The Downfall of a Good Girl. Kimberly LangЧитать онлайн книгу.
art that was accessible and sellable yet still high-end quality.
Good for Vivi. He’d had no clue that art was Vivi’s passion, but after years of hearing all about her pageant successes—Good Lord, her reign as Miss Louisiana had been one of the longest years of his life—it was good to know that she could do something other than twirl batons and look pretty. She’d always had brains; it was nice to know she’d finally decided to use them for something.
Thanks to Mom, he also knew that Vivi wasn’t a surprise choice for Saint at all. If the city could canonize her they probably would. Vivi was involved in everything; any organization that needed a face or a volunteer had Vivi on speed dial. The only surprise was that they hadn’t made her the Saint long before now. Cynically, he wondered if Max and the board had held off until his schedule had cleared so they could get the maximum impact.
The morning paper had been almost gleeful about the announcement, making sure to illustrate their “antagonistic relationship” with anecdotes that dated all the way back to their seventh-grade performance of Bye Bye Birdie, just in case there were people in town who weren’t aware that the children of two of the city’s oldest and most influential families were at odds like an alternate universe’s Romeo and Juliet.
For years he’d held out hope that everyone would move on, but it just went to show that no matter how big he got, or how many millions of records he sold, people would never let anyone live down their past. Especially if that past was something they could still milk for attention and laughs.
But it was his time to milk the cash cow he’d become. Half-formed ideas that had been swimming in his mind were getting even more solid, and the pieces were falling into place with a rapidity that felt like fate intervening. The old coffee warehouse on Julia Street, investors like Gabe lining up with their wallets open…
If this all worked out—and it was looking like it just might—he’d be more than just a hometown boy done good. He’d be a part of this town in a way he’d never planned on before. Some of this was very new territory for him, but it felt good. It felt right. He didn’t have to put down roots here; the roots were here, waiting for him to come back. He just had to make sure they didn’t strangle him this time.
Mom might have thought his desire to be a musician was an act of defiance—a revolt against the expectations of going to college, joining Dad’s firm, marrying a nice local girl like one of the LaBlancs, and settling down in a mansion three blocks away. In retrospect, she might have been a little right, but other than the occasional unpleasant run through the tabloids and the time away from home she really couldn’t complain. Well, she was still pushing the nice-girl-big-house-some-grandkids agenda…
Which, oddly, brought him back to Vivi.
If he was serious about spending more time here at home he’d have to call some kind of truce with Vivi. Come to some kind of understanding. The circles they ran in overlapped occasionally, thanks to their parents and shared friends. They wouldn’t be able to completely avoid or ignore each other.
Fame had its privileges, but Vivi had clout. People respected her, and her opinions went a long way. It would be hard to claim he was trying to do something good if Vivi objected. Hell, you couldn’t even claim to be a decent human being in this town if Vivi hated you. People might like him for various reasons, but everyone loved Vivi and courted her approval. As long as she hated him, folks would wonder why. And they’d assume it was all his fault.
God, it was annoying.
And while Vivi had miraculously become the most gracious and polite dinner partner he’d ever had Friday night, he doubted that graciousness would continue once she found out he was planning a return to what she no doubt considered her turf now.
Vivi would be fit to be tied, and he almost looked forward to telling her. No, he thought, walking that thought back in light of his earlier conclusions. He didn’t need her approval—though it would help—but he did need her tolerance. Egging her on wouldn’t help his cause.
He hadn’t fully realized that he’d been staring at the door to Vivi’s gallery until the door opened and Vivi stepped outside. He started to slide back, but then realized she had no reason to look up, and probably wouldn’t see him even if she happened to do so. She paused mid-step, digging through her bag and pulling out a phone.
Two men standing next to a car gawked openly at Vivi, and realistically he couldn’t blame them. The black pencil skirt emphasized her legs and tiny waist, and the upswept hair showcased the line of her neck and high cheekbones. One of the men seemed to be encouraging the other to go over and speak to her. She is way out of your league, buddy, Connor thought. Vivi was, to quote his departed grandmother, “a prime example of good breeding and a proper upbringing.”
She finished her call and set a pair of sunglasses on her face before walking briskly toward the corner and turning on to St. Ann’s Street toward Jackson Square. Connor—and most of the other men on the street—watched her until she was out of sight.
Tomorrow he and Vivi would start the morning show media blitz, hitting all the local TV stations and kicking off the fundraising in earnest. After that, it was breakfast with some big donors and organization heads and a photo call. Most of his day would be spent in Vivi’s company.
While she’d been polite and gracious the other night, Connor didn’t believe for a second that it wasn’t an act. He knew her too well to fall for that. She was out to prove something by not sniping at him. He wouldn’t try to guess what her overall goal was—beyond not making herself look bad in the press—but he would not help her achieve it by attacking first. It played right into his plans to have her publically playing nice. It gave him her stamp of approval without her actually giving it. She probably hadn’t thought that part through. Talk about steaming her oysters.
He might be the Sinner—and it might be a well-deserved title—but Vivi wasn’t the only one who knew how to behave.
It would be interesting to see who broke first.
CHAPTER THREE
THE reporter with the plastic smile thought she was being very clever, but Vivi knew what was coming. Intentionally trying to fluster a guest with “gotcha” questions was unbelievably rude, in her opinion, but it was standard fare and just part of the game.
If Chatty Cathy here thinks she can fluster me, though, that girl is in for a big surprise.
She’d had every derogatory stereotype about pageants thrown in her face by reporters with more gravitas and bigger audiences and hadn’t broken. It might have been a few years, but she hadn’t forgotten how this was done. A couple of comments and questions about Connor weren’t going to tie her tongue and cause her to say something stupid. Or scandalously quotable out of context.
The smile grew wider. Bring it, Vivi thought, and let her own smile widen a bit, too.
“So, Vivienne, how did you feel when Connor’s name was announced Friday night? Were you very shocked?”
Vivi nodded, and the reporter brightened a bit, obviously figuring she’d hit the mark. Amateur. “Just as much as everyone else, I imagine. With Connor’s career taking off like it has, I never dreamed his schedule would allow him to come back and do something like Saints and Sinners.”
“So no problems, then, with this matchup?”
“Sort of.” She waited just long enough to tease that there might be a sound bite forthcoming. “I am quite competitive, and I wish they’d chosen someone who’d be easier to beat. But then I remind myself that, while this is a competition, there are no real losers in it. The money raised through Saints and Sinners does so much good for the community, and everyone involved is a winner.”
Answer the question, but deflect the intent and bring the interview back to the proper topic.
“And what about you, Connor?”
Vivi kept her face neutral as she