“I’m not singing,” Thad responded. “You do it.”
“Hell, no.”
“Don’t look at me,” Ritchie said. “I’m worse than he is.”
Clint had disappeared, the crowd was getting uglier, and all three men looked at her. “Vocal rest,” she repeated.
The three of them rose in unison. Thad took one arm, Ritchie the other, and they lifted her from her chair. While Junior ran interference, they propelled her to the microphone just as the crowd’s jeers grew louder and “Friends in Low Places” began to play.
Thad gently extracted the mike from Bigs. “Liv changed her mind. This is her favorite song, and she wants to sing.”
“Olivia,” she hissed.
To her dismay, Bigs handed over the microphone.
And there she was, La Belle Tornade, the toast of the Metropolitan, the jewel of La Scala, the pride of the Royal Opera House standing before a roomful of drunks with a sticky microphone in her hand and a Garth Brooks tune ringing in her ears. She gave it her worst. Perfectly pitched, but quiet. No open, rounded vowels. No soaring high notes or resonant lows. Not even a hint of vibrato. As ordinary as she could make it.
“Take it off!” a bully shouted from the end of the bar as she reached the final chorus.
“Let’s see what you got on underneath!” another shouted.
Before she knew it, the entire bar, with the exception of the football players, was shouting, “Take it off! Take it off!”
The temper that had made her give the finger to the odious loggionisti at La Scala got the best of her. She whipped off one of the Crocs, threw it at the nearest culprit, and then hurled the other at the initial offender.
Thad appeared from nowhere, grabbed her by the shoulders, and twisted her toward the door. “And now we get out of here.”
Apparently, she didn’t move fast enough because he swept all five feet ten inches and one hundred and forty pounds of her into his arms and wedged her outside without banging her head on the door.
“Let me go!”
He set her down, pulled her across the one-way street, picked her up again, and carried her into an alley.
“What . . . ?”
“Rats.”
She clutched his neck. “No!”
“We’ll hang here for a while until things settle down.”
She grabbed him tighter. “I hate rodents!” The alley was narrow, with metal fire escapes running up the sides of the brick buildings, and a sentinel of Dumpsters standing guard. “I’m good with bugs, and I had a pet snake when I was a kid, but no rats.”
She felt him shudder. “I’m not a big fan of snakes.”
“Fine. You handle the rodents and I’ll take care of the reptiles.”
“Deal.”
She held herself stiffly, one hand at his chest, wanting and not wanting to rest her head against his dark blue blazer as she searched the area for vermin. “I’m too heavy.”
“I can bench-press three-twenty. You’re at least a hundred and fifty pounds under that.”
By the time she’d done the math, he was already grinning. She withered him with her frostiest voice. “May we go now?”
“A few more minutes.”
He leaned against the brick wall, easily balancing her weight in his arms. She turned her head. Her cheek brushed the soft cotton of his T-shirt. He smelled good. A clean aftershave along with the faintest hint of beer. She gazed at her filthy feet. Something odious was stuck to the top of her instep.
“I have to admit I was a little disappointed in your singing,” he said. “You sounded good—don’t get me wrong—but you didn’t sound much like a first-rate opera singer.”
“I told you. I’m resting my voice.”
“I guess. But it was kind of a downer after hearing those impressive exercises you do.”
She gave him her most noncommittal “hmm” and made another quick scan for rodents.
“Reach in my back pocket,” he said, “and pull out my phone so I can call an Uber.”
She turned, pressing her breasts against his chest, and reached between their bodies, down across the blade of his hip bone and—very carefully—eased her hand along the slope of what was, not surprisingly, a very firm rear end.
She was now twisted flat against him, cupping his butt while her own butt was hoisted in the air. “I can’t—” She felt the bulge of the phone in his pocket. Felt another bulge. Quickly withdrew her hand. “This isn’t going to work. ”
“It’s working for me.”
He was provoking her again. She twisted into a semi-upright position without the phone. “We need a new plan.” She thought of the rats. “But don’t you dare put me down.”
