Red glowing eyes, danger, the flash of white, gnashing teeth. Mrs. Bolton’s dead body sprawled on the floor. Heather jerked awake.
“Mama, are you all right?” Bethany stood by the bed, her eyes wide with worry.
Heather took a deep breath. It was just a bad dream. Fidelia’s warning about red glowing eyes had seeped into her own dreams and memories.
“You okay?” Fidelia sat on her bed, tying her shoelaces. She and Bethany were already dressed.
“I’m fine.” Heather glanced at the bedside clock. Ten minutes after ten. “I overslept.” Not surprising since she’d been up most the night. “Have you had any more dreams?” she asked Fidelia quietly.
The older woman frowned and mouthed the word fire.
Fire? Heather raised her eyebrows. She wanted to know more, but didn’t want to discuss it in front of Bethany.
The little girl ran to the door. “I’m hungry.”
“Let’s get some breakfast.” Fidelia ushered her out.
“Was it bad?” Heather asked just as Fidelia was closing the door. “The fire?” she whispered.
Fidelia winced. “Infierno.” She shut the door.
Hell? Heather shuddered. Was that Louie’s plan? To set this house on fire and kill them all? She showered, dressed, and went to the kitchen for a quick breakfast.
Afterward, she asked Pierre to let her into the design studio. “I could let myself in if I knew the combination.”
Pierre propped the doors open. “I’ll ask Robby. No one can know the combination without his permission.”
“I see.” She hated the locked doors as much as all the surveillance
cameras that were being installed, but it couldn’t be helped. She strolled into the room and halted in front of her worktable. For a second, she couldn’t believe her eyes. She blinked. No, it was real.
There on the table, her sketches were ripped in two. The royal-blue silk chiffon that she’d cut so carefully the night before was slashed and mutilated. She cried out.
“Madame?” Pierre dashed into the room. “Are you all right?” She pointed at the destruction. “My work.”
“What’s wrong?” Phil ran into the room.
“My work is destroyed.” Heather groaned. “There are so many guards in this house, and so many damned cameras. Why didn’t anyone see this?”
“There are no cameras in here,” Phil explained. “We’re installing them today.”
“Who would do something so mean?” Pierre picked up two halves of a sketch.
Phil frowned. “Whoever has the most to gain from it.”
Heather sucked in a deep breath. Alberto. He didn’t want her designing for Jean-Luc. “I need to talk to Alberto.”
“You think he did it?” Pierre asked. “I’ve known Alberto for years. I don’t think he would. But don’t worry. We’ll investigate the matter thoroughly.”
“It won’t happen again,” Phil assured her. Heather nodded.
Phil and Pierre left, and she stood there, looking at the destruction.
Could Alberto really do something this mean? At least there was plenty of silk chiffon still on the bolt. She would have to cut the dress again. If she started now, she could be sewing by noon.
She smoothed the royal-blue material across the second worktable, then arranged her pattern pieces on top.
“Buon giorno.” Alberto strolled into the room. “Pierre said you wanted to see me?”
Heather took a deep breath to remain calm. “What do you know about this?” She motioned to the table behind her.
“Oh my God! What happened?” He rushed over for a closer look. “I was hoping you would tell me.”
He picked up a piece of slashed fabric. “This is terrible!” She glared at him. “It sure is.”
His eyes widened suddenly, and the material slipped from his fingers. “You think I…?” He huffed with indignation. “I have no need to resort to this. Your line of clothing will fail miserably on its own.”
Heather hesitated. He seemed genuinely affronted. But if Alberto hadn’t done this, then who did? “Oh, of course. It was the models. Simone and… Helga.”
“Inga.” Alberto rubbed at the red scrape on his neck. “They do not control their anger well.”
“You can say that again. What is their problem?”
Alberto winced. “Please. Don’t tell Jean-Luc. He’s already angry at them. He’ll fire them for sure.”
“They deserve to be fired.”
“No! Please. It would destroy them.”
Heather snorted. “They’re top fashion models. They could work anywhere.”
“No, they cannot. Jean-Luc is the only one who would hire them. He— he understands their…problem. They have a, uh, disability.”
“Right. I recognized that right off the bat.” His eyes widened. “You did?”
“Oh yeah. It’s called psycho bitch.”
“No! They—they cannot go out into the sun at all. Most designers would never tolerate that.”
“You mean they’re allergic to the sun?”
Alberto shrugged. “You could say that. Imagine—no photo shoots on
the beach. No other designer would hire them. They’ll be completely ruined if Jean-Luc fires them.”
Heather couldn’t work up an ounce of sympathy. “They should have thought of that before they went berserk.”
“They feel threatened by you. Jean-Luc has never shown so much interest in another woman.”
