“And you, of course, would have known how to stand out? I suppose when one wears garage-band club gear, it is hard not to be noticed.”
Maddie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Elena brought up her old look so often that Maddie wondered if she missed it. “I didn’t say that I would have known, but yes, I think I could have gotten her attention way better than five thousand euros worth of flowers did.” There.
“Is that so?”
Maddie ignored the mocking tone and nodded.
“You are aware, no one in the world has yet won an interview with her?” Elena’s voice dropped to a challenge.
Maddie hesitated for a second. “Yes.”
“Yet you, my personal assistant, with limited journalism experience and zero fashion sense, believes she could get Véronique Duchamp’s attention better than Style Sydney’s team of experts? Better than CQ or Vogue? Better even than me, who has tried for two decades?”
“Yes. I could get Véronique’s attention.” Squelching her brain’s plea for sanity, she added, “I’d bet on it.”
Elena eyed her with keen interest. “You’d bet on it?”
Maddie gulped. The intrigued, predatory gleam in Elena’s eye was doing funny things to her insides. She licked her lips nervously. Well she’d committed to insanity already, might as well go all in. “Okay. Yes. Sure.”
“You. Would. Lose,” Elena said with absolute certainty.
Maddie’s eyes widened, as she realised her boss might actually be considering this.
“If I win,” Elena began, “and I will, I want something from you that you seem incapable of doing anymore.”
“What?” Maddie was mystified as to what she could possibly have that Elena would want.
“Honesty. An entire day of complete honesty. Every question asked, you answer truthfully. None of your perfectly safe answers that tell me nothing. None of your boring, Stepford-wife blandness I’ve endured of late.” Elena’s eyes were sharp and bright now. “The whole truth to me. On everything. Well? You may surrender now.” Her gaze flicked back to her layouts, and without looking up, she added, “I will not be shocked.”
Maddie stared at her. What sort of a crazy-assed bet was this? Elena wanted to hear all the times in a day that she was pissing her off? All the times Maddie admired her ass and wanted to push her against her desk and… Oh. She coloured as she realised the full horror of what Elena’s terms would entail.
Elena’s cool eyes flicked back up and seemed to be dancing with mischief.
Did she know? How could she? Maddie’s brain was in freefall.
“Still here?” Elena said with a lazy drawl. “Please capitulate, then exit. Some of us have work to do.”
The mockery set Maddie’s teeth on edge. It was just so…Elena. This presumption of victory. Of thinking she knew people so well. Like when she told Maddie she wasn’t a journalist.
“I’ll do it,” Maddie said. “And if I win, you have to do the same. The brutal truth to everyone for a day.”
Elena leaned back in her chair. “I do that anyway. Not much of a prize. But suit yourself.” She gave a tiny shrug.
Seriously? Elena thought she didn’t lie? Everyone lied. “Fine. A whole week if you lose, given you seem to think it’s so easy.”
“Since there is no chance of you winning, you have a bet.” Elena’s expression was smug. “You have from the time Véronique arrives here ahead of Australian Fashion Week, till the end of the month, when she leaves. Would that be sufficient for you to pull off the impossible? Or should I say, the delusional?”
Maddie glanced at the desk calendar beside Elena. Three weeks? She was insane to agree. This was complete madness.
In spite of herself, she found herself nodding. She stuck out her hand.
Elena took it, her warm, soft skin sending a pleasant shock through Maddie’s fingers. She shook it and oh so slowly released Maddie’s hand as she smiled. It was a smile that established who was the shark and who was the foolish piece of plankton.
“Good. We’re done.”
CHAPTER 12
The Game is Afoot
Maddie hit newspapers, the internet, magazines, and gossip columns. The secret to reaching Véronique had nothing to do with the designer. Elena had said it herself. Succession plans. The daughter would be the key. She’d have her mother’s ear at the very least. And, by the sound of things, she’d also been overlooked by a media pushing past her to get to her mother.
So, Natalii Duchamp (two i’s, she assiduously noted) became Maddie’s sole focus for the next week, as she read everything about her she could get her hands on. Thanks to Natalii’s small but public, social media presence, Maddie discovered her interests (abstract art, rap, photography), education (a tiny French school, then an elite design college), and goals (to have her own fashion line)—if Maddie’s basic French was accurate.
It was interesting, that last point. How would having a world-famous mother cramp Natalii’s fashion design dreams? Was she resentful? Driven to better her? Or did she just ignore it?
She called up Sydney gossip site Glam Slam. The Duchamps’ arrival at Sydney Airport, four days ago, had caused a mini sensation. A tall, thin man pushed a trolley piled high with luxury suitcases. Véronique was beside him, impeccably dressed, barking instructions in French at the stoic-faced man, while lighting a cigarette. Natalii hung back, looking bored. She was about thirty, pale, and with slicked-back, midnight-black hair. Her clothes comprised a distressed indigo denim and T-shirt ensemble that was definitely not part of her mother’s range.
So. Rebellious, then. Maddie made some notes and hit Play on the now infamous scene of an airport security guard ordering Véronique to put out her cigarette. Véronique did so—on the man’s polished boot. Only the excited throng of photographers had prevented that from escalating into something much worse. While all eyes in the video were on the indignant Frenchwoman and the enraged guard, Maddie studied Natalii.
The woman had taken a step back and had turned away from the scene, her face tight and closed. Her body language screamed, I’m not with them. Her arms were folded across her chest, revealing biceps that were extremely well toned. Maddie added another note—gym junkie.
She switched to the series of Sydney Confidential photos taken the previous day of Véronique. Thick sunglasses and a stylish, floral dress with an outlandish silver cape. The designer was stepping out of The Pierre at Double Bay, using her closed umbrella to jab at the paparazzi, shooing the cafards away. Maddie noted the hotel’s name, did a quick Paris-to-Sydney time conversion, factored in a day for jet lag, and grinned. She set the alarm on her phone.
* * *
At six the next morning, Maddie stopped in at work, fired off a few emails, and grabbed the gym bag she’d brought with her. Just as she turned to leave, Elena strode into the office. What on earth was she doing in at this time?
“Going somewhere?” Elena asked, expression curious.
