When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(34)

“Am I? Men like you are attracted to women like me because we understand you. We understand what drives you. But, ultimately, our lives are as big or bigger than yours, and once the newness wears off, that starts to grate.”

“I’m not buying it.”

She might as well go all the way. “Before the disaster with Adam, I was involved with a prominent architect. A good man. Decent. He thinks of himself as a feminist.”

“And then he turned into a creep.”

“Not at all. He respected my career, but things came up, and I was smitten with him. I skipped a class because his old college friends were in town. Then I was late for a rehearsal because he was getting an award. He had an open slot in his schedule, and we’d talked about taking a vacation together. I was about to turn down a concert when I finally woke up and realized I was losing myself. I made a vow never again to get involved with another alpha type.”

“Which explains Adam.”

“Pathetic, aren’t I? I can’t have a relationship with someone successful because it hurts my career, and I can’t have a relationship with someone who’s struggling because it hurts my career.” She slumped into the seat. “I need a Dennis. Unfortunately, I gave him away to Rachel.”

He ignored that piece of self-pity. “You’re making something simple too complicated. Sometimes a relationship can just be fun. Casual.”

“At what point have I ever struck you as a casual person?”

“Fair point.”

It felt good to be honest. “I’ve learned a hard lesson. Relationships compromise my work, and it’s my work that gives my life meaning.”

He kept his gaze fixed on the highway. “Since you’re so clear-eyed, it wouldn’t have to be that way with us.”

She took her time replying. “I like being with you, Thad, and you like being with me, and before long, I might end up turning down Carmen at the Mariinsky to sit on the sidelines and watch you not play.”

He shifted in his seat as if he weren’t entirely comfortable. “That could work two ways, you know.”

“Oh, really? I can see it now. ‘Sorry, Coach, I can’t show up for the game today because my lover is singing Despina in Così fan tutte, and I need to be there to support her.’”

“Okay, maybe not that.”

“You’re the anti-Dennis, and we’re not going to happen, no matter how much I might be lusting after you. I’m not saying I am, but I’m not saying I’m not, either.”

“Flattering,” he said dryly.

She needed to make sure there was no misunderstanding, but that meant revealing something she’d never confessed to another person. She steadied herself. “I want to be one of the immortals, Thad,” she said quietly. “I want to do great work. Not just good. Great. I want to do work so monumental people will still be listening to my recordings long after I’m gone.”

Her openness took him aback, and he responded in the only way he knew how, by launching an offensive. “You’re making something as simple and natural as sex way too complicated.”

“Says the man who wants to get laid.”

“You do, too.”

“And I hope it’ll happen one of these days. But not with you.” She gripped her hands in her lap. “I can’t go to bed with you, Thad Owens, no matter how much I might want to. Because, whether you admit it or not, who I am is more than a man like you can handle.”

His mouth set in a grim line. “That’s what you think.”

They rode the rest of the way to Denver in silence.

*

They arrived at the hotel at nine in the morning. Henri had kept his word. Thad and Olivia had adjoining suites. Hers had a kitchen and dining area. His didn’t. But they were back in civilization again, and as long as the door stayed open between them, he didn’t care about having the smaller space.

She went off to unpack. He hung up his jacket. Their conversation in the car had rattled him—not because he didn’t understand what she’d said but because he did, and it had tilted his perspective in a way he didn’t like. She was right. No matter how intelligent or successful the women in his life had been, they had accommodated themselves to him more than he’d ever accommodated himself to them. He’d come first. Always.

An eerie sound emerged from the next suite, breaking his train of thought. It wasn’t exactly a scream, but something close enough to make him rush into the other room.

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?”