Picture This (24 page)

D
ammit.
It was Niall's worst nightmare. A smug asswipe with a camera. These guys didn't often follow him around anymore—their interest had waned as his string of flops got longer over the years and his ranking on the Hollywood power lists dropped. But now this one seemed very interested in what he was up to—enough to track him down in Marsden. What was going on?

The photographer cocked the camera with the ridiculous lens in one hand and hit speed dial on his phone with the other, all the while staring at Niall and Celia as though afraid they might bolt. He said, quite clearly, into his phone, “Found 'em. You were right. The girl from the McManus ad. Those legs are real . . . and they absolutely need to be wrapped around my—”

Niall lurched to his feet, sending his chair rocketing backward. Celia immediately put a hand on his arm, but he only felt her touch as though from a distance. The sheer fury flowing through him—made all the worse by the smug grin on the paparazzo's face as he pocketed his phone and started clicking away once again—was like nothing he'd ever felt before.

But Niall knew this game. As much as he wanted nothing more than to shove this jerk's camera back into his face until the imprint of the viewfinder was tattooed on his iris, he wouldn't do it. Because that was what the guy wanted. He was obviously dying for Niall to do something stupid so he could sell the image, and maybe the story, to a trashy Web site or tabloid.

So instead Niall growled, “Do you mind? People are trying to have dinner here.”

The photographer didn't answer, just kept snapping photos.

“Did you hear me? I said—” His voice was rising; he heard it, knew he was getting strident, and stopped when Celia squeezed his forearm gently.

Niall reached behind him, fumbled with his chair, and sat back down. Forcing himself to take a breath, he tried to figure out how to get control of the situation. He had always been really good with photographers, but then again, up to this point it had never really bothered him when paparazzi took his picture, because there had been very little he'd wanted to keep private, keep just for himself. Although he was proud of going public with Celia and had no interest in hiding her away, he wanted to do it on his own terms, not have it taken away from him by some douche bag who'd sell bits of his personal life for a few hundred bucks a pop.

Or maybe his photos were commanding more, now that he and Tiffany were on the ropes. Had the word gotten out yet? . . . Wait, who was he kidding? It had been nearly a whole day by now—of course word had gotten out.

And sure enough . . .

Click, click, click.
“Niall! Hey, Niall! Who's the babe? What's her name?”
Click, click, click.
“Where's Tiffany? Does she know about your new squeeze yet? Are you two really over or are you just on a break? Is that it—are you two-timing her? Tell me what's going on—I want to get the facts straight.”

Facts? Since when did these guys care about facts? Niall looked over at Celia, who was wide-eyed with alarm. Of course she was—she wasn't used to being accosted like this. “It's okay,” he murmured. “It's no big deal. I'll take care of it.”

Summoning every ounce of charm he possessed, and trying to remember how he used to talk to the paparazzi when he hadn't felt like ripping their heads from their necks, he slouched a little in his chair and called out, “You traveled pretty far for a lame-ass photo, man.”

Click, click, click.
“Don't be modest, Niall. Your movies might suck, but I still get paid for shots of you. Especially now.”

He felt Celia tense up even more beside him, and he stretched his hand across the back of her chair so he could squeeze her shoulder.
Stay calm. Let me handle it. Whatever he says doesn't mean a thing.
She remained quiet and still, and he was grateful she could understand what he needed from her at this moment.

“Nah, this isn't worth it. What, two people sitting at a restaurant? Boring. At least let me order veal or something, get people pissed off, make it worth your while.”

“Yeah, I think you could come up with something more interesting to do, know what I mean?” the guy said with a definite leer.

Without further ado, Niall reached over to another table that hadn't been cleaned up yet, grabbed two straws from half-finished drinks, and stuck them up his nostrils. The photographer shook his head—
not
what he meant. Of course not. But he didn't stop taking photos, either.

“What else you got?” the guy called.

Pulling out the straws, he said, “Got something good going in about a week. You should come.”

