With no weapon, the driver lurched for the limo.
The car door slammed, and Thad went to his knees beside her. His hands frantically moved over her body, and in the adrenaline rush flooding her, she couldn’t comprehend why he was feeling her up at a time like this.
“Liv! Where did you get hit?”
He wasn’t feeling her up. He was . . . “I didn’t.” She rolled to the side. “I fell.”
Thad spotted the gun and rushed with it toward the limo, but by the time he fired, the car was peeling onto the road, gravel spraying like shrapnel.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. In the distance, the lights on a transmission tower blinked, and she heard the faraway sound of a freight train. They were alone in the thick desert dark.
As she breathed in the dusty cloud from the car tires, all her fury evaporated, leaving her with a racing heart and wobbly legs as she pushed herself to her knees. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For dragging you into my problems.”
“Shut up, Liv, okay?” It was the second time he’d said that to her, but now his gentle tone made her want to weep. “Maybe he was after the watches.”
As she started to argue with him, she felt something by her hand. She closed her fingers around his watch and held it out. “A lot of effort for nothing.”
“Bastard.” He clicked on the safety and shoved the gun in his waistband. As he took the watch from her, he helped her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
One of the gel breast lifts she’d worn instead of a bra had fallen from the V of her dress. She fumbled for it, but layers of sandy grit adhered to the sticky surface, so she retrieved her flamenco shawl instead. He helped her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
Having lopsided breasts, she decided, was only a minor complication compared to the bigger challenge of trekking down a dark, rutted gravel road wearing five-inch stilettos.
Thad was thinking the same thing. “You’ll never make it to the highway in those shoes. I’ll carry you piggyback.”
“Never.” Olivia Shore, the toast of the Metropolitan, the jewel of La Scala, the pride of the Royal Opera, did not piggyback on anyone, no matter how broad and strong they were. She tossed the dusty shawl around her shoulders. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll kill yourself.”
“But I’ll keep my dignity.”
“You’re a stubborn fool.”
She sighed and looped a knot in the front of the shawl. “I know.”
Her refusal made the awkward trip last twice as long, but Thad’s tight grip kept her from twisting an ankle, and at least she held on to a shred of pride—or as much as her cockeyed breasts would allow.
With both their phones gone—hers abandoned in the limo’s back seat and his stuck in the asshole’s pocket—they had to rely on the kindness of strangers for a ride back to the city. Unfortunately, the strangers turned out to be a trio of drunken frat boys. Fortunately, Thad let them know right away that he was the one and only Thaddeus Walker Bowman Owens, so they let him drive. Unfortunately, he introduced her as a Chicago Stars cheerleader. It shocked her that she still remembered how to laugh. A pathetic laugh, for sure, but at least she wasn’t crying.
She borrowed one of the frat boys’ phones and called Henri. He was frantic. He’d been waiting for them in the hotel lobby when the real limo driver had shown up, and the doorman had informed him that she and Thad had already left. Henri had assumed they’d decided to get to the restaurant early to have a drink, but when he’d arrived and discovered they weren’t there, he’d grown increasingly worried. It took much of the rest of the trip to convince him she and Thad were unhurt. Physically, anyway.
* * *
“I can sense a middle linebacker twitching his left eye!” Thad exclaimed, as they took the elevator up to their suite sometime around four in the morning. “But I have no idea what our limo driver looked like. And do you know why?”
She knew exactly why because she’d already listened to his rant twice.
“Because I was too busy staring at your ass! That’s why!”
Their grilling by the Las Vegas police hadn’t gone well. The officer who’d interviewed them found it hard to believe that neither of them could describe the driver, and by the second hour of their stint at the police station, he’d stopped trying to hide his skepticism. “You didn’t see the driver when you approached the car? You didn’t speak to him before you got in?”
“Yes, but . . .” Olivia took over this round. “Thad and I were having a . . . a conversation, and neither of us was paying attention.”
Their interviewer had an egg-shaped head, dark-rimmed glasses, a brush mustache, and a mistrustful nature. “So let me get this straight. You think he was white, but maybe not. He wasn’t short, but he wasn’t tall. And his voice sounded maybe middle-aged but maybe younger.”
“He had a hat on,” Olivia said defensively, “and it was pulled low. I remember that.” She tugged the dirty flamenco shawl more tightly around her to conceal her unfettered breasts and briefly wondered how the frat boy would feel about the single silicone lift pad he’d find in his car when he sobered up.
“He was wearing a dark suit,” Thad added. “We told you that.”
“Are you even sure it was a man? Could it have been a woman?”
“Thad and I weren’t really having a conversation,” she said desperately. “It was more of an argument, and you know how that is.”
The officer—his name tag read L. Burris—looked up from his computer screen. “You’ve been getting a lot of publicity lately.” Olivia should have seen what was coming next, but she hadn’t. Burris pulled off his glasses. “Ms. Shore, this isn’t the first incident you’ve been involved in since this tour of yours started.”
“It’s not my tour. Marchand Timepieces is sponsoring—”
“That assault in New Orleans . . . They never found the man responsible.” His chair squeaked as he leaned back into it. “You’re aware, aren’t you, of the penalties involved in filing a false report?”
