Again.
As the servers set down the cake, flashbulbs pop from all corners of the restaurant. I smile, wave, and blow out the candles.
When the DJ transitions to a new song, the crowd’s attention gradually dissipates.
“A little birthday surprise,” Sterling says, clearly pleased with himself. “The press already loves it.”
“Thank you,” I manage, though gratitude is far from what I’m feeling.
While Sterling is distracted by glad-handers stopping by our table, and Slayer has turned his attention back to Valentina, I notice a man approaching from the bar.
He’s tall, impeccably dressed in casual luxury, with a gorgeous shoulder-length mane of blond hair, a crisp white shirt displaying his enviable abs, and easy confidence.
He stops at my chair, extending his hand.
“Ms. Bismark? Carlos Rhodes. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Carlos Rhodes. The name rings familiar... I think quickly, scrolling through my mental rolodex.
Ah. He’s Sterling’s chief rival in the industry—the head of Crown Point Records.
“A pleasure to meet you,” I say, taking his hand.
“I saw you perform this morning in the village,” he says, his voice pitched for my ears only. “With Paul’s band. You have a remarkable talent.”
My heart skips. Finally, validation for my singing, not just my sunny good looks.
“Thank you. What’s the head of a famous record company doing listening to a village jazz band?”
He laughs a rich, throaty laugh. “Buying handmade lavender soap to send to my mother in Roma. Yet when I heard your voice from the stalls, I couldn’t resist seeing if the face matched the voice.”
“And did it?”
“No. Not at all. I was surprised.”
“What were you expecting?”
“A large Black woman,” he says with another laugh. “The power of your voice, the range. How is it possible that a tiny blonde girllike you could emit those sounds? Those emotions? I expected to see a woman twice your age.”
“Ah, well, I was trained by my grandmother. She toured with Ella Fitzgerald. Learned all her tricks and passed them to me.”
Carlos takes a closer look at my face.
“Yes,” I say, answering his unasked question. “I’m mixed race. African. Spanish. Maybe some Portuguese thrown in there somewhere.”
“It doesn’t show...”
“In my curls it does,” I say, yanking on a spiral that even Antoine’s wizards have failed to tame. I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood.
“Carlos,” says Sterling, finally noticing him at our table. “I wasn’t aware you were in Saint-Tropez.”
“Just for the weekend,” Carlos replies smoothly. “Couldn’t resist the opportunity to hear Slayer launch his new album. You’ve been keeping it under tight wraps.”
“I’ll make sure you receive a VIP ticket. And I see you’ve met Bix.”
“Indeed. You’ve found quite the talent.”
“Talent? Bix isn’t a recording artist,” Sterling corrects, his hand landing possessively on my shoulder. “She’s here with Slayer.”
