When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(11)

The elevator slid to a stop, and an elderly couple got on. They smiled automatically, and then the woman took a closer look at Olivia.

Please, no.

“Olivia Shore! Oh, my goodness! Is it really you? We heard you sing Princess Eboli in Don Carlos last year in Boston. You were amazing!”

“Thank you.”

Her husband piped in. “‘O don fatale.’ That high B-flat. Unforgettable!”

“I can’t believe we’re meeting you in person,” the woman gushed. “Are you performing here?”

“No, I’m not.”

The elevator stopped at the lobby. Thad strode out ahead of the older couple. Olivia could see they were eager to engage her in a longer conversation. She quickly excused herself and hurried after him.

As the cold marble tiles of the lobby hit her bare feet, she remembered her flats lying next to the couch in the suite. Owens clearly didn’t want to talk to her, and she should turn back, but the idea of carrying this weight any longer was worse than the embarrassment of going after him.

He exited through the center front door. Guests turned to look at her as she rushed barefooted across the lobby. Outside, the first taxi in line had its door open, and Owens was speaking to the driver as he got in. She abandoned what was left of her dignity, sprinted toward the car, grabbed the door, threw herself in . . .

And fell right on top of him.

It was like landing on a bag of cement.

The hotel doorman hadn’t seen her awkward leap. He closed the car door and gestured for the taxi to move forward to make room for the next car. The cabdriver gazed at them in the rearview mirror with eyes that had seen it all, shrugged, and pulled away.

She scrambled off Thad. As she sprawled onto the seat next to him, he looked at her as if she were a cockroach, then leaned back and deliberately pulled out his phone. He began scrolling through it as if she weren’t there.

She curled her toes against the gritty floor mat. “I’m sorry. I want to apologize. I made a terrible mistake.”

“You don’t say,” he replied with total indifference, his eyes staying on his phone.

Olivia curled her toes deeper into the grit. “I talked to my friend. My former friend. She admitted she’d lied to me about everything. Her boyfriend walked in on the two of you, and— The details don’t matter. The point is, I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” He’d put his phone to his ear and spoke into it. “Hey, Piper. Looks like we’re playing phone tag. I got your message, and I should be back in the city by then. Remember to let me know when you decide you’re ready to cheat on your husband.” He disconnected.

She stared at him.

He turned to her. “You had something to say to me?”

She’d already said it, but he deserved his pound of flesh. “I’m truly sorry, but . . .”

One of those perfect dark eyebrows arched. “But?”

Her temper got the best of her. “What would you have done if you thought you were stuck for the next four weeks with a sexual predator?”

“You have a strange idea of what constitutes an apology.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, and then, “No! I’m not sorry. Yes, I am, but— Believing what I did, I had to confront you.”

“You might be a great singer, but you’re crap at making apologies.”

She could only grovel for so long. “I’m a soprano. Sopranos aren’t supposed to apologize.”

He actually laughed.

“Truce?” she said, hoping for the best even though she knew she didn’t deserve it.

“I’ll think about it.”

The cab turned down a one-way street and pulled up in front of a seedy-looking bar with a neon cactus flickering in the window.

“While you’re thinking,” she said, “would you mind lending me cab fare to get back to the hotel?”

“I might,” he said. “Or . . . I have a better idea. Come in with me. I doubt the guys have ever met an opera singer.”

“Go into that awful bar?”

“Not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but mingling with the commoners might be good for you.”

“Another time.”

“Really?” His eyes narrowed. “You think all it takes is a couple of ‘I’m sorry’s’ to make up for character assassination? Words are cheap.”

She regarded him steadily. “This is payback, right?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m barefoot,” she pointed out with a certain degree of desperation.

He regarded her with silky animosity. “I wouldn’t have thought of it otherwise. If there’s too much broken glass, I’ll carry you over it.”

“You want revenge this much?”

“Hey, I said I’d carry you, didn’t I? But never mind. I know you don’t have the guts.”

She laughed in his face. A big, theatrical “ha!” that came straight from her diaphragm. “You don’t think I have the guts? I’ve been booed at La Scala!”

“They booed you?”

“Sooner or later it happens to everyone who sings there. Callas, Fleming, Pavarotti.” She reached for the door handle, stepped out onto the dirty pavement, and turned to gaze down at him. “I gave them the finger and finished the performance.”