Page 144 of The Wild Charge

“Neither do I, darling.”

Ian made a face. “Do I really say ‘darling’ that much?”

“Positivelyall the time.”

~*~

Howard Models was conveniently located in the top four floors of the building next to Jack Waverly’s NYC residence. Raven knew that, because the boys had found it out in their recon, but it wasn’t until she stepped off the elevator into Nikola’s sleek, pop-mod lobby that she glanced through a bank of windows and caught sight of the neighboring apartment building’s rooftop garden and pool deck. Ugh.

An emaciated girl with spiky pink hair looked up from a magazine as they approached the desk, gaze flicking over their party with a mix of fatigue and disinterest. “Welcome to Howard Models. Do you have an appointment?” Her gaze lingered a bit too long, brows crimping, on their security detail, which consisted of Bruce, two other of Ian’s New York people, and Albie, all in black suits. A few inches shorter and less broad, his suit sourced at the last minute, Albie stuck out a bit like a sore thumb, but there was nothing for it.

Arm looped through Ian’s, Raven offered a cool smile and said, “Yes. Raven Blake and Jean-Jacque de Jardin to see Miss Howard.” They’d been asked the same thing at the security desk in the lobby, and been offered guest passes, but the receptionist still pulled them up on the computer to verify.

She slid a clipboard across. “Sign here.”

They did so, Ian muttering, “Unbelievable,” in French, frowning beneath the black lenses of his sunglasses, signing with a grand flourish. Every time she glanced at him, with his beanie, and his shades, and his turtleneck, she wanted to laugh. He’d taken to the role of disdainful, bad boy French designer with gusto and skill, and it would be admirable if she wasn’t so tickled by it.

On the other hand, the threat of laughter was doing a wonderful job of keeping her petrified nausea at bay, so there was that, at least.

“What?” the girl asked, glancing up at Ian, and then Raven.

Raven pressed a hand to her mouth and stage-whispered, “He’s used to being recognized. You know the French. So fussy.” She rolled her eyes.

“Yeah…” The girl skated a nervous/curious glance at Ian again. “You can follow Molly.”

Molly proved to be another too-thin girl in a black dress, though she was at least friendly. “Right this way, Ms. Blake, Mr. de Jardin.”

They were led through an open-plan office area, where the desks were long, minimalist tables, everyone working side-by-side without cubicle walls, the workspace bordered on all sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. Mere feet beyond the glass, the rooftop pool next door glimmered turquoise in the sunlight; women lounged beneath umbrellas, though it was too cool outside to do so; Raven supposed it was for the benefit of the men who were already taking drinks from the little thatch-roofed bar in one corner. How often, she wondered, did Waverly go up to stroll through the raised beds of the garden or sip Scotch by the pool? Did he day-drink with a pair of binoculars and watch the young women come and go?

“Hm,” Ian hummed, quietly, as if reading her thoughts. “Nice view.”

“Too nice.”

He patted her hand where it rested on his arm.

Nikola’s office was walled in frosted glass and occupied the whole back half of the floor. They couldn’t see through it, but the sound of raised voices carried. Molly’s shoulders hunched a fraction as she knocked on the door, and then eased it open only far enough to peek through.

“Miss Howard? Miss Blake and Mr. de Jardin have arrived.”

“Mr…who?” Nikola’s voice was even more shrill than Raven remembered. “Fine, fine, send them in. I’m done here,” she said, with obvious disgust.

Molly pushed the door wide and stepped inside to hold it for them. “Your security can wait down the hall if you’d like,” she offered, and Raven froze.

She looked at the girl – demure and uncertain – and wondered if this was some sort of trap.

Molly’s throat jumped as she swallowed. “W-we have a nice lounge, just down there.” A glance proved it to be visible from the office door, a little nook with uncomfortable-looking chairs, a sink, and a coffee maker.

“Fine,” Raven said with a sigh, and motioned to Albie, who gave her a not-at-all-subservient glare in return. She snapped her fingers for emphasis, knowing she’d pay for it later.

Alone, she and Ian proceeded into the room.

The long space was a veritable bowling alley of white on white on white onwhite. Blocked off into three separate areas – office proper, changing area complete with screens, platform, and three-angle mirror, and a sitting area with couches and a coffee table – everything from the chairs to the rugs to the bookcases to the knick-knacks on the bookcases was white. The only pops of color belonged to the three people standing in the changing area: a designer in a splashy kimono with a measuring tape around her neck and an array of pens clenched between her teeth; a model in a highlighter-yellow frock with too much tulle around her shoulders; and Nikola herself: tall, rail-thin, her pixie cut slicked back severely, in a black minidress and blood-red stilettos.

The model dashed at her eyes with the back of her hand, clearly upset.

The designer reached to pinch a fold of fabric at the girl’s waist. “Maybe,” she said, quite clear around the pins, “if we take it in a little here, then–”

“No, no, no,” Nikola snapped, hands interlacing at the back of her neck. “The whole thing’s a trainwreck. Toss it and start over.”

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