She stood in the center of the living area, a brown envelope at her feet, a crumpled white T-shirt in her hand. He took in her ashen face and the rust-colored stains that covered the shirt.
“Jesus . . .”
She dropped the T-shirt. Beneath the bloody stains, he made out the T-shirt’s inscription. Tenors do it better.
He hurried to her side and picked up the envelope. It was postmarked San Francisco with no return address. Had whoever mailed this been in San Francisco when they were there? Had they been watching her?
She pressed her fingers to her lips and stared down at the T-shirt. “Adam . . . He . . . must have been wearing this when he shot himself. I—I gave it to him.”
Thad knelt down and examined the T-shirt. “When?”
“What do you mean?”
“How long ago was it? When did you give it to him?”
Her fingers balled into a fist. “I—I don’t remember exactly. Not long after we started dating.” She turned away.
“Did he wear it much?”
She gave a jerky nod.
He picked up the T-shirt and came to his feet. She recoiled as he held out the shirt. “Look at the tag, Liv.”
She recoiled. “Get it away from me.”
“Look at it.”
Her shoulders heaved, but she finally did as he demanded. “I don’t see—” She broke off as she saw what he saw. The T-shirt’s tag was stiff and crisp. It had never been washed.
“This isn’t his shirt,” she said as the realization struck her. “It’s never been washed, and the size is wrong. It looks like the shirt I gave him, but this isn’t it.”
“Somebody is playing a nasty mind game with you.”
They both jumped as a knock sounded on the door. A bellman stood on the other side with a gift basket so large he’d brought it up on a cart. Emerging from the cellophane were two bottles of champagne, a pair of crystal glasses, and an assortment of gourmet cheeses, nuts, crackers, and designer chocolates.
The bellman wheeled in the cart. “Compliments of Mr. Rupert Glass.”
8
The next night, Thad propped himself against the pillows in his bed with the doors open between their suites and his mind switching between insights he didn’t want to examine too closely, the fake bloody T-shirt, and the gutter. Olivia had appeared at tonight’s client dinner in full diva regalia—shiny, dark hair worn loose, dramatic eye makeup, and crimson lipstick. She’d worn a long, white gown with an Egyptian collar necklace, probably a gift from Rupert. He didn’t ask. With her stilettos, she’d been taller than all the men there but him.
He’d stuffed the T-shirt back into its envelope and tucked the whole thing in the bottom of his suitcase. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
Olivia hadn’t yet turned the light out in her suite. Maybe she was having a hard time falling asleep, too. He slipped on his headphones and pulled up YouTube on his computer. It wasn’t long before he’d found a video of her singing Carmen.
Even people who didn’t know opera knew the melody of its famous song, but now he also knew its name: “Habanera.” And there she was. Commanding the stage. Smoldering in a tatty red dress with her breasts spilling over its low, square neckline like offerings poured from a cornucopia. Dirty bare feet, skin tanned and glistening with sweat, she taunted the men, her skirt swirling around her strong, spread legs, her arms as sinuous as snakes, her tumble of hair roiling and seething around her head. And that voice. That magnificent voice.
He watched one clip and then another. No wonder she was being hailed as the opera world’s premier Carmen. Like Carmen, Liv wouldn’t let any man stand between her and the freedom to live life on her own terms. In the final clip, he saw Don José stab her, watched her die, and wanted to kill the son of a bitch, wanted to rip off his head with his own bare hands.
He shoved his computer aside. He was way too emotional for opera.
* * *
“You’re ridiculous,” she told him the next afternoon as he sat in the chair by her side, one foot in the water, getting a fucking pedicure. Some of his pals submitted to this affront to all that was masculine, but never him. And yet here he was because he didn’t want her going off alone, not while she was fair game to whoever was out there trying to spook her.
“No reason my toenails shouldn’t be as pretty as the rest of me,” he said.
She attempted to give him the stink eye but spoiled it with a smile. “If your looks matched your personality, you’d be one of those WWE fighters with no neck and a cauliflower nose.”
