My Lady Lipstick Page 3

  She allowed herself a grin as she fished out the photo album she kept in the smallest of her half-unpacked suitcases. Flipping it open to the ribbon she used as a bookmark, she slid the photo into its original sleeve and used the mirror’s lighting to study the brooch one last time. It might have been an indication of rank or merely ornamental. It could have been a gift from a suitor who showed devotion by supplying fresh feathers, or a fetish the native woman had made for herself.

  Diana now knew the beads were clay red stone and beautifully variegated turquoise. The combination had looked gorgeous in the palm of her gloved hand.

  She sipped her soup from the least chipped of the mugs the landlord provided while ensconced in the apartment’s only other chair. The recliner worked, albeit with a screech like a banshee, and the floor lamp next to it put good light on her treasured photographs. Turning the pages was a happy journey of past successes and future endeavors. Obsidian earrings, a carved leather choker, a delicate glazed black and white bowl. An elaborately carved wooden fish hook, unpolished diamonds set into an unfired ceremonial goblet—so many pretty things. Some of them she’d touched, but for most she was still waiting for that moment.

  After William’s wedding she’d pick something new and start the whole process over again.

  All the adrenaline of the past month slowly drained out of her until she was too limp to move. It didn’t matter. The recliner was no worse for her back than the Murphy bed. The thump of her landlord arriving home for the night was the last thing she remembered.

  She woke cold and stiff and mightily wished she’d grabbed a blanket. At least her back had stopped aching. The photo album tumbled to the floor as she dragged herself upright. Groggy and yawning, she got the Murphy bed lowered without the usual conk on the head. It was no sooner in place than she realized the album was now out of reach underneath. She could leave it until morning, after she tucked the bed into the wall again. But the knowledge that something so precious to her was on the floor would likely keep her awake, so she slithered under the bed and emerged with the album. There were advantages to being small and nimble.

  About to switch off the overhead light for good, she found herself standing stock-still with one hand on the light switch and the other holding the album. It had fallen open to the third page, displaying one of the first photos she’d collected. It featured a burly man at a podium, about to strike an elegant, curved gavel to the wood.

  Her sleepy brain slowly called up the object’s data. The delicate handle was carved from highly polished, partially petrified ram’s bone. The head was a stunning single piece of faceted obsidian laboriously bored to allow the handle to fit through it. A thin disc of rose gold was inset over the eye where the two pieces joined. In spite of disputed provenance, at its last auction the artifact had fetched over two thousand pounds. The winning bidder and current so-called owner was the American tycoon in the photograph. A man with fingers in entertainment—television, tabloid news, films. And publishing.

  Her drowsiness fled. She closed her eyes to recall the fallen letter. Anita Topaz’s letter. Signed by Ronald Keynes Reynard himself.

  Chapter Three

  “Dang it,” Paris muttered. She spread the letter out on her desk, cursing that she’d forgotten to have Lisa share and commiserate with her about the heavy-handed tactics. That woman, Diana, had walked in and then everything had gone off track.

  Lisa knew that Paris obsessively guarded her privacy, and she knew why. After Lisa had blown the whistle on hotels underpaying waitstaff she’d gotten all sorts of nasty threats. But Lisa had ultimately been protected by the law, and the people she’d turned in had real names and had committed defined crimes.

  Paris had criticized a game. Her entire life had gone up in flames. No more video game story design, no more launch parties, no more sparring about user engagement stats with nerds from other, better funded companies.

  All gone, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. No way anyone could turn her life back to the way it had been.

  In the matter of a dispute with her publisher, though, she had some recourse to the law because of her contract. In her previous life she’d watched high-level negotiations over rights to color schemes, art, names, story lines, music, and even phrases, so she knew the value of consulting a lawyer who understood the nuances of rights management. It wasn’t too late to call hers.

  Finn’s brusque manner suited her. He always took her calls and skipped over the flattery. “What can I help you with, Paris?”

  “Reynard House wants me to meet in person to discuss being a featured speaker at their big annual Ronald Reynard Conference—that event they call RonCon. I have told them no twice, but they’re pestering me to go. I don’t have to do this, right?”

  Finn’s tone was reassuring. “Without looking up your contract, my recollection is that you don’t. You are not required to do any publicity work at all. That’s the status quo until renewal next year.”

  Her wave of relief was immediately squelched by his next words.

  “If they balk then I would recommend approaching another publisher. You’ve made Anita Topaz reliably valuable.”

  “I’d rather not change publishers. Though it feels like I already have with the new staff they brought in.” Paris bit her lip. Generating extra curiosity about Anita Topaz by dumping publishers was a risk she could do without. And there was no promise a new publisher wouldn’t be just as curious and eager to exploit the shadowy persona behind the books. “The people who handled my account, did the editing, sent me proofs, they’ve all left. My new editor was effusive and all that, but either I’ve suddenly outgrown all my bad habits or she wasn’t particularly engaged. The people I hear from all the time now are from marketing. They keep sending me articles about how I’m a mystery woman and the world is dying to know who I am. I think they’re the ones placing the articles.”

