A French Star in New York (The French Girl Series Book 2)

by Anna Adams

  “What are you doing here?” Ben asked, blunt as he allowed himself to be on an unhappy stomach. “I don’t think there are many politicians here.” Peter Longarm had decided to enter politics, the only area his prominent family hadn’t yet overshadowed.

  “You’d be surprised,” he replied. Any occasion was opportune to mingle and create ties with people of influence.

  “Have you found a suitable wife for your political career?” Ben asked, though he knew without a doubt the answer would be no. Who could stand his arrogance with more forbearance than Cynthia? If he’d tired Cynthia, no way could he ever found another girl to put with his insufferable aristocratic airs.

  That’s when a brilliant idea struck Ben’s brain with the force of an erupting volcano.

  “You’re still single, right?” Ben asked. Before Peter could fully approve, Ben said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Ben, like many twelve year olds, thrived on experimentation. He was curious as to how the sun worked and how its planets revolved around and how the end of the world would come about. He now held an occasion to experiment the rare occurrence, the unusual encounter of two peculiar substances.

  He led Peter Longarm to Harriet Williams.

  “Peter Longarm, Harriet Williams,” was all he said before walking away so as to better observe the objects of his experiment.

  Harriet bowed her head with feigned bashfulness but was in fact eyeing his demeanor. A well–cut Armani tuxedo, polished suede shoes, and an upright stance satisfactorily greeted her observance. He was at least five inches shorter than her, but it didn’t matter. She brushed the top of her head lightly: her hair was perfectly in place, not a strand rebelled under her strict self-imposed yoke.

  When she held out her hand, he took it and brushed his lips against her delicate fingers.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Longarm.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Williams.”

  They both erred for the pleasure was all Ben’s.

  Maude appeared deep in conversation with a congratulatory Bryan Hemstone who fumbled in finding the correct words expressing his profound admiration.

  She nodded, distracted, all the while eying Matt conversing, full of animation, with an enthralled Rebecca, probably exchanging personal traumas induced by a severe Ms. Tragent, she mused, wishing she could be with them instead of listening to Bryan enumerate previous winners of her award.

  “ . . . and last year was Karen Trenton, but I believe you far outweighed her in talent.”

  Maude caught Matt’s eye, and she held her breath as he acknowledged her with the hint of a smile. He tilted his head slightly towards the exit, Maude acquiesced before interrupting Bryan Hemstone.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go to, um, the bathroom.”

  Bryan thought that was one of the classiest things he’d heard a girl say and considered giving Maude the award for Most Distinguished Artist of the Year as she held her skirts and walked steadily out of the room.

  She found Matt leaning against the wall of the empty hall. He appeared older in his Hugo Boss tuxedo, his dark blonde hair neatly groomed for the occasion. Her heart raced faster when he took her hand and led her further away from the main room down the grand lobby, the festive echoes dying away in the night.

  “Would it be presumptuous to assume I was the one you thanked during your acceptance speech?” he asked as he watched the train of her pink gown slide down the stairs one by one.

  “I’m not sure,” Maude feigned to scour the depths of her memory. “I do have a habit of traipsing around town in Louboutins with a number of young men.”

  “And strutting barefoot to receive your award,” he added.

  “You noticed!” Maude exclaimed embarrassed. Had anyone else?

  “I don’t think any one else did. Only Adrianna and me,” he reassured, as if reading her mind.

  “I’m sorry,” Maude blurted. “For not mentioning you explicitly, I wish I could’ve seeing as you and I worked on the album together.”

  “But it wasn’t possible because you and Thomas are you and Thomas,” he let out a frustrated sigh. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t mention Thomas to her, ever, but could he help it if good intentions flew out the window where Maude was concerned.

  “I don’t want to talk about this, Matt,” Maude warned, stepping away from him. “Not now.”

  “Believe me, I would rather leave that nice, big elephant in the room, too.”

  “Then do,” she pleaded.

  “Why did you agree to this, Maude?” Matt asked, his eyes fired up with an anger he’d held bottled up too long.

  “Agree?” Maude choked. “I didn’t have much of a choice. Alan alerted the press as my official representative.”

