She got to the top of the stairs just in time to see the dark figure of the intruder hit the bottom steps and shove the old man aside. As Arman crumpled to the floor, the intruder ran for the bookstore door.
“Arman!” She flew down the stairs and knelt beside him. “Arman, are you all right?” If anything had happened to him because of her . . .
He sat up slowly. “Madame . . . ?”
Her cell was in the purse she’d dropped upstairs, along with the Scarlatti manuscript. She made a dash for the landline phone on the wooden counter and called the police.
* * *
Miraculously, Arman seemed to have been unhurt, but an ambulance took him to the hospital to be checked. Thad was waiting for her at the police station after she’d made her report. As soon as they were outside, he lit into her as if she were a wayward teenager who’d violated curfew. “We had an agreement! You weren’t supposed to go anywhere without either Henri or me. How could you do something so idiotic?”
Her hand hurt from the punch she’d delivered. She’d ripped her dress, bruised her shoulder. She was drained and too shaken by what had happened to remind him they had no such agreement, and he should shut the hell up. He finally seemed to realize she was in no shape for a lecture because he draped his arm around her and said no more.
Henri canceled the evening events, and Olivia slipped away to her room. After she’d reassured herself that Arman wasn’t harmed, she took a long soak in the tub and slipped into her yoga pants and a loose top.
When she emerged from her bedroom, she found Thad sitting on the couch talking on the phone with a baseball game muted on the television. However annoying his lecturing might be, she knew his concern was genuine.
He quickly ended the call. “This is a hell of a way to avoid another of those client dinners.”
“No more lectures, okay?” She sat on the couch, leaving one seat cushion between them.
“No more lectures. As long as you promise not to take off again until this is settled.”
“I’m not irresponsible.” She held up her hand before he could argue the point. “That store is a treasure trove.” She told him about the autographed Josephine Baker photograph she’d bought and the Scarlatti manuscript. “I’ve been thinking . . . What if there was something in the store the thief wanted? Maybe even the Scarlatti? Maybe I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You’re suggesting this was coincidence? A thief decided to burglarize the store at the exact moment you were there instead of walking in like a normal customer, finding what he wanted, and bargaining for it? Are the old man’s prices that high?”
She knew her explanation was far-fetched, but she tried to defend it with a shrug.
Thad bore down. “How much was he charging for that Scarlatti manuscript?”
“I don’t know . . . A couple of hundred,” she muttered.
“Well, there you go. A big prize in the rare manuscript black market.” He plowed his hand through his hair, barely disturbing a single strand. “I know you don’t want to believe you’re a target, Liv, but look at the evidence. Threatening letters, an eerie phone call, the T-shirt, and now this.”
“The only people who hold a grudge against me are Adam’s sisters, and they live in New Jersey. Besides, that wasn’t a woman who attacked me.”
“They could have hired someone, and even you can’t deny that you’re somebody’s target.”
He was right, but she slouched deeper into the couch cushions. “Don’t you have some football buddies in town to go drinking with?”
“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
She started to tell him she had no need of a bodyguard, but that didn’t exactly seem to be true, so she told him to turn up the volume on the baseball game instead.
“You know anything about baseball?” he asked.
“I’ve watched A League of Their Own at least a dozen times.”
“An authority, then.”
“I’ll explain anything you don’t understand.”
* * *
As he came out of his room the next morning, The Diva was doing her daily vocalizing. The night before, she’d escaped to her bedroom after the sixth inning, leaving him alone with the remote control, a baseball game he didn’t care about, and his thoughts. When this tour had started two weeks ago, he’d anticipated doing nothing more than what he’d signed up for. Now, here he was, enmeshed in a situation he couldn’t control.
Yesterday had scared the hell out of him. They were leaving for Dallas today. From there they’d travel to Atlanta, Nashville, New York, and Las Vegas, before they ended up in Chicago, where they’d started. A couple of days of events there, followed by a two-week break before his final obligation, attending the Marchand-sponsored Chicago Municipal Opera gala. During that two-week break, Liv would be in rehearsals for Aida, and he’d probably head to Kentucky to visit his parents. No more interviewers asking the same questions, no more packing and unpacking a suitcase. And no more diva.
That didn’t sit well with him. He and The Diva were . . . pals. More than pals. Potential lovers if he had anything to say about it. She was funny and fascinating, stubborn and thoughtful. She knew as much about hard work and career dedication as he did. All he had to do was overcome her entirely rational objections to having an affair.
She’d hit the midpoint in her morning exercises, past the tongue trills and lip rolls, through the eeees and ues. She was on to the nings, and nays, her voice running up and down the scale with ease and brilliance. He’d miss hearing those full, rich sounds first thing in the morning. How was any mortal capable of producing such otherworldly tones? Just once, he wanted her to sing for him. Only for him. “Habanera.”
He wandered across the suite. Her bedroom door was slightly ajar. He lifted his hand and knocked. The door edged open a few inches, enough for him to see her reflection in the mirror above the bureau.
