If she’d known what was going to happen, she wouldn’t have even considered signing this contract with Marchand. She’d never backed out of a contract in her life, but she couldn’t imagine how she’d endure this next month. Smiling. Talking. Being congenial. And making sure she was never alone with him.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She took off her sunglasses and glanced at the screen. It was Rachel checking up on her. Rachel, her dear, steady friend who understood in a way no one else could. Olivia slipped the phone unanswered back in her pocket. She was jittery, unfocused, too raw to talk to Rachel now.
She unwrapped her scarf. Her hair was a mess. She didn’t care. Instead of straightening it, she sat on the lid of the toilet seat and closed her eyes. Donizetti’s “Pour mon âme” had been playing in her head all day. The aria from La fille du régiment, with its nine high C’s, was a showpiece for the world’s best tenors. Adam hadn’t been one of them, yet that hadn’t stopped her former fiancé from trying to perform it.
She blinked her eyes hard. The Cavatina3 on her wrist came into focus. A yellow-gold and stainless-steel bracelet, an ivory dial with diamond chips by the numerals. Cavatina. A simple melody without a second part or a repeat. In music, a cavatina was straightforward and uncomplicated, unlike either the luxurious Cavatina3 watch or her own very complicated life.
She gazed at the white envelope that had been in her apartment mailbox that morning. It was addressed to her in the same neat, block-printed letters as the first note she’d received two days earlier. She forced herself to open it. Her hands were shaking.
Only five words. You did this to me.
Swallowing a sob, she ripped it into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet.
* * *
Paisley ushered in two of the newspaper reporters and disappeared into the corner with her phone. Ironically, the music critic was big and beefy; the sports reporter small and wiry. The editor of the lifestyle section arrived soon after, a middle-aged woman with short hair slicked to her skull and multiple ear piercings.
Thad had yet to meet a member of the press who didn’t appreciate free food. Each of the men polished off a couple of cannoli along with a half dozen lemon cookies while the lifestyle editor sipped a glass of chardonnay and nibbled a few almonds. Thad exchanged small talk with all of them, hiding his irritation that The Diva was still sealed up in the bathroom. Just as he got ready to pound on the door and ask her if she’d fallen in, she deigned to join them.
She’d set aside her trench coat, along with the scarf and sunglasses, and she advanced toward the reporters, stilettos clicking, studiously ignoring him. Her sweep of dark hair coiled in one of those loose bun things, which—along with her royal-blue stilettos—brought her height to someplace in the vicinity of his. Her figure was formidable: broad shoulders, long neck, straight spine, and trim waist, all of it accompanied by skyscraper legs. She was neither skinny nor plump. More . . . He searched for the right word, but all he could come up with was “daunting.”
Along with her stilettos and black slacks, the open throat of her white blouse showed off a gold rope necklace with a pigeon egg–sized stone that appeared to be a giant ruby. She wore multiple rings, a couple of bracelets, and the Cavatina3. He liked his women small and cuddly. This one looked like a tigress who’d raided an Hermès store.
The men rose as she approached. Henri performed the introductions. She extended her hand and gazed down her long nose at them, her lips curved in a regal smile. “Gentlemen.” She acknowledged the lifestyle editor with a handshake and gracious smile before she folded herself into the chair across from Thad, ankles crossed off to the side, broomstick up her ass.
He deliberately slouched into his chair and stretched out his own legs, making himself comfortable. The classical music critic led off, but instead of addressing The Diva, he turned to Thad. “Are you an opera fan?”
“Haven’t had much exposure,” he said.
The sports writer picked up on that. “What about you, Ms. Shore? Do you ever go to football games?”
“Last year I saw New Madrid play Manchester United.”
Thad could barely disguise a snort.
The sports writer exchanged an amused look with him before turning back to her. “Those are European soccer teams, Ms. Shore, not American football.”
She adopted a girls will be girls look that Thad didn’t buy for a second. “Of course. How silly of me.”