  “You could’ve told the truth, denied everything.”

  “And how would that have made me look?”

  “Like someone who had the balls to stand up for herself, for us!”

  “Don’t call me a coward, Matt. Not you! I don’t consider myself a coward for choosing not to have paparazzi banging at my door at 5 a.m.” She thought of the extract she read a few hours ago from Lexie’s tell-all book. No matter how much she tried to escape it, scandal always found a way to catch up with her.

  “So, now you’re saying you do have a choice?”

  “My margin of choice is slim, but I choose to live a scandal-free life. I choose my battles, Matt.”

  “Really? Which battles are those?”

  “I chose to sing in Aida though Alan refuses to let me sing classical. But my voice is my own and music comes before everything,” she emphasized. “I can make public appearances with Thomas if it means Alan is too happy with my increased album sales to notice me slipping out of Soulville early every other evening to go to rehearsal.”

  “I’m glad you’ve deluded yourself in believing you’re some sort of resistant, Maude. But you’re still a part of a huge lie. A lie I refuse to stand by and witness.”

  “You’ve made that perfectly clear!” Maude accused. “Ever since our day in Brooklyn, with the reporter, you’ve made it perfectly clear you want nothing to do with me, a scandal waiting to happen. That’s what you’re thinking!”

  “I’m staying away precisely because you don’t want a scandal, Maude! You’re the one who doesn’t want to be seen with me.”

  “Adrianna doesn’t. But if I’m a ticking bomb, why did you stay in New York? Why didn’t you just fly off to Los Angeles to your wild jet-set parties with Trey and Jordan?”

  “You know why I stayed, Maude!” Matt bellowed.

  “I thought I knew, but I must’ve been mistaken!” Maude yelled back, before retreating, defeated.

  “What do you want from me, Maude?” He lifted her chin with gentleness, his grey eyes meeting her brown irises. “You can’t have everything! Soulville and Aida . . . ”

  “I can sing whatever I please.”

  “Fame and privacy . . . ”

  “Must my life, my secrets be sprawled out for all to behold?”

  “Thomas and me . . . ”

  “I don’t want Thomas.”

  “Then choose me! Choose me.”

  “I’d made a bet with Lindsey,” Maude whispered. “If she lost Artist of the Year, she would tell the press she’d lied about you two being together, about me steering you away from her.”

  Matt sighed. When would Maude learn not to care what a mass of unknown faces thought of her? He stroked her head, careful not to disrupt her slick bun. A few strands had fallen out of place.

  “We could’ve gone on our first date,” Maude said in soft tones of regret.

  “And how do you imagine that would’ve gone?”

  “Dinner in a French restaurant.”

  “I’d choose the restaurant. With your taste we’d have ended up in some French bistro run by a sushi chef.”

  Maude laughed. He was probably right.

  “You’d give me the perfect, single yellow rose.”

  “Yel
low? I thought receiving a bouquet of red roses was every girl’s dream.”

  “Not this one. The only true rose for me is a yellow one.”

  “All right. What else?”

  “I would’ve worn a pretty dress.”

  “Like the one you’re wearing tonight?”

  “Not quite.”

  “No stilettos?”

  “Would you be wearing a tuxedo?”

  “Maybe. Rebecca Sylvester said I looked like a young James Bond.”

  “You most certainly have the arrogance of one,” Maude chided.

  “Why, oh why, can I never get a compliment out of the ever-critical Maude Laurent?”

  “I’d say you look like a distinguished . . .” Maude searched for her words. “ . . . a distinguished Love Doctor,” she completed knowing he hated the reference to his hit single.

  Matt shook his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. He could stay like this forever. He leaned over, and Maude tilted her head, ready to offer her lips.

  But then they heard noise. Heels clicking softly on the carpeted stairs. Someone was calling for Maude.

  Maude pushed Matt under the staircase and tore herself away from him with haste equal to the urgency of the situation.

  She appeared breathless at the foot of the staircase and saw Lindsey coming down, swaying her Artist of the Year trophy with careless pleasure.