That had brought Thad right out of his chair. “If you’re implying that we made this up for publicity, you couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Sit down, Mr. Owens. I’m not implying anything. Just pointing out a few facts.” He brushed the corner of his mustache with his thumb. “You say you were kidnapped, but you have no description of the perpetrator. It’s possible he was after your watches—worth over twenty grand, as you pointed out—but all he got was your phone and wallet.”
“Explain that gun we handed over,” Thad countered. “Instead of doubting us, why don’t you see if any limo companies reported having one of their cars stolen?”
“We’re doing that right now.”
Not long after, Burris had left them alone, which was when Thad had launched into his initial “staring at your ass” rant.
The officer had kept them waiting nearly an hour, during which time they agreed it was highly unlikely Adam’s sisters would have had the resources to pull something like this off. “Then who?” Olivia said, thinking out loud.
Thad shook his head. “That’s the question.”
Officer Burris returned with the news that the Nevada Highway Patrol had found an abandoned limousine northwest of the city that had been stolen from a local transport service.
“We’ll look at security tapes from the hotel,” Burris said before he showed them out. “Unless they give us more information than you have, it’ll be hard to find this guy.”
“What about the gun?” Thad asked.
“We’ll put a trace on it. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Burris wasn’t happy that they were scheduled to leave for Chicago the next day, but Olivia couldn’t wait to leave Las Vegas behind.
* * *
It was nearly dawn when they got back to the hotel. Thad had finally stopped berating himself for not paying attention to the driver’s appearance, but as they got off the elevator on their floor,
something else was bothering him. “Liv, promise me you won’t ever again mouth off to somebody who’s holding a gun on you.”
“I can’t help it. I hate being pushed around.”
“I get it. You’re a soprano.” He gazed down at her. “But let’s agree that men like him aren’t as enlightened about the artistic temperament as I am.”
She smiled. “One of the best things about you.”
He opened the door of their suite with the new key card they’d gotten at the desk. As she stepped inside, her flamenco shawl fell to her elbows, and she caught her image in the mirror across the room. Tangled hair, dirty face and arms, gown filthy from where she’d fallen. The thin silver chain must have broken when she’d fallen because her necklace and its silver star charm were gone.
“Liv, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but did something happen to your breasts tonight? They’re still sexy as hell, don’t get me wrong. But they seem to look a little—I don’t know—different than they looked at the start of the evening.”
She jerked the shawl back over her shoulders, but not before a quick glance showed that, without support, her breasts were spilling from the V of the gown, and they’d also lost some of the perk. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Forget I said anything.”
“I will.”
He eyed her bedroom door. “Maybe after a quick shower . . . ?” But even he knew their window of opportunity had passed.
She pushed a strand of hair from her face with a grubby hand. “We’re dirty, exhausted, and we have to leave for the airport in three hours. So much for our night of passion.” And maybe that was for the best.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Chicago.”
She fingered the fringe on her shawl, not quite looking at him. “What if this is a colossal sign from the universe that we’ve gone as far together as we should?”
“That’s defeatist thinking. Knock it off.”
“But you have to admit—”
“I admit nothing. If you want to be a champion, Olivia Shore, you have to stay in the game.”
And that’s what this was to him. A game.
* * *
In the morning, the police returned Olivia’s phone and purse, which they’d retrieved from the limo, the twenty dollars still folded neatly inside. Thad had spent what was left of the night canceling his credit cards, ordering a new phone, and reliving what had happened. He didn’t sleep until their flight back to Chicago, and when he awoke, he saw Olivia sound asleep herself, lips slightly parted, purple headphones cockeyed on her head. She looked young and defenseless, far different from the furious woman who’d gone after their kidnapper last night.
Henri had booked them into the Peninsula Chicago on Superior Street. Thad’s condo and Olivia’s rental apartment weren’t far away, but they’d agreed it would be inconvenient to shuffle back and forth for their engagements, so the hotel would be their home for their last three nights.
The three nights Olivia insisted were all they would have together.
For the first time in his life, Thad had lost control of a relationship. He had to turn that around.
Their suite at the Peninsula had a baby grand piano and a wraparound terrace that looked out over Lake Michigan. While Henri waited for his room to be ready, he camped out with his laptop, and Paisley took off for Sephora.
Liv gave Thad her Queen of Sheba look. “I want to walk.”
He wanted to do more than walk, but not with Henri temporarily working in their suite. “Fine with me.”
She changed from flats into sneakers and traded her trench for a fleece jacket he’d never seen—one more item she’d stuck away in those 799 suitcases she traveled with. On their way out the door, she stole the Chicago Stars ball cap he was wearing and stuck it on her own head. “It makes me feel young,” she said, as she pulled her ponytail through the hole in the back.
“You are young,” he pointed out. “Relatively.”
“I don’t feel that way.”
“Thirty-five is only old in football years.”
“You’re almost forty, so that makes you ancient.”
“I’m not almost forty. I’m thirty-six.”
“Going on thirty-seven.”
“Not yet.”
“Je m’excuse.”
