Olivia had to talk to Dennis. He needed to know what his loose lips had cost her. She intended to keep this between the two of them because Rachel would be crushed if she found out the part her husband had played in what had happened.
She texted him.
Call me.
Less than a minute later, her phone rang. It was Rachel. “Now you’re sending secret messages to my husband?”
Olivia thought quickly. “Somebody with a birthday coming up shouldn’t be asking questions.”
“My birthday isn’t for two months.”
“So?”
Rachel laughed. “All right. Here he is.”
He answered quickly. “Hey, pal. What’s up?”
She couldn’t do this with Rachel standing next to him. “Call me when big ears isn’t around. We need to talk.”
Dennis turned his head away from the phone. “She needs to talk to me in private. We have a thing going on.”
Olivia heard Rachel laugh. “If you’re planning a surprise party, I’ll kill you both.”
“Hold on. I’m going into another room.” A few moments later, he’d returned to their conversation. “What’s up? Rachel’s birthday isn’t for two months.”
“This isn’t about her birthday.” She steeled herself. “I’m afraid you and I have a problem . . .”
She laid it out. Everything that had happened and Dennis’s part in it. As the story unfolded, he began stammering apologies. “God, Olivia . . . God, I’m sorry . . . I hate myself . . . Rachel keeps telling me I have a big mouth . . . Jesus, Olivia . . . I never meant . . . Shit . . . I’m sorry . . .”
“No more apologies.” Olivia had heard enough. “You’re a gossip, and your blabbering has threatened my relationship with Rachel. I know wives confide in their husbands, but they expect their husbands to keep their mouths shut. How can I ever again talk openly with her if I know she’ll tell you, and you’ll broadcast it to the world?”
“You’re right. I’ve learned my lesson. God, have I ever. Don’t tell Rachel about this. Please. She already has enough issues with the way I butt into her life.”
That was news to Olivia. “Dennis, I swear, if you ever again pass on anything that I’ve told Rachel, I’ll tell her every detail about what happened with Christopher Marsden.” She hung up on him before he could issue any more apologies.
Afterward, she moved over to the piano and began her vocalization. Only a few more hours before the gala when she’d see Thad again.
* * *
The Muni’s Grand Foyer had been transformed into a facsimile of ancient Egypt. Guests entered through a reproduction of the Temple of Dendur as projections of ancient temple columns and statues of Ramses II, interspersed with the Marchand logo, played on the walls. An array of artificial palm trees decked out with fronds made of twinkle lights added to the glamorous setting.
Her late entrance caused a stir. Heads swiveled, and a brief lull fell over the crowd. The Chicago Tribune’s review of last night’s performance hadn’t yet appeared in the paper, but the online reviews were posted on all the big opera sites, and nearly every one of them used the word “disappointing.” She forced her head higher, even as she wished she were anywhere but here.
Kathryn Swift, the chair of the gala committee, rushed over all in a flutter. “Olivia! My dear, you look incredible!”
Olivia wore her own floor-length gown for the evening—slender, white, and sleeveless, with a narrow gold belt. She’d left her hair long and borrowed an Egyptian-style circlet from the costume department to wear across her forehead. Her fan-shaped gold earrings, like the wings of Isis, were studded with coral and turquoise.
The majority of the men wore tuxedos, with only a handful disregarding the suggested male dress code. One had confused a Greek toga with an Egyptian robe. A few had adopted the more modern djellaba. Fortunately, no one had shown up in a loincloth. Almost all of the women were in some form of costume, many dressed in embellished robes, some with collar pieces. A number of women had donned long, black wigs. Kathryn Swift had chosen a gown with accordion-pleated wing-shaped sleeves in a silver fabric that set off her gray society matron bob. She snatched up Olivia’s hands and examined her rings. “Is that a poison ring? Eugene gave me one from the Victorian period, but I can’t remember what I’ve done with it.”
“It’s a poison ring, but not an antique.” Olivia had paid thirty dollars for it on Etsy, one of her favorite sources for costume jewelry. Of the five rings she was wearing, only the cushion-cut sapphire she’d bought as a gift to herself after winning the Belvedere Singing Competition had any value.
She couldn’t win the Belvedere Competition now. She would barely make it through the qualification round.
Most of the guests had taken their places at the tables, which were draped in white linen with the Marchand logo embossed in gold. Over Kathryn’s shoulder, Olivia spotted a place waiting for her at the center table, where Henri sat with a good-looking younger man she assumed was his husband, Jules. Mitchell Brooks, the Muni’s manager, and his wife were also at the table, along with the chairman of the Muni’s board of directors and a man she recognized from photos as Lucien Marchand. Then there was Thad.
A man appeared at Kathryn’s side. He was around forty, stocky, with a ruddy complexion and an Ivy League haircut. Olivia recognized him from a family photo Eugene had shown her as his stepson. “Excuse me for interrupting, but Wallis and her husband want to talk to you about the hospital ball,” he said.
Kathryn brushed him off impatiently. “I’ll get to them. My son Norman Gillis,” she said, as he retreated. “He’s more interested in basketball than opera.”