  “Adrianna’s been looking all over for you. Where have you been?” she demanded. “We need to take pictures. The two of us, and you and Thomas.”

  “Right.” Maude saw Matt cringe out of the corner of her eye. She smoothed her dress and followed Lindsey, careful to avoid her inquisitive stare.

  They met Adrianna a little further in a frantic state, with Thomas by her side.

  “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Lindsey mumbled for Maude’s ears only. Maude ignored her with growing apprehension, and followed Adrianna.

  When they were ready, Lindsey and Maude struck a pose, back-to-back with their trophies held in front of them, facing a row of reporters and photographers.

  “So, no hard feelings?” Lindsey asked through clenched teeth and a beaming smile.

  “About?”

  Adrianna signaled them to hug. Maude and Lindsey glared at each other for a split second, before falling into each other’s arms with a smile.

  “Not winning Artist of the Year. You’ll have better luck next year. I’m sure.”

  “I harbor no animosity,” Maude replied, patting Lindsey on the back while the series of pictures continued.

  “Really?”

  “I’m satisfied with Best Album,” Maude explained with simple honesty.

  Lindsey scrutinized Maude’s expression and recognized the truth behind her words.

  “I hope that contentment will last after you do what I dare you to do.”

  “What would that be?” Maude asked as they stood arm in arm for their last pictures.

  “I’ll let you know soon enough.”

  “Okay, that’s a wrap!” Adrianna cried out.

  Lindsey loosened her grip and let go of Maude with a sigh of relief. However, when she moved to leave, the train of her dress caught under Maude’s sharp stiletto, pulling her gown downward, revealing Lindsey’s upper body. Maude’s eyes shot open wide with horror as she realized the extent of the damage.

  “Lindsey! Your breast! It’s—it’s OUT!” Maude yelled, pointing frantically to Lindsey’s body part that, indeed, was “out.”

  Not only was her dress ruined, but Lindsey’s right breast was showing, and the photographers, alert as always, lifted their cameras as if on cue and showered her with flashes of unwanted attention.

  Maude gasped with mortification as she surveyed the consequences of her carelessness. She dove to cover Lindsey with the train of her gown, but Lindsey pushed her away with blazing fury, both her hands covering her breast as she rushed away.

  “Get away from me! You did this on purpose, I know you did!”

  “I’m so sorry, Lindsey. I don’t know how this happened. I’m sorry—”

  But Lindsey ran away from the scene, unwilling to listen Maude’s confused apologies. They were all the more confused that Maude repressed with near desperation an irrepressible peal of unwanted laughter. Throes of mortification and shameful amusement wrestled for domination over her face. To know which won would prove impossible. Maude buried her face in her hands, hiding either her scowl or her smile from the cameras.

  Adrianna stepped back and, with an air of profound indifference, watched Lindsey hurry away and turned to Maude.

  “Ready for pictures with Thomas?”

  “Adrianna!” Maude cried in anguish, appalled at Adrianna’s coldness. “Oh, I never should have worn these stilettos. Everyone will think I stepped on her train intentionally!”

  Of course, they would, but wasn’t that the beauty of a scandal?

  Chapter 7

  Love, Awards, and Wardrobe Malfunctions

  Maude Laurent was awarded the trophy for Best Album while dressed in a Dior haute couture gown, which she wore with rare elegance. She gave an emotionally charged acceptance speech in which she all but professed her undying love for boyfriend Thomas Bradfield, Best Male Artist. She didn’t say his name, but everything indicated he was the one she spoke of when she thanked “a special someone” for making her realize “Paris doesn’t always win versus New York,” a thinly veiled allusion to Thomas’ hit single “Paris Versus New York.” This award not only promotes Maude Laurent as an artist to seriously watch out for as Soulville launches her international career, but also consecrates an album with strong classical influences, an album departing from mainstream pop artists such as Lindsey Linton.

