It was as if he hadn’t heard her.
“Wait!”
The hotel room door shut behind him. She shot across the room and out into the hallway. “Mr. Owens! Thad! Wait!”
He continued his march to the elevator.
“Thad!”
The doors slid open and he stepped between them. She just made it inside before they closed.
He punched the button for the lobby without a glance in her direction. The elevator began to descend. “Thad, I want to apologize. I—”
The elevator slid to a stop, and an elderly couple got on. They smiled automatically, and then the woman took a closer look at Olivia.
Please, no.
“Olivia Shore! Oh, my goodness! Is it really you? We heard you sing Princess Eboli in Don Carlos last year in Boston. You were amazing!”
“Thank you.”
Her husband piped in. “‘O don fatale.’ That high B-flat. Unforgettable!”
“I can’t believe we’re meeting you in person,” the woman gushed. “Are you performing here?”
“No, I’m not.”
The elevator stopped at the lobby. Thad strode out ahead of the older couple. Olivia could see they were eager to engage her in a longer conversation. She quickly excused herself and hurried after him.
As the cold marble tiles of the lobby hit her bare feet, she remembered her flats lying next to the couch in the suite. Owens clearly didn’t want to talk to her, and she should turn back, but the idea of carrying this weight any longer was worse than the embarrassment of going after him.
He exited through the center front door. Guests turned to look at her as she rushed barefooted across the lobby. Outside, the first taxi in line had its door open, and Owens was speaking to the driver as he got in. She abandoned what was left of her dignity, sprinted toward the car, grabbed the door, threw herself in . . .
And fell right on top of him.
It was like landing on a bag of cement.
The hotel doorman hadn’t seen her awkward leap. He closed the car door and gestured for the taxi to move forward to make room for the next car. The cabdriver gazed at them in the rearview mirror with eyes that had seen it all, shrugged, and pulled away.
She scrambled off Thad. As she sprawled onto the seat next to him, he looked at her as if she were a cockroach, then leaned back and deliberately pulled out his phone. He began scrolling through it as if she weren’t there.
She curled her toes against the gritty floor mat. “I’m sorry. I want to apologize. I made a terrible mistake.”
“You don’t say,” he replied with total indifference, his eyes staying on his phone.
Olivia curled her toes deeper into the grit. “I talked to my friend. My former friend. She admitted she’d lied to me about everything. Her boyfriend walked in on the two of you, and— The details don’t matter. The point is, I’m sorry.”
“Uh-huh.” He’d put his phone to his ear and spoke into it. “Hey, Piper. Looks like we’re playing phone tag. I got your message, and I should be back in the city by then. Remember to let me know when you decide you’re ready to cheat on your husband.” He disconnected.
She stared at him.
He turned to her. “You had something to say to me?”
She’d already said it, but he deserved his pound of flesh. “I’m truly sorry, but . . .”
One of those perfect dark eyebrows arched. “But?”
Her temper got the best of her. “What would you have done if you thought you were stuck for the next four weeks with a sexual predator?”
“You have a strange idea of what constitutes an apology.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, and then, “No! I’m not sorry. Yes, I am, but— Believing what I did, I had to confront you.”
“You might be a great singer, but you’re crap at making apologies.”
She could only grovel for so long. “I’m a soprano. Sopranos aren’t supposed to apologize.”
He actually laughed.
“Truce?” she said, hoping for the best even though she knew she didn’t deserve it.
“I’ll think about it.”
The cab turned down a one-way street and pulled up in front of a seedy-looking bar with a neon cactus flickering in the window.
“While you’re thinking,” she said, “would you mind lending me cab fare to get back to the hotel?”
“I might,” he said. “Or . . . I have a better idea. Come in with me. I doubt the guys have ever met an opera singer.”
“Go into that awful bar?”
“Not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but mingling with the commoners might be good for you.”
“Another time.”
“Really?” His eyes narrowed. “You think all it takes is a couple of ‘I’m sorry’s’ to make up for character assassination? Words are cheap.”