There wasn’t anything silly about this woman, from the throaty resonance of her voice to her figure, and something told him she knew damn well they were soccer teams. Or maybe not. For the first time, she’d spiked his curiosity.
“So you’ve never seen Thad Owens play?”
“No.” She gazed directly at Thad for the first time, eyes as cold as a January night. “Have you ever heard me sing?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he said with his best drawl. “But my thirty-seventh is coming up, and I’d sure welcome a round of ‘Happy Birthday’ to mark the occasion.”
The lifestyle editor laughed, but The Diva didn’t crack a smile. “Duly noted.”
The classical music critic launched into some questions about a concert The Diva had given last year in Phoenix and a follow-up about European opera houses. The sports writer asked Thad about his fitness regimen and his thoughts on the Cardinals’ prospects for next season.
Paisley had returned to her cell phone coma. Marchand offered more wine. “We’re honored to have two people as accomplished as Madame Shore and Mr. Owens as our new Marchand ambassadors. Both of them are style setters.”
The lifestyle editor took in Thad’s gray slacks and quarter-zip raspberry cashmere sweater. “What’s your fashion philosophy, Mr. Owens?”
“Quality and comfort,” he said.
“A lot of men wouldn’t be brave enough to wear that color.”
“I like color,” he said, “but I’m not into trends, and the only jewelry I wear is a great watch.”
She cocked her head. “Maybe a wedding ring someday?”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t wish me on anybody. I’m too unreliable. Now when it comes to reliability”—he extended his wrist, earning his paycheck—“this is what I count on. I’ve worn Marchand watches for years. That’s why I was attracted to their invitation. They’ve outdone themselves with the Victory780.”
Henri beamed. The lifestyle editor turned to The Diva. “What about you, Ms. Shore? How would you describe your fashion philosophy?”
“Quality and discomfort.” She surprised him by slipping off her stilettos.
The style editor’s gaze traveled from Thad’s raspberry sweater to The Diva’s black-and-white ensemble. “You seem to prefer neutral colors.”
“I believe in elegance.” She glanced at Thad with open contempt. What the hell was wrong with her? “Bright pink is best kept on the stage,” she said. “I’m only speaking for myself, of course.”
His sweater wasn’t fucking pink. It was raspberry!
“I’m very selective,” she went on, her attention returning to the lifestyle editor. “That’s why the Cavatina3 is the perfect watch for me.” She took it off and handed it to the reporter to examine more closely. “My schedule is demanding. I need a watch I can rely on, but also one that complements my wardrobe and my lifestyle.”
Commercial over.
They answered a few more questions. Where was Madame Shore living? How did Mr. Owens fill his time during the off-season?
“I needed a break from Manhattan,” The Diva replied, “and since I like Chicago, and it’s in the middle of the country, I rented an apartment there a few months ago. It makes domestic travel easier.”
Thad was deliberately vague. “I work out and look after everything I’m too busy to take care of during the season.”
Paisley missed her first cue to escort the reporters back to the lobby but finally got the message. After they’d disappeared, Marchand announced Olivia’s and Thad’s luggage had been delivered to t
he bedrooms that adjoined opposite sides of the suite. Henri gestured around the living and dining areas, along with the small kitchen. “As you can see, this is quite convenient for interviews and tomorrow’s photo shoot. The chef will be making tonight’s clients’ dinner in the private kitchen.”
The Diva’s head shot up, and her dramatic eyebrows drew together. “Henri, may I speak with you?”
“But of course.” The two of them moved toward the door into the hallway.
Thad was pissed. She obviously didn’t like the idea of them sharing the suite. Fine. She could move to another room because no way was he giving up that big terrace. Ever since he was a kid, he’d been more comfortable outside than inside, and being cooped up in hotel rooms for too long, no matter how big they were, made him jumpy. He wasn’t going anywhere.
* * *
Olivia had only taken a few steps before she realized she’d made a mistake. The doors had sturdy locks, and if she insisted on moving to another room, Thad Owens would realize she was afraid of him.
She touched Henri’s arm. “Never mind, Henri. We can talk later. Nothing important.”
