Chances Are Read Online Free PDF Page A

props. I'd need at least two of my artists back, all four would be better."
    He tossed the pencil down and stood. "Keep in mind that this is the South. We move at a slower pace than New York; our life-style is gentler than Los Angeles. This is a town with lots of money and even more tradition; I don't think brash is going to work here."
    Hands on hips, she squared her shoulders. "I'm not surprised you feel that way. But your view of New Orleans is much narrower—or should I say more exclusive—than mine. New Orleanians love a party and find any excuse to throw one. They down boiled seafood with as much gusto as they down beer. They host festivals and Carnival and throw cabbages on Saint Patrick's Day. As for funky, you can't get much funkier than the French Quarter at night."
    Brandon held up his hands. "You've made your point. It's obvious you feel very strongly about this, but I'm unconvinced. What you're talking about is a radical change; our sales figures don't indicate that a dramatic change is necessary."
    "I disagree. The Rhodes clientele is old-line New Orleans. The young, upwardly mobile consumers aren't buying from us. They're going to Saks Fifth Avenue or Macy's. Eventually our clientele is going to die off, and I mean that literally."
    Her eyes were alight with the fire of enthusiasm; her cheeks were flushed with excitement. Brandon stared at her, then blinked in surprise. He hadn't recalled before how radiantly beautiful she was. Suddenly he wondered how her skin would feel against his fingertips, how her mouth would taste under his. With a small shake of his head, he dragged his thoughts back to the discussion at hand. "And you think changing our look is going to draw in the young consumers?"
    She placed her hands on her hips. "Yes."
    "Okay." He would see just what Veronique Delacroix was made of. "I want a full proposal, complete with department-by-department recommendations and cost breakdowns. Any questions?"
    "When do you want it?" she asked, already crossing to the door.
    "Next week. And, Veronique..."
    She looked over her shoulder at him. "Yes?"
    "The employee handbook has some pretty strict rules concerning tossing nudie magazines from platforms."
    "Oh?"
    "Uh-huh." He sat on the edge of his desk. "Don't get caught."
    Her lips curved. Brandon Rhodes could prove to be an interesting opponent. "Got it."
    * * *
    The walk from the streetcar on St. Charles Avenue to her mother's Garden District home on Annunciation took only minutes. Veronique smiled as she walked. Brandon had given her a chance. She didn't think she would be able to convince him to execute all her ideas, but maybe, just maybe she could convince him of a few. It wasn't a great shot, but it was better than anything she'd gotten so far.
    She jogged up the steps of her mother's raised cottage. The house was modest by Garden District standards, but charming. It had been in the Delacroix family for a hundred and fifty years and had passed on to Marie when one of the aunts—Veronique never could keep all the aunts straight—died. She rang the bell.
    The door was opened by her mother's housekeeper, a woman with standards that reflected her Southern Baptist upbringing. "Hello, Miss Veronique."
    "Hello, Winnie." Veronique smiled. "Mother home?"
    "She's on the patio. Iced tea?"
    "Please." Veronique deposited her knapsack on one of the two Queen Anne chairs that graced the foyer, then headed to the back of the house. She stepped through the French doors and onto the shady patio. As promised, her mother was there, sipping iced tea and leafing through a magazine.
    Veronique didn't call out or cross the patio, but instead gazed at her. Soft-spoken and well-mannered, Marie Delacroix was the epitome of Southern womanhood. She rarely raised her voice. Veronique knew for a fact that Marie had never worn slacks to church.
    Veronique shook her head. It was hard to believe they were mother and daughter. They didn't even look alike. Veronique pictured herself,