She regarded him steadily. “This is payback, right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’m barefoot,” she pointed out with a certain degree of desperation.
He regarded her with silky animosity. “I wouldn’t have thought of it otherwise. If there’s too much broken glass, I’ll carry you over it.”
“You want revenge this much?”
“Hey, I said I’d carry you, didn’t I? But never mind. I know you don’t have the guts.”
She laughed in his face. A big, theatrical “ha!” that came straight from her diaphragm. “You don’t think I have the guts? I’ve been booed at La Scala!”
“They booed you?”
“Sooner or later it happens to everyone who sings there. Callas, Fleming, Pavarotti.” She reached for the door handle, stepped out onto the dirty pavement, and turned to gaze down at him. “I gave them the finger and finished the performance.”
He didn’t move. “I think I might be having second thoughts.”
“Afraid to be seen with me?”
“I’m afraid of you in general.”
“You’re not the first.” She marched toward the flickering neon cactus.
3
Decades of fossilized cigarette smoke clung to the bar’s walls, and the ancient black and brown floor tiles were a cautionary tale in asbestos abuse. Yellowed rodeo posters were shellacked to the ceiling, brown vinyl stools fronted the bar, and fake Tiffany Michelob lamps hung over the wooden tables.
Olivia considered her yoga pants and her bare feet. “I’m glad I travel with antibiotics.”
“I’ll bet you the bartender has a bottle of Boone’s Farm tucked away somewhere to cheer you up. I know you like your wine.”
“Thoughtful.”
One of the four oversized men sitting at a back table held up his arm, gesturing toward him. “T-Bo!”
Thad’s hand settled in the small of her back, propelling her forward. The men rose, dwarfing the table. Thad glowered at the youngest one sitting at the end. “What’s he doing here?”
The object of his disdain was maybe in his early twenties, with a big square face, solid jaw, shoulder-length light brown hair, and a manicured beard.
“I don’t know. He just showed up.” This came from a gorgeously athletic man with a fade—Afro on top and closely shaved sides with a scalp tattoo showing through. He wore a colorfully embroidered men’s leather bomber jacket over a bare chest draped with a half dozen necklaces.
“Damn, Ritchie, it’s bad enough I have to put up with Garrett during the season,” Thad groused. “I don’t have to do it now, too.”
“You tell him that,” the man named Ritchie responded.
Instead of looking at Thad, the target of Thad’s abuse was looking at her, which seemed to make Thad recall that he hadn’t arrived alone. “This is Olivia Shore. But you should call her Madame. She’s a big-deal opera singer doing some research on the life of lowbrow jocks.”
He was deliberately trying to embarrass her.
* * *
Thad didn’t feel one bit bad about embarrassing her. She deserved it. Except she didn’t seem all that embarrassed. Ins
tead, she stuck out that damned royal hand as if she expected them to kiss her fingers. “Enchanté,” she said, with a French accent so heavy he was afraid she’d choke on it. “And you may call me Olivia.”
The idiot child Thad was supposed to help turn into a superstar quarterback gestured to the empty chair next to him. “Come sit by me.”
“I’d be delighted.”
Hell. Thad tried to remember why he’d thought it was a good idea to bring her along. It was because— Never mind why. She was here now. But instead of being uncomfortable, she looked as though she made a habit of hanging out in dive bars.
Clint pulled out the chair for her. “Since Thad’s not doing the introductions, I’m Clint Garrett, starting quarterback for the Chicago Stars. Thad works for me.”
“How fortunate for him,” she cooed.
“Clint’s young and stupid,” Thad said. “Ignore him. Now the giant sitting at the other end of the table is Junior Lotulelei. Unlike Clint, he’s a real player. Offensive tackle for the 49ers now, but the two of us used to play together on the Broncos. That’s in Denver,” he added, to needle her. “Liv here doesn’t know much about American football. More a soccer fan.”
