When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,29
and he wanted The Diva nearby. Now all he had to do was come up with a logical reason to keep their connecting door open.
He undressed, brushed his teeth, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants before he rapped on the door between their rooms.
“What do you want?” she said from the other side.
He rapped again.
She finally opened the door. He didn’t know exactly what he’d expected her to be wearing, but it was something along the lines of a filmy black negligee with maybe a frilly sleep mask pushed on top of her head. Instead, she wore a Chicago Jazz Festival T-shirt and pajama bottoms printed with dill pickles.
He groaned. “My eyes will never be the same.”
She let her own eyes roam over his bare chest, taking her time. “Mine, either.”
Her open appreciation of his hard-earned muscles nearly threw him off his game. She smiled, knowing she’d gotten the advantage. “You remind me of an art museum,” she said. “Look all you want, but don’t touch.”
“Some museums are designed for a more sensory experience.”
She was tough. She didn’t miss a beat. “Been there. Done that. Not doing it again. What’s wrong?”
He rubbed his chin. “This is embarrassing.”
“All the better.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself, but . . . Once you’re ready to turn out the lights, would you mind leaving the door between us open?”
“Oh, dear . . . Afraid of the dark?”
He thought fast. “More like . . . claustrophobia.”
“Claustrophobia?”
“It hits now and then, okay? Forget I asked. I know how you women like to complain about men being afraid to show their vulnerability, but the minute one of us lets you see his sensitive side—”
“It’s fine. I’ll leave the door open.” She regarded him suspiciously. “Maybe you should talk to a therapist.”
“You think I haven’t?” He improvised. “Bottom line—closed-door phobia is nothing to mess with.”
She wasn’t stupid, and one of those dark, arched eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead. “This is your first step in trying to seduce me, isn’t it?”
He propped his elbow against the doorjamb and gave her a lazy once-over. “Babe, if I wanted to seduce you, you’d be hot and naked by now.”
That rattled her. Unfortunately, he’d also gotten hard, so she wasn’t the only one rattled.
That night, as he lay in bed in the dark, he heard the jazz strains of Bill Evans’s “Peace Piece” drifting through the darkness. The lady knew good jazz.
* * *
He escorted The Diva to the hotel lobby the next morning, where Henri delivered the good news that Mariel had left for New York. “Our limo is waiting outside.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see what’s holding Paisley up.”
“Probably texting her BFFs,” Olivia muttered as they made their way outside.
“You’re jealous because she likes me a lot more than she likes you,” he retorted.
She grinned. “And she likes Clint more than she likes you, old man.”
“I’m gutted.”
“Speaking of BFFs . . .” Olivia pulled out her phone and called her friend Rachel. Unfortunately, part of their conversation centered around something called chest voice, which made him want to stare at exactly that part of Liv’s anatomy.
Just as they finished, Paisley slid into the limo. The only makeup she had on was left from the night before. She hadn’t combed her hair, and she didn’t look apologetic. “I overslept.”
Henri got in behind her, grim-faced. “So sorry for keeping you both waiting.”
“Pas de problème,” Olivia said.
Henri and Olivia engaged in a rapid-fire conversation en français, which Paisley interrupted. “Ohmygod! You’re on Ratchet Up!”
“What is this?” Henri asked.
She lowered her phone. “Ratchet Up. It’s this online gossip site everybody reads.” She showed them, and there they were. Thad and Olivia. Returning to the hotel yesterday morning from their hike. Olivia’s hair was falling out of her ponytail, and Thad had his hand on her shoulder. They looked like a couple.
“This is news?” Henri said. “This is nothing.”
Paisley regarded him condescendingly. “People like gossip. I told you that. And Thad and Olivia make a glam couple because they’re, like, so different. This is going to get us all kinds of eyeballs.”
“Eyeballs?”
“People looking at it,” Paisley said impatiently.
Henri remained unconvinced. “I doubt the people who follow that site are interested in buying Marchand watches.”
“Are you kidding? All the celebs read Ratchet Up, and this is the kind of stuff we need to post. Or at least feed to the gossip sites.”
“No feeding to gossip sites,” Olivia said. “I have a professional reputation