‘Not the only reason, no. Any man with a pulse would want to get close to you in an altogether different way.’
Rosa nodded. ‘So you wouldn’t approve of me taking a screen test to appear on French TV?’
He gave a cynical smile. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’d better get your head around the fact that I’ve done exactly that.’
His eyes narrowed as she wrenched herself out of his arms. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s quite simple, Kulal. I went into the studios this afternoon and they gave me a try-out. They said I was very telegenic and so they’ve given me a slot.’
‘They’ve given you a slot?’ he repeated dangerously. ‘On national television?’
‘The very same. Only a tiny slot—it’s true. But at least that means it won’t be too disruptive to our lives.’ She stared into the steely gleam of his black eyes. ‘And next week I start presenting the weather report on the lunchtime news.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE INTENSE LIGHT felt hot on her cheeks, but Rosa didn’t mind. The brightness of the studio made some of the other presenters grow overheated, but not her. She was used to the glaring blaze of the Sicilian sun, so a few television lights weren’t going to make her sweat! She flashed a wide smile as she finished her segment, reminding viewers to remember to pack an umbrella ‘if you don’t want your nice Parisian clothes to get wet!’
As always, her final comment made the crew smile, just as it would make the nation smile. In the instantly accessible world of television, Rosa had become a bit of a star, which was something she’d never envisaged.
Her rise to prominence in the national consciousness had all happened so quickly—and her popularity had been picked up by the press, during a quiet summer when there wasn’t very much news. Newspaper analysts had been quick to question ‘Why Rosa?’ because she wasn’t an obvious choice to be a pin-up. France had a recognised template for beauty, and Rosa didn’t fit it. She was curvy and she didn’t wear black. Her clothes were the colours of an exotic bird’s plumage and she wore flowers in her hair. She should have been invisible in a place where thinness reigned supreme and women worshiped at the altar of high fashion. But people liked her. Men liked her because she was the stuff of forbidden fantasy, and their wives liked her because they didn’t perceive her as a threat. French department stores had reported an increased demand for colour-blocked clothes. A glossy magazine had even urged its readers to throw away their diet books and ‘channel your inner Rosa.’
Then had come the discovery that before her marriage to one of the world’s most powerful men, Rosa had been a Corretti—and all hell had broken loose. Suddenly, she had become even more sought-after. The studio bosses asked her to do an extra weather slot on the highly prestigious breakfast show, but she’d said no, because who in their right mind would want to get up at three in the morning? Even farmers slept for longer than that! Requests for interviews began to pour in but she told Arnaud to refuse them all. She knew her family would go ballistic if journalists started to pry into its chequered history. And she knew that any more exposure would make Kulal even angrier than he already was… .
‘Just why are you doing this, Rosa?’ he had demanded one morning, just before he’d stormed off to his office. ‘Pursuing a useless career as a weather announcer? Telling people what they can already read on their cellphones!’
Those had been his actual words—words which had been intended to wound and which had hit their target full-on. Rosa had swallowed down the hurt she’d felt. If only he had given her a few crumbs of praise, then she might have refused the offer of the Friday teatime slot in addition to her regular lunchtime one. If he’d told her that her French accent was flawless—which was what everyone else said—or that she’d managed to make women who felt bad about their bodies feel better about themselves, then she might have cut back or even deferred her fledgling career until after the marriage had ended.
But Kulal wasn’t in the business of praising. He was in the business of making her feel like she had overstepped the mark. As if she had no right to do anything with her life if it dared to interfere with his.
She arrived home late one Friday after a meeting with Arnaud, and when she rushed into the apartment Kulal was standing waiting for her. His gaze ran over her, his black eyes lingering on the rose in her hair, and she saw the almost imperceptible twist of his lips. The fresh flower had become her ‘trademark’ and was provided by the studio before every show, but she’d forgotten she was wearing it and it was now probably wilting.