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Chiara didn’t knowher thoughts were turning prophetic these days, because the entire cocktail turned Molotov on a dime when the interviews started. Ricarda O’Kelly, whose sensuous accent wrapped itself around her subjects like honey, charming and disarming them instantly, was a delight.
Beautiful, funny, with a smile that lit up a room, she joined Chiara and Vi for the cover shoot, observing and making notes.
“Don’t mind me, ladies. I just want to get a sense of the person whose name doesn’t leave Neve Blackthorne’s lips these days.” Her eyes crinkled adorably at the corners, and Chiara found herself reciprocating the bright smile. A sharp cough from behind the camera interrupted her, and in her line of vision, Vi frowned.
Ricarda didn’t seem to notice Chiara being charmed. “She really is full of so many nice things to say about you—”
Vi’s interruption was jarring, even though her voice was measured. “She should be full of nice things to say about her wife instead.” Chiara almost lost her footing as she moved from one prop to the next at Vi’s words, but Ricarda took everything in stride.
“Oh, she is. Those two are meant to be.”
“Good for them.” More pouty lips as the shutter clicked away.
“In any case, I was intrigued immediately when she mentioned you. And with all the work you have done these past few years, for the life of me, I cannot understand why your name has not been on more people’s lips. You’re magnificent.”
Ricarda gushed and Vi gnashed her teeth so loudly, Chiara heard the bone-on-bone sound resonate across the studio. Morag, the makeup artist, pretended to be engrossed in her phone.
“Thank you, Ms. O’Kelly.” Chiara tried to move as little as possible as she spoke, but a loud ‘tsk’ from Vi told her she hadn’t succeeded.
“Oh please, it’s Ricarda. We’re among friends here, aren’t we, Vi?” Chiara was certain she could hear Vi almost snap her leash.
However, when she spoke, the voice was steeped in that tone that caused Chiara to feel bile rise up her throat. The complete lack of inflection or emotion. “We are, Ricarda.”
“Well then, did I tell you I love this concept? I do! It’s gorgeous. I looked through all the previous covers of yours, Chiara, and I have to say, Vi here is going straight for the gold. It’ll be amazing. Although, I’m certain nothing with your face on it could be anything but fabulous.”
She flittered closer, and Vi moved to the left to get a few side shots, leaving Chiara feeling slightly exposed to the full frontal attack by the reporter.
“You know who else sings your praises? I had lunch with Livia Sabran-McMillan yesterday. My god, the woman is smitten. I’m off the record and am not looking for confirmation, but you’d make a great couple—”
“Ricarda!” Vi’s exclamation broke the positively copacetic atmosphere inside the studio. In a totally unnecessary maneuver and with all eyes on her, she stepped in front of Ricarda and called for the makeup artist to touch up Chiara’s face. The woman’s features as she rolled her eyes before applying a sponge to Chiara’s cheekbone spoke volumes about her thoughts on the matter.
As Ricarda stood speechless after Vi’s obvious attempt to shut her up, Vi shed her suit jacket, exposing a stylishly ratty t-shirt, those sinewy tattooed forearms, and honest-to-god suspenders, holding up another low slung pair of ankle length trousers. By Chiara’s ear, the makeup artist uttered a quiet, “damn girl,” before giving out a low whistle.
It was perhaps the whistle that snapped Ricarda out of the insult, and she laughed quietly.
“Well, ‘damn girl’ is quite right. And for the record Vi, I’d be on the edge too, if two of my exes were married now and minor subjects in a massive special wedding issue, which I was both designing and shooting in its entirety. But with your history, and the swaths you’ve cut in the lesbian population of this island, I’m not certain that could be avoided.” The quiet chuckle was like nails on the board of Chiara’s already raw nerves.
Vi’s possessiveness and rudeness, Vi acting like Ricarda’s flirting was somehow illicit when she herself had… Chiara closed her eyes and mentally counted to ten. When that didn’t help, she opened her eyes to the gray ones burning holes in her, both angry and wounded.
Wounded?Chiara felt the short reins of her own temper—stretched tight ever since Vi stepped into Chiaroscuro just days ago and acted like nothing at all had happened between them—finally snap.
“Ricarda, Morag, I think we should all take lunch and reconvene in about an hour and a half.” She turned away, effectively dismissing both women.
As she stepped across the studio’s threshold, she threw a grenade over her shoulder and kept moving. “Ms. Courtenay, would you mind coming to my office? It seems there are loose ends to our previous conversation that need to be tended to.”
18
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF LOANED PLEASURE
Chiara Conti always thought of herself as a calm individual. But it seems there was one person who knew exactly which buttons to push with her.
The sullen look on Vi’s face only ignited the embers already alight in Chiara’s chest. As she closed the door to the small, rarely used space off the main studio, Chiara turned away from her companion and breathed in deeply, trying to count to ten, to somehow stave off the raw emotion ravaging her, twisting her inside out until she no longer recognized herself.
However, as she turned back, one glimpse at the pouty lips and hooded eyes that looked at her with judgment and dare she say it, matching anger, and Chiara knew she wouldn’t be able to hold those runaway reins of hers any longer.
“How dare you?” The insult in her tone rang so clear to her own ears, she didn’t even care how transparent she was.
Vi, whose back had been resting on the closed door, pushed off it and took a step closer to her, which, in the close confines of the office, brought her just within reach.