She was brushing her hair. It glided through her fingers like a midnight waterfall. The nays became yahs, every tone round and plush. Soon she’d hit the lahs, his favorite part. He waited, hearing each perfect lah. Except—
Her lips weren’t moving.
The brush swept in a glissade through her hair. Her voice traveled up the scale and down. But her lips didn’t move. Only the hairbrush.
She spotted him in the mirror. A smile flickered across her face for a fraction of a second before it froze. She dropped the hairbrush, made a dash for the door, and pushed it shut, leaving him out in the cold on the other side.
9
Thad took a step back. The closed door told him everything. He pushed it back open.
She stood in the center of the room, hairbrush stalled in midair, her vocalizations playing in the background. “I’m on vocal rest,” she declared. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand, all right, and I’m calling bullshit.”
Her head came up. She looked snooty as all hell. At the same time, vulnerable. “Which is meaningless since you don’t know anything about the human voice.”
“Maybe not, but I know when somebody’s pulling a scam.”
Her chin stayed high. “It’s not a scam!”
Her arrogance was an act. He could feel it, but he didn’t care. “Is that even you singing?”
“Of course it’s me singing!” Her chest heaved as she drew in one of her long breaths. “Even on vocal rest, it’s helpful keeping to a regular routine.”
“That’s crap. And I should have figured it out days ago. Serious singers like you who are on vocal rest aren’t supposed to talk much, isn’t that right? Hardly the case with you.”
She turned her back to him and moved away from the mirror. “I’m not discussing this.”
He was furious. They were friends. Good friends, despite the short time they’d known each other. They’d shared things about themselves. They’d laughed together, insulted each other, nearly frozen to death. The fact that she would mislead him like this felt like the worst
kind of betrayal.
“Suit yourself,” he retorted.
Her shoulders sagged.
He turned on his heel and left the room. He was done with her.
* * *
Heartsick, Olivia sank onto her bed. She’d lost her voice. Not from laryngitis, allergies, polyps, or nodules—nothing was physically wrong—she’d lost it from guilt. And now Thad knew the truth about her.
You let me believe we were forever. You meant everything to me and I meant nothing to you. Why should I keep on living?
The email Adam had sent before he’d killed himself had laid it out, and despite what Rachel said and what the psychologist she’d visited had told her, despite Thad’s opinion on the subject, Olivia knew she was responsible.
Rachel had witnessed the scene at the funeral. She knew Olivia’s singing was suffering, but she didn’t know how badly. Only the doctor she’d seen and Thad knew the truth.
Technically speaking, she had a psychogenic voice disorder. She couldn’t get a full breath when she tried to sing. Her heart would begin to race, and an unnatural, gritty quality distorted the full, rich tones that were her hallmark. Her reliable vibrato had grown unsteady. Without her customary breath support, her tongue fell back, and she strangled her high notes. Worst of all, she sometimes went flat.
She was Olivia Shore. She never went flat. But now she did, and in exactly twenty-five days, she was scheduled to sing Amneris in Aida at the Chicago Municipal Opera.
She jumped up from the side of the bed, the thought of the looming deadline filling her with panic. She was doing breathing exercises and yoga, trying to meditate, and drinking copious amounts of water. After the disastrous drunken night when she’d attacked Thad, she’d restricted herself to a single glass of wine each evening. She’d never smoked, she avoided carbonated beverages, and she drank so much lemon and honey in warm water that she’d forgotten what plain cold water tasted like. She’d hoped this tour would be the distraction she needed to break the cycle she was trapped in, but it only seemed to be making things worse.
Everyone in the opera world understood medical issues could cause a singer to temporarily lose her voice, but her career would be impacted in all the wrong ways if word got out that she’d lost her voice for psychological reasons.
Each morning since the funeral, she’d played a recording of her daily vocalizing, hoping the familiarity would ease her breathing enough so she’d naturally begin to sing, but it wasn’t working. Her guilt was literally choking her.
* * *
As Thad ignored her on the flight to Dallas, she tried unsuccessfully to convince herself she hadn’t been deliberately deceiving him. But the truth was, she’d been afraid he’d discover the secret she hadn’t been able to reveal to Rachel. By purposefully bumping up the volume on the recording whenever she knew he was nearby, she’d knowingly misled him.
They landed, and while Paisley stayed behind to gather the luggage, she and Thad, along with Henri and Mariel, took a stretch limo to the hotel. Olivia couldn’t escape the sinking feeling she’d destroyed a friendship that had become invaluable to her. She had to talk to him, but he was seated as far away from her as he could get. Finally, she pulled out her phone and texted him.
I’m sorry.
He glanced at his screen. She half expected him to ignore her, but he didn’t. Don’t care.
It’s complicated.
This time he did ignore her. She recalled the little she knew about professional athletes and tried again. Haven’t u ever hidden an injury?
He studied the screen. His thumbs moved. Not from my friends.
What about all ur mysterious phone calls and that computer screen u keep hiding.
His jaw set. Business.
She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth and typed. Forgive me and I’ll have sex with u.
His head shot up. He looked down the length of the limo at her. His thumbs raced over the keypad. Ur trying to bribe me with sex?
I guess. But only once.