“What, that singing thing? I saw the posters. Big fuckin' deal.”

Niall felt his bile rising again.
Yes, it is a big fuckin' deal to people around here
, he wanted to shout. Instead, he shrugged noncommittally. “What's your name, anyway?”

“Like you care.”

“I do, man. I was going to offer you an exclusive, but . . . if you're not interested . . .”

“I don't need an exclusive on that singing thing. Offer me an exclusive on you and your
friend
here, and you'd have my attention.”

“How about exclusive access to Night of the Shooting Stars and to me—”

“Night of
what
?” the photographer hooted, and Niall's anger flared again.

Nobody makes fun of Marsden but me
, he thought—irrationally, but there it was all the same. “Forget it, dude. Offer's off the table. Get lost.”

The photographer stood up from where he'd been crouching on the sidewalk and shook out his legs. “I'll stick around, if it's all the same to you.”

“What for?”

The guy whipped off his baseball cap, scratched his head, and plopped it back on backward. “You don't know yet? This should be good,” he said with a wink, then decamped down the block, already making another phone call as he walked away.

“Maybe we should go,” Celia said, watching the pap with a healthy dose of suspicion.

Niall felt terrible—about everything. That their night out had been ruined before it had even started. That Celia had been right—he really wasn't able to keep the celebrity garbage out of his life—not even all the way out in Marsden. It still found him. And, worst of all, that she had that guarded look on her beautiful face, like some of the innocence he loved about her had just been wrenched away. All too familiar . . .

“I am so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking along with his heart.

“It's not your fault.”

“It absolutely is.”

She smiled at him warmly, found his hand and grasped it tightly, then stood and pulled him to his feet. “You didn't invite the paparazzi here, or—”

She stopped. Niall didn't have to ask why. He felt it too: Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. It was as if the very air on Main Street had been altered. Other pedestrians noticed as well; they froze in their tracks, looking around as though following a scent, not sure what they were expecting to find, but hunting until they located it.

Across the street, Mrs. D'Annunzio, locking up the deli for the night, frowned over her shoulder. A group of skateboarding teens dismounted and, flipping their boards up into their hands, stood stock still. Mrs. Rousseau found her way back up the street, her baleful eye scanning the area. It seemed as though even the mobiles hanging outside the wind-chime shop had stopped spinning.

Suddenly the photographer was back, and more showed up—on foot and in cars. They clustered near Niall, clutching their cameras to their chests expectantly.

“What is it?” Celia murmured, fearful.

“Nothing good. Come on.” Niall stepped over the low wrought-iron fence that separated the dining area from the sidewalk, then reached back and lifted Celia over with ease, intending to spirit her back to his car and get her out of harm's way.

“Niall.”

Too late.

The arrival of Tiffany Sola and her entourage of similarly coiffed, manicured, and spray-tanned friends was like a flock of flamingos landing in the middle of Main Street. Traffic came to a halt. Everyone stared—and aimed their cell phone cameras.

Niall had almost been ready for it. As soon as the paparazzo had smirked at him, he'd started rifling through his mental file of things that would decimate him, and Tiffany's arrival topped the list. Sure enough, here she was, she and her friends dressed in the most outlandish outfits he'd ever seen—country couture by way of
The Dukes of Hazzard
, with microscopic cutoffs, bared midriffs, low-cut gingham blouses with puffy sleeves, tight T-shirts, and sky-high straw wedges on their pedicured feet. He even thought he caught a glimpse of flowers painted on the flamingoes' toes—no accident, considering where they thought they were alighting.

Niall felt every muscle in his body seize up; even his lips pursed with tension. Now the sudden presence of paparazzi, after his privacy in Marsden had lasted this long, made sense. They'd been tipped off. And not just about his being in Marsden—news that the famous Niall Crenshaw slumming as host of a rinky-dink, rural
American Idol
ripoff wasn't worth their time and money to travel this far upstate for a photo or two. But a blowout with Tiffany Sola, even a fake one? That was worth the drive.
Stage a photo op, and they will come
, he thought ruefully.
Thanks, Tiff.

