Читать книгу Accidental Cinderella - Nancy Thompson Robards - Страница 9

“You left?” The vein in Max Standridge’s forehead pulsed like it might explode. Normally, Carlos Montigo would rib him about it, but better judgment warned, not today.

Instead he settled into the hotel suite’s couch, shrugged and pierced Max with his best what of it? stare.

Max pounded his fist once on the desktop. “You know the hoops I jumped through to wrangle you an invite to that wedding, Montigo. It was an opportunity, man. Why’d you leave? You could’ve at least made contact with the minister of art and education. We talked about how important that was.”

“Why did I leave?” Montigo stood and grabbed the La St. Michel social page off the coffee table, took a few steps and flung it onto the desk. It careened across the glossy surface until Max stopped it with a slap of his palm.

“That’s why I left.”

He gestured to a front-page photo of Lindsay Bingham in her sexy red dress, wearing that drive-a-man-to-madness smile.

In the photo her arms were outstretched, the bridal bouquet was in midair, poised to fall gracefully into her elegant hands.

Max sneered. “You have something against brides tossing flowers?”

“Yeah, I’m a conscientious objector to weddings in general.” Carlos rolled his eyes. “Especially when they toss the damn flowers eight times to get the right photo to con the world into buying the fairy tale wedding bull. What a crock of sh—”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Max looked perplexed.

Carlos stared at the photo, into the eyes that had captivated him last night…at the face that had danced through his restless dreams making sleep fitful and his mood edgy because he was so damn tired today.

Max was his best friend, but there was no way Carlos could tell him that he’d narrowly escaped letting the woman get under his skin. But she’d ditched him while he went to get drinks, for a media mogul who could’ve bought and sold most of Europe.

Why should he be surprised that yet another woman followed the scent of money? Didn’t they all?

If he told Max that, the guy would have license to mock him for a year, ribbing him about his bruised ego and poor choice of woman. So instead of fessing up, he improvised.

“It’s fake,” Carlos said. “The first toss hit her in the head. Nearly put her eye out. Since that wasn’t the perfect fairy tale outcome, they did it again. And again. Eight. Times. It wasn’t a wedding. It was a three-ring circus full of barracudas, phonies and opportunists.”

Max pressed his hands to his eyes, then raked his fingers through his hair, pulling so tight that for a moment his eyes were drawn into slits. Carlos couldn’t bear to look at him. So he turned around and reclaimed his spot on the sofa. The wedding had been closed to the paparazzi. The royal image makers were, no doubt, doling out the photos and video clips they wanted the world to see. How long would it take for the press to dig up the real deal? A rogue video or an embarrassing picture taken with a camera smuggled in by some opportunistic schmuck hungry to sell secrets?

“I’m your manager, Montigo, not a miracle worker. I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”

Help me? He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.

“I’m not a charity case, Max.”

“I didn’t say you were, but you have to lose that chip on your shoulder if we’re going to make this work.”

For the love of God, the guy nagged more than Montigo’s ex-wife, Donna.

The ornate hotel room with its frilly pink cabbage rose wallpaper was closing in on him. Just like the ballroom had last night. The only reason he didn’t walk out right now was because Max, unlike Donna, hadn’t walked out on him when the chips were down.

They needed one more good run.

Get in. Make money. Get out.

This cookbook needed to sell. Then Carlos could repay Max and use the rest for a project none of the beautiful people cared to touch.

Damn hypocrites.

And that was fine by him.

All he wanted was a restaurant where he could cook what he wanted to cook and play by his own rules. A place where he could open his doors to kids who’d screwed up and give them a fighting chance in this world.

Because didn’t everyone deserve a second chance?

He’d had it all once—right in the palm of his hand. Until his fall from grace, when he’d lost everything.

The past two years had changed him. Rearranged his priorities. Proven that there were more important things than money and parties.

But it also showed him how much he valued his independence.

Now that the dust had settled and he’d begun to pick up the pieces, he knew he didn’t need the pretty people to succeed. The ones who once called him friend, but now pretended to not remember his name. But that was fine—life in the fast lane came with too many strings and always, always too high a price.

He would make his own way—as he’d started to before Donna and all her glitzy ambitions. He would be beholden to no one.

“So I guess this means I need to cold-call Lejardin’s office and try to get us in sometime in the next week,” Max muttered, pensive, as if contemplating an impossible task.

“No need,” Carlos said.

Max sighed, a weary, exasperated sound.

