When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(56)

“That’s the general idea.” He’d fended off opponents for years, and using both his height and the barrier of his elbow, he kept her at a distance as he moved over to the windows. “Mr. Glass, dis is Bruno Kowalski. Sorry to wake you up.” His fake tough-guy accent suggested he might have seen too many Scorsese movies. “I’m Miz Shore’s bodyguard.”

She rolled her eyes, torn between pity for poor Rupert and a curiosity about what Thad was going to say.

“The thing is . . . all these presents is upsettin’ her lawyer.” Thad winked at her. “Dude says she’s gonna be in trouble with the IRS. Somethin’ about exceeding fed’ral tax limits. She’s real stressed out about it. Maybe thinkin’ about givin’ up opera and goin’ on the road with a rock band.”

What? she mouthed at him.

He shrugged at her. “So all I’m sayin’ is . . . if you don’t want her to keep bein’ upset, you better cut it out.” Long, menacing pause. “If you know what I mean.”

She could faintly hear Rupert’s high, squeaky response.

“Yeah, I thought you’d understand. Now you have a real good day, Mr. Glass, okay?”

She planted her hands on her hips as he disconnected. “‘Exceeding federal tax limits’? Who comes up with something like that?”

“Somebody with a degree in finance from the University of Kentucky and an unhealthy interest in the IRS.” He slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Better than threatening to shoot out his kneecaps, right?”

“You’re all heart.”

*

The International Jewelers Convention in Las Vegas was the busiest stop on their tour, and they spent two days meeting with jewelers and buyers. Several of them felt duty bound to point out what she already knew about her own jewelry. Her pigeon’s egg necklace didn’t hold a real ruby, her Egyptian cuff was a fake, her poison rings not real antiques, and her dangling Spanish earrings souvenir quality. When they offered to give her a good deal on the real thing, she told them she lost jewelry too easily instead of telling the truth, that she had genuine pieces she seldom wore locked up in her apartment.

She and Thad posed for photos, sat for interviews, and chatted with bloggers. Through it all, the air between them crackled with erotic anticipation. Every gesture, every glance carried extra meaning.

I can’t wait to see . . . To touch . . . To taste . . . To feel . . .

Even in the air-conditioned exhibition hall, her cheeks felt flushed, her skin hot. She forgot names, lost track of conversations, and he was doing even worse. At one point, he addressed a clearly pregnant woman as “sir.”

As they walked through the crowded aisles, his hand stroked the small of her back. She brushed against his hip. When they posed for photos, their fingers touched behind the person standing between them. It was foreplay shot into the stratosphere.

Their last night arrived. She dressed with extra care for the private client dinner at José Andrés’s newest restaurant. Hair down. Barely there underpants. She debated between two black cocktail dresses. Under the more modest one, she could wear a deliciously sexy lacy black bra. But a bra would show beneath the other, a simple black sheath with a severely plunging V that required a set of silicone gel lift pads and a little fashion tape to hold everything together. Not nearly as alluring as the sexy lace bra. But the neckline of that more modest dress didn’t come to a point well below her breasts and wouldn’t drive him crazy all through dinner.

She imagined herself toying with the edge of that enticing V and trailing her fingers along her exposed skin. Definitely worth sacrificing the lacy bra, she decided.

She set aside her customary statement jewelry for understatement—a simple pair of earrings and an extra-long delicate silver chain dangling a tiny silver star charm. Rachel had bought that for her when they were both flat broke. As Olivia fastened it around her neck, the little star nestled between her breasts, right where she imagined the Stars quarterback would put his lips.

She shivered. First, they had to endure a long, boring dinner.

Las Vegas venues were brutally air-conditioned, and she dug out a vintage flamenco shawl that had been a gift from a Carmen fan. Bringing the ghost of Sevilla’s sultry Romani cigar maker along for the evening felt like the perfect good-luck charm.

A knock sounded on their connecting door. She draped the shawl over her shoulders and picked up her small evening purse.

At first, he didn’t say a thing. He simply stood there taking her in. Then he breathed a soft, flattering obscenity.

She tilted her head so her hair fell over one shoulder and breathed just deeply enough to swell the exposed inner slopes of her breasts.

He groaned. “You’re diabolical.”

Exactly what she wanted to hear.

*

The front desk called up to tell them their limo had arrived. It was early, but she and Thad were both ready, and they headed down to the lobby. As they settled into the car’s back seat, they were so focused on each other she barely heard the driver tell them that Henri had already left and would meet them at the restaurant.

“Just what we don’t need.” Olivia slipped the flamenco shawl higher around her shoulders. “More time alone together.”

Thad gazed at her legs. “The next three hours can’t go by fast enough.”

Olivia slid onto the bench seat that ran the length of the limo, putting a little distance between them. He gave her a lazy smile. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you tonight.”