“Have you? Are you sure?”

Lindsay was about to make a tart reply, then paused. McGuire’s emerald-green eyes were regarding her sharply, and there was a sudden edge in his voice. She hesitated, sensed unspoken reprimand, then shrugged.

“Okay. I exaggerate. I haven’t heard it all—nor has anyone else. There are mysteries about Lazare, and Cazarès, obviously. They go way back…”

“I’d say so, yes.” McGuire glanced down at the folder. “Speaking as a non-expert, that is. Where they came from, how they met, how Lazare made his first fortune, the exact nature of their relationship now, why Lazare was trying to unload the company last year—”

“Was rumored to be trying to unload,” Lindsay interjected.

“Why, this year, Lazare has changed his mind, is sitting tight. Just a few minor things like that. Nothing to concern the fashion rat-pack too seriously…” McGuire gave her a small green glance.

“Of course,” he continued, “fashion editors don’t function like other journalists, do they? I’m learning that. They don’t ask awkward questions. They don’t investigate the industry they’re reporting. They attend the collections, coo at their friends, shut down the small sections of their brains still capable of operating, ooh and aah over hemlines, and experience ecstasy. Over a skirt. Or a jacket. Or a hat…”

“Just a minute,” Lindsay said.

“What they’re looking at,” McGuire went on imperturbably, “bears no relationship to the lives of ninety-nine percent of ordinary women. It won’t even affect the way those women dress. It’s frivolous, obscenely, expensively insulting to the female sex…”

“Could I speak?”

“… But their reports provide, of course, free publicity twice a year for a highly profitable industry. And the fashion journalists go right along with that. They help promote the product no matter how crass, how foolish, how damned unwearable that product is. That used to puzzle me. Why lie? Why extol this nonsense year after year? I’m learning, of course. They can’t criticize. They don’t dare to criticize. If they did, they’d risk losing their precious invitations, their prestigious seats in the front row. Do you sit in the front row, by any chance, Lindsay?”

He turned his cool green gaze in her direction. Lindsay dug her nails deep in her palms.

“Yes,” she said. “I do. It took me ten damn years to get there, and I report what I see a whole lot better than I would from ten rows back.”

“I’m sure you do,” McGuire said. “Where I grew up, they used to say that if you supped with the devil, you should use a long spoon. But I’m sure that wouldn’t apply in this case. After all, if you wrote what you actually thought—if you pointed out, for instance, that the Cazarès collections had become uninspired, lackluster, what would it achieve? You’d be banned.”

He quoted her words back at her with the most charming of smiles. Lindsay, who had once possessed a fierce temper but had learned to control it, counted to ten and inhaled calming, counted yoga breaths. Bog-Irish idiot, she said to herself. Prig. Preacher. Insufferable, smug, overbearing, rude…She hesitated. She was honest enough to admit there was considerable truth in what he said, and furious enough to have no intention of admitting that fact.