He eased her onto the lid of the nearest Dumpster, something he could have done, she realized, from the beginning. “Don’t run away.”
As if she would.
A few minutes later, he was carrying her from the alley into a waiting Uber.
Neither of them seemed to have much to say as they drove back to the hotel. He stared straight ahead, a half smile on his face. She turned her head out the window and felt a half smile taking over her own face. Despite the dirt, the drunks, the threat of rats. Despite Thad Owens himself. Tonight was the first fun she’d had in weeks.
Her smile faded as she thought of Adam, whose days of having fun were over forever.
* * *
The Diva endured the walk across the glittering lobby with her chin raised and her haughtiest expression, daring anyone to mention her filthy bare feet. As they reached the elevator, a desk clerk hurried up to her. “Flowers arrived while you were out, Ms. Shore. We put them in your suite. And you have a message.”
She took the envelope he handed her with a gracious nod, but as the elevator rose, she crushed it in her fist.
Thad held the door of their suite open and entered behind her, stepping into the overwhelming smell of too many flowers. Vases stuffed full of a dozen varieties covered the top of the piano.
The Diva sighed. “Rupert again.”
“Again? He does this frequently?”
“Flowers, boxes of expensive chocolates, champagne. I’ve tried to discourage him, but as you can see, it hasn’t worked.” She extracted a florist card from one of the arrangements, glanced at it, and set it back down.
“Rupert is one of your lovers?”
“One of legions.”
“Seriously?”
“No, not seriously! He’s at least seventy.”
Thad took in the flowers. “Am I the only one who thinks this is creepy?”
“You have to understand opera fans. They feel like a dying breed, and that can make them overzealous when it comes to their favorite singers.”
“Are there others like Rupert?”
“He’s my most ardent. As for the rest . . . It depends on the production. I’ve gotten Spanish shawls, cases of good rioja, even a few Iberian hams from the Carmen aficionados. And, of course, cigars.”
“Why cigars?”
“Carmen works in a cigar factory.”
“I know that.” He didn’t. “So what other weird gifts have your twisted superfans sent?”
“They’re passionate, not twisted, and I love every one of them. Silver scissors for Samson et Dalila.”
“Stay away from my hair.”
“Lots of Egyptian jewelry—scarab earrings and bracelets—because I sing Amneris in Aida. She’s the villain, but she has her reasons—unrequited love and all that. I’ve even gotten a silver hookah.” As an afterthought, she added, “Aida is set in Egypt.”
“I know that.” He did.
“Mozart fans have sent me more cherubs than I can count.”
“For?”
“Cherubino. We mezzos are famous for our breeches parts.”
“Women playing men?”
“Yes. Cherubino in Marriage of Figaro. He’s a horndog. Sesto in La clemenza di Tito. Hansel in Hansel and Gretel. My friend Rachel owns that role.”
“Hard to imagine
you playing a guy.”
“I pride myself.”
He smiled. Her passion for her work and loyalty to her fans were unmistakable. Passion was what drew him to people, their enthusiasm for their jobs or their hobbies—whatever gave their life joy and meaning, whether it was making a great marinara sauce, collecting Louisville Sluggers, or singing opera. Nothing bored him more than bored people. Life was too great for that.
She scratched the back of her calf with the toes of one grubby foot. “I’m sure you receive gifts.”
“I got a good deal on a Maserati.”
“I’ll have to mention that to Rupert. Anything else?”
“The occasional loan of a vacation home, plus more liquor than I can drink and too many restaurant meals comped. It’s ironic how often people who don’t need money get the breaks, while the ones who could use a helping hand come up empty.”
She regarded him thoughtfully. “Not exactly the viewpoint of an entitled jock.”
He shrugged. “There’s a big link between genetics and athletic ability. I got lucky.”
She studied him a moment longer than necessary before gazing at her feet. “I need a shower. I’ll see you in the morning.”
