The photographer knew what she was doing. The rich, muted colors gave the photos the look of old master oil paintings—an eye-catching contrast with the crazy poses he and Olivia had adopted.
Their watches were perfectly displayed, and they’d nailed it with their expressions—his nonchalance and her regal dignity as they stood by the goalposts—he, in a tuxedo, holding the football as if it were a cocktail shaker; Olivia nearby, her queenlike audaciousness daring the viewer to mock the patches of eye black on her cheekbones.
The photos at the Seattle Opera were even more striking. Olivia crouched fiercely over him in a billowing scarlet dress, hair eddying in a torrent around her head, pale white arms outstretched, fingers clawed, while he lounged on his side, shirt falling open, football on end, prepared to meet his demise.
Olivia frowned at him. “I look like a witch next to you.”
So wrong. She looked like a goddess. He patted her on the head. “I can’t help it if I’m photogenic.”
She sighed. “I hate you.”
“Enough!” Mariel pointed her finger at Paisley, who was taking photos of Thad studying his photos. Paisley looked like she wanted to swallow her phone. Instead, she fled from the suite.
Mariel gave a sigh of disgust and told them what they already knew. “Her grandfather and Uncle Lucien went to school together.”
Later, Mariel pulled Henri aside and bombarded him in furious French, either forgetting that Olivia was fluent or not caring. Thad got the gist without a translation, but later, Olivia filled him in on the details.
“Mariel thinks the photos are frivolous and vulgar, an affront to Marchand’s heritage. She says Uncle Lucien didn’t like Henri’s idea for this campaign in the first place—meaning that I passed muster as a brand ambassador, but that Henri should have chosen someone like Neil Armstrong instead of a football player.”
“He’s dead. And the Stars are a Marchand sponsor.”
“Not sure Mariel cares. Despite her personal response to your studly allure, she believes the campaign needs gravitas, and that Uncle Lucien will never approve the photos. After that, there were a bunch of ‘I told you so’s.’ Then she said their uncle might be old, but he wasn’t senile, and this would finish Henri off.”
“Bloodthirsty, isn’t she?”
“The company’s always had a Marchand heading it,” Olivia pointed out, “so it’ll be either Mariel or Henri.”
“Henri doesn’t stand a chance against her.”
“You’re right. She’s all about tradition, and a company as stodgy as Marchand isn’t going to change easily. Poor Henri. She’ll eat him alive.”
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be on the woman’s side? Glass ceiling and all that?”
“Those photos are great, and we both know it.”
“Despite you looking like a— What was it? Witch?”
She gave him a deliberately smug smile. “A powerful witch. And don’t you forget it.”
He nodded sagely. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
*
They’d finished their morning interviews. Henri had slipped away to the men’s room when Paisley approached Olivia and Thad. “I don’t think Henri or Mariel has seen this yet—maybe they won’t—but I thought you should be prepared . . .” She could barely conceal her excitement as she scrolled to the Ratchet Up gossip site on her phone and pointed out an item at the bottom of the page.
Has a little mountain madness struck the newest celeb couple? Sources tell us that the Chicago Stars’ dreamy quarterback Thad Owens and opera megastar Olivia Shore were seen picking up groceries outside Breckenridge, Colorado. They call her the “beautiful typhoon.” Will T-Bo be able to tame the storm?
Olivia swore under her breath. “It’s ‘tornado,’ not ‘typhoon,’ and since when did I get to be part of a ‘celeb couple’？” She turned an accusing eye on Thad. “Nobody outside the opera community cares about singers’ private lives, but apparently everyone is interested in gossip about athletes.”
“Hey, they called you a ‘megastar’ and me ‘dreamy.’ It could have been worse.” He studied the screen. “It could have been better, too. We’re the last item, and the print’s so small it’s barely readable.”
Olivia rubbed her temples. 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.