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, 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 fran?ais, 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.