When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,28
getting ready to order room service breakfast, and I don’t like to eat alone.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“It was, but you sound grouchy, so forget it.”
“Black coffee for me, and I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Wait. I said I was reconsid—”
She’d hung up. He smiled and put in a call to room service—coffee and a couple of poached eggs for him. Coffee and a Belgian waffle for her.
She and the food cart arrived at the same time. She was ready for the morning’s photo shoot—a dress that showcased her legs, stilettos, the pigeon’s egg ruby necklace. He’d gone for jeans and a multicolored shawl-collar pullover. “You look so comfortable,” she said wistfully.
“Another glaring example of gender inequality.” He admired the shining swing of her hair, then directed her to the table by the window and pulled the warming covers from their meals.
“You’re a sadist,” she said, as he set the strawberry-and-whipped-cream-topped waffle in front of her.
“I’ll eat whatever you don’t want.”
“Touch this and you die.”
He laughed. He liked Olivia. He liked her smarts and her quirky sense of humor. So what if she was a little high-strung? So was he. He just hid it better.
She picked up her fork. “Did you see the way Mariel kept raising her eyebrows at me last night? All because I was eating my dinner instead of licking it like she did.”
“Didn’t see that.” But he’d heard Mariel tell one of the guests how fortunate it was that Olivia had chosen a career where she didn’t have to worry about her weight. Since Olivia’s body was as spectacular as her voice, he suspected Mariel was jealous.
“Was your luggage okay?”
It took him a moment to adjust to her change of topic. “What do you mean? Are you missing one of your three hundred and forty-two suitcases?”
“Don’t exaggerate. No, nothing’s missing, but . . .” She shrugged. “I packed quickly, and things shift around when they’re being moved.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Forget it.”
“You think somebody went through your luggage?”
“I’m probably being paranoid.” With more than half her waffle still remaining, Olivia pushed aside her plate.
“Don’t let Mariel stop you from enjoying your breakfast,” he said.
“I’m full. Contrary to her opinion, I don’t make a habit of stuffing myself.”
He refilled their coffee cups. “Have you heard from Rupert?”
“No, why?”
“Just wondering if he’s come up with anything new to gain your attention.”
“What’s this thing you’ve got about Rupert?”
“I had a stalker once. A woman I’d never met who decided we were soul mates.”
“Rupert isn’t a stalker. He’s a fan.”
“So was she. She started showing up everywhere I went. Eventually, she got into my apartment. The police were involved. There was a restraining order. It got ugly.”
“So what happened?”
“She spent some time in jail and eventually moved out of state.”
“Rupert isn’t like that.”
His own experience, combined with that phone call, the threatening letters, and now the possibility that someone had gone through her luggage made him wary. There was also the mystery of who’d taken the photo of them outside that Phoenix bar four nights ago. Had it been random or something more deliberate?
He cornered Henri later that morning. “Make sure Olivia and I have adjoining suites from now on, will you? And if you could have the staff move me before tonight so I’m next to her, I’d appreciate it.”
“Adjoining suites?” Henri didn’t seem surprised, but then he was a Frenchman. “Of course.”
Thad didn’t see any reason to tell Henri this was about security, not sex, even though his own lizard brain kept slithering in exactly that direction.
* * *
“They moved me because they had to fumigate my suite,” he told Olivia that night as he let himself into the suite next to hers after their last client dinner in San Francisco.
“Fumigate? Against what?”
“Hey, you’re the bug expert. Not me.”
“There are bugs, and then there are bedbugs. You didn’t ask?”
“Naw.” The last thing he needed was Olivia talking to the hotel manager about bedbugs. “I think they said something about ants.”
“That’s odd.”
“I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.”
“When it suits you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’ve got ‘rule breaker’ written all over that exquisite face of yours. You just hide it behind fake charm.” With an operatic sweep, she disappeared into her suite.
He gazed at the door she’d closed between them. He had an instinct for spotting trouble—a free safety shifting his body to the left, a lineman switching the hand he had on the ground. It was part of his job to be alert,