It felt like the end of a good date, and he had a crazy urge to kiss her. An impulse she obviously didn’t share because she was already on her way to her bedroom.
He opened the terrace doors and stepped outside. He felt restless, itchy. The Diva was too cavalier about these gifts for his taste. He’d had to deal with a couple of overzealous fans like Rupert, and one of them had turned into a verified stalker. He drummed on the terrace rail, turned back inside, and went to the piano. The note that had come with the flowers lay faceup on top.
La Belle Tornade,
You are my gift from the gods.
Rupert P. Glass
Thad grimaced. The crumpled envelope the desk clerk had given her when they’d gotten back to the hotel lay next to the florist’s card. She must have forgotten she’d set it down.
This envelope was postmarked Reno. He wasn’t prone to opening other people’s mail, but his instincts told him to make an exception.
He pulled out a single sheet of plain white paper printed with block letters.
This is your fault. Choke on it.
The Diva’s bedroom door opened. “What are you doing?”
“Opening your mail.” He held up the note. “What’s this about?”
She glanced at it as she snatched it from him. “The opera world is full of drama. Stay out of my mail.”
“This is more than drama,” he said.
She lifted her chin, but he noticed her hand was shaking. “It’s personal.”
“I’ll say.”
“It doesn’t concern you.” She turned toward her bedroom.
He cut in front of her. “It does now. If you’re involved with crazies, I need to know in case we run into any of them in the next four weeks.”
“We won’t.” That strong jaw of hers set in a stubborn line that told him she wouldn’t say more. She ripped the note in two, dropped it in the trash, and headed into her bedroom.
4
Thad returned from his run the next morning to the dazzle of The Diva’s vocalizations coming through her closed bedroom door. He found it hard to imagine how any human being could produce such extraordinary sounds. Last night, she’d said she was on vocal rest, but he suspected she’d been trying to dodge karaoke.
In the limo on the way to the airport, it seemed as if the previous night had never happened. He answered his texts while The Diva and Henri chatted away in French. Paisley looked as if she was trying to sleep. As much as he wanted to cross-examine The Diva about that letter she’d received, he restrained himself. For now, he’d keep a watchful eye.
Paisley yawned and pushed her aviators on top of her long sweep of blond hair. “That shirt is dope.” Her eyes looked bloodshot from what he suspected had been another night spent partying. “You could be a model.”
“He’s been there, done that,” The Diva said with the fake smirk she’d adopted to irritate him.
The shirt Paisley had complimented him on was salmon. Salmon, not pink. As for The Diva . . . Underneath her Burberry trench coat he caught a glimpse of a boring white sweater and dark slacks. Still, he had to give her props for those big earrings that looked like dangling squares of crumpled gold paper. And she did have a flair for dramatic scarves. Very different from Paisley’s jeans and leather jacket.
As they boarded the plane for the Los Angeles leg of their tour, Henri tapped him on the shoulder from behind. “Bien, Thad. I have a wonderful surprise for you this morning. I’ve invited someone to come along with us today.”
The dumbass jumped up from his seat. “Surprise!”
The Diva rushed forward. “Clint!”
Henri pounded Thad on the back. “So the two of you can talk about the football, oui?”
“Fucking oui,” Thad muttered.
Instead of greeting Thad, Garrett concentrated on The Diva. “You clean up pretty good, Livia.”
She smiled. “What are you doing here?”
“Henri’s a football fan. He invited me to come along today to keep T-Bo entertained.” The dumbass finally risked a glance at Thad. “She’s got shoes on. So much for keepin’ ’em barefoot and pregnant, right?”
Thad lunged forward, only to have The Diva step in his way. “Temper, temper,” she cooed.
Clint grinned. Thad had a reputation for keeping his cool, and he could see Clint was proud of having goaded him into losing it. His grin once again reminded Thad that the dumbass wasn’t nearly as dumb as he pretended to be. Nobody got to be the starting quarterback for an NFL team by being stupid.