“Olivia,” she pointedly corrected him. At the same time, she was regarding Junior curiously, which wasn’t surprising since he was three hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle, and his hair grew so high above his head and so far down his back that it practically lived in another country. “Junior’s the best player to ever come out of Pago Pago.”
“American Samoa,” Junior clarified. “It’s the NFL’s favorite training ground.”
“I had no idea,” Olivia said.
Thad continued the introductions. “Ritchie Collins is at the other end of the table.” Tonight Ritchie wore a single gold hoop near his scalp tattoo. “Ritchie’s the fastest wide receiver the Stars have had since Bobby Tom Denton.”
“Ritchie’s my go-to guy,” Clint said. “Me and him are going to rule the world.”
“Not until you learn how to handle pressure in the pocket, little girl.” Thad had the satisfaction of seeing Clint wince. “The ugly dude next to him is Bigs Russo.” Bigs sometimes got offended if his ugly mug wasn’t acknowledged, and Thad didn’t see any point in taking chances.
Bigs’d had some new dental work since the last time Thad had seen him, but that hadn’t done anything to fix his squashed nose, bald head, and small eyes. “Bigs might look like a broke-down prizefighter,” Thad said, “but he’s the best defensive lineman in the League.”
The other men nodded in agreement, but Olivia seemed concerned that Thad had hurt Bigs’s feelings. “I find rugged men incredibly fascinating,” she cooed. “So much more interesting than those pretty-boy athletes who model underwear in their spare time.”
They all hooted, none louder than Bigs. Thad’s resentment eased. He had to hand it to her. The Diva wasn’t taking his crap lying down.
“So you two a thing now?” Ritchie asked.
“Oh, no,” Olivia replied emphatically. “He detests me. Not entirely without reason. He brought me here to embarrass me.”
“That’s no way to treat a lady, T-Bo,” Junior said.
“She insulted me,” Thad explained.
Olivia apparently decided to put it out in the open. “I accused him of something he didn’t do. This is his revenge.”
“I did notice you aren’t wearing shoes,” Bigs said.
“She’s a nature lover,” Thad said. “Half the time she walks around naked, but tonight she settled for bare feet.”
“Not true,” she said. “But an entertaining story.”
“Why’d you do that?” Ritchie asked her. “Accuse him?”
“I was fed some bad information.”
Ritchie nodded. “It can happen.”
“It wouldn’t have if I’d considered my source.”
Thad liked the fact that The Diva was being upfront. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.
The bartender came over to take their drink orders. Thad watched Olivia’s gaze switch from her grimy surroundings to his equally grimy apron.
“I’ll have iced tea. In a bottle.” As soon as the bartender left the table, she offered an explanation. “I’m allergic to E. coli bacteria.”
They all liked that.
“I’m guessing you gentlemen are obscenely wealthy, so . . .” She made a gesture toward the nicotine-stained walls and mostly dead Christmas tree lights draping a longhorn steer skull. “Why this place?”
“Bigs chose it.” Ritchie slid his fingers over the embroidered rose on his leather bomber.
“It’s important to keep it real,” Bigs said.
Ritchie tilted back in his chair. “This is a whole new world of real.”
The Diva didn’t seem to mind when the conversation inevitably drifted to football. For someone who made a living commanding center stage, her willingness to step back surprised him. As they tossed around their opinions of sports broadcasters, team owners, and exchanged some general trash talk, she ignored her iced tea and listened patiently.
Clint, not surprisingly, tried to get her to leave with him.
“No shoes,” she said.
“I’ll buy you a couple pairs of Blahniks on the way.”
She laughed.
Thad still didn’t get why the kid had shown up in Phoenix, but it said something bad about The Diva’s character that she seemed to like the idiot. Still, his opinion of The Diva had changed. He’d made some mistakes in his time, and despite his remarks to the contrary, she’d offered up a damned good apology.
She patted Clint on the shoulder and rose from the table. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”
* * *
Crossing her legs was no longer an option. As horrifying as the idea of using this particular bathroom was, she really, really had to go. She tiptoed across the floor to the back hallway, letting as little of her bare feet touch the floor as possible. Behind her, she heard Bigs say, “You really shoulda bought her some shoes, T-Bo.”
