She cocked her head. “Maybe a wedding ring someday?”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t wish me on anybody. I’m too unreliable. Now when it comes to reliability”—he extended his wrist, earning his paycheck—“this is what I count on. I’ve worn Marchand watches for years. That’s why I was attracted to their invitation. They’ve outdone themselves with the Victory780.”
Henri beamed. The lifestyle editor turned to The Diva. “What about you, Ms. Shore? How would you describe your fashion philosophy?”
“Quality and discomfort.” She surprised him by slipping off her stilettos.
The style editor’s gaze traveled from Thad’s raspberry sweater to The Diva’s black-and-white ensemble. “You seem to prefer neutral colors.”
“I believe in elegance.” She glanced at Thad with open contempt. What the hell was wrong with her? “Bright pink is best kept on the stage,” she said. “I’m only speaking for myself, of course.”
His sweater wasn’t fucking pink. It was raspberry!
“I’m very selective,” she went on, her attention returning to the lifestyle editor. “That’s why the Cavatina3 is the perfect watch for me.” She took it off and handed it to the reporter to examine more closely. “My schedule is demanding. I need a watch I can rely on, but also one that complements my wardrobe and my lifestyle.”
Commercial over.
They answered a few more questions. Where was Madame Shore living? How did Mr. Owens fill his time during the off-season?
“I needed a break from Manhattan,” The Diva replied, “and since I like Chicago, and it’s in the middle of the country, I rented an apartment there a few months ago. It makes domestic travel easier.”
Thad was deliberately vague. “I work out and look after everything I’m too busy to take care of during the season.”
Paisley missed her first cue to escort the reporters back to the lobby but finally got the message. After they’d disappeared, Marchand announced Olivia’s and Thad’s luggage had been delivered to the bedrooms that adjoined opposite sides of the suite. Henri gestured around the living and dining areas, along with the small kitchen. “As you can see, this is quite convenient for interviews and tomorrow’s photo shoot. The chef will be making tonight’s clients’ dinner in the private kitchen.”
The Diva’s head shot up, and her dramatic eyebrows drew together. “Henri, may I speak with you?”
“But of course.” The two of them moved toward the door into the hallway.
Thad was pissed. She obviously didn’t like the idea of them sharing the suite. Fine. She could move to another room because no way was he giving up that big terrace. Ever since he was a kid, he’d been more comfortable outside than inside, and being cooped up in hotel rooms for too long, no matter how big they were, made him jumpy. He wasn’t going anywhere.
*
Olivia had only taken a few steps before she realized she’d made a mistake. The doors had sturdy locks, and if she insisted on moving to another room, Thad Owens would realize she was afraid of him.
She touched Henri’s arm. “Never mind, Henri. We can talk later. Nothing important.”
As she picked up the stilettos she’d abandoned, Thad moved behind her. “Just so you know . . . ,” he said. “I don’t like nighttime visitors.”
She sucked in her breath, gave him her fiercest arctic glare, and sealed herself in her room.
*
Thad heard the lock click behind her. She’d looked at him with so much disdain he’d half expected her to say something operatic like, To the gallows, you swine!
Henri beamed. “What a woman! She is magnificent! La Belle Tornade.”
“Let me guess. ‘The beautiful turnip.’”
Henri laughed. “Non, non. She is called ‘the Beautiful Tornado’ for the power of her voice.”
Thad didn’t buy the “beautiful” part, not with those dark slabs of eyebrow and that long nose. As for “tornado” . . . “Ice storm” seemed more like it.
*
Thad made some phone calls and worked out in the hotel’s fitness center before he came back to the suite and showered. Through the closed bedroom door, he heard the sound of The Diva singing musical scales. He listened as the notes rose and fell, the vowel sounds subtly changing, from ees to ewws, then some mahs. It was mesmerizing. No doubt about it. The lady could sing. As her tone switched from light to dark, he got goose bumps. How could anybody hit those notes?
With dinnertime approaching, the smells coming from the private kitchen promised a good meal. He changed into a purple T-shirt and a black metallic Dolce & Gabbana blazer with a printed lavender pocket square. It was a little over the top, even for him, but he had a point to make.
He heard Henri’s voice in the living room, and as he stepped out, the guests began to arrive. They were all buyers, one from a local jewelry chain, a couple from department stores, and a few independent jewelers.
The Diva emerged in a floor-length black velvet gown. Her breasts caught his attention first. They weren’t big, but full enough to push above the gown’s neckline. She hadn’t cluttered up the view with any necklaces, only a pair of earrings. Her skin was naturally pale, but against all that black velvet, it seemed even paler. She wore the Cavatina3 on one wrist and a variety of rings on her long fingers. She’d tidied up her afternoon hair with a formal twist that was a little old-fashioned, but he had to admit it suited her. She had presence; he’d give her that.
She did her normal grand-entrance thing—arm extended, distant smile, regal stride—and she was right back on his nerves again. He wanted to rumple her up. Knock her off her pedestal. Smear that bright red lipstick. Pull out the pins holding her hair together. Shuck off her clothes and stick her in a pair of ratty jeans and an old Stars sweatshirt.
But as good as his imagination was, he couldn’t imagine her like that.
He hated formal dinner parties almost as much as he hated pass interceptions, but he talked to everyone. He was surprised how good The Diva was at it. She asked about their jobs, their families, and willingly looked at photos of their kids. Unlike him, her interest seemed genuine.
The meal began. Thad wasn’t much of a drinker, so he cut himself off after two glasses of wine, but The Diva seemed to have an iron stomach. Two glasses, three, then four. One more glass as everyone left, and the two of them headed to their separate bedrooms.
His had high ceilings and a single door that led onto the terrace. He went naked into the bathroom to brush his teeth. As usual, he avoided his reflection. No need to depress himself. But despite its size, the bedroom felt stuffy and confining. He pulled on a pair of jeans and opened the door that led to the terrace.
Tempered-glass fencing offered unobstructed views of the city lights, while the potted trees and flower beds gave the illusion of a park, with strategically placed seating areas for comfort. The chilly night air felt good on his skin.
He thought about the day. About what lay ahead. About training camp only four months away and how much playing time he would or wouldn’t get. As he moved around a potted tree to get a better view of the skyline, he thought about his future and a career that had fallen short of his dreams.
*
Wine wasn’t good for her voice. Wine, caffeine, dry air, drafts, trauma—none of it good for her voice, which was why she seldom had more than a single glass of wine. Yet here she was, not just a little drunk, but drunk-drunk. Unsteady on her feet, unsteady in her head. She’d been on edge for days, nerves shredded, ready to detonate. Now, a dangerous, alcohol-fueled energy made her want to gather her gown around her knees, climb up on the terrace rail, and use it as a balance beam just to see if she could do it. She wasn’t suicidal. She left that for others. Instead, she wanted a challenge. Better yet, a target. Something to conquer. She wanted to be a superhero, a protector of the weak, a drunken crusader fighting for justice. Instead, she was battling a ghost.
Something moved behind her. Too close. Him.
She wheeled around and attacked.
2