When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(37)
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.
The overhead bell rang as she entered the shop, which smelled exactly as a store that specialized in rare books, manuscripts, and other fine arts ephemera should—old and musty with a faint overlay of chicory coffee.
Arman Samorian still refused to wear hearing aids, and hadn’t heard the bell or noticed she’d entered until she stood directly in front of him.
“Madame Shore!” He rushed from behind the scarred wooden counter, grabbed her hand, and kissed it, his shrub of gray, Albert Einstein hair sprouting around his head like a mushroom cloud. “Such an honor to see you again.”
“You, too, Arman,” she shouted, patting his age-spotted hand.
“Are you performing? But why did I not know this?”
“Just visiting.” No need for a long, loud explanation of an advertising campaign that would undoubtedly bewilder him.
“Whistling? When did you start whistling?”
“Visiting!”
“Ah. Of course.”
She dutifully asked about his son, who lived in Biloxi, and petted his elderly cat Caruso, before she ventured into the dusty stacks. She found a long-out-of-print biography of the Russian soprano Oda Slobodskaya, then ventured up the creaky wooden steps to the store’s second floor. The last time she’d been in this cramped attic space, she’d discovered an autographed photograph of Josephine Baker costumed as La Créole in Offenbach’s operetta of the same name. Freshly framed, it was now one of her favorite possessions.
The attic was hot and windowless, the only light provided by three flyspecked bulbs hanging from the water-stained ceiling. She sneezed from the dust as she browsed the shelves, but unearthing a manuscript copy of Domenico Scarlatti’s Narcisso more than made up for her discomfort. Samorian’s store and its ancient proprietor might be relics of the past, but the store was a treasure house for serious musicians.
A slim volume entitled George Kirbye and the English Madrigal caught her attention, but just as she began to leaf through it, the overhead light bulbs went out.
Without even a window, it might as well have been midnight. She held on to the Scarlatti manuscript with one hand and used the other to grope her way along the bookcases in the general direction of where she thought the stairs were.
A board creaked from across the attic. And then another. Her heart jumped, as she realized she wasn’t alone. She told herself not to be so skittish. This was an old wooden building. Of course it creaked. Besides, it was broad daylight outside and she was in a bookstore, not a dark alley. “Arman?” she called out.
A figure rounded the bookcases, barely fifteen feet in front of her. “Arm—?”
The figure lunged at her, and she fell back against the shelves. A shower of books hit the floor. She cried out as the demon figure grabbed her and caught her by the arms.
Male or female, she couldn’t tell, but strong. She heard the rasp of their breathing, felt the bite of fingers digging into her flesh. It had to be a man.
He shoved her against the shelves as more books hit the floor. Her reflexes finally fired. All the classes she’d taken over the years—everything she’d learned in dance and yoga, fencing and weight lifting, trapeze, tai chi—all of it kicked in at once. She pushed hard against the demon’s bulk. Her strength took him by surprise, and he let her go, but only for a moment before he lunged at her again and wrenched her arm. As she tried to twist free, she jabbed her elbow into his gut. He gave a guttural exclamation and tried to capture her free arm, but she curled her hand into a fist and punched him in the chest.