  Finn tsk’d. “Do you have any proof of that? If you did, I could lean on them about good faith.”

  “No, not really. I just—I know the way the world works. It’s simple to place articles like this as native advertising. But nothing’s changed. Neither Anita nor I do Facebook or Twitter or Hangouts or Chat. No online Q-and-A, no puff-piece interviews, not even by email. None of it. Frankly, if there’s some sort of viral fever to learn all about Anita Topaz I’d rather not know.” Thinking about it stirred the panic she’d felt when she realized her blog was going viral in so many bad, bad places.

  “There’s a massive flux in the industry,” Finn said. “I wish I could tell you that their lack of investment in editors and bringing on a large staff of marketing interns was unique to Reynard House. Media groups want stars and that means live performance. Writers who play the part of superstars on reality TV, web series, and talk shows. When you first signed you were a nobody they were taking a chance on who happened to win a contest. Now that Anita is a success, they want to level up that investment.”

  “Can’t I leave being famous to people who want to be famous? Kardashians can have it. Reynard Media Group buys my publisher and suddenly there’s a stream of articles about how everyone wants to know more about me? It sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a marketing campaign.”

  “Well, remember when we went over the contract and their proposal, even the old company was taken with Anita Topaz’s first-time-novelist-nobody-to-star story. Wins contest, gets published and that story only gets better with every new bestseller you release. It lures other writers to sign with them.”

  “I know they want performing bears. It’s not me. Why can’t I be an exception? Why can’t I write books and be left alone?”

  Finn made a noise she thought meant he was processing. Her previous lawyer had sent over a summary of past issues, but she didn’t know if Finn recalled any of it. It wasn’t really relevant, except it explained in full detail why she feared public scrutiny. Did he think she was irrational?

  “Of course you get to say what you do and don’t under
take on behalf of promotion of your brand. You own Anita Topaz, not them.” Though his words were heartening, his tone held hesitation. “If you did decide to take your next contract elsewhere, it’s possible the bidders will have a little more curiosity over the fact that you want no personal contact at all. Five years ago that wasn’t as big a deal, but lately the large contracts I’ve negotiated, well, it seems as if the industry’s focus is entirely live media driven now.”

  “They want their writers to be TV stars?”

  “Media darlings, to have vibrant buzz-worthy personalities,” he clarified. “Personally, I don’t see that this works except for those authors-turned-celebrities who are good at personal appearances and thrive on it. Plenty of successful writers don’t want to be performers, and there are plenty who really ought to stay far away from live appearances. It’s not in their wheelhouse and actually damages their brand. Secrecy and mystery can be a selling point too. But I have to tell you the truth. My saying so isn’t going to change any minds.”

  “So at renewal, they might be really antsy over something that doesn’t have anything to do with the books.” Paris realized she was rocking on her feet. The soft blues and greens of the curtains had gone brown, a sure sign that this morning’s elevated anxiety was rising again. She had to end the call soon or she risked a full-scale panic attack, and she was never, ever having one of those again. Ever. “Or my sales.”

  “I have to renew my advice to you to get an agent. I can only speak to contracts as they are offered. An agent is proactive, and you’re a proven commodity now. Please think about it.”

  “I will.”

  “Meanwhile, let’s not borrow trouble. This business is mercurial. That’s two years and four books from now. All you need to know is that they have no current contractual leverage to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  But they might someday. Or some other publisher would. “Thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  She stood in the middle of the room, with her fingers spread wide as she shook her hands and arms. “Shake it out,” she whispered. Deep breath. Count to ten. “Shake it out.”

  A walk would help, but the idea of encountering even her landladies while in this hyper-anxious, easily triggered state only sent her heart rate higher.

  She thought instead about the custard and sherry trifle she’d share with her very nice landladies upstairs. Their laughter and kindness. Deep breath. Count to ten.

  She remembered the heart-bursting first time she’d finished the Great Bay Temple quest in Zelda: Majora’s Mask and the game reunion of Anju and Kafei. Deep breath. Count to ten.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and recalled her mother’s hugs. Deep breath. Count to ten.

  She imagined she was in a conservatory filled with honeysuckle, her favorite scent. A sound of wind moving through tall trees, her favorite sound.

  Surprisingly, the humor in Diana’s eyes suddenly captured her mind, disrupting her calming litany. But not in a bad way. Deep breath. Count to ten.

  After a few minutes she was able to put on her custom mix of unmeasured, ambient music. Nothing to overwhelm her ears or loud enough for her landlords to hear. It simultaneously filled the silence and made her space quieter.

  The afternoon sun was lovely on the small garden. The crocuses were still up and there might be daffodils soon. Computer prodded to life, she slid into her desk chair and placed her hands on the keyboard. Six years ago her custom-built desktop had been the latest powerhouse and perfect for the gaming world. Now it was capable of word processing, basic research, streaming YouTube, and reading the news. Anything else she needed she could get with a library card, and if there was one place in the US that guarded privacy, it was libraries. Completely disconnecting from high tech and the gaming world had made her realize how little she needed it to tell her stories of adventure and intrigue. Stories about luck and hope with a touch of magic and the inexplicable, undeniable power of love.

