When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(15)

“A few more minutes.”

He leaned against the brick wall, easily balancing her weight in his arms. She turned her head. Her cheek brushed the soft cotton of his T-shirt. He smelled good. A clean aftershave along with the faintest hint of beer. She gazed at her filthy feet. Something odious was stuck to the top of her instep.

“I have to admit I was a little disappointed in your singing,” he said. “You sounded good—don’t get me wrong—but you didn’t sound much like a first-rate opera singer.”

“I told you. I’m resting my voice.”

“I guess. But it was kind of a downer after hearing those impressive exercises you do.”

She gave him her most noncommittal “hmm” and made another quick scan for rodents.

“Reach in my back pocket,” he said, “and pull out my phone so I can call an Uber.”

She turned, pressing her breasts against his chest, and reached between their bodies, down across the blade of his hip bone and—very carefully—eased her hand along the slope of what was, not surprisingly, a very firm rear end.

She was now twisted flat against him, cupping his butt while her own butt was hoisted in the air. “I can’t—” She felt the bulge of the phone in his pocket. Felt another bulge. Quickly withdrew her hand. “This isn’t going to work. ”

“It’s working for me.”

He was provoking her again. She twisted into a semi-upright position without the phone. “We need a new plan.” She thought of the rats. “But don’t you dare put me down.”

He eased her onto the lid of the nearest Dumpster, something he could have done, she realized, from the beginning. “Don’t run away.”

As if she would.

A few minutes later, he was carrying her from the alley into a waiting Uber.

Neither of them seemed to have much to say as they drove back to the hotel. He stared straight ahead, a half smile on his face. She turned her head out the window and felt a half smile taking over her own face. Despite the dirt, the drunks, the threat of rats. Despite Thad Owens himself. Tonight was the first fun she’d had in weeks.

Her smile faded as she thought of Adam, whose days of having fun were over forever.

*

The Diva endured the walk across the glittering lobby with her chin raised and her haughtiest expression, daring anyone to mention her filthy bare feet. As they reached the elevator, a desk clerk hurried up to her. “Flowers arrived while you were out, Ms. Shore. We put them in your suite. And you have a message.”

She took the envelope he handed her with a gracious nod, but as the elevator rose, she crushed it in her fist.

Thad held the door of their suite open and entered behind her, stepping into the overwhelming smell of too many flowers. Vases stuffed full of a dozen varieties covered the top of the piano.

The Diva sighed. “Rupert again.”

“Again? He does this frequently?”

“Flowers, boxes of expensive chocolates, champagne. I’ve tried to discourage him, but as you can see, it hasn’t worked.” She extracted a florist card from one of the arrangements, glanced at it, and set it back down.

“Rupert is one of your lovers?”

“One of legions.”

“Seriously?”

“No, not seriously! He’s at least seventy.”

Thad took in the flowers. “Am I the only one who thinks this is creepy?”

“You have to understand opera fans. They feel like a dying breed, and that can make them overzealous when it comes to their favorite singers.”

“Are there others like Rupert?”

“He’s my most ardent. As for the rest . . . It depends on the production. I’ve gotten Spanish shawls, cases of good rioja, even a few Iberian hams from the Carmen aficionados. And, of course, cigars.”

“Why cigars?”

“Carmen works in a cigar factory.”

“I know that.” He didn’t. “So what other weird gifts have your twisted superfans sent?”

“They’re passionate, not twisted, and I love every one of them. Silver scissors for Samson et Dalila.”

“Stay away from my hair.”

“Lots of Egyptian jewelry—scarab earrings and bracelets—because I sing Amneris in Aida. She’s the villain, but she has her reasons—unrequited love and all that. I’ve even gotten a silver hookah.” As an afterthought, she added, “Aida is set in Egypt.”

“I know that.” He did.

“Mozart fans have sent me more cherubs than I can count.”

“For?”

“Cherubino. We mezzos are famous for our breeches parts.”

“Women playing men?”

“Yes. Cherubino in Marriage of Figaro. He’s a horndog. Sesto in La clemenza di Tito. Hansel in Hansel and Gretel. My friend Rachel owns that role.”

“Hard to imagine you playing a guy.”

“I pride myself.”

He smiled. Her passion for her work and loyalty to her fans were unmistakable. Passion was what drew him to people, their enthusiasm for their jobs or their hobbies—whatever gave their life joy and meaning, whether it was making a great marinara sauce, collecting Louisville Sluggers, or singing opera. Nothing bored him more than bored people. Life was too great for that.