Mia hedged around the truth. “Does it really matter? It’s torn and is due for delivery on Friday. What should I do?”
A pause followed. “That dress is worth fifty thousand dollars. I’ll have to fly back straight away. I need to handle this myself. Otherwise, I won’t have a business left. How could you be so clumsy, Mia? Luckily my grandchildren will have their father to look after them now. He’s just returned from Paris this morning.” She took another deep, ragged breath. “Mia, I might have known I couldn’t trust you. You’d better have a good excuse,” she warned.
Suddenly, the phone went dead with a loud click. Mia stared at the receiver. This perfect fantasy she’d had was slowly starting to unravel. She thought of Trent and the few wonderful hours they’d spent together. At least she had that unblemished memory to comfort herself with.
Within four hours, Monica stormed through the doors, a scowl on her face. Mia’s heart sunk, but she knew Monica wouldn’t say anything while there were customers present.
When they were completely left alone, she demanded, “Mia, show me the damage.”
Stealing herself, she showed Monica the dress. It had been her responsibility to look after the expensive designer garment, and she’d ruined it. Whatever action Monica took now, she deserved it. She only had herself to blame.
“Disgraceful, disgraceful.” Monica held up the dress. “If word gets out, I’m finished, ruined.” She pointed a finger at her. “You will pay for this, Mia. Clients trust us to clean their most treasured garments. These aren’t ordinary, common people. They are the elite of society.” She shook her head. “I will have to contact the designer to see if anything can be done and pray that word doesn’t get out. If a repair can be made, then mark my words, Mia, it will come out of your wages.”
After a long, frantic telephone call, Monica snatched the dress from Mia’s grasp. “I’ve got to drive across New York in the rush hour now, thanks to you. Ricardo Bellini’s assistant has told me if I get it to him straight away, he’ll see what he can do.
She gave Mia a withering look. “Make sure you’re here when I get back. I haven’t finished with you yet.” With that she stormed from the shop, the words, “Stupid girl,” on her lips as she slammed the door on the way out.
Mia could only assume Monica would fire her once she returned. Tears sprang to her eyes. How would she pay for her apartment then? It would be impossible. Her fanciful dream had cost her dearly. Surely unless a miracle happened, she would have to return home to Sweden now.
With her anxiety mounting by the second, she feverishly attended to her work, hoping to atone for her stupid mistake.
* * * *
Trent replaced the receiver. Now that had been an interesting conversation. He swiveled in his chair and stared out of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse apartment. Manhattan looked tired and gray as the last vestiges of daylight began to fade. Soon the night would take hold, and New York would portray a different persona entirely. Then the glitz and the glamour would sparkle and shine well into the early hours. Just as it had last night, when he had met the most beautiful and intriguing woman of his life.
Mia.
What had happened to her, and where was she now?
He evaluated what he had learned so far. A journalist friend had given him a complete list of the guests at the 3G gala event. Mia Johansson, whoever she was, had not been invited.
He rubbed a hand through his hair. The mystery deepened. The telephone conversation with the Bellini fashion house had turned up some interesting facts. The dress had been a one-off design created for the society heiress, Sophia Petrov, who at this very moment was out of the country. Rumor had it she was on a skiing holiday in Aspen. Of course, it was nothing for haute couture dresses of this quality to exchange hands several times. So it might not still belong to the Russian heiress. Strangely, a dry cleaning company who had it in their care had brought it in for repair that very day.
So the plot had thickened. Monica Weston, the woman who owned the dry cleaning company, had indeed been on the guest list for the charity event. Was she really Mia? And if she was, why had she changed her name? Just as easily the dress could belong to someone else entirely. Perhaps she had changed her name in order to remain anonymous. If that was the case, he hoped the dry cleaning company would give him an address. It was a long shot, he knew, but he thrived on speculation. Just the thought of unraveling the mystery urged him on.
