you for the offer, Mr. Chandler. I’m flattered, really I am. But it’s been several years since I was in front of a camera. As tempting as the opportunity sounds, I’m afraid I’m not the person you’re looking for.”
“Oh, but I believe you are. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not offering you the job on the spot.” He smiled. “We’ll have to see how you look on camera, but as I said earlier, I have a hunch the camera will love your face. And, Miss Bingham, my hunches are always right.”
Chapter Two
“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