As she picked up the stilettos she’d abandoned, Thad moved behind her. “Just so you know . . . ,” he said. “I don’t like nighttime visitors.”
She sucked in her breath, gave him her fiercest arctic glare, and sealed herself in her room.
* * *
Thad heard the lock click behind her. She’d looked at him with so much disdain he’d half expected her to say something operatic like, To the gallows, you swine!
Henri beamed. “What a woman! She is magnificent! La Belle Tornade.”
“Let me guess. ‘The beautiful turnip.’”
Henri laughed. “Non, non. She is called ‘the Beautiful Tornado’ for the power of her voice.”
Thad didn’t buy the “beautiful” part, not with those dark slabs of eyebrow and that long nose. As for “tornado” . . . “Ice storm” seemed more like it.
* * *
Thad made some phone calls and worked out in the hotel’s fitness center before he came back to the suite and showered. Through the closed bedroom door, he heard the sound of The Diva singing musical scales. He listened as the notes rose and fell, the vowel sounds subtly changing, from ees to ewws, then some mahs. It was mesmerizing. No doubt about it. The lady could sing. As her tone switched from light to dark, he got goose bumps. How could anybody hit those notes?
With dinnertime approaching, the smells coming from the private kitchen promised a good meal. He changed into a purple T-shirt and a black metallic Dolce & Gabbana blazer with a printed lavender pocket square. It was a little over the top, even for him, but he had a point to make.
He heard Henri’s voice in the living room, and as he stepped out, the guests began to arrive. They were all buyers, one from a local jewelry chain, a couple from department stores, and a few independent jewelers.
The Diva emerged in a floor-length black velvet gown. Her breasts caught his attention first. They weren’t big, but full enough to push above the gown’s neckline. She hadn’t cluttered up the view with any necklaces, only a pair of earrings. Her skin was naturally pale, but against all that black velvet, it seemed even paler. She wore the Cavatina3 on one wrist and a variety of rings on her long fingers. She’d tidied up her afternoon hair with a formal twist that was a little old-fashioned, but he had to admit it suited her. She had presence; he’d give her that.
She did her normal grand-entrance thing—arm extended, distant smile, regal stride—and she was right back on his nerves again. He wanted to rumple her up. Knock her off her pedestal. Smear that bright red lipstick. Pull out the pins holding her hair together. Shuck off her clothes and stick her in a pair of ratty jeans and an old Stars sweatshirt.
But as good as his imagination was, he couldn’t imagine her like that.
He hated formal dinner parties almost as much as he hated pass interceptions, but he talked to everyone. He was surprised how good The Diva was at it. She asked about their jobs, their families, and willingly looked at photos of their kids. Unlike him, her interest seemed genuine.
The meal began. Thad wasn’t much of a drinker, so he cut himself off after two glasses of wine, but The Diva seemed to have an iron stomach. Two glasses, three, then four. One more glass as everyone left, and the two of them headed to their separate bedrooms.
His had high ceilings and a single door that led onto the terrace. He went naked into the bathroom to brush his teeth. As usual, he avoided his reflection. No need to depress himself. But despite its size, the bedroom felt stuffy and confining. He pulled on a pair of jeans and opened the door that led to the terrace.
Tempered-glass fencing offered unobstructed views of the city lights, while the potted trees and flower beds gave the illusion of a park, with strategically placed seating areas for comfort. The chilly night air felt good on his skin.
He thought about the day. About what lay ahead. About training camp only four months away and how much playing time he would or wouldn’t get. As he moved around a potted tree to get a better view of the skyline, he thought about his future and a career that had fallen short of his dreams.