“Lejardin’s stopping by the booth on Wednesday. Though you might want to call his assistant and confirm, things were pretty crazy at the wedding. They only had to do the garter toss six times. But still. Since he was in the wedding party, he was a little distracted. But I had to get out while I could. Before I hurt someone.”

Carlos smiled at his own joke. Dazed, Max opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He snapped his jaw shut.

Carlos reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. “Here’s his direct line. Should get you right through.”

The trip to the airport where the St. Michel state jet awaited to fly Lindsay home to Trevard was a scenic fifteen minutes by limousine from the Palais de St. Michel. Lindsay settled into the soft leather seat, savoring her final glimpse of the St. Michel coast and the last vestiges of the good life.

Who knew when she’d return? She wanted to commit this parting scene to memory, to drink it all in. Even though she wanted to think she’d visit Sophie regularly, she didn’t expect her friend to send a jet to fetch her every time they wanted a girls’ weekend. And God knew she’d have to miser away every spare cent and every minute of vacation time before she could afford to take another trip abroad.

She sighed as they passed the yacht club, boats bobbing in the azure water, crisp, white sails billowing in the wind. Most of the vessels were larger than the modest apartment Lindsay called home.

Pointedly, she ignored the nagging question that kept forcing its way to the front of her mind—just how did one go back to Trevard after living like this?

Experts claimed it took twenty-one days to make a habit. She’d been here exactly thirty-two days. Not that it had taken anywhere close to twenty-one days to get used to the St. Michel life.

But the habit rule also worked in reverse, she reminded herself. She had a good job back in Trevard. A life there—no matter how much she’d love to stay in St. Michel, no matter how tempting Carson Chandler’s offer to audition for The Diva Dishes, Lindsay had been away long enough.

The longer she put off going home, the harder it would be to go back. Besides, judging by the hoops she’d jumped through to get the time off—even though she had the vacation days—she didn’t dare ask her boss for a single day more.

As the limo passed through a seven-story carved stone archway that resembled the Arc de Triomphe, a blue funk threatened to envelope Lindsay. She fought off the mood by reminding herself to look at the good. How many people had flown by private jet, been chauffeured by limousine and lodged in a five-hundred-year-old castle?

It was good while it lasted, and she needed to make the most out of these last moments rather than waste them brooding.

She grabbed her handbag, a cavernous Marc Jacobs—another bridesmaid gift from Sophie—and foraged for a compact and tube of lipstick to touch up her face before they arrived at the airport.

Instead of the makeup, her fingers found their way to Carson Chandler’s business card and plucked it from the inner pocket where she’d stashed it. She ran her finger over the black letters embossed on the ivory-colored linen, then flipped it over and studied the bold script he’d used to write the contact number for his assistant, Sheila.

It would be a very nice opportunity for the right person. And I believe you might be the right person, Miss Bingham.

Sophie had promised Chandler was a gentleman, “…happily married for nearly fifty years.”

Interesting, since the man had a reputation in the business world for changing his mind as often as the wind changed directions. Even the spot he’d invited her to audition for seemed tentative.

“I’m not supposed to tell you this,” Sophie had confided. “So you can’t breathe a word, but you know he just purchased the Epicurean Traveler Network. Well, he wants to eventually turn the three-minute Diva spot into an hour-long show. You have to do this, Linds, because this little spot could turn into something really big.”

Yeah, right. And it could be a dead end if he hired her and later decided to go with someone else—as he’d fired the previous Diva host.

Lindsay closed her eyes, trying to get Sophie’s voice out of her head. “Cinderella certainly didn’t get to the ball by locking herself away in the tower. She saw the opportunity and she took it.”

Lindsay couldn’t help but smile at the Cinderella metaphor. Wouldn’t it be nice if life were simply one big fairy tale?

Then she wouldn’t have to worry about cads who lied and cheated to get what they wanted.

Lies that cost Lindsay her fiancé, her job as a television reporter and her dignity.

“Chandler knows if he does you wrong he’ll suffer the wrath of the future queen of St. Michel.”

Lindsay sounded a humorless chuckle. God, Sophie almost sounded serious.

“Should I call you Ann Boleyn?” Lindsay had asked.

“Nah. Your royal highness will suffice.” Then it was Sophie’s turn to laugh. But her laugh was genuine. “You know I’m right, Linds. You’ve been hiding behind the reception desk. You’re wasting your talent answering phones.”

Really, when it came down to it, it wasn’t the bad taste her foray into journalism left in her mouth as much as it was the uncertainty of the job in question.

