Everything to Me. Simona Taylor
bad. While some of her fans took it in stride—stuff like that did happen in the music business, after all—others were outraged at spending their hard-earned money on tickets to hear someone else sing. Websites and Facebook pages sprang up overnight, boycotting her concerts and demanding their ticket money back. Parodies of her fraudulent performance went viral on YouTube. The sponsors took notice. Endorsement deals dried up like a creek in Death Valley.
Trent’s reputation also took a hit. Questions rolled in. As Shanique’s producer—and rumored lover—had he known about her subterfuge? Did he willfully aid and abet? Had it been his idea all along? His publicist had released a statement expressing concern for Shanique’s well-being, while stopping short of admitting any involvement in the lip-synching debacle. Nonetheless, the damage was done.
Their waitress arrived with steaming bowls of dark green soup, just in time to stop Dakota from getting further sucked into the depths of Trent’s accusing gaze. He seemed glad for the distraction. “Callaloo soup,” he informed her, reading off a small card that came with the meal. “It’s like spinach.”
She’d have eaten warmed-up tar if it meant they could change the subject. She sipped experimentally and discovered it was pretty good.
That could have put an end to the conversation, but the man had a one-track mind. “I never banned them from giving you an interview, Dakota.”
There: he was using her name again. She swallowed a mouthful of hot liquid. “But they won’t.”
He shrugged eloquently.
“And neither will you,” she couldn’t resist pointing out.
“Did you expect me to?” The thought seemed to amuse him.
“Not since…my story, sure. I understand that. But you turned me down well before—”
“I’m not very good with the media,” he responded offhandedly.
“Then you’re in the wrong field.”
He gave her a slow smile, one that had a curious effect on her stomach. “Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m in the right field. Music is my life, and my life is music. I’m just lucky I can afford to hire people to handle stuff I’d rather not do.”
“Such as interviews with bottom-feeding scavengers like myself.” She quoted one of the last things he’d said to her at the cocktail party months ago. Even to her own ears, she still sounded hurt.
He must have heard it, too, because he leaned forward, and his self-satisfied smile faded. “I apologize if my words were a little…harsh. I’m not normally that uncouth. I was a bit ruffled at the time.”
He had been ruffled? Just thinking about the way he’d repeatedly dismissed her made her feathers curl. “You’re prejudiced,” she told him bluntly.
He looked shocked. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t know who I am or what I’m capable of. You treat me like I’m nothing more than a tabloid hack—”
“Your story on Shanique had all the hallmarks of a hack job—”
“It did not,” she defended herself hotly. She counted her points off on her fingers. “It was well researched, well substantiated and it turned out to be one hundred percent true. And yet you made a decision about me, and that’s the end of that,” Dakota said with finality. “You call yourself a businessman, but you don’t have the guts to change your mind once it’s made up. I’d have thought someone in your position would be more flexible.”
She went on, too upset to care if she was treading on his toes. “And furthermore, all you care about is how my column affected you and your precious goldmine. But Shanique needed to be reined in and helped, and nobody around her, none of you who knew her, did anything about it. I know that these days, the music business is more about image than substance—”
“Shanique has true talent,” he interrupted at once. “She has perfect pitch. Her vocal range spans almost four octaves.”
“It certainly didn’t last year,” Dakota shot back. “Or she wouldn’t have had to get help from an out-of-work R&B singer called Michelle.” She was surprised at how upset she was getting at his instinctive defense of his superstar. She slapped her hand on the table to make her point. “Shanique’s fans didn’t deserve to be cheated out of their hard-earned money. What she did to her fans and to her body was wrong, and somebody had to say something.”
“And secure their own writing career while they’re at it,” he countered scornfully.
She ignored the assault on her motives. “I know I did the right thing. Did you?”
From the way he flinched, she could tell her barb had struck a nerve. She pressed home her advantage. “Not only that, but you compounded the appearance of guilt by saying precious little. You’ve consistently glossed over every single question aimed at you about the whole affair.”
“I believe it’s my constitutional right to—”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You know the music business better than that. If there’s a void in information, people will fill it with whatever suits their fancy. Not facing it head-on only makes you look worse.”
“Worse?”
“That you were complicit in the drug use. That you were a party to—or even the mastermind behind—the whole lip-synching scam.”
“Operational issues such as her concert performances are the responsibility of her manager, not her producer,” he protested.
“You work closely with all your acts. You had to have known.”
His light skin took on a mottled hue; he was mighty irritated but struggling to hide it. Take that, she thought.
The waitress glided back into view, whisked away their soup bowls, and set down aromatic, steaming dishes. Like their appetizer, the meal came with a little menu card, which listed the featured food: spit-roasted chicken, herbed grouper and tomatoes stuffed with saffron rice. Glasses of amber-colored cashew wine were placed next to each plate.
When Dakota lifted her glass, her hand shook slightly. “Cheers,” she said, clinging to her cool.
“The same.” He lifted his glass to her.
Silence followed as they ate. Then, halfway through their meal, “Go ahead. Shoot.”
She frowned. “What?”
“You wanted to interview me? Ask me a question.”
Her little potshots had worked? Seriously? A man’s ego really was his weakness. She looked around, flustered. “But I haven’t prepared. I need notes…a recorder…”
“I’ll bet you have an excellent memory.”
She did, but still… “Here? Now?”
“Now or never.” He was challenging her, testing to see what she was made of.
But her triumph had fizzled. He’d thrown her off balance with his acquiescence, and all she could manage was a weak, “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four, but everybody knows that. That all you got?” His toffee-colored eyes were taunting.
She wished she had a paper napkin, anything to scribble a few notes on. What she really needed was a minute to clear her head. “What made you get into the music business?”
He opened his hands in an expansive gesture. “Are you writing for the school paper?”
He was right; she was handling this like a cub reporter. She bought herself a moment by taking a bite of the delicious chicken, asking herself what it was about him that so unnerved her. She was a writer, and a good one, and had done interviews with subjects far tougher than he. She needed to find her mettle.
She set her knife and fork down, straightened her spine,