He ignored the compliment. “I’m surprised you even know what the WWE is.”
“I get around. This isn’t necessary, you know.”
He pretended to misunderstand. “Who wants ugly toes?”
“I appreciate your concern, but nothing is going to happen to me in a Denver nail salon in broad daylight.”
“Rupert could show up with a diamond necklace and a damned machete.”
She laughed. “If only you knew him.”
He didn’t care to. Maybe he was being overcautious, but between the threatening messages, tossed suitcases, the T-shirt with the phony blood, and those over-the-top gifts, he didn’t like the idea of her roaming around alone. Since he couldn’t be with her all the time, he’d pulled Henri aside, told him something vague about Olivia having an overly aggressive fan, and asked him to keep an extra eye on her.
“Please don’t schedule one of those waxing things,” he said. “I have to draw the line somewhere.”
“I’ll be merciful.” Olivia grinned. “Or not.”
* * *
When they arrived in New Orleans, the final proofs from their photo shoots at the Seahawks’ stadium and the Seattle Opera were waiting for them at their French Quarter hotel overlooking Royal Street. Mariel Marchand was there, too. They hadn’t seen her since last week in San Francisco, and Henri was clearly unhappy that she’d managed to get hold of the proofs before him. Still, as Henri spread them across the coffee table in their suite, her reappearance couldn’t diminish his excitement. “These are extraordinaire. Even more impressive than I hoped.”
The photographer knew what she was doing. The rich, muted colors gave the photos the look of old master oil paintings—an eye-catching contrast with the crazy poses he and Olivia had adopted.
Their watches were perfectly displayed, and they’d nailed it with their expressions—his nonchalance and her regal dignity as they stood by the goalposts—he, in a tuxedo, holding the football as if it were a cocktail shaker; Olivia nearby, her queenlike audaciousness daring the viewer to mock the patches of eye black on her cheekbones.
The photos at the Seattle Opera were even more striking. Olivia crouched fiercely over him in a billowing scarlet dress, hair eddying in a torrent around her head, pale white arms outstretched, fingers clawed, while he lounged on his side, shirt falling open, football on end, prepared to meet his demise.
Olivia frowned at him. “I look like a witch next to you.”
So wrong. She looked like a goddess. He patted her on the head. “I can’t help it if I’m photogenic.”
She sighed. “I hate you.”
“Enough!” Mariel pointed her finger at Paisley, who was taking photos of Thad studying his photos. Paisley looked like she wanted to swallow her phone. Instead, she fled from the suite.
Mariel gave a sigh of disgust and told them what they already knew. “Her grandfather and Uncle Lucien went to school together.”
Later, Mariel pulled Henri aside and bombarded him in furious French, either forgetting that Olivia was fluent or not caring. Thad got the gist without a translation, but later, Olivia filled him in on the details.
“Mariel thinks the photos are frivolous and vulgar, an affront to Marchand’s heritage. She says Uncle Lucien didn’t like Henri’s idea for this campaign in the first place—meaning that I passed muster as a brand ambassador, but that Henri should have chosen someone like Neil Armstrong instead of a football player.”
“He’s dead. And the Stars are a Marchand sponsor.”
“Not sure Mariel cares. Despite her personal response to your studly allure, she believes the campaign needs gravitas, and that Uncle Lucien will never approve the photos. After that, there were a bunch of ‘I told you so’s.’ Then she said their uncle might be old, but he wasn’t senile, and this would finish Henri off.”
“Bloodthirsty, isn’t she?”
“The company’s always had a Marchand heading it,” Olivia pointed out, “so it’ll be either Mariel or Henri.”
“Henri doesn’t stand a chance against her.”
“You’re right. She’s all about tradition, and a company as stodgy as Marchand isn’t going to change easily. Poor Henri. She’ll eat him alive.”
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be on the woman’s side? Glass ceiling and all that?”
“Those photos are great, and we both know it.”
“Despite you looking like a— What was it? Witch?”
She gave him a deliberately smug smile. “A powerful witch. And don’t you forget it.”