You lie to me and now u want to REWARD yourself by having sex with me?
Those capital letters were a clear insult, which deserved a response in kind. It should be obvious by now that I’m emotionally unstable. Which is why I LOST MY VOICE!
As an afterthought, she added a hashtag. #compassion
His reply was brief. #bullshit
She sighed and tucked her phone away.
He glanced over at her. His thumbs started to move and then stalled. He tucked his own phone away.
* * *
Thad was in a foul mood, and the construction holding up Dallas traffic didn’t help. He was used to Chicago’s incessant road work, but Dallas seemed worse, or maybe his mood had more to do with what had happened this morning. He remembered the sprained ankle he’d once hidden for fear the Dolphins’ defense would capitalize on his weaker side, and the fractured rib he’d made sure no one knew about. But that was different. He had his teammates to think about.
But The Diva had her reputation at stake. She had to deal with audiences who would boo her, with opera companies that wouldn’t hire her, and with music critics who’d rip her to shreds if she wasn’t on her game.
Still, she should have told him because—
Because she should have.
* * *
Olivia had been doing most of the talking during their interviews all day to cover up his own muted responses. They ended the afternoon in a city garden being photographed for D Magazine. The garden shoot had been Mariel’s idea. Henri had wanted them photographed at a retro pinball arcade. Henri’s idea would have produced more memorable photographs, but in the end, Mariel was clearly the power play in the battle between them, and she’d won.
They hadn’t been back to the hotel for a full hour when he discovered Olivia had run off to the hotel’s indoor swimming pool. By herself. After what had happened in New Orleans, he grabbed his room key and raced to the pool in his gym shorts and a T-shirt.
She was alone swimming the length of the pool. Alone! No couples reclined on the white-cushioned loungers. No kids called out “Marco . . .” “Polo . . .” He stripped off his T-shirt and dove in.
As he came up next to her, her stroke faltered, and her eyes widened under her swim goggles.
“Good move,” he said sarcastically. “Coming down here by yourself.”
The Diva regained her rhythm. “You’re not speaking to me, remember?” She pulled away from him, the threads of dark hair that had escaped from her swim cap clinging to her neck.
It occurred to him that he might be sulking. He’d called bullshit on her. Maybe it was time to call it on himself.
But she was already half a pool length away. She had a strong kick, a long reach, and a smooth stroke—better form than he did. But he was stronger, and he set out to prove it, although being in waterlogged gym shorts instead of swim trunks handicapped him.
As he finally drew even with her, he spotted an ugly bruise on her arm from where she’d been attacked. That mark felt like failure on his part for not keeping a closer watch, but if he mentioned that, she’d only insist she wasn’t his responsibility.
He stayed even with her for a few strokes, the smell of chlorine strong in his nose. When she reached the deep end, she did one of those underwater flip turns he’d never quite mastered and took off again, showing no intention of stopping to talk to him. He pushed awkwardly off the end of the pool. He couldn’t match her style, but he damn well could beat her on endurance. He checked out the clock on the wall.
6:32
It was on. One highbrow opera diva versus one superbly trained NFL quarterback.
6:39
He didn’t try to stay even with her and let her swim at her own graceful pace.
6:45
He chugged along—all strength, no style. One end of the pool to the other.
7:06
Her stroke had grown choppy. She was tiring, but she refused to stop before he did.
7:14
; The fading light outside the windows had developed an orange tint. He’d only been swimming for forty-two minutes. She’d been swimming longer.
7:18
It belatedly occurred to him that her bruised shoulder had to be bothering her, yet she refused to give up. He was an ass.
He blocked her as she approached. “Uncle.” He set his feet down. “Damn, but you’re strong.” He took some deep, unnecessary breaths so she wouldn’t feel bad.
She didn’t seem to. They stood in a little less than five feet of water, so he could only see part of what looked like a modest black bikini. Her face was flushed, right along with the tops of her breasts. It was time to get this over with, and he tried not to look at the bruise on her shoulder. “I wish you’d been honest with me,” he said.
She pulled off her goggles and moved to the side of the pool. “It’s not exactly something I wanted to talk about.”
“You push me to talk about things I don’t want to talk about.”
“Like . . . ?” She climbed the ladder, giving him an unrestricted view of her very fine butt. When he didn’t respond, she looked down at him from the pool deck. “Like talking about how being a backup makes you feel? Or what’s going to happen to you when you age out of the game? Or those mystery phone calls you’re always making? Or how about your track record as a serial dater?”
“Serial monogamist. There’s a difference.” She stood above him, water sluicing down her long, strong legs, goggles dangling from her fingertips. “You should have told me the truth instead of playing that recording every morning.”
“I’m telling you now.” She dropped her goggles on one of the white-cushioned loungers, pulled off her swim cap, and tossed her hair. As she wrapped herself in one of the pool towels, he drew his gaze away from her legs and climbed the ladder. She turned toward the long windows that looked out on a garden. He fetched a towel for himself, giving her time.
“In less than a month,” she said, “I’m scheduled to sing Amneris in Aida at Chicago Municipal Opera.”
When Stars Collide Page 12