handed her his cell phone.
CHAPTER NINE
A WEEK LATER, Kristy’s double fashion collection mirrored double life.
On the one hand, she was plain old single, struggling Kristy Mahoney. On the other, she was Mrs. Jack Osland. Her husband was flying in fabrics and accessories from Paris and Milan, while wedding gifts arrived almost hourly from pricey boutiques around the globe. She was careful not to let herself get attached to any of the expensive silver and china, and she was leaving Jack to worry about returning it when all was said and done.
Out in the workshop, she was working on two sets of sketches and two clothing collections. One was the revamped collection developed with the help of Irene and the Sierra Sanchez team. The other was the wild fantasy clothing she’d created around her Vegas trip with Jack.
Two assistants had arrived the first morning after she’d shown up at the mansion. Local women, Isabella and Megan were both competent seamstresses and cheerful companions. Kristy was making steady progress on the real collection during the day. In the evening though, she couldn’t resist using the expensive laces and fabrics to mock up some of the fantasy pieces.
“More lace,” Isabella called above the hum from Megan’s sewing machine. She balanced a huge white box in her arms as she closed the door behind another delivery man.
“Look at that,” Megan whistled as they opened the box.
Kristy crossed the room. The box held beaded, corded, Chantilly, metallic and colored laces.
Isabella tsk-tsked. “I sure wish we were making something with lace.”
What Kristy wished was that they were showing something with lace. The Irene collection—as she’d begun calling it in her head—was sleek and sophisticated, where the fantasy collection was flirty and fun. Kristy would be able to use all kinds of different lace on the fantasy collection. It was just too bad nobody but her would ever see it.
She was halfway through sewing the sexy, short desert dress. For that one, the lace would be key. It had to be stiff to fill out the skirt, and the edging needed to be dramatic to draw the eye, but the detail had to mimic the frothing waterfall. Kristy smiled at the memory.
“What?” asked Isabella.
Kristy immediately erased the smile. “We’d better get back to work.”
They closed the box, but Kristy didn’t take her own advice. Instead of settling on a fabric for the Irene collection slacks, she gazed out the window at the delicate snow-flakes catching the bare branches of maple trees.
She saw the hot-air balloon again. It morphed into striped pants made of thin nylon in the same primary colors. She’d pair that with a cropped top of blue or red or … the lace! That was it. Thin out the stripes, make the top out of lace—flat cotton eyelet perhaps. She could even use a color, or maybe colored buttons down the front of the top.
Kristy surreptitiously flipped to a blank page in her sketch book. Multicolored buttons would match the colors in the pants. The lace would tie in with the frothy skirt. She put a few bold strokes across the pages, and she was off and running.
“Kristy?” Megan’s voice seemed a long way off, and Kristy realized a couple of hours had gone by. Her shoulders and hand were starting to cramp.
She looked up. “Yes?”
“We’re heading out now.”
Kristy nodded. “Of course. Thanks.”
“We can probably do a first fitting on the blue dress tomorrow. The Harold Agency said they’d send a couple of models.”
Kristy nodded again. “That’s great. And the green one?”
“We can cut the silk tomorrow,” said Isabella.
“Thanks, guys,” said Kristy.
“See you in the morning.” They waved and opened the door, nearly bumping into Hunter on their way out.
They greeted him, and he bade them goodbye, then closed the shop door after them.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, strolling over to Kristy.
She closed the sketch book of fantasy designer drawings like a guilty little secret and stood to stretch her shoulders. “Not bad.”
He nodded, glancing around. “Looks like you’re doing a lot of work.”
“That’s because I am.” In fact, it was double the work it should have been. But that was Kristy’s own fault. Her own, self-indulgent fault.
“You working late again tonight.”
“For a while. Did you need something?”
“Gramps asked if you’d—”
The shop door burst open, cutting off Hunter’s words.
Kristy blinked in astonishment at the image of her sister in a bright-green woolen coat with a matching beret.
She stood. “Sinclair? What on earth?”
Sinclair marched into the room, gesturing to Hunter with her thumb. “Is this the guy?”
“What are you doing here?”
Sinclair whipped off the beret, revealing her wild auburn hair. “Am I not your best friend? Your confidante? Your partner in crime?”
“Hold on,” said Hunter, drawing Sinclair’s attention, and her ire.
“And you,” she said to Hunter, marching forward. “You married my sister?”
The word married clanged in Kristy’s ears. “Wait a minute. How did you—”
“The old man in the house.” Sinclair kept her focus on Hunter. “Where did you meet her?”
“On my jet,” said Hunter.
“Hunter, don’t—”
“Money doesn’t give you carte blanche,” said Sinclair, pacing around him. “She has a family, people who love her. People who deserved to meet you, before—”
“Sinclair.”
“Before I kidnapped her and dragged her off to my lair?” asked Hunter.
“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” said Sinclair.
“And there’s no need to blitz in here like the Tasmanian Devil.”
“I want some answers.”
“Then shut up for a minute and listen.”
To Kristy’s surprise, Sinclair actually did.
“He’s not my husband,” said Kristy.
