He studied her face for a long time. “No one ever says the things to me that you do, Bijou, not and really mean them. I can see honesty in your eyes and hear it in your voice. You always have inspired me with your generosity of spirit. Sometimes when I read the tabloids, I find myself getting angry at the way they portray you, and it surprises me. I don’t get angry, or feel much emotion unless I’m creating.”

Bijou couldn’t help but hear the sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t making a declaration of love—he never did. She could tell he felt great affection for her, as she did him, but something just didn’t quite gel between them, not in a romantic way.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Arnaud. Thank you,” she said. “And yes, the tabloids seem to really enjoy making up an entirely different life for me. There’s one photographer who is the biggest pain in the neck. He loves to follow me around, take pictures when I’m unaware and then make up some ridiculous story behind the photograph.” She sighed. “He’s here in New Orleans and already dogging my every footstep.”

Arnaud turned back to brushing away dirt from the stones. “Can’t you file a harassment suit? There must be some way to get rid of him.”

She shrugged. “Someone else would just take his place, and I guess it’s a case of the devil you know. Bob Carson used to live with my father. He was about fourteen or fifteen when I was born. When he moved out of our home, he’d still come over every day to see Bodrie.”

“So he was your friend and now he hounds you to make money off of you?” Arnaud asked, as he carefully began to pry the small stone free.

“I wouldn’t say we were ever friends. By the time I was old enough to know who he was, he was takin’ advantage of the women around Bodrie, usin’ drugs and drinkin’. He traveled with Bodrie as his personal photographer and made a huge name for himself in the business. Of course he always made Bodrie look good.”

Bob Carson had taken her to the hotel the night Remy found her, bringing his friends and drugs and alcohol. She was still embarrassed to be around him. Remy hadn’t recognized that young man he’d beat to a bloody pulp that night—or if he had he hadn’t said anything to her when Bob had photographed him kissing her.

Arnaud glanced at her over his shoulder as if reading her mind. “He makes you uneasy.” He dropped a purplish stone into his bag.

She hadn’t meant to reveal so much. “All paparazzi make me uneasy,” she hedged.