T-Bo. Apparently, that was Thad Owens’s jock nickname. If it were up to her, she’d have nicknamed him Butthead.
The women’s toilet had a simpering mermaid on the door, while the men’s had a dramatic figure of Neptune. Total gender discrimination. She pulled the sleeve of her white top over her hand and turned the doorknob.
It was bad. Really bad. The cracked cement floor was wet in places, with a streamer of sodden toilet paper unfurling toward a semi-clogged drain. And it smelled. She absolutely could not go barefoot into this hellhole.
But if she didn’t, she’d wet her pants. And imagine what a laugh Thad Owens would get out of that.
By keeping her feet on the asbestos tiles in the hallway, holding on to the door frame with one hand, and stretching as far as her body would allow, she could just reach the rusting paper towel dispenser with her opposite hand. She pulled off one, two . . . six paper towels. Dividing her stack in half, she slipped three under one foot, three under the other, and proceeded to shuffle inside.
It was inadequate and totally disgusting. When she was done, she scrubbed her hands twice in the cracked porcelain sink and shuffled back across the floor to the door. The paper towels had gotten wet from the filthy floor and begun to shred. She opened the door to see Thad standing in the hallway.
He peered inside. “Now that is nasty.”
She shuddered. “I hate you.”
“You’re not going to say that when you see what I bought off the cook.” He dangled a pair of dirty white Crocs in front of her.
She abandoned the ruined paper towels, grabbed the Crocs, and, with another shudder, shoved her feet inside. They were barely long enough for her narrow size tens.
“I’m so not eating here.”
“Good call,” he said.
When they got back to the table, Bigs was standing in the corner with an ancient karaoke machine.
“And now the real fun begins,” Thad said. “A word of advice. Bigs can’t si
ng a note, but don’t tell him that.”
“For real,” Ritchie said with a head shake.
While Bigs was considering his musical options, Clint Garrett tried to get Thad off into a corner so they could talk about “the pocket,” whatever that was, but Thad refused to cooperate.
“He hates me,” Clint said cheerfully to Olivia when Thad went over to the bar to order another drink. “But he has one of the best football minds in the League, and he’s a great coach.” When she looked confused, he said, “The best backup quarterbacks do everything they can to make the starter a better player.”
“He doesn’t seem to be doing much coaching.”
“He will once training camp starts. Then he’s all business. Dude’ll get me out of bed at six in the morning to watch film. Nobody reads the defense like Thad Owens.”
Olivia toyed with her unopened iced tea bottle. “So . . . if you don’t mind my asking, if he’s so great, why isn’t he the starting quarterback instead of you?”
Clint tugged at his beard. “It’s complicated. He should have been one of the greats, but he has this thing with his peripheral vision. Nothing that’d be a problem in any other job. Just in this one.”
The song choices were as cheesy as the karaoke machine, and “Achy Breaky Heart” began to play. Bigs had the mike, and she winced as he launched into a cruelly off-key version. From there, he tortured Stevie Wonder’s “Part-Time Lover.” Afterward, he took a break to down his beer and approach Olivia. “T-Bo says you’re a big-time opera singer. Let’s hear you.”
“I’m on vocal rest.”
“I heard you doing some kind of singing exercises this morning,” Thad said unhelpfully.
“That’s different.”
Bigs shrugged and took the mike again. His “Build Me Up Buttercup” wasn’t quite as bad as “Part-Time Lover,” but his rendition of “I Want to Know What Love Is” was so ugly the other customers finally rebelled.
“Shut the hell up!”
“Turn that thing off!”
“Sit down, asshole!”
Thad winced. “And now it begins.”
Bigs clenched his ham-hock fists and kept singing, his face flushing red with anger.
Junior looked worried. “If you don’t get that mike away from him, T-Bo, he’ll end up suspended before the season even starts.”
When Stars Collide Page 4