They turned onto Michigan Avenue. The day was sunny, but cold and crisp, thanks to the spring chill coming off the lake. The chill hadn’t discouraged the pedestrians bustling along the wide sidewalks with their shopping bags from Nike, Bloomingdale’s, Chanel, and the Apple Store.
“What are you going to do with yourself when your football career is over?” she asked.
“Not sure.”
“Give me a hint.”
“I don’t know. I’ve been doing some work with a friend.” Work he wasn’t ready to talk to anybody about. “I’ve got an idea. The Omni’s close. Let’s check in for a couple of hours. Just you and me.”
“It’s too pretty to go inside.”
“It’s cold, and you’re nervous. Afraid you can’t keep up with me, aren’t you? Afraid you’ll be a dud.”
“I’m not afraid I’ll be a dud.” She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets. “Okay, I might be a dud.”
He laughed. “You’re adorable when you’re insane.”
“Dude! It’s Thad Owens!” Three guys in hoodies and backward baseball caps strutted toward them. Early twenties. One wore jeans, two were in cargo shorts even though the temperature was in the forties.
“We’re big Stars fans.” The tallest bro, ablaze in neon-green sunglasses, stopped in front of them.
“Glad to hear it,” Thad replied, as he usually did.
His companion, whose hoodie advertised his preference for Miller Lite, poked the guy next to him. “Except Chad. Bears all the way.”
“Bears suck,” Neon sunglasses declared. “So does Clint Garrett. You should be playing.”
“If I was better than Clint, I would be,” Thad said mildly.
Neon sunglasses snorted. “What about those interceptions he threw against the Patriots?”
“It’s easy to be a quarterback when you’re home on your couch.”
Sunglasses missed the dig. “And that pick six in St. Louis? What about that?”
Thad set his jaw. “Happens to the best of us. Nobody in the League has a stronger arm than Clint or quicker feet. The Stars are lucky to have him.”
“I still say—”
“He’s fast, he’s aggressive, and he’s smart. I’m proud to be on his team. Nice talking to you.” Thad took Olivia’s arm and made his escape.
Behind him, one of them groused, “We didn’t even get a picture.”
Liv slipped her hand through his elbow. “Pick six?”
“The idiot threw the ball right into traffic,” Thad grumbled. “Their safety picked it off and ran it in for a touchdown. Six points.”
“Pick six, I get it.” She grinned and shook her head. “Idiot.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Oh, it’s funny, all right. Some singers I know could learn a few lessons about team loyalty from football players.” She stopped without warning, backed him into the window of the Burberry store, and kissed him, right there in the middle of Michigan Avenue.
He didn’t know what had brought this on, but he wasn’t going to argue about it. It was a long, deep kiss. Her hands looped around his neck. Her lips parted, and so did his. Their tongues met in an intimate romp. His hands went to her waist. Her breasts pressed against his chest. This was the prelude to everything he’d been waiting for.
“Ew!” A teenage girl’s shrill giggle dumped cold water all over that kiss. “Get a room!”
He released their kiss and gazed into a pair of dewy, diva-dark eyes that made Liv look as young as those teenagers snickering behind her.
“Omni?” he whispered.
She nodded. A short, barely there nod, but a nod nonetheless.
He took her hand. They jaywalked . . . jaywalk
ed! . . . across six lanes of Michigan Avenue traffic with horns blaring and drivers cursing.
Still holding hands, they stormed through the doors of the Omni. He had just enough sense left to steer her away from the registration desk. “Wait here.” No need to have both of them standing at the desk without a single piece of luggage.
He made quick work of registering, paying with the emergency cash he’d borrowed from Henri until he got to his bank. He didn’t care about the Wi-Fi code or the hypoallergenic pillows they offered. All he wanted was a room. And a bed.
14
It wasn’t like in the movies. Thad didn’t crush her against the wall the instant the hotel door banged shut. They didn’t rip off each other’s clothes, mouths welded, or pull at each other’s hair, or drag each other to the floor, so overcome with lust they couldn’t make it to the bed. It wasn’t like that at all.
First . . .
They didn’t have condoms. Which wasn’t really a problem. They’d had a talk about this earlier. Neither of them had any STDs, and she was on the pill. The real issues were . . .
They’d let this go on too long, built it up too much, put too much pressure on themselves.
She said she had to pee, locked herself in the bathroom, and breathed the long, deep inhalations and slow exhalations of an opera singer with magnificent breath control . . . except when she was singing.
He knocked on the door. “I’m coming in.”
“No! I’m throwing up.”
“You are not,” he said from the other side.
“I think I have a stomach virus.”
“I think you have a chickenshit virus.”
“That, too.”
“I’ll wait.”
She turned on the faucet and washed her hands. She was used to seeing herself in wigs and tiaras. She was not used to seeing herself in a Stars ball cap, but she liked the way it looked on her head. Sporty. Carefree. Everything she wasn’t. “Can I have this hat?”
“No.” From the next room.
“You must have dozens of them. And you won’t let me have one?”
“I’m not feeling generous right now.”
“I understand.”
She reluctantly took off her fleece jacket and slipped out of her sneakers, but kept the cap on. “I’m getting undressed.”
When Stars Collide Page 18