When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,42
Paisley offered up a sly cat’s smile. “I feel sorry for you guys if Mariel sees it.”
Mariel might be old-fashioned in her views about brand image, but she was up to date on technology, and Olivia suspected Google Alerts would be chiming away on all her devices.
They took a break at the hotel so Olivia could change before their afternoon television interviews, and, sure enough, Mariel was waiting for them. “A romance is fine,” she said, all cold politeness, “but this feels . . . Not tawdry, of course. But there’s something a bit . . . common about it.”
Olivia watched Thad’s eyebrow hitch, a sure sign he’d lost patience with her. “What would you suggest we do about it, Mariel?”
“We’re not having a romance,” Olivia declared.
Mariel ignored Olivia and gave Thad her most charming smile. “Please be more aware of the heritage of the brand you’re representing. Henri, could I speak with you privately?”
She drew her unhappy cousin into the hallway where she no doubt lambasted him for not being smart enough to hire Gandhi and Florence Nightingale to represent the hallowed Marchand brand.
After Olivia had changed her dress and jewelry, they went off to their television appearances. When they were done, she had a few hours’ break before a meet-and-greet with clients, but Thad had to stay behind to tape a segment with the station’s sports reporter. Henri insisted on delivering her to the door of her hotel suite, even though she told him she could get there on her own. Thad’s doing, she felt certain.
Thad’s protectiveness was touching, but unnecessary. Someone was playing mind games with her. She wasn’t in physical peril, only mental, and her mind was already such a mess, she could surely cope with a bit more chaos.
Ironically, the only time she seemed able to stop the mental tape that insisted on replaying in her head was when she was with Thad. Only then could she begin to relax. She touched her throat. Was it too much to hope that his self-confidence would transfer to her? That it would ease the painful grip of guilt she couldn’t shake off?
As she traded her stilettos for a pair of flats, she wondered how he’d react if he knew all her secrets. She prayed he’d never find out because the idea of him losing respect for her was too painful to contemplate.
She stepped from the hotel into the heart of the French Quarter. It was early April and Mardi Gras was over, but the streets still bustled with tourists, street performers, and fortune-tellers. She passed vendors selling postcard views of Bourbon Street and oil paintings of Jackson Square. The late-afternoon sunshine was warm, but she had to meet client buyers in less than two hours, so she hadn’t changed from her black sheath into something more casual.
Samorian Antiquarian Books sat tucked away in an alley not far from Rampart Street. The faded ocher exterior with its weather-beaten green shutters and dusty front window hadn’t changed since she’d last visited two years earlier. Even the pot of geraniums in desperate need of watering seemed the same.
The overhead bell rang as she entered the shop, which smelled exactly as a store that specialized in rare books, manuscripts, and other fine arts ephemera should—old and musty with a faint overlay of chicory coffee.
Arman Samorian still refused to wear hearing aids, and hadn’t heard the bell or noticed she’d entered until she stood directly in front of him.
“Madame Shore!” He rushed from behind the scarred wooden counter, grabbed her hand, and kissed it, his shrub of gray, Albert Einstein hair sprouting around his head like a mushroom cloud. “Such an honor to see you again.”
“You, too, Arman,” she shouted, patting his age-spotted hand.
“Are you performing? But why did I not know this?”
“Just visiting.” No need for a long, loud explanation of an advertising campaign that would undoubtedly bewilder him.
“Whistling? When did you start whistling?”
“Visiting!”
“Ah. Of course.”
She dutifully asked about his son, who lived in Biloxi, and petted his elderly cat Caruso, before she ventured into the dusty stacks. She found a long-out-of-print biography of the Russian soprano Oda Slobodskaya, then ventured up the creaky wooden steps to the store’s second floor. The last time she’d been in this cramped attic space, she’d discovered an autographed photograph of Josephine Baker costumed as La Créole in Offenbach’s operetta of the same name. Freshly framed, it was now one of her favorite possessions.
The attic was hot and windowless, the only light provided by three