Women had thrown themselves at him before, but he wasn’t used to getting an elbow to his gut when they did it. She’d caught him unaware, and he gave a woof of pain. At the same time, he automatically reached out to defend himself.
That made it worse.
All he’d wanted was a little fresh air, and now here he was, in a fight to the death with a black velvet–clad termagant.
He grabbed for her arms. “Stop it! Calm down!”
At his age, he should have known better than to ever tell a woman to calm down, and she kicked him hard in the shins. Unfortunately for her, she was barefoot, and she gave her own yelp of pain.
“What the hell’s wrong with you!” He trapped her arms and pulled her hard against him. She was tall and strong, but he was stronger. She cried out and went after him again.
He wanted to kill her, but he also didn’t want to hurt her. He kicked her legs out from under her.
He had just enough of the gentleman left to take the brunt of the impact as they dropped to the hard tile floor. He hit his damned elbow along with his hip but managed to pin her down by rolling on top of her and grabbing her wrists.
The perfectly composed performer had vanished. She was furious. “You bastard!” She spit out the words. “You evil bastard!”
When it came to name-calling, she didn’t offer much variety, but damn, she was strong. He could barely keep her contained as she fought against his grip on her wrists.
“Stop it right now, or I’m going to . . . I’m going to smack you!” He would never hit a woman in a million years, but she was out of control, and maybe the threat would calm her down.
It didn’t. Jaw set, teeth bared, she threw it all right back at him. “Go ahead, you bastard! You just try it!”
For all their drama, opera singers didn’t seem to have much creativity about how to cuss someone out. He tried a different approach, loosening his grip on her ever so slightly, but not letting her go. “Take a breath. Just breathe.”
“Vermin!”
At least she was expanding her vocabulary. Her hair had come loose and half her breast popped out of her gown, right down to the top of her nipple. He drew his eyes away. “You’ve had too much to drink, lady, and you need to take some deep breaths.”
She stopped struggling, but he wasn’t taking chances. He eased some of his weight off her. “That’s it. Keep breathing. You’re fine.” Crazy as a loon, but fine.
“Let me up!”
“Give me your word that you won’t take another swing at me.”
“You deserve it!”
“A debate for another day.” She didn’t look quite so insane, so he took a risk and rolled off her carefully, alert for a knee to his groin. “Don’t throw up on me, okay?”
She struggled to her feet, hair hanging in a crazy tangle, her voice throaty with dramatic menace. “Don’t you ever speak to me again!”
“You’ve got it.”
She scrambled awkwardly across the terrace and through the single door that led into her bedroom. The lock clicked hard behind her.
*
Olivia yanked the draperies shut over the door, weirdly proud of herself. Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! She’d never forget the way her friend Alyssa had looked the night Thad Owens had attacked her. Now, the big shot football player had gotten some of his own back.
She steadied herself on the edge of the bureau and managed to get her gown off. She, Olivia Shore, had a new career as a crusader for women. Tonight, she’d dispensed justice, a small blow for rightness in the face of all the disarray around her.
Out of nowhere, her stomach rebelled. She rushed to the bathroom, crouched over the bowl, and lost her dinner, along with the bottle of wine she’d unwisely consumed.
Afterward, she hung out on the tiled floor. Her shoulder stung where she’d scraped it. She set a warm washcloth against it, no longer feeling quite so proud of herself. She was drunk, and she’d acted crazy, and she could not do this. Not when she had so many other problems. And especially not when she had a contract she couldn’t break and four more weeks on the road with that piece of vermin.
She crawled into the bedroom, stripped off her underwear, and eventually located her pajamas. Her nighttime routine was highly disciplined. No matter how late or how tired she was, she performed it without fail. Humidifiers running. Makeup remover followed by a foam cleanser, toner, moisturizer, eye cream, and her precious retinol. She brushed and flossed, sometimes used whitening strips on her teeth. Then a few yoga poses to help her unwind. But tonight, she did none of that. With a dirty face, dirty teeth, dirty spirit, and the image of Thad Owens’s smug face looming over her, she crawled into bed.
*
Thad was up early the next morning to shoot the breeze with the local sports radio jocks. Fortunately, The Diva had another assignment, because she was the last person he wanted to see. Paisley, a little worse for wear from whatever she’d done the night before, which almost definitely didn’t include work, accompanied him. Much to Henri’s displeasure, Paisley had shown up in a pair of ripped jeans, an animal print top, and bright red ankle boots. Not exactly Marchand’s image.
She took a seat next to Thad on the couch in the radio station’s green room, although there were two other chairs available, and thumbed her phone. “Have you seen the Marchand social feeds? I mean, so basic. Like, who cares? You should tell Henri to let me take over their social media.”
She shoved her phone at him, and he looked at the photos she’d taken at last night’s dinner: his profile caught against candlelight, his hand on his jacket lapel, his jawline, his eyes. Only one of the pictures showed the Victory780. There were no photos of The Diva.
“If you want to convince Henri to use your ideas”—something he highly doubted would ever happen—“remember there are two brand ambassadors on this tour.” One of whom is a raving psychopath.
“You’re more photogenic.”
“She’s more famous.” It nearly choked him to say it. He handed Paisley back her phone.
“My dad says Henri’s the one who wants to move Marchand into the twenty-first century, so whatever. I did some research, you know, like, last night before dinner. Those old watch ads that David Beckham did. They’re still sexy AF. Do you have any tattoos?”
“Haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Too bad.” She poked a finger through a carefully placed hole in her jeans. “My dad doesn’t think I can do this job, but I’ve got lots of ideas. Like I definitely want to do some of you in the shower. Because the Victory780 is waterproof and everything. I could— You could oil up so the water beads on your skin. It’ll be iconic.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“But you could wear swim trunks and everything.”
“You and your iPhone aren’t coming anywhere near my shower but ask Madame Shore. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. She probably even has a tattoo.”
Paisley regarded him doubtfully. “She’s kind of scary.”
“Once you get to know her, I’ll bet she’s a pussycat.” The kind with claws and deadly teeth.
He rose as the producer appeared to escort him into the studio. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Paisley take a photo of what was surely his butt.
He didn’t see The Diva again until that afternoon when they were scheduled to meet back at the hotel to shoot the photos that would accompany the newspaper stories.