Scandal:The Complete Series(5)
“Not especially, but I’d rather have a partner I can talk to,” he says as he opens a door for me to walk through.
“So now we’re partners?” I say but am cut short when a glamorous woman – early forties, regal face, hair in a bun, light-blue jacket and skirt, matching pearl earrings and necklace – comes to us with a smile on her face.
“Detective Esposito,” she says with a nod. “I’m Elaine Parker.” She raises her hand higher and more properly than I’ve ever seen outside of Downton Abbey. “You got here just in time. Mr. Jameson just arrived.”
“Miss Parker,” Esposito says. “Show us the way.”
She touches my shoulder tenderly. “You poor, dear girl,” she says. “If you need anything.”
“Thank you,” I say with more of a whisper than intended.
Esposito’s eyes meet mine as we walk. “Jameson is presumably the last person to have seen Madison alive.”
“Donald Jameson?” I say. “Like THAT Donald Jameson?”
Miss Parker nods as she walks ahead of us. “The very same.”
My chest tightens under my t-shirt. Shit’s getting real and I have to pull myself together. “Can I ask him questions as well?” I ask Esposito, totally expecting him to say no.
“I don’t see why not,” he says, much to my surprise. I assumed he’d be territorial over his investigation.
Donald Jameson is one of the most influential agents in town and a co-owner of the model agency that has expanded into organizing and running high-profile fashion shows. He’s a middle-aged man of a certain elegance and poise but something about him just doesn’t feel right—it’s almost as if he doesn’t belong and has been placed here by accident. He’d fit better in a library or an art gallery.
He shakes my hand fervently when we’re introduced. He, too, acts as if he’s been expecting me, smiling and offering me a drink. This time I agree as I am both thirsty and mesmerized by the tall toasting flute of Perrier he offers.
“I understand you were the last person to speak with Madison last evening,” Esposito begins as soon as all pleasantries are dispensed.
“That appeared to be the case,” Mr. Jameson says. “Up until a few minutes ago. We just learned that someone else spoke to her after she left my office.”
“Who?” I say, impatiently.
Esposito furrows his brow disapprovingly. I step back and let the expert take the stage. “Who was it?” he says.
I resist rolling my eyes. His question was hardly an upgrade over mine.
Mr. Jameson gets up from his seat. “Come with me.”
We take the elevator to the upper floor and walk by offices and conference rooms with glass walls to a reception desk. The receptionist hands a key to Mr. Jameson. She dresses like a wealthy heiress like pretty much everyone else in the agency.
“This is where the rehearsals take place,” Jameson says, looking at me, as he unlocks a door. “For the fashion shows.”
I nod, not really understanding what this piece of information has got to do with anything, but when the door opens to a vast auditorium with cameras and professional lights pointing at the catwalk, my heart stops.
I’ve never seen such an impressive collection of beautiful people, dressed to the nines and looking flawless under the strong lights. Girls with lavish, long hair and endless skinny legs, men whose faces are all angles, jaws and cheekbones. The super human world to which Madison belonged.
There’s no doubt these are some of the most gorgeous people on Earth, paid to encapsulate and exploit all the secret desires of us lesser mortals. I stare at them in awe—at least until someone else steps onto the runway.
Everybody instantly vanishes from my view as the most stunning creature steps on the catwalk. He’s simply clad in a white V-neck and dark jeans, a beige wool cap covering most of his dirty blond hair. The bright lights fall on him almost lovingly, like they exist solely to highlight each of his masculine features. He’s the most photographed man on the planet. His magazine covers become instantly iconic.
Yet, I am realizing now that none of these thousands of photos have done him justice. Jaxson Cole is a fleshy feast of delicious muscles and brooding magnificence. No photos, no words can describe this man.
My brain has somehow developed a manic heartbeat which explodes every thought with each buzzing pulse. I manage eventually to build a coherent thought. I’m not proud, but it goes something like this: Holy fuck and the seven seas, what a mouthwatering hunk of hotness.
“Jaxson,” Mr. Jameson says, raising his voice, as he nears the runway.
Jaxson Cole immediately turns to locate the voice’s owner. Esposito follows Jameson and I drag behind Esposito in a daze until all three of us are standing in a row by the runway.