Even if The Diva Dishes did have the potential to morph into a full-fledged television show, Chandler seemed too likely to change his mind midstream. His vision seemed too fickle. Sure, she had the future queen of St. Michel on her side—she still couldn’t wrap her mind around the reality of Sophie’s new life—but Chandler was a businessman and he’d make decisions based on what he deemed good for business, as evidenced by the way he fired the former host when she didn’t live up to his expectations.

What if Lindsay couldn’t pull it off? Her job at Trevard Social Services wasn’t ideal, but she’d been there so long. It was comfortable—well, as comfortable as Mary Matthews allowed you to become. Lindsay’s salary, though not huge, was enough to make ends meet, and you couldn’t beat the government benefits.

Plus, she wouldn’t be able to give two weeks’ notice. Mary was certain to get her panties in a wad over that. She’d fussed over Lindsay taking time off for the wedding—even though Lindsay had more than enough accrued vacation.

No. Quitting on a whim just wasn’t practical.

Sheila’s number was one Lindsay wouldn’t need, except for possibly making a courtesy thanks-but-no-thanks call.

An awkward uncertainty bubbled to the surface. Carson Chandler hadn’t invited her to a party. So it wasn’t as if she needed to RSVP, but he’d offered her a good opportunity. And she was the only one they were seeing at the St. Michel audition. Surely they’d have to arrange a camera ahead of time. It was rude to not call and tell them she wouldn’t be there Monday.

The pang of missed opportunity pierced her, as she decided to call. If she’d learned one thing this month in St. Michel it was when in doubt, err on the polite side.

Lindsay pulled her cell phone out of the bag and switched it on. It had been off the entire week of the wedding when the battery had died, and she’d been too busy to worry about recharging it. She wasn’t expecting any calls.

This morning, she’d remembered it needed charging and plugged it in, an afterthought as she prepared to leave. But she’d only bothered to turn it on now. And what she saw made her flinch: thirteen missed calls had gone to voice mail. All from her boss Mary Matthews over the past two days, Lindsay discovered, as she flipped through the call log.

Undistilled dread coursed through her as if someone had uncorked a bottle of something bitter and upended it into her system. What did Mary want? What was so darned urgent it couldn’t wait until Lindsay was back in the office?

A multitude of possibilities sprang to mind, ranging from Mary wondering where she could find fresh file folders to her asking, “what’s the phone number of that little sandwich shop that delivers?”

To Mary Matthews, a paper clip could be urgent if she couldn’t put her fingers on one when she needed it.

Lindsay tapped a French manicured nail on the phone, debating whether to pick up the messages now or wait until tomorrow morning. When she was back on the clock.

After all, what could she do from this side of the Atlantic?

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

But what if it truly was an emergency?

She struck the key that connected her to the voice mailbox.

The first message contained no greeting. No I’m-sorry-to-bother-you-on-your-vacation-but to-bother-you-on-your-vacation-but niceties.

It simply consisted of two words: “Call me.”

After not hearing Mary’s voice for so long, it was both familiar and strange, grating and startling in Lindsay’s ear. It reminded her of how long she’d been away, and worse yet how she hadn’t even missed home.

Not once.

The second call was a bit more forceful: “Lindsay, did you receive my message? I need you to call me.”

Followed by: “Lindsay, this is the third time I’ve called. I don’t understand why you’re not returning my calls.”

Which was followed by: “Lindsay, I am furious. We agreed you could take a month off as long as you remained available to me. You’re not upholding your end of the bargain. Call me ASAP or—”

Lindsay clicked off the phone.

Call me ASAP or—or what?

How like Mary to call before Lindsay’s vacation was over, assuming it would be no bother, no imposition to drop what she was doing and serve her.

Mary’s voice had been adamant and crackling in that last call, like a live wire one wouldn’t dare cross. But it was that call, that self-righteous tone of voice that suddenly shocked some sense into Lindsay.

Like a bolt out of the blue…

Shining a bright, hot spotlight on her cold, pathetic life.

This was what Lindsay was going back to. No family, a handful of lukewarm friendships, Mary Matthews and an unfulfilling office manager job that she’d fooled herself into believing was important. Rather than the dime-a-dozen job it was.

And if that realization wasn’t enough, then…

She didn’t waste time thinking about the consequences of ignoring this epiphany. As the limo driver turned left onto the runway access road that led away from the public portion of the airport back to the private hangars that housed the royal jet, Lindsay dialed the number Carson Chandler had written on the card.