He nodded sagely. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
* * *
They’d finished their morning interviews. Henri had slipped away to the men’s room when Paisley approached Olivia and Thad. “I don’t think Henri or Mariel has seen this yet—maybe they won’t—but I thought you should be prepared . . .” She could barely conceal her excitement as she scrolled to the Ratchet Up gossip site on her phone and pointed out an item at the bottom of the page.
Has a little mountain madness struck the newest celeb couple? Sources tell us that the Chicago Stars’ dreamy quarterback Thad Owens and opera megastar Olivia Shore were seen picking up groceries outside Breckenridge, Colorado. They call her the “beautiful typhoon.” Will T-Bo be able to tame the storm?
Olivia swore under her breath. “It’s ‘tornado,’ not ‘typhoon,’ and since when did I get to be part of a ‘celeb couple’?” She turned an accusing eye on Thad. “Nobody outside the opera community cares about singers’ private lives, but apparently everyone is interested in gossip about athletes.”
“Hey, they called you a ‘megastar’ and me ‘dreamy.’ It could have been worse.” He studied the screen. “It could have been better, too. We’re the last item, and the print’s so small it’s barely readable.”
Olivia rubbed her temples. Paisley offered up a sly cat’s smile. “I feel sorry for you guys if Mariel sees it.”
Mariel might be old-fashioned in her views about brand image, but she was up to date on technology, and Olivia suspected Google Alerts would be chiming away on all her devices.
They took a break at the hotel so Olivia could change before their afternoon television interviews, and, sure enough, Mariel was waiting for them. “A romance is fine,” she said, all cold politeness, “but this feels . . . Not tawdry, of course. But there’s something a bit . . . common about it.”
Olivia watched Thad’s eyebrow hitch, a sure sign he’d lost patience with her. “What would you suggest we do about it, Mariel?”
“We’re not having a romance,” Olivia declared.
Mariel ignored Olivia and gave Thad her most charming smile. “Please be more aware of the heritage of the brand you’re representing. Henri, could I speak with you privately?”
She drew her unhappy cousin into the hallway where she no doubt lambasted him for not being smart enough to hire Gandhi and Florence Nightingale to represent the hallowed Marchand brand.
After Olivia had changed her dress and jewelry, they went off to their television appearances. When they were done, she had a few hours’ break before a meet-and-greet with clients, but Thad had to stay behind to tape a segment with the station’s sports reporter. Henri insisted on delivering her to the door of her hotel suite, even though she told him she could get there on her own. Thad’s doing, she felt certain.
Thad’s protectiveness was touching, but unnecessary. Someone was playing mind games with her. She wasn’t in physical peril, only mental, and her mind was already such a mess, she could surely cope with a bit more chaos.
Ironically, the only time she seemed able to stop the mental tape that insisted on replaying in her head was when she was with Thad. Only then could she begin to relax. She touched her throat. Was it too much to hope that his self-confidence would transfer to her? That it would ease the painful grip of guilt she couldn’t shake off?
As she traded her stilettos for a pair of flats, she wondered how he’d react if he knew all her secrets. She prayed he’d never find out because the idea of him losing respect for her was too painful to contemplate.
She stepped from the hotel into the heart of the French Quarter. It was early April and Mardi Gras was over, but the streets still bustled with tourists, street performers, and fortune-tellers. She passed vendors selling postcard views of Bourbon Street and oil paintings of Jackson Square. The late-afternoon sunshine was warm, but she had to meet client buyers in less than two hours, so she hadn’t changed from her black sheath into something more casual.
Samorian Antiquarian Books sat tucked away in an alley not far from Rampart Street. The faded ocher exterior with its weather-beaten green shutters and dusty front window hadn’t changed since she’d last visited two years earlier. Even the pot of geraniums in desperate need of watering seemed the same.
The overhead bell rang as she entered the shop, which smelled exactly as a store that specialized in rare books, manuscripts, and other fine arts ephemera should—old and musty with a faint overlay of chicory coffee.
