“So you’ve never seen Thad Owens play?”
“No.” She gazed directly at Thad for the first time, eyes as cold as a January night. “Have you ever heard me sing?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he said with his best drawl. “But my thirty-seventh is coming up, and I’d sure welcome a round of ‘Happy Birthday’ to mark the occasion.”
The lifestyle editor laughed, but The Diva didn’t crack a smile. “Duly noted.”
The classical music critic launched into some questions about a concert The Diva had given last year in Phoenix and a follow-up about European opera houses. The sports writer asked Thad about his fitness regimen and his thoughts on the Cardinals’ prospects for next season.
Paisley had returned to her cell phone coma. Marchand offered more wine. “We’re honored to have two people as accomplished as Madame Shore and Mr. Owens as our new Marchand ambassadors. Both of them are style setters.”
The lifestyle editor took in Thad’s gray slacks and quarter-zip raspberry cashmere sweater. “What’s your fashion philosophy, Mr. Owens?”
“Quality and comfort,” he said.
“A lot of men wouldn’t be brave enough to wear that color.”
“I like color,” he said, “but I’m not into trends, and the only jewelry I wear is a great watch.”
She cocked her head. “Maybe a wedding ring someday?”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t wish me on anybody. I’m too unreliable. Now when it comes to reliability”—he extended his wrist, earning his paycheck—“this is what I count on. I’ve worn Marchand watches for years. That’s why I was attracted to their invitation. They’ve outdone themselves with the Victory780.”
Henri beamed. The lifestyle editor turned to The Diva. “What about you, Ms. Shore? How would you describe your fashion philosophy?”
“Quality and discomfort.” She surprised him by slipping off her stilettos.
The style editor’s gaze traveled from Thad’s raspberry sweater to The Diva’s black-and-white ensemble. “You seem to prefer neutral colors.”
“I believe in elegance.” She glanced at Thad with open contempt. What the hell was wrong with her? “Bright pink is best kept on the stage,” she said. “I’m only speaking for myself, of course.”
His sweater wasn’t fucking pink. It was raspberry!
“I’m very selective,” she went on, her attention returning to the lifestyle editor. “That’s why the Cavatina3 is the perfect watch for me.” She took it off and handed it to the reporter to examine more closely. “My schedule is demanding. I need a watch I can rely on, but also one that complements my wardrobe and my lifestyle.”
Commercial over.
They answered a few more questions. Where was Madame Shore living? How did Mr. Owens fill his time during the off-season?
“I needed a break from Manhattan,” The Diva replied, “and since I like Chicago, and it’s in the middle of the country, I rented an apartment there a few months ago. It makes domestic travel easier.”
Thad was deliberately vague. “I work out and look after everything I’m too busy to take care of during the season.”
Paisley missed her first cue to escort the reporters back to the lobby but finally got the message. After they’d disappeared, Marchand announced Olivia’s and Thad’s luggage had been delivered to the bedrooms that adjoined opposite sides of the suite. Henri gestured around the living and dining areas, along with the small kitchen. “As you can see, this is quite convenient for interviews and tomorrow’s photo shoot. The chef will be making tonight’s clients’ dinner in the private kitchen.”
The Diva’s head shot up, and her dramatic eyebrows drew together. “Henri, may I speak with you?”
“But of course.” The two of them moved toward the door into the hallway.
Thad was pissed. She obviously didn’t like the idea of them sharing the suite. Fine. She could move to another room because no way was he giving up that big terrace. Ever since he was a kid, he’d been more comfortable outside than inside, and being cooped up in hotel rooms for too long, no matter how big they were, made him jumpy. He wasn’t going anywhere.
* * *
Olivia had only taken a few steps before she realized she’d made a mistake. The doors had sturdy locks, and if she insisted on moving to another room, Thad Owens would realize she was afraid of him.
She touched Henri’s arm. “Never mind, Henri. We can talk later. Nothing important.”
As she picked up the stilettos she’d abandoned, Thad moved behind her. “Just so you know . . . ,” he said. “I don’t like nighttime visitors.”
She sucked in her breath, gave him her fiercest arctic glare, and sealed herself in her room.
* * *
Thad heard the lock click behind her. She’d looked at him with so much disdain he’d half expected her to say something operatic like, To the gallows, you swine!
Henri beamed. “What a woman! She is magnificent! La Belle Tornade.”
“Let me guess. ‘The beautiful turnip.’”
Henri laughed. “Non, non. She is called ‘the Beautiful Tornado’ for the power of her voice.”
Thad didn’t buy the “beautiful” part, not with those dark slabs of eyebrow and that long nose. As for “tornado” . . . “Ice storm” seemed more like it.
* * *
Thad made some phone calls and worked out in the hotel’s fitness center before he came back to the suite and showered. Through the closed bedroom door, he heard the sound of The Diva singing musical scales. He listened as the notes rose and fell, the vowel sounds subtly changing, from ees to ewws, then some mahs. It was mesmerizing. No doubt about it. The lady could sing. As her tone switched from light to dark, he got goose bumps. How could anybody hit those notes?
With dinnertime approaching, the smells coming from the private kitchen promised a good meal. He changed into a purple T-shirt and a black metallic Dolce & Gabbana blazer with a printed lavender pocket square. It was a little over the top, even for him, but he had a point to make.
He heard Henri’s voice in the living room, and as he stepped out, the guests began to arrive. They were all buyers, one from a local jewelry chain, a couple from department stores, and a few independent jewelers.
The Diva emerged in a floor-length black velvet gown. Her breasts caught his attention first. They weren’t big, but full enough to push above the gown’s neckline. She hadn’t cluttered up the view with any necklaces, only a pair of earrings. Her skin was naturally pale, but against all that black velvet, it seemed even paler. She wore the Cavatina3 on one wrist and a variety of rings on her long fingers. She’d tidied up her afternoon hair with a formal twist that was a little old-fashioned, but he had to admit it suited her. She had presence; he’d give her that.
She did her normal grand-entrance thing—arm extended, distant smile, regal stride—and she was right back on his nerves again. He wanted to rumple her up. Knock her off her pedestal. Smear that bright red lipstick. Pull out the pins holding her hair together. Shuck off her clothes and stick her in a pair of ratty jeans and an old Stars sweatshirt.