When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,35
She climbed out.
“I can’t help my—”
“And bat those green eyes.”
His voice raised in outrage. “I never batted an eye in my life!”
She stomped across the snowy deck in her flip-flops. “Every time you— You—” She grabbed the bedroom doorknob.
It was locked.
7
Stunned, Olivia spun toward him. “You locked the door!”
He reared up from the bubbles. “What do you mean?”
“The door! You must have pushed the lock when you came out here.”
“I didn’t do anything to the lock. Let me see.”
He rose—his body steaming in the cold night air, a male Aphrodite emerging from an artificial sea.
The veteran of a hundred locker rooms wasn’t self-conscious about nudity, and she should have been too focused on the locked door for more than a passing glance, but she wasn’t.
He was magnificent, every part of him. Shoulders and chest, narrow hips, lean and powerful legs. And . . . Wow.
He moved in front of her and tried the knob. “You’re right.”
She forced herself to refocus. “Of course I’m right!”
“What kind of idiot would use a lock like this on a balcony door?”
“They’re your friends, not mine.”
He felt above the door frame. “See if you can find an extra key anyplace out here.”
There was no furniture, nowhere to really look, but she poked around anyway. “Nothing. Why didn’t we bring our phones? We should have brought Paisley.”
“Depressing thought.” He abandoned his fruitless search above the door and reached for his boxers. “I don’t suppose any of those classes you take taught you how to pick a lock?”
“Lock-picking isn’t a requirement for grand opera, but I can order dessert in seven languages.”
“Currently useless, but still impressive. We’ll find another way in.”
“It’s freezing!” Like any serious opera singer, she religiously guarded herself against chills with scarves around her throat, herbal teas, and vitamin supplements, yet here she was.
“Get back in the water.”
As cold as she was, she couldn’t stay in the water while he set out alone trying to rescue them. She was better than that. Shivering, she followed him down the single set of stairs to the frozen ground. The motion-activated security lights came on. She wrapped the wet towel tighter, but it was useless for anything except modesty. “You didn’t leave the keys in the car by any chance?” she asked. “Stupid question. None of us who live in Chicago leave keys in our cars.”
They moved toward the front of the house. He craned his neck to look up at the windows. Her teeth were chattering so loudly that he heard them. “There’s no reason for both of us to be freezing our asses off. Get back in the water.”
“And have you take all the credit for rescuing us? No way. Besides, I can tolerate cold better than you.”
“I’m a trained athlete. How do you figure that?”
“I have more body fat.”
His gaze moved from the second-story windows down to her chest. “In all the right places.”
“Seriously?” Her towel had indeed slipped, and she jerked it back up. “We’re about to die from hypothermia, and you’re looking at my breasts?”
“You’re the one who brought them up.”
If she hadn’t been so cold, she would have laughed. Instead, she adopted some fake outrage. “As soon as this tour is over, I’m never speaking to you again.”
“Doubtful.”
“You’re not that irresistible.”
“Up for debate.”
He was irresistible. To any woman who didn’t possess an iron will.
They rounded the corner to the front of the house. Her flip-flops kept sinking into the snow, her toes had gone numb, and they were both covered with goose bumps. “How l-long . . . do you think before we d-die?”
“I don’t know. Five minutes?”
“You don’t know that!”
“Of course I don’t know that! And w-we aren’t going to die. The hot tub, remember?” He jiggled the front doorknob, but it, too, was locked.
Her teeth were rattling so hard her jaw hurt. “We . . . c-can’t stay in the water f-forever.”
His teeth had also begun to chatter. “Henri’ll come looking for us when we don’t show up.”
“We c-can’t stay in the hot tub all night.”
He gave her a level-eyed look that told her she might be acting like a brainless heroine from a 1950s rom-com instead of a woman who commanded center stage. She pulled herself together. “We’re going to . . . b-break a window.”
“Now there’s an idea.” He was already heading for the far side of the house.
“You don’t need to be . . . s-s-s-arcastic.” Her damp towel had stiffened, beginning to freeze. “Oh, God, I’m cold.”