When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,8
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.
She was sipping tea in the suite when he arrived, and she found something fascinating to stare at in the bottom of her teacup. The Diva knew how to look good for photos. She’d pinned up her hair and angled a printed scarf around her shoulders. Her white pencil dress showed off shapely arms and the impressive set of legs that had tried to emasculate him last night.
Henri appeared with the photographers. As they set up the shoot, Henri asked her about her jewelry. Studiously ignoring Thad, she showed him a wide, matte-gold bracelet set with stones. “A replica of an Egyptian cuff from a dear friend. And this is one of my favorite poison rings.” She flipped the domed top open, revealing a not-so-secret compartment. “Easy to fill it with poison and tip the contents into an enemy’s drink.” She darted an honest-to-God warning look at him.
“Or to off yourself,” he tossed back.
He had the satisfaction of seeing her wince.
The photographer was ready for them. Henri posed Thad behind The Diva, and then next to her on the couch. She tucked her fingers under her chin, displaying the watch. He kept his wrist visible.
He’d spent a lot of time getting his picture taken, and he was comfortable in front of cameras, but The Diva seemed antsy, shifting around, crossing and recrossing her