Kathryn squeezed Olivia’s hand. “I suppose I do need to go. Have a wonderful time tonight, my dear.”
“I’m sure I will,” Olivia said, even more sure she wouldn’t. Excusing herself, she approached the table. Time to get this over with.
Centerpieces of flowers and pomegranates, along with pyramid-shaped place cards, brightened each table. Paper masks hung from the gilt chair backs—Tutankhamen for the men and Nefertiti for the women. Some of the guests had put them on for photos. A few others wore them on top of their heads.
Henri greeted her with an embrace and introduced her to Jules, then to Lucien Marchand. “And this is my uncle.”
Olivia inclined her head. “Enchanté, monsieur.”
The president and CEO of Marchand Timepieces had a stately beaked nose, a carefully groomed mane of silver hair, and an elegant manner. “Madame Shore. I’m delighted to finally meet you.”
Mitchell rose to greet her. She suspected he’d rather be sitting at the adjoining table with Sergio, Sarah Mabunda, and Mariel Marchand, instead of near his disappointing diva.
She couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer, and she nodded at Thad’s date for the evening. “Lieutenant Cooke.”
“Please. Call me Brittany.”
* * *
Liv and Brittany were hitting it off as if they’d been girlfriends forever, something he didn’t appreciate. He hadn’t exactly invited Brittany to make Liv jealous, but he’d at least hoped seeing him with another woman would give her a taste of what she’d thrown away. Namely, him.
Plus, he wanted to make her jealous.
But La Belle Tornade was above such petty human emotions.
Olivia wasn’t as elaborately dressed as some of the other women, but she outshone them all like the empress she was. She had to know by now what the opera cognoscenti were saying about last night’s performance, but you couldn’t tell by looking at her. She was every inch a queen, graciously allowing the ordinary people around her to breathe her rarified air. She couldn’t have been more different from the soft, giving, everyday woman he’d once held in his arms.
At the next table, Mariel Marchand looked as if she’d swallowed a bowl of bad mushrooms. Mitchell Brooks took him over to make introductions. Thad seemed to be developing a fondness for sopranos, because he immediately liked Sarah Mabunda.
On their way back to the table, he took Liv’s arm. The gesture was automatic, and for just a moment, he could have sworn she leaned against him.
The moment passed. She drew away. “Rupert! How lovely to see you.”
Rupert?
She introduced him to a small man sitting at a table off to the side. “Rupert, this is Thad Owens. Thad, Rupert Glass.” She shot Thad a telling look he immediately understood. Rupert resembled one of the Seven Dwarfs, the one who wouldn’t look at anybody. Bashful? The top of his head came just to Olivia’s shoulder. He had a tuft of hair at the crown, a couple more tufts near his ears, and he looked about as dangerous as a plastic spoon.
“My dear,” he whispered, turning several different shades of red. “My deepest apologies if I did anything to distress you with my meager gifts.”
“You could never distress me, Rupert.” Olivia patted his hand. “But there are so many young singers who would bloom under the kind of support you’ve given me.”
Thad couldn’t help himself. “Plus the IRS won’t bother them like they do her.”
Olivia quickly excused them both. “You didn’t have to say that,” she hissed, as she hustled him away.
“It’s those quiet ones who turn out to be serial killers.”
Just for a moment they exchanged one of their quick smiles, but then he remembered he was furious with her and wiped his away.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
“You didn’t,” he snapped back.
She squeezed his arm. That was it. Just squeezed it.
Back at the table, she chatted with Brittany in English and with Lucien en français. The Muni’s conductor came over to the table, and they spoke in Italian. Then—son of a bitch—didn’t she switch to German when an old dude with a silver-topped walking cane appeared.
Damn, but he missed her. He’d never been so in sync with another person. None of his ex-girlfriends. No buddy or teammate. No one.
He told himself to snap out of it. She said she was in love with him, but it wasn’t like he’d marry her. That would be a nightmare and a half—living his life as Mr. Olivia Shore. All he wanted was for them to be together for a while. Simple. Uncomplicated. Why couldn’t she see that?
He barely tasted his food, a filet topped with some kind of shrimp thing. As Liv and Brittany chatted away, he mainly talked to Henri’s husband, Jules, an interesting guy who was a big soccer fan. Still, he wanted Liv’s attention for himself.
Between dinner and dessert, the room darkened to show a video of the student music program. Olivia whispered something to Brittany about the ladies’ room and excused herself.
He didn’t realize he was staring after her until he caught Brittany’s sympathetic smile. “You shouldn’t have let that one get away,” she whispered.
He wouldn’t tell her it was the other way around.
* * *
Olivia hadn’t intended to duck out on the after-school music program video, but her drunken binge two nights ago had temporarily soured her on alcohol, and she’d drunk one too many glasses of water. She entered the ladies’ room to find Mariel Marchand washing her hands at the sink. Mariel gave her a cool nod in the mirror. “You look lovely tonight, Olivia.”
Mariel didn’t. Although she wore her black gown and glittering jewelry with all the elegance of a true Frenchwoman, her skin looked sallow, and she seemed tired.