Arman Samorian still refused to wear hearing aids, and hadn’t heard the bell or noticed she’d entered until she stood directly in front of him.
“Madame Shore!” He rushed from behind the scarred wooden counter, grabbed her hand, and kissed it, his shrub of gray, Albert Einstein hair sprouting around his head like a mushroom cloud. “Such an honor to see you again.”
“You, too, Arman,” she shouted, patting his age-spotted hand.
“Are you performing? But why did I not know this?”
“Just visiting.” No need for a long, loud explanation of an advertising campaign that would undoubtedly bewilder him.
“Whistling? When did you start whistling?”
“Visiting!”
“Ah. Of course.”
She dutifully asked about his son, who lived in Biloxi, and petted his elderly cat Caruso, before she ventured into the dusty stacks. She found a long-out-of-print biography of the Russian soprano Oda Slobodskaya, then ventured up the creaky wooden steps to the store’s second floor. The last time she’d been in this cramped attic space, she’d discovered an autographed photograph of Josephine Baker costumed as La Créole in Offenbach’s operetta of the same name. Freshly framed, it was now one of her favorite possessions.
The attic was hot and windowless, the only light provided by three flyspecked bulbs hanging from the water-stained ceiling. She sneezed from the dust as she browsed the shelves, but unearthing a manuscript copy of Domenico Scarlatti’s Narcisso more than made up for her discomfort. Samorian’s store and its ancient proprietor might be relics of the past, but the store was a treasure house for serious musicians.
A slim volume entitled George Kirbye and the English Madrigal caught her attention, but just as she began to leaf through it, the overhead light bulbs went out.
Without even a window, it might as well have been midnight. She held on to the Scarlatti manuscript with one hand and used the other to grope her way along the bookcases in the general direction of where she thought the stairs were.
A board creaked from across the attic. And then another. Her heart jumped, as she realized she wasn’t alone. She told herself not to be so skittish. This was an old wooden building. Of course it creaked. Besides, it was broad daylight outside and she was in a bookstore, not a dark alley. “Arman?” she called out.
A figure rounded the bookcases, barely fifteen feet in front of her. “Arm—?”
The figu
re lunged at her, and she fell back against the shelves. A shower of books hit the floor. She cried out as the demon figure grabbed her and caught her by the arms.
Male or female, she couldn’t tell, but strong. She heard the rasp of their breathing, felt the bite of fingers digging into her flesh. It had to be a man.
He shoved her against the shelves as more books hit the floor. Her reflexes finally fired. All the classes she’d taken over the years—everything she’d learned in dance and yoga, fencing and weight lifting, trapeze, tai chi—all of it kicked in at once. She pushed hard against the demon’s bulk. Her strength took him by surprise, and he let her go, but only for a moment before he lunged at her again and wrenched her arm. As she tried to twist free, she jabbed her elbow into his gut. He gave a guttural exclamation and tried to capture her free arm, but she curled her hand into a fist and punched him in the chest.
The strength of her defense took him by surprise, and the pressure on her arm eased for a few seconds, but still, he didn’t let her go. Her shoulders hit the shelves as she torqued her body and kicked out, only to have her tight skirt imprison her. He released her arms to grab her around the chest, which gave her the seconds she needed to yank up her skirt and lash out again with her leg.
The blow from her knee landed with lucky precision. He yowled and buckled. She kicked again, aiming for his groin. This time she didn’t connect, but she got close enough that he began backing away. She targeted his knees. Connected with one of them.
The struggle must finally have penetrated Arman’s impaired eardrums because he called upstairs. “Madame Shore? Did you find the Scarlatti?”
Whether it was from the old man’s interruption or the struggle she’d put up, her assailant backed off. She went after him, following the thud of his footsteps until a shard of light from the stairs illuminated his shadowy silhouette.
Only then did she realize the old bookseller might still be standing at the bottom. “Arman!” she cried. “Get out of the way!”
“What did you say?” the old man shouted.
When Stars Collide Page 11