* * *
When they returned to the suite, Henri greeted them with the news that there was a weather alert for San Francisco. “I heard from the pilot. We need to leave quickly, or you’ll miss your afternoon interviews.”
Olivia took a fa
st shower, grabbed a clean pair of yoga pants, and put on a long white sweater. She’d pull herself together on the plane.
* * *
Thad had never seen Olivia without makeup. Even that morning when they’d hiked, she’d had on lipstick and maybe some kind of tinted sunscreen. Now, with a scrubbed face and her hair pulled into a ponytail, she looked younger. Less like a diva and more like a really hot barista working at the counter of a funky coffee shop where none of the mugs matched.
Mariel was already on the plane when they got there. She drew Henri aside for what appeared to be a volatile conversation that indicated a less-than-friendly relationship. Paisley was intimidated by Mariel in a way she wasn’t by Henri and spent the trip huddled against the rear bulkhead trying to make herself invisible.
Not long before they landed, Olivia emerged from the plane’s bathroom in one of her classic outfits. A charcoal power dress with a crisscrossed purple belt and a couple of her big jewelry pieces. It was stylish, elegant, and expensive. He missed the hot barista.
Mariel sent Paisley off to deal with the luggage and accompanied Henri to Thad and Olivia’s live appearance on a noontime news and talk show. Afterward, they taped an interview at one of the local cable stations. The photograph of Thad carrying Olivia came up, and this time Olivia dove right in with the bench-pressing story. The host laughed, the watches were spotlighted, and a good time was had by all.
Except Mariel.
“Olivia should not be so frivolous in her interviews,” the Frenchwoman told Thad later that day, as she escorted him to another radio station, while Paisley hid and Henri shepherded Olivia to afternoon tea with a group of fashion bloggers. “There is a certain dignity associated with the Marchand brand.”
Mariel’s imperious manner was getting under his skin. “It made good television. You’re trying to reach younger consumers, and dignity doesn’t count for much with them.”
Mariel gave one of her Gallic shrugs. She was an imposing woman—no doubt about it—but he was glad to see Henri waiting for him at their San Francisco hotel.
This time, he and The Diva were placed in separate smaller suites, and that night’s client dinner took place in the hotel dining room. Thad was growing to heartily dislike these dinners, which lasted forever and required too much small talk. Still, they were part of what he’d signed up for, and he was too well paid to complain.
The Diva, he’d noticed, had been restricting herself to a single glass of wine since their altercation on the terrace. Mariel dominated the conversation with facts and figures about the Marchand brand, and Henri’s customary affability seemed ruffled at the edges.
At eleven, when dinner finally ended, Thad headed for the fitness center instead of going to bed. But even after a long workout, he had trouble falling asleep. He kept thinking about the disturbing notes The Diva had been receiving.
He also had the disquieting feeling there was more she wasn’t telling him.
* * *
After his morning shower, he called her. “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
“I’m never eating again.”
“Problematic.”
“Did you see the way I demolished that crème brûlée last night?”
“Not my favorite. Too sweet.”
“There is no such thing as too sweet. What’s wrong with you? And why are you calling me?”
“I was getting ready to order room service breakfast, and I don’t like to eat alone.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“It was, but you sound grouchy, so forget it.”
“Black coffee for me, and I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Wait. I said I was reconsid—”
She’d hung up. He smiled and put in a call to room service—coffee and a couple of poached eggs for him. Coffee and a Belgian waffle for her.