Gates of Paradise (Blue Bloods 7)

“Looks like we struck out,” Lawson said.

“It’s a big place,” she replied. “Let’s make sure.”

Bliss walked through the enormous formal dining room, through the kitchen and up the stairs to Oliver’s floor. His bedroom door was open, and it was a mess in there. Not like Oliver. The bed was unmade and there were clothes everywhere.

“Ransacked,” Lawson said.

Bliss shook her head. “He was packing. Must have wanted to get out of here in a hurry.” If she was right, things were worse than she’d thought. Still, he’d left some books on the desk, journals and a few loose papers pressed inside that looked like e-mail printouts. Could be handy. She grabbed them all.

“What do we do now?” Lawson asked, looking uncomfortable.

“There’s another place he might go, or where people might be able to help us,” she said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

EIGHT

Schuyler

ucas said you wanted to see me?” Tilly St. James was a striking girl, with a thick row of severe bangs across her forehead, her long red hair falling in a straight line down her back. She was wearing a black turtleneck and black leather trousers, and was holding pushpins between her teeth. “Sorry—we’re doing a fitting for the final show. Come on—why don’t you guys take a seat and watch the run-through, then we can talk.”

Schuyler and Oliver took seats in the dark auditorium. Central Saint Martins—a design school located in central London—ran one of the most prestigious undergraduate fashion design programs in the world. York Hall was a madhouse of students rushing around getting ready for the winter showcase, a hive of activity as young designers ran backstage with fabric rolls, muslin patterns, and tape measures looped around their necks.

Schuyler took a sip from her cappuccino and smiled to herself, remembering her brief encounter with the fashion industry. Three years had gone by since she was pulled out of the crowd at Duchesne and tapped to be a Farnsworth girl. She had been such a little mouse then. Unable to say “boo” to the intimidating and beautiful Mimi Force. Schuyler felt affection for the scared little girl she had once been. She had weathered the worst—her mother gone, along with Cordelia and Lawrence, and saying good-bye to Jack in Egypt was the most difficult burden to bear yet—but Schuyler felt stronger than she had in years. Jack’s love made me stronger, she thought. And letting go of our love has made me stronger still.

The theater was empty save for a few curious first- and second-years eager to see what the seniors had up their designer sleeves. Tomorrow night, the whole world would be watching to see the latest creations hatched from the experimental laboratory, with reporters from the trade and popular press eager to document the birth of a new design star.

The curtain parted and Tilly jumped down from the stage and ran up to Schuyler. “Sorry—we’re short a model—you’re about the right size and look.…Would you mind walking for us?”

Schuyler laughed, feeling flattered. But before she could answer, a glamazon—six feet tall, all cheekbones and thick dark hair; an exotic, wild creature—stomped down the aisle in three-inch clogs. “Tills! Sorry, the tube was blocked—some sort of accident at Euston Station—had to call a minicab.”

“Gooch! Thank God!” Tilly shrieked as they exchanged effusive air-kisses.

Oliver nudged Schuyler. “Close call,” he said with a grin.

“Ollie? What are you doing here?” the model asked, upon spotting Oliver. “Brilliant party the other night, by the way! I had a colossal hangover the next morning!”

Oliver tried to explain, but he too was given the frantic double air-kiss before the two gorgeous girls disappeared back behind the curtain.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised?” Schuyler asked with a wry smile. “You do seem to know half the girls in London.”

Oliver didn’t even blush. “Oh, that’s just Gucci Westfield-Smith. A friend of Kingsley’s.”

“Uh-huh. Right,” Schuyler said.

The lights went out and the show began; the overhead speakers blared a song that was all thumping bass line and sultry breathing. The model—Gucci Something-or-other—walked out wearing nothing but a feather headdress and a nude bodysuit. She walked with her hands on her hips and gave Oliver a seductive glower at the end of the runway before twisting away.

Tilly came out from behind the stage and took a seat next to Schuyler and Oliver. “Shhh,” the designer said, smiling with anticipation.

There were more variations on the Nude/Native theme. More elaborate headdresses, fringed Navajo ponchos, suede moccasins, and dresses made out of multicolored plumage and rows of beads.

“So, what did you think?” Tilly asked, when the lights came on and the models had returned backstage.

Oliver clapped and stood. “Fantastic. Brilliant.”

“I loved it too,” Schuyler agreed. “You know what might be great? Have your makeup artist draw masks on the girls,” she suggested, recalling the after-party of the Four Hundred Ball, when Mimi had taken “masquerade” to a new level.

Tilly nodded thoughtfully. “That might work. I like it. Let me just tell the girls a few things, then I’ll take you for coffee across the street and we can talk.”

NINE