Audrey swallowed. “I’m afraid so.”
“How much time off?”
“I . . . don’t know. It’s a personal matter.” And very quietly, she unfolded the tabloid and offered it to him.
Logan tossed it down on his desk, eyeing the picture on the cover. The headline was a bold yellow that screamed out of the grainy photo. POP PRINCESS CAUGHT IN A COKE-FUELED ORGY! PICTURES ON PAGE 17! And there was the unmistakable face of her twin, blade-thin, her hair matted and dyed a hideous shade of black, a dopey smile on her face as she snorted lines in a club bathroom and leaned on an equally dopey-looking pair of men. Audrey didn’t know who they were. She never knew who Daphne ran with anymore. Daphne’s manager handled all that . . . theoretically. She suspected Daphne’s manager took care of his own needs first, and Daphne’s second.
Logan glanced at the magazine, then back up at her. “Your sister?”
She nodded succinctly. “I understand that this is an inconvenience, but I’ve taken extra precautions to ensure that your schedule is not interrupted. I talked with Cathy in personnel, and she’s agreed to send a temp for me to train on daily duties.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ll make sure she’s prepared before I leave. I’ll have my phone with me so you can contact me—or she can—if you need something. And I’ve made sure that your address book and calendar are up to date. The meeting next week—”
“It’s fine, Audrey. Take the time you need.” He folded the magazine and offered it back to her. “I take it you’re getting her some help?”
She took it from him, her fingers trembling with a rush of relief. “She refuses to go to rehab, but she’s agreed to go away for a time if I go with her. No parties, no drugs. I’m basically going to chaperone and try to get her to sober up.” She hesitated. “It might be a few weeks. It might be longer. If that’s a problem—”
“It’s fine.”
“If you need personal errands run—”
“I said it’s fine, Audrey.” Now he was getting annoyed with her. She could tell by the set of his eyebrows. “If I have personal errands, I’ll ask Brontë to step in and help. It’s not a big deal. Take the time that you need. Your family comes first.”
Words that she’d never thought she’d hear billionaire Logan Hawkings say. His fiancée must have mellowed him quite a bit. She nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Hawkings. I’ll make the arrangements with Cathy.”
“Close the door when you leave.” He turned back to his computer and began to type again.
She quietly exited his office, then shut the door behind her. Only when it was shut did she allow herself to lean against it, the breath whistling out of her in relief.
That had gone much better than she’d anticipated. Mellowed out, indeed. Two years ago—heck, six months ago—Logan would have given a few thinly veiled hints that if she’d valued her job, she’d find a way to make things happen. He paid her very well, after all, and if she couldn’t find a way to perform her job to his satisfaction, he’d find someone who could.
Of course, that was BH—Before Hurricane. And before Brontë. Still, Audrey hadn’t relished asking him for the favor. Logan knew she was twins with Daphne; he’d met her at a rather unfortunate dinner party once. Most people didn’t know she had a twin, and Audrey didn’t volunteer the information. She’d learned the hard way that the conversation usually went in one of three directions:
Scenario one: Oh, my God. You’re related to Daphne Petty? The Daphne Petty? The singer? Can you get me her autograph? Free tickets? A visit to my kid’s birthday party?
Scenario two: Daphne Petty? Really? You don’t look anything like her. She’s so thin and glamorous. You’re . . . not.
Or Scenario three: Daphne Petty? You poor thing. Is she really like that?
Scenario one was simply annoying, but she’d learned to deflect it a long time ago. No, she couldn’t get free swag/tickets/CDs of Daphne’s latest. No, she couldn’t have Daphne show up at someone’s birthday party. She kept business cards of the manager of Daphne’s fan club and handed them out when pressed.
Scenario two was irritating, but again, she’d learned to deal with it a long time ago. Stage Daphne dressed in wild, colorful outfits and thick makeup. She never left her car without six-inch heels, a thick fringe of fake eyelashes, and her hair dyed some trendy shade. She’d gone Hollywood thin years ago at her label’s suggestion (though secretly Audrey suspected drugs more than a healthy diet) and it was just another way that Audrey no longer looked like her twin.
Audrey’s hair was straight, smooth, and a pale orange-red that hadn’t faded when childhood did. Her skin was still lightly freckled, which was only obvious when she didn’t wear makeup. She never wore much, either because it would have looked out of place with her conservative business suits. And she was several sizes larger than Daphne. Where her twin had been a svelte size two, Audrey was soft, curvy, and just this side of plump. She didn’t wear false eyelashes or six-inch heels. She looked like Daphne, but only if one squinted hard and compared photos.
She was used to being insulted about her looks and being asked for favors. But worst of all was scenario three: the pity. The look she’d come to recognize all too closely in the last two years. The look on someone’s face as they recalled one of the more recent tabloids with Daphne’s escapades splashed across them, her stints of jail time, her public fiascos, the rumors of drugs, alcohol, men, and excess. The train wreck that bright, wild Daphne Petty had become.