“Niall,” Tiffany said again, approaching him and holding out her hands. He didn't take them. “I couldn't stay away any longer. I've missed you. When are you coming home, baby?”

Ouch. He'd forgotten what a crappy actor she was.

Once the tiny blonde was close to him, he spoke quietly, so only she could hear. “Tiff, don't do this.”

“How come you never called me back or answered any of my texts?” she pronounced, clearly and loudly.

It was like they were acting out scenes from two different movies. Both of them were talking, but they weren't actually replying to one another. Niall had never experienced anything so surreal—not even the dream sequence in
Party Clown
when he had to pretend to water ski in full costume, including red nose and giant shoes, against a green screen while production assistants crouched on the floor, spraying water and throwing small fish in his face.

Not willing to play her game, he tried to drag her into his scenario instead of falling into hers. “Tiffany, listen to me,” he said, still keeping his voice low. “We both signed off on this. We're done, right? Let's move on without a . . . a scene.”

She reached for him, and he instinctively recoiled. Just a bit, but it was enough to start the paparazzi snapping away again. Some of the townspeople kept their cell phones held high, getting the entire thing on video. But he wasn't about to give them—or Tiffany—the show everyone expected.

Tiffany bugged her huge eyes at him, trying to communicate silently what she wanted his next line to be. He had no idea what she expected—a tearful, sentimental good-bye? A screaming row? A (God forbid) litany of apologies and an emotional reunion? He felt completely in the dark—so different from how he and Celia were able to speak volumes by just squeezing one another's hand.

“And who's this?”

Oh no. No, no, no.
Of all the times for Tiffany to be able to read his mind, this was the worst possible moment. She'd spied Celia.

Tiffany, forgetting completely she had met Celia at the photo shoot, looked her up and down once, assessing, judging . . . and ultimately dismissing her. Tiffany's posse followed suit, doing everything Tiffany did, just on a time delay of about three seconds. Then one of them snickered, like they were all still in high school and Celia had worn an uncool outfit.

That derisive snort snapped Niall out of his daze, and he stepped in front of Celia. “If you came here to talk to me, then talk to
me,
Tiff.”

She fluffed her hair, and her long nails clacked against each other—the only sound, aside from the snapping of camera shutters, on the whole street. Except for a very loud throat clearing, from behind him, punctuated by a sharp jab in his kidney.

“Ow!” He turned around to find an annoyed-looking Celia eyeing him. “Hang on,” he whispered. “I got this.”

“Doesn't look like it to me.” She stepped to one side to get out of Niall's shadow. “Tiffany, I'm—”

“Celia, no!”

“No?”
She gaped at him, incredulous.

Yeah, that had sounded pretty bad to him, too. But she didn't understand the wild and woolly world of Tiffany & Co. Not to mention the paparazzi and the tabloids they sold their photos and news to. One false move and they'd be all over her like a swarm of bees. No, he amended, they shouldn't be compared to the noble bee. Bees were hard workers; they served a purpose. These guys . . .

“Just . . . let me handle it, all right?”

“I can—”

“—speak for yourself. I know. Put away the kraken for now. Please,” he tacked on, seeing Celia's face darken with frustration and anger. It was a new look for her.

“Niall?” Tiffany prompted. “Are you going to stand here talking to
her
all day, when I came all the way from New York to be with you?”

Oh for the love of...

If this scene were in one of his movie scripts, he'd move heaven and earth to kill it. Him between two women, in the middle of the street, both of them mad at him and eyeballing each other, all territorial ? Absolutely not.

“Okay, this is not the time or the place,” he said pointedly. “Tiffany, you and I need to talk. Privately.” He raised an eyebrow toward the flock of flamingoes, who—no surprise—didn't move a muscle.

So he turned to Celia. “Can you give me and Tiff some time to talk?”