  However, it seems Maude’s biggest threat to her blooming career is herself. Her rivalry with Lindsey Linton is getting the best of her and angering fans of Lindsey, but also fans of Maude. After stealing Lindsey’s boyfriend Matt last summer just to drop him in favor of Thomas Bradfield, Maude’s jealousy struck once more last night after Lindsey won the much coveted Artist of the Year award, for which Maude was also nominated. In front of over a dozen cameras, Maude tore Lindsey’s Versace gown to shreds, claiming it was an honest mistake. Seems these kinds of ‘mistakes’ only happen to Lindsey when Maude’s around. But hey, whatever helps her sleep at night. No one seems to believe Maude’s version of the event especially when we saw her posing a couple minutes later, cool as cucumber, next to Thomas Bradfield. Although Maude’s representatives assure us that Lindsey and Maude are friends and have put their boy troubles behind them, they’ll have a hard time making us believe that these two are anything but arch rivals.”

  Jenna Riley, Hollywood Buzz

  Maude sighed. Six weeks had trodden by with heavy hooves after these dreadful events, but the consequences of her wardrobe mishap still stung. When Alan had told her there was no way she was getting out of singing with Lindsey under the circumstances, she hadn’t argued, agreeing, for once, with the man she abhorred. A playful rivalry sold albums, but the frightful rage America thought she harbored against Lindsey was an image she was eager to dissipate.

  So here she was in Studio A on a cold January morning waiting for Lindsey and Uncle James to arrive for their first recording session. Their duet “Best Friends Forever,” written by lyricist Daisy Winnfield from Glitter Records, made Maude cringe every time she glanced at her lyrics. Friendship, hugs, and kisses were the last lexical field she’d use to describe her relationship to the spoiled pop star. Luckily, Lindsey’s voice would take center stage in this wreck.

  Lindsey entered the studio dressed like she was having dinner with the Livingstons at the Ritz. Maude stared at her own Levi jeans and sweater. She was decidedly underdressed for this recording session, which was of little importance, seeing how Lindsey pretended Maude wasn’t there. This would be one smooth ride. She’d issued an official apology and had tried to call Lindsey sev
eral times with no luck.

  Maude walked over to her, knowing she was in for the cold shoulder. It’s not as if they’d ever been friends in the first place.

  “Lindsey, I just wanted to say how sorry__—”

  “—I know, I know,” Lindsey interrupted impatiently. “You’re sorry. Just drop the act okay?”

  Maude took a step back in surprise.

  “An act? This isn’t an act. I’m truly sorry.”

  “No, you’re not! You waltz all over New York with your fake innocent pout.”

  “Innocent! I never pretend to be innocent!”

  “Your goody-goody act.”

  “Goody-goody? Are we back in kindergarten?”

  “Forget about this whole incident and just admit you did it for the publicity! Maybe then I’d have a shred of respect for you!” Lindsey moved to the other side of the studio and glared at Maude from where she stood. Jeans. That girl had no sense of style. Who wore jeans to a recording session where another star was present? When she’d recorded a duet with Erica Newton, she’d spent an entire week deciding on which outfit to wear.

  “You know what? I’m sick of apologizing to you.” Maude threw her hands in the air and turned away from Lindsey. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I would never strip you naked just for unwanted attention I’d gladly shed.”

  “I’d do it,” Lindsey shrugged her shoulders with nonchalance.

  “Are you serious?” Maude scoffed. Why was she only mildly surprised?

  “I’d do it to you, not to me.”

  “You and I are nothing alike,” Maude shook her head. Lindsey was crazy.

  “I admit I’d do anything to stay famous. You don’t. You act as if it doesn’t matter but you’d do anything as well. You’re just like me.”

  Maude shivered though the room was warm. Resembling Lindsey would be the death of her.

  “I’ve got eyes, Maude.”

  “Gee, that must be the revelation of the year. I’ll call Hollywood Buzz right now to inform them of this juicy bit of gossip.”

  “I know your relationship with Thomas is fake,” she stated, her voice a triumphant vibrato. She placed her hand on her hip and walked slowly in Maude’s direction, like a lioness cornering its prey. She’d witnessed it time and time again, and she’d done it herself. Pairing celebrities together was one of the easiest ways to generate a positive buzz. It worked wonders with actors costarring in the same film but gave an overall positive impact on a singer’s record sales as well. Maude probably was against it, but if her label said amen, there was little she could do about it.