  Her current heroine, Susannah, stranded in Tuscany during grape harvest was deciphering a perplexing message that would reveal a murderous plot against her. Familiar ground. Welcome ground. Other places and people to think about.

  She’d decide how to respond to the letter tomorrow.

  Chapter Four

  A break in rehearsals allowed Diana to spend the next morning at the Boston Public Library. Secure computers gave her the chance to log in and answer email from family. They were also, of course, great for research and maps, and their digital trail was regularly deleted by the library’s privacy settings. Her iPhone had been turned off the morning she’d left home weeks ago.

  A glance at local police call records and a couple of hashtag searches showed no official or gossip chatter about a certain oil family socialite guest of a certain hotel having reported anything missing. She hadn’t expected there to be. When only one item is not where it should be and other far more valuable items are, the first conclusion would be that the missing item was lost, not stolen. It was the best possible outcome.

  Relieved, she turned to email and spent a few minutes reminding her brother that while a wedding was momentous, it was not a worldwide holiday. She also found the official invitation from her future sister-in-law for Diana to serve as one of the seven maids of honor. It would be her eighth walk down the aisle for someone else, and she had the poufy-sleeved dresses to prove it. She did like William’s choice of wife and was pleased to be asked, but she dreaded the addition of yet another biliously hued gown to her closet at home.

  The last bit of her hour’s allotment of computer time she used to read up on Anita Topaz. According to Reynard House, Topaz’s publisher, “the young romance superstar from the wrong side of the tracks has vaulted to the top of best seller lists everywhere, and now makes her home in New England where she tends her beloved roses and watches tall ships skim across Massachusetts Bay.”

  Oh she did, did she? Who had written that drivel?

  Diana’s success at finding a photo of “Anita” was limited to a press release from a publisher that had since been bought out by the Reynard Media Group monolith. The same photo was on the back of Anita’s first book, Lord of the Lady, and it showed up in a very recent romance fan site discussion group speculating about why Anita Topaz was so secretive. The photo was clear enough to know that there was no resemblance between this willowy blonde with her face half in shadow and the lanky dark-haired eccentric Diana had met yesterday.

  After logging out and clicking the button to erase her search history, Diana headed upstairs to the fiction section. Sure enough, several copies of Lord of the Lady were on the shelf. The earliest edition had the picture, while subsequent printings displayed only the short bio. The photograph wasn’t as closely cropped as the one online, but there was no way to discern height, for one thing. The pose and lighting were generic—it might have been a stock photo, like the kind put in picture frames for sale. Diana looked more like “Anita Topaz” than Paris Ellison did.

  It was that last thought that set her pulse to beating in her throat. She smiled at Anita’s picture as the familiar, welcome rush of a new challenge coursed through her.

  Lost in churning possibilities, she wandered into the coffeehouse across the street and was staring into the bottom of an espresso when she remembered the time. She scrabbled the burner cell phone out of her purse and clicked one of the few numbers stored in it. William answered just before she thought her call would end up in his voice mail.

  “I thought you’d forgotten.” He sounded as if he were right next door, but her half-brother was probably up a mountainside with his bike.

  “I got caught up answering your ten emails about your big, fat English wedding. All of which you could have asked me when I called.”

  “I needed a paper trail to forward to our mother. Otherwise she is happy to speak in your name—you know, Lady Diana would absolutely agree with her—for everything from the dinner menu to the color scheme. So she casts two vote
s on every proposal. She and Millie’s mum have already gone twelve rounds.”

  She was grateful to be missing every possible minute. “Sounds epic.”

  William’s high-pitched half-giggle was a dead ringer for his father’s goofy laugh. “That’s an understatement. Millie’s mum is made of the same velvet steel we know so well. It’s not as if anyone is going to ask us what we want. We’ve fled Mote Hall and are toughing it out in Madeira.”

  “Sounds rough.”

  “We’re wasting away.”

  “I got Millie’s official invite to be a bridesmaid. That was lovely of her.”

  “She’s a lovely person.” He sighed gustily.

  “Besotted,” Diana accused.

  “At least I know what it feels like.”

  Ouch, Diana thought. “That’s harsh.”

  “Sorry, really only teasing you. Men are shits, and you have every reason to be picky about them.”

  She forgave him, primarily because she knew he really was teasing. “Well, Millie got herself a good one.”

  “Be careful now. Someone might think you like me.” He ignored her feigned laugh. “Which brings me to another delicate matter. It seems that our mother, the Countess, thinks that I need to invite a groomsman to your liking to join the wedding party. So that you have a date.”

  “Bugger that.” Diana realized she’d raised her voice when the man seated next to her, also on his mobile, turned away in annoyance. One reason she spent most of her time at home plotting how soon she would leave was her mother’s unsubtle matchmaking. “I refuse to be set up—”