but on the back of a motorbike, I felt exposed and vulnerable.

Dante glanced to the side, saw the car, then swerved between lanes of traffic as the white car slid into our space almost before we vacated it.

My heart leapt into my mouth as he steered the Vespa between moving cars as if they weren't lethal tons of metal and glass and rubber flying over the road, but eight-bit blocks in a video game. He sped up, then darted down a thankfully empty but narrow side street where no cars could follow. I was ready to drop down and kiss the ground when we putted to a stop.

He turned to me and flipped up the visor of his helmet. “
Pazzo
driver! He could have killed us!”

No kidding!

For the rest of the ride, we stuck to the less-traveled lanes, away from nut jobs with a license to kill.

The San Pietro Hospital was a sleek, modern building that stuck out in the middle of Rome's old-world charm.

Dante found a place to park and put the kickstand down. We locked the helmets onto the back and I followed him inside, smoothing down my dress. The place bustled with activity: nuns, nurses, visitors, and staff.

“I'll find Nunzio. He can sneak us in, but only for a few minutes,
sì
?”