Chapter One
“So, let me see if I’ve got this right.”
I knew that tone. Hated that tone. Absolutely despised when she used that tone. Had sworn to do everything in my power to never ever hear that tone again.
Yet, there I was. When would I ever learn?
"You, Clementine Cooper, world-renowned, award-winning, highly sought after, and published in every magazine from Highlights to National Geographic, wants to hang out – for the foreseeable future - in your one-horse hometown on the wrong side of Nowhere?"
Jumping in when she took a breath, I got as far as, "Well…" before Cora, my publicist, manager, and mentor cut me off. To make matters worse, her naturally gravelly voice, made that way from way too many cigarettes and vodka tonics, got lower, more growly, more…judgy.
"You, the aforementioned photojournalist, not only wants to stay in…" Clearing her throat in the most sarcastic manner anyone has ever cleared their throat, I frighteningly relived the millions of other times her cloudy blue eyes had bored their way into my soul. You see, Cora had a special kind of glare. One that jumped over the frames of her black bespectacled Cateye glasses with laser-focus and efficiency. It was frightening, and when coupled with an over-exaggerated choking sound, could make even the strongest among us cringe. "...Tallulu Parish, Louisiana, in your words described as the Back Ass of Nowhere, instead of returning to the Serengeti with your beloved giraffes, elephants, and antelopes? Not to mention, your hundred-person crew of guides, artists, animal rights activists, and personal assistants whom you took nearly thirteen months to choose to…"
Stopping to take a puff of her cigarette. One I knew from experience she'd maliciously shoved into the long, obnoxious, shiny red holder she favored to keep from yelling at me while we were talking. My wonderful (I say that with all due respect and a shit ton of sarcasm.) mentor gave me the 'in' I was looking.
“Well, yes, as you’ve said a hundred times…”
Completely ignoring the fact that I was speaking, the two days older than dirt by her own admission Crane Shifter, powered on. I knew from experience she was revving up into a full-blown rant that could go for upwards of ninety-three-minutes-and-thirty-two seconds. (Yes, I was prone to timing Cora's tirades. What else was I supposed to? Actually listen? As if.)
"Ahem…photograph a rundown antebellum mansion, smack dab in the middle of the Swamp, where there are Gators – both Shifter and not – ready to eat your blond, yellow-feathered ass the first chance they get?'
“Well, yes, but…”
"Am I getting this right, Clem? Did I summarize your wishes clearly and concisely?"
“Yes, well, it wasn’t really concise. You kinda…”
"Are you saying that you'd rather I send some hack with an Instamatic to finish the spread for the launch of the Smithsonian's new and exclusive Conservation in Today's World publication? Give not only the money but the cover – both front and back to someone else? Oh, and let us not forget that you are giving up the middle fold, ten full pages, and the rights to say you were the first photojournalist ever published in what is sure to overshadow all other conversation magazines anywhere in the world. Let's see...Who to call... Wonder who's available…ummm…Let's see…"
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say her…
“Vanessa Vandermere? Just to pull a name outta the hat. I’m sure she’s available. I’m sure she’ll jump at the chance to head off to the desert, make a real name for herself, upstage you, and get a big, fat paycheck to boot.”
Another pause, another puff on that damned cigarette, another ten seconds in which I contemplated pulling every single, long, blond curl from my head. I knew Cora was doing it just to piss me off. Not only did I hate that she smoked, but the fact that she refused to even think about quitting and was shoving her nasty habit in my face, (Okay, she was pushing it into my ear since we were on the phone, but you get the picture.) well, that just pissed me off all the more.
"Give it to whoever you want, Cora," I ground out through gritted teeth, not meaning a word of what I was saying but needing to try to hold on to a modicum of my dignity while doing everything in my power to keep my secret. "I don't care if you send the dude who pushes the coffee cart. You know, that wannabe skater whose pants are always at half-mast