“Really?” She was starting to feel a little magnanimous now. “You mean he hasn’t had a long string of girlfriends?”
“No, not at all. He has stayed away from women for years. But that has changed now that he’s met you.”
“What about the other girls that Louie murdered?” Alberto winced. “That was a long time ago.”
She bet it was. Her immortal theory kept coming back.
Alberto pressed his palms together. “Please don’t tell Jean-Luc about this. I’ll talk to them. I’ll make sure they never cause you trouble again.”
“You can make them behave?” She gave the scrape on his neck a dubious look.
“If they want to model my gowns in the show, they will do as I ask. And I’ll help you.” He motioned to the table where she was about to recut the first gown. “I’ll show you a way to cut the skirt on the bias. It’ll flow better when the model’s moving down the runway.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
“And these sketches—” He picked up two halves. “They won’t ever look as good, but you can tape them back together and make copies. In fact, you should always make copies of everything you do. There’s an excellent copier in Jean-Luc’s office. You should use it.”
“I would hate to disturb him.”
Alberto laughed. “He’s not there during the day.” “Then where is he?”
Alberto visibly gulped. “He’s…away.” He waved a hand vaguely in the air. “On business.”
“Where?”
“I’ll give you the combination, so you can go to his office,” Alberto rushed his words. “Fourteen eighty-five. Don’t ask the significance. And it’s the same number for the keypad to this room.”
“Really?” Was that why they were so reluctant to tell her the combination? How many keypads used the same number?
“Is it a deal?” Alberto asked. “You won’t tell Jean-Luc what Simone and Inga did?”
“No, I’ll let it pass.”
“Please don’t tell anyone I told you the combination.”
“My lips are sealed.” She’d found a new, unlikely ally. Alberto spent the next two hours helping her cut the first gown, and she knew it was an improvement over the one she’d cut the night before.
“Thank you.” She gathered up the scraps to throw away. “Would you like to join us for lunch?”
“Sorry, but I can’t. I’m meeting Sasha for a late lunch.” “I didn’t know she was back in town.”
Alberto frowned. “I didn’t know she’d left.”
“She left Sunday. She went to San Antonio to some fancy spa.”
“We made the date last Saturday.” He strolled to the door, frowning. “I hope she hasn’t forgotten.”
“Aren’t you worried about making Simone and Inga mad?” Heather winced. She shouldn’t have asked. It wasn’t her business if Alberto was
juggling three women. But when one of them was her old high school buddy and the other two were psycho bitches, it could get messy in a hurry.
“They won’t know.” Alberto paused by the door. “I have no chance with them, really. I should let it go, but they have some kind of hold on me.”
Heather lifted her brows. “A hold? Like a spell?” Were the psycho bitches actually psycho witches?
He sighed. “They are…different. Nothing good can come from my infatuation.”
“That’s probably true.”
He gave her a worried look. “You should be careful, too. I owe Jean-
Luc a great deal. He’s a kind and talented man, but…you should stay away from him. If you can.” Alberto hurried from the room before she could respond or even recover from shock.
Heather spent the afternoon sewing while Pierre and Phil installed two
surveillance cameras in the studio. Alberto’s strange warning kept echoing in her mind. If he admired Jean-Luc, why would he warn her away? What did he know that she didn’t? And what was the significance of fourteen
eighty-five? A birth date?
She shuddered. Surely not. Her creative mind was working overtime.
Phil and Pierre joined them in the kitchen for supper. Food supplies were running low, so Pierre offered to run to the store. Since Alberto had
taken the BMW for his long date with Sasha, Heather gave Pierre the keys to her truck, along with a shopping list.
Fidelia was clearing the table when she halted suddenly. A plate tumbled from her hand and crashed onto the floor.
“What?” Heather jumped to her feet.
Fidelia shot Phil a panicked look. “Stop him! Now!”
Phil charged down the hallway and out the front door. Heather ran after him and had just reached the doorway when a loud explosion knocked her back. Her heart lunged up her throat. With her ears ringing, she regained her balance and stumbled outside. She halted.
Her truck was engulfed in a huge fire. The flames shot upward. Pierre.
A wave of nausea doubled her over.
Phil stood in the driveway, his fists clenched. He dropped to his knees, tilted his head back, and roared. It sounded strange through the buzz in her ears. Intense heat from the fire slapped her back, and she stumbled against the doorframe.
“Mama?”
She slammed the door shut and leaned against it. Black dots flickered before her eyes, and she couldn’t think of anything to say.
Bethany skipped toward the front door. “Where’s everybody going? Can I go?”
Heather swallowed down a wave of bile and shook her head.
Fidelia entered the showroom, hugging her purse to her chest. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “I was too late?”
Heather’s own vision blurred with tears. “It was just like you dreamed.
Infierno.”