“Thank you. And your gown is beautiful,” Olivia replied honestly.
“Chanel.” The word was sad, almost bitter, as if she were reciting her state of mind instead of the luxury designer’s name. “I suppose you’ve heard by now that Henri’s campaign was a rousing success. Hideously expensive, of course, but sales of Marchand products doubled. A triumph for him.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Henri did not say anything to you?” She snatched up a towel. “He has always been so much a better person than I am.”
Olivia refrained from agreeing.
“Lucien raised us both on the Marchand tradition, but it seems Henri was smarter than me.”
Olivia sidestepped. “I’m happy the campaign is doing so well, but I know this must be a challenging time for you.”
“I am an ambitious woman, something you understand.” She dried her hands on the towel as if she were scrubbing them. “The press release goes out tomorrow. Lucien Marchand is retiring in September, and Henri is taking over as president and CEO while I continue my role as chief financial officer.”
“I see.”
“My career is everything to me. You understand. You’re just like me. Our careers are our lives. Women with husbands and children”—she spoke the words as if they were frivolities—“allow themselves to be distracted from their goals, but not us. We do not lose sight of what we want.”
Olivia didn’t like being put in the same category as Mariel. “You’re a bright woman, Mariel. I’m sure you’ll adapt.”
“I don’t want to adapt!” She balled her towel and threw it in the trash. “I want to lead!” The door closed behind her.
Successful people had to be able to adapt, Olivia thought. Throughout her career, she’d learned to be flexible—to new directors, different staging, a variety of teachers. She was good at adapting, something she hadn’t thought much about until this very moment.
She finished in the restroom and stepped into the empty hallway. Music from the video played in the background, and the lights seemed dimmer than when she’d entered.
As she turned into the corridor leading back to the Grand Foyer, she wished she didn’t have to return to the table. If only she could go home now. If only—
Something seized her from behind. Before she could scream, a rough hand clamped over her mouth.
20
It happened so quickly. An arm dragged her from behind around one corner and another into a deserted corridor that led to the building’s maintenance area and from there into a storage closet. He was big and strong, and his hand across her mouth muffled her screams. The closet door slammed shut, closing them both inside with the scent of chemical fumes and rubber.
Her gown hobbled her legs as she attempted to kick out. He pinned her face-forward to the wall with his body, her neck pulled back at an awkward angle as he kept his hand clasped over her mouth.
His knee jabbed into her back to hold her in place, turned away from him. The sound of his breathing rasped in her ears. He grabbed for her fingers. Pulled at her rings. She struggled to breathe as she heard them hit the floor. The poison ring fit more tightly and wouldn’t come off. He moved to her Egyptian cuff, scraping her wrist as he yanked it free. He reached for a necklace, but she wasn’t wearing one.
Her pierced earrings would be next. Knowing that he would rip them through her earlobes sent a fresh flood of adrenaline surging through her. She stabbed him as hard as she could with the point of her elbow. With a grunt, he edged back just enough so she could twist around.
She stared into the face of Tutankhamen.
He was hiding behind a mask. The cowardice of his anonymity, the threat to her earlobes . . . It was all too much. With her free arm, she clawed at his face. Her dress ripped as she kicked him. She fought—fingernails, arms, legs, and feet. Her shoulder hit something sharp, and light flooded the closet.
She’d triggered the overhead light switch. She tore at his paper mask.
The elastic band snapped.
Kathryn’s son Norman stared back at her.
“That was a mistake.” He slammed her against the wall again. Something hard pressed into her ribs. It could have been a finger, but she knew it wasn’t. He had a gun. He twisted her arm behind her back. Her shoulder screamed with pain, and her cheek smashed into the closet’s cement-block surface. Out of the corner of her eye, next to her face, she saw the gun—black with a short barrel. Ugly. Awful.
“You scream and I shoot.” His voice was a hiss, his breath hot in her ear. “Now I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Because she’d seen his face.
His forearm snaked across her neck and pressed against her windpipe. She clawed at his arm, trying to free herself. He dug the gun into her temple and maneuvered her out of the closet into the dark hallway. She heard faint music from the video that was still playing in the Grand Foyer. Only a few minutes had elapsed since he’d attacked her. A lifetime.
His arm pressed harder against her throat. She made herself deadweight as he dragged her toward the service door at the end of the corridor. If he was going to kill her, she’d make him work for it.
He kicked her hard in the side of her leg. “Walk!”
Thad was going to be furious about this. That random thought kicked through her brain as she struggled to breathe.
They’d reached the door. He hit the bar with his hip. As he dragged her outside, she tried to gulp in the fresh, rain-drenched air.
Through the downpour, she saw that he’d dragged her to the Muni’s loading dock area on the far side of the building, away from the front windows where the guests were gathered. Away from everything except Dumpsters, cargo vans, and the dark coil of the Chicago River.
“A lot of thugs around here.” He dug the gun into her temple, his arm still pressing against her windpipe. “You came out for air. Too bad you got robbed and shot.”
When Stars Collide Page 26
