Page 8 of When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars 9)

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 legs. One of the photographers gestured toward an armchair near the windows. “Let’s try a few shots over there.”

The Diva settled in the armchair, and Thad took up a position behind her.

Marchand tugged on today’s silk neck scarf. “Thaddeus, may I suggest you put your hand on her shoulder?”

All the better to display the Victory780, but Thad had never been more reluctant to touch a woman.

She flinched, a movement so subtle he doubted anyone else noticed. He had no idea what he’d done to make her hate him so much. He was a straight shooter—blunt when he needed to be—but generally diplomatic. He liked most people, and he didn’t make a habit of collecting enemies. He respected women and treated them well. This was her problem, not his. Still, he had to admit to a perverse curiosity.

After the photographers left, Henri suggested they all meet for dinner at eight in the hotel’s four-star restaurant. Thad had plans to get together with some former teammates, and he declined. The Diva pleaded fatigue and said she’d order room service later. Henri didn’t extend the invitation to Paisley.

Thad excused himself to change into workout clothes, but as he reached the second-floor fitness center, he realized he’d forgotten his phone. He liked to listen to music on the treadmill, and he went back to retrieve it.

The living room’s double French doors were open, and she stood on the terrace by the rail. He hesitated. To hell with it. He was sick of her crap, and this was his chance to talk to her privately.

He walked over to the open doors but didn’t step out. “I’m behind you, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attack me again.”

She whirled around. She’d gotten rid of the big scarf and traded her stilettos for a pair of flats, but she still looked plenty put together in her white dress. Did she even own a pair of jeans?

“Do you need something?” She addressed him as if he were a servant who’d interrupted her.

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