* * *
Wine wasn’t good for her voice. Wine, caffeine, dry air, drafts, trauma—none of it good for her voice, which was why she seldom had more than a single glass of wine. Yet here she was, not just a little drunk, but drunk-drunk. Unsteady on her feet, unsteady in her head. She’d been on edge for days, nerves shredded, ready to detonate. Now, a dangerous, alcohol-fueled energy made her want to gather her gown around her knees, climb up on the terrace rail, and use it as a balance beam just to see if she could do it. She wasn’t suicidal. She left that for others. Instead, she wanted a challenge. Better yet, a target. Something to conquer. She wanted to be a superhero, a protector of the weak, a drunken crusader fighting for justice. Instead, she was battling a ghost.
Something moved behind her. Too close. Him.
She wheeled around and attacked.
2
Women had thrown themselves at him before, but he wasn’t used to getting an elbow to his gut when they did it. She’d caught him unaware, and he gave a woof of pain. At the same time, he automatically reached out to defend himself.
That made it worse.
All he’d wanted was a little fresh air, and now here he was, in a fight to the death with a black velvet–clad termagant.
He grabbed for her arms. “Stop it! Calm down!”
At his age, he should have known better than to ever tell a woman to calm down, and she kicked him hard in the shins. Unfortunately for her, she was barefoot, and she gave her own yelp of pain.
“What the hell’s wrong with you!” He trapped her arms and pulled her hard against him. She was tall and strong, but he was stronger. She cried out and went after him again.
He wanted to kill her, but he also didn’t want to hurt her. He kicked her legs out from under her.
He had just enough of the gentleman left to take the brunt of the impact as they dropped to the hard tile floor. He hit his damned elbow along with his hip but managed to pin her down by rolling on top of her and grabbing her wrists.
The perfectly composed performer had vanished. She was furious. “You bastard!” She spit out the words. “You evil bastard!”
When it came to name-calling, she didn’t offer much variety, but damn, she was strong. He could barely keep her contained as she fought against his grip on her wrists.
“Stop it right now, or I’m going to . . . I’m going to smack you!” He would never hit a woman in a million years, but she was out of control, and maybe the threat would calm her down.
It didn’t. Jaw set, teeth bared, she threw it all right back at him. “Go ahead, you bastard! You just try it!”
For all their drama, opera singers didn’t seem to have much creativity about how to cuss someone out. He tried a different approach, loosening his grip on her ever so slightly, but not letting her go. “Take a breath. Just b
reathe.”
“Vermin!”
At least she was expanding her vocabulary. Her hair had come loose and half her breast popped out of her gown, right down to the top of her nipple. He drew his eyes away. “You’ve had too much to drink, lady, and you need to take some deep breaths.”
She stopped struggling, but he wasn’t taking chances. He eased some of his weight off her. “That’s it. Keep breathing. You’re fine.” Crazy as a loon, but fine.
“Let me up!”
“Give me your word that you won’t take another swing at me.”
“You deserve it!”
“A debate for another day.” She didn’t look quite so insane, so he took a risk and rolled off her carefully, alert for a knee to his groin. “Don’t throw up on me, okay?”
She struggled to her feet, hair hanging in a crazy tangle, her voice throaty with dramatic menace. “Don’t you ever speak to me again!”
“You’ve got it.”
She scrambled awkwardly across the terrace and through the single door that led into her bedroom. The lock clicked hard behind her.
* * *
Olivia yanked the draperies shut over the door, weirdly proud of herself. Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! She’d never forget the way her friend Alyssa had looked the night Thad Owens had attacked her. Now, the big shot football player had gotten some of his own back.
She steadied herself on the edge of the bureau and managed to get her gown off. She, Olivia Shore, had a new career as a crusader for women. Tonight, she’d dispensed justice, a small blow for rightness in the face of all the disarray around her.
Out of nowhere, her stomach rebelled. She rushed to the bathroom, crouched over the bowl, and lost her dinner, along with the bottle of wine she’d unwisely consumed.
Afterward, she hung out on the tiled floor. Her shoulder stung where she’d scraped it. She set a warm washcloth against it, no longer feeling quite so proud of herself. She was drunk, and she’d acted crazy, and she could not do this. Not when she had so many other problems. And especially not when she had a contract she couldn’t break and four more weeks on the road with that piece of vermin.
When Stars Collide Page 2