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 français, 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.

Henri remained unconvinced. “I doubt the people who follow that site are interested in buying Marchand watches.”

“Are you kidding? All the celebs read Ratchet Up, and this is the kind of stuff we need to post. Or at least feed to the gossip sites.”

“No feeding to gossip sites,” Olivia said. “I have a professional reputation to think about.”

That pissed him off. “What about my reputation? Do you think I want the guys in the locker room thinking I’m dating an opera singer?”

He’d made his point, and she had the grace to look embarrassed.

6

To Paisley’s delight and Thad’s displeasure, Clint Garrett was back on the plane the next day as they left San Francisco for Seattle. “Don’t get all worked up.” Clint grinned at him. “Livia invited me.”

Thad glared at The Diva. “Why?”

He didn’t like the evil gleam in her eyes. “Because I like him, but even more, I love seeing how much he irritates you.”

Clint shrugged. “That pretty much explains it.”

“How long are you going to keep stalking me?” Thad demanded.

“Not much longer. I have some stuff to do next week.” Ignoring Paisley’s attempt to get his attention, Clint whipped out his computer and pulled up film from the Steelers’ loss. “Since you’ve got some free time . . .”

Fortunately, once they reached Seattle, Clint took off, although Thad knew he’d be back.

They had a formal photo shoot that afternoon, which Henri intended to use as part of a nationwide advertising campaign. Accompanied by a photographer, his assistant, a stylist, and Paisley, they set off for the Seahawks’ stadium, where they spent a couple of hours shooting various scenarios. His favorite showed himself and Olivia posed between the goalposts, both of them in evening dress with their watches on display. He wore a tux and leaned leisurely against the goalposts. Olivia, her hair arranged in an elaborate updo and strips of eye black under her eyes, wore a black gown and held the football as if it were a microphone and she was singing into it.

Afterward, they headed north to the Seattle Opera. On a bare stage, they experimented with scenes that referenced Carmen. The stylist put Olivia in an elaborate scarlet gown that pushed up her breasts and arranged her hair so it fell over her bare shoulders. The stylist put him in a white shirt that opened to the middle of his chest, tight black pants, and calf-high black leather boots. In their best shot, he lay on his side on the stage floor, head propped on a bent elbow, his other hand showcasing his watch as he balanced a football on end. Olivia loomed over him, her head thrown back, hair flying from a fan just out of camera range, her arm with the Cavatina3 extended. In the background, Henri played a recording of her famous “Habanera” to set the mood.

As the music played and Olivia experimented with various positions, he kept waiting for her to start accompanying herself, but to his disappointment, she didn’t. The vocal exercises he heard every morning had become a striptease in his head, and he was increasingly obsessed with the idea of her singing. Just for him.

Henri was rhapsodic about the photos. They were so different from any of Marchand’s past campaigns, which were nothing more than well-photographed close-ups of the watch from various angles. “These are going to be extraordinaire! Everyone will be talking about them. This will be our most successful campaign ever.”

Thad doubted Mariel Marchand would agree.

* * *

It was nearly midnight when they reached the hotel. In his suite, he found a pink satin box on the living room coffee table. He flipped the lid, stared at the contents, and walked over to their connecting door. “Open up.”

“Go away,” she said from the other side. “I’m too tired to spar with you tonight.”

“I sympathize, but open up anyway.”

She did, but with a frown. “What?” Her lipstick had worn off, and her hair stuck out from all the day’s sprays, gels, and pomades. He liked seeing her messy. It made her less formidable. More . . . manageable.