His plan was to visit Madame Monique’s today and find out for himself. Whatever he turned up would be fascinating. The enigma that was Mia Johansson was driving him to distraction. All he could think about was her. He looked at the note she’d left, “keep the dream alive.” It had spurred him on. He wanted to believe. He really did.
* * * *
When Monica returned, Mia could see she was in a foul mood. A huge scowl creased her brow as she looked at her. Mia guessed she would now learn her fate.
“Mia, you’ll be pleased to know that a repair can be made to the Bellini,” she said, spitting venom. “Ricardo Bellini’s assistant is going to make it his top priority.”
She wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but even she knew there was more to come. There had to be a huge “but.”
Monica continued, “But because of the short notice, this will cost me dearly. Quality doesn’t come cheap.”
“Oh, dear.” Mia swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, oh, dear, indeed. It will all have to come out of your wages, Mia.”
“But—”
“There’s no buts, girl. You will have to pay back every last cent.” She shooed her away with her hands. “Be gone. Get back to work. You owe me big time. When it’s paid back, I’ll start paying your wages again.”
“I can’t survive without money, Monica. How can I pay my rent?”
“That’s really not my problem.” Monica Weston looked irritated. “This is all of your own making. Now get out of my sight.”
“Should I take my break now? I haven’t had one yet.”
“You’ve got a nerve. No, you don’t deserve a break.”
Mia went into the back of the shop to where the heavy dry-cleaning equipment was housed. After four years she’d, never really gotten used to the smell. It always made her feel sick and light-headed. Now it looked like she’d be banished here permanently.
Her dream had turned into a nightmare. Just how would she survive?
Chapter Eight
Trent stood on the other side of the street and stared at the impressive shop front. Madame Monique’s looked different to other dry cleaners. It had pretty curtains in the windows. A wonderful red awning, more suitable to a French café, covered the sidewalk. It clearly catered for the very wealthy in society. He guessed having one’s clothes cleaned here didn’t come cheap.
Taking his time, he strode across the street. When he reached the other side, he wondered if Mia would be inside. Just the thought of seeing her again keened his senses.
When he pushed open the door, plush carpets and a woman in her fifties greeted him. A streak of gray swept from one temple and disappeared into her jet-black coifed hair.
“And how can I help you today, sir?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m looking for someone, and I believe there is a connection to this establishment. Perhaps, she is your business partner or manager.”
The woman shook her head. “Oh, no, sir, I am Monica Weston, the sole owner of Madame Monique’s. You must be mistaken as to the connection.”
Trent realized the dress now held the only key to unlocking this mystery. “The woman I’m looking for wore a Bellini dress to the 3G gala event. A red Bellini dress that has recently been in your care. Her name is Mia. Mia Johansson.”
For a moment, the woman turned white with shock, and then a crimson color darkened her cheeks. Without warning, she spun on her heels and disappeared into the back of the shop. He could hear raised voices coming from another room. When he heard a sharp slap and a piercing feminine cry, he forced his way into the backroom. He recognized that voice.
Shocked to see him, Mia’s eyes looked huge as he entered through the doorway. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and a large, red welt marked her face. “Trent.” Her voice was a mere whisper.
“Mia, are you all right? Has this woman hit you?” He stared angrily at the owner.
Mia’s hand trembled as she felt the mark with her fingers. “It’s nothing.” Trent noticed she appeared ground down by life, her complexion now ghostly pale. This wasn’t the woman he remembered. When their eyes connected, he saw fear. Surely she wasn’t afraid of him? It was only then that he realized she was fearful of what he’d unleashed.
Who wouldn’t be? This gorgon of a woman could make grown men quake in their boots but not him. He’d met her type before. They were full of hot air. A few succinct words would easily deflate her. Before he could ease the situation, the woman expressed her displeasure once more. “Sir, this is between my employee and myself. Now please leave. She has work to attend.”
Mia stumbled and then held onto a nearby chair for support. The atmosphere felt stuffy and oppressive, and he wondered if there was proper ventilation.