Paisley, in the meantime, stood motionless in the aisle, lips parting, her stunned gaze fixed on Garrett. As Thad settled into his customary seat at the back of the plane, he realized he’d once again settled into second place, but this time, he couldn’t be happier.
To Paisley’s displeasure, The Diva buckled in next to Clint on the couch, forcing Paisley to take the seat across from him. Thad could almost hear Paisley’s mental wheels turning as she tried to figure out how to make her move. She waited until they were in the air. “Okay for me to take a couple of pictures to send my friends?”
“Sure,” The Diva said.
Thad smiled to himself. It wouldn’t take her long to figure out she was an unwelcome intruder in the lens of Paisley’s iPhone.
Sure enough, Paisley talked Garrett into a selfie, but The Diva looked more amused than offended. Garrett got up from the couch. Poor Paisley wasn’t used to male rejection, and she couldn’t hide her disappointment as he headed back toward Thad. Paisley didn’t understand that no woman on the planet could hold the numbskull’s attention when his mind was on football.
As Clint sidled in across from him, Thad didn’t bother to hide his irritation. Training camp wouldn’t start until July, and Garrett knew damn well Thad would give him one hundred percent then, so why did he have to hassle him now? It wasn’t like they could run drills on the plane.
A weird moaning sound penetrated the plane. Thad’s head came up in time to see Olivia’s hand pressed to her mouth. She was staring at the newspaper she must have picked up from the fresh stack in the cabin. She snapped open her seat belt and rushed back to him, the newspaper in her fist. “Look at this!”
He looked.
The photos were on the second page of the Phoenix Examiner’s Lifestyle section—one of the formal photos he and The Diva had posed for, along with a paparazzi shot of him carrying The Diva out of the bar last night.
Opera Singer and NFL Star
Make Sweet Music
Noted mezzo-soprano Olivia Shore and the Chicago Stars’ backup quarterback Thad Owens enjoyed a little PDA last night. The football star and the opera singer have been doing more than promoting a new line of watches for noted French watchmaker Marchand Timepieces. In an earlier interview at their hotel, the cagey couple
showed no sign that their relationship was anything other than business, but it looks as if they’ve crossed into more personal territory.
“This is mortifying!” she exclaimed.
“Mortifying?” He took in the photo. “That’s a little overdramatic, don’t you think? Wait. I forgot. You’re a soprano, so you’re allowed to be—”
“We’re not a couple!” she cried. “How could they say something like that?”
“I am carrying you.” He examined the paparazzi photo more closely. As usual, he’d photographed well, but The Diva had been caught at an odd angle so that her very tidy butt looked larger than it was in reality.
She tugged at the silk scarf around her throat as if it were strangling her. “How could this have happened?”
“Bad angle, that’s all. Forget about it.”
She looked at him without comprehension, and he made a quick U-turn. “I’ll admit the whole thing is strange.” He thought back to the previous night. No one, including him, had known he and The Diva were going to end up at that bar, so it had to have been a random bystander. And yet . . .
“Is there a problem?” Henri had come back and joined them. Paisley popped up over his shoulder.
Olivia thrust the paper at him. “Look at this!”
“Putain!” Henri choked the ends of his neck scarf. “Pardon my profanity, Olivia, Paisley.”
Dude was old school for a forty-year-old.
“This is great?” Paisley was an expert at both vocal fry and turning her statements into questions. “Lots of people will see it. Brand recognition and everything.”
“Not the sort of brand recognition we aspire to.” Henri took a deep breath and shrugged. “Ah, well. These things happen.”
“Not to me.” Olivia spun on Thad. “This is your fault. I’ve never had a single paparazzo follow me, not once in my entire career. It’s because of you. You and your—your”—her hands flew in his direction—“your face, and your hair, and your body, and those actresses you date . . .”
On and on she went. He let her vent, figuring that, sooner or later, she’d come to her senses, even though she was a soprano.
When Stars Collide Page 5
