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Tilly called while she was getting dressed, interrupting her thoughts.
“I just have to warn you,” the secretary said, “people are talking at the office. Don’t take it personally.”
“The newspaper article?”
“Is it true?”
She dragged in a breath. “Yes.”
“Why did you hide it from us?”
“There wasn’t anything to tell, not at the time.”
“It’s going to look like a sing-off. Are you still going to sing with him?”
“Of course.”
“Wear something nice. Everyone is going to look at you today.”
Alice mumbled a goodbye and regarded herself in the mirror. She was wearing her favorite brown skirt and white blouse. On second thought, she took her red dress from the closet and held it up in front of her. The dress was an impulsive buy for the opening night of an opera. The vintage cut was simple enough to wear to work. Why not? If people were going to stare, she might as well look the part. She pulled on sheer stockings and red heels. To be honest, dressing up pretty had more to do with how Ivan had made her feel last night—hot and seductive—than acting brave for the spectators.
To round off her appearance, she applied foundation, smoky grey eye shadow, mascara, and her fire engine red lipstick. About to take up her hair, she stepped back and studied the shoulder-length strands. Her hair was naturally wavy. With a bit of stay-in conditioner, the highlights would stand out more, making the color look less mousy.
A few minutes before she was due at the office, she grabbed her bag and regarded her image in the mirror. What was she thinking? It was too much. She wasn’t trying to be her mother. What if she made a spectacle of herself? A little voice in the back of her mind told her it was already too late. Her stage debut would take care of that. Anyway, there was no time to change. She was already running late.
Downstairs, she saw a commotion through the window. The press was gathered in front of her house. She sighed inwardly, not that she had anyone but herself to blame.
The minute she opened the door, paparazzi and journalists descended on her.
“Were you and Ivan Kray involved?”
“Did you know he gave up his scholarship?”
“Miss Jones, did you blackmail Mr. Kray to pull out of the contest?”
She was shoved and poked. Microphones were pushed into her face. Now she knew what Ivan felt like. It was suffocating and frightening.
She tried to keep her voice calm. “I promised an exclusive to The Times. Sorry, that’s all I can say.”
Thankfully, Lann exited from the SUV and made his way over. “I’ll drive you, Miss Jones.”
She blew out the breath she was holding when he closed the door as soon as she was seated in the front, but didn’t relax until Lann had pulled away, leaving the reporters standing on the pavement.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “We couldn’t remove them without breaking the law.”
“It’s all right. I expected it.” She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. “Thanks for saving me.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Did you spend the night in the car?”
He didn’t answer.
“You can stay in the house if my … if Cain insists on having me watched. It must be cold out at night.”
“No problem.”
More reporters waited at the theater, but they escaped them by parking underground. Peter greeted her with, “Good luck, Miss Jones,” which didn’t give her any courage. She was aware of her colleagues’ stares and whispers as she walked to her office. It wasn’t fun being infamous.
Johnny waited outside his office, his hands in his pockets.
“Just remember,” he said as she neared, “the tallest trees catch the most wind.”
“Stop patronizing me.” She pushed past him into the privacy of the room. “Did it work?”
His grin almost split his face in half. “Sales are climbing, again. The board is pleased.”
“I didn’t do it for them.” She threw down her bag on his desk and slumped in a chair.
“Doesn’t matter why you did it. Check this out.” He activated a video clip on his laptop.
Ivan stood in front of The Ritz, dressed in torn jeans and a grey T-shirt that stretched over his impressive chest and abs.
“Can you tell us why you pulled out of the contest?” a reporter asked. “Is it true that the two of you dated?”
“Miss Jones is a better singer than me. She deserved it more.”
Johnny cut the link and brought up a page filled with tweets.
The heat is on for a winner, nine years later.
Who deserves the win?
Can dropout daughter live up to suicide mom’s legend?
There was already a photo of her in her red dress.
“Bummer, news goes fast these days.”
Johnny studied her. “You look great, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
As she got up to leave, Mandy entered. “You shagged him. I knew it. I knew there was something fishy going on when he made you sing.”
