When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(35)
Her fingers balled into a fist. “I—I don’t remember exactly. Not long after we started dating.” She turned away.
“Did he wear it much?”
She gave a jerky nod.
He picked up the T-shirt and came to his feet. She recoiled as he held out the shirt. “Look at the tag, Liv.”
She recoiled. “Get it away from me.”
“Look at it.”
Her shoulders heaved, but she finally did as he demanded. “I don’t see—” She broke off as she saw what he saw. The T-shirt’s tag was stiff and crisp. It had never been washed.
“This isn’t his shirt,” she said as the realization struck her. “It’s never been washed, and the size is wrong. It looks like the shirt I gave him, but this isn’t it.”
“Somebody is playing a nasty mind game with you.”
They both jumped as a knock sounded on the door. A bellman stood on the other side with a gift basket so large he’d brought it up on a cart. Emerging from the cellophane were two bottles of champagne, a pair of crystal glasses, and an assortment of gourmet cheeses, nuts, crackers, and designer chocolates.
The bellman wheeled in the cart. “Compliments of Mr. Rupert Glass.”
8
The next night, Thad propped himself against the pillows in his bed with the doors open between their suites and his mind switching between insights he didn’t want to examine too closely, the fake bloody T-shirt, and the gutter. Olivia had appeared at tonight’s client dinner in full diva regalia—shiny, dark hair worn loose, dramatic eye makeup, and crimson lipstick. She’d worn a long, white gown with an Egyptian collar necklace, probably a gift from Rupert. He didn’t ask. With her stilettos, she’d been taller than all the men there but him.
He’d stuffed the T-shirt back into its envelope and tucked the whole thing in the bottom of his suitcase. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
Olivia hadn’t yet turned the light out in her suite. Maybe she was having a hard time falling asleep, too. He slipped on his headphones and pulled up YouTube on his computer. It wasn’t long before he’d found a video of her singing Carmen.
Even people who didn’t know opera knew the melody of its famous song, but now he also knew its name: “Habanera.” And there she was. Commanding the stage. Smoldering in a tatty red dress with her breasts spilling over its low, square neckline like offerings poured from a cornucopia. Dirty bare feet, skin tanned and glistening with sweat, she taunted the men, her skirt swirling around her strong, spread legs, her arms as sinuous as snakes, her tumble of hair roiling and seething around her head. And that voice. That magnificent voice.
He watched one clip and then another. No wonder she was being hailed as the opera world’s premier Carmen. Like Carmen, Liv wouldn’t let any man stand between her and the freedom to live life on her own terms. In the final clip, he saw Don José stab her, watched her die, and wanted to kill the son of a bitch, wanted to rip off his head with his own bare hands.
He shoved his computer aside. He was way too emotional for opera.
*
“You’re ridiculous,” she told him the next afternoon as he sat in the chair by her side, one foot in the water, getting a fucking pedicure. Some of his pals submitted to this affront to all that was masculine, but never him. And yet here he was because he didn’t want her going off alone, not while she was fair game to whoever was out there trying to spook her.
“No reason my toenails shouldn’t be as pretty as the rest of me,” he said.
She attempted to give him the stink eye but spoiled it with a smile. “If your looks matched your personality, you’d be one of those WWE fighters with no neck and a cauliflower nose.”
He ignored the compliment. “I’m surprised you even know what the WWE is.”
“I get around. This isn’t necessary, you know.”
He pretended to misunderstand. “Who wants ugly toes?”
“I appreciate your concern, but nothing is going to happen to me in a Denver nail salon in broad daylight.”
“Rupert could show up with a diamond necklace and a damned machete.”
She laughed. “If only you knew him.”
He didn’t care to. Maybe he was being overcautious, but between the threatening messages, tossed suitcases, the T-shirt with the phony blood, and those over-the-top gifts, he didn’t like the idea of her roaming around alone. Since he couldn’t be with her all the time, he’d pulled Henri aside, told him something vague about Olivia having an overly aggressive fan, and asked him to keep an extra eye on her.
“Please don’t schedule one of those waxing things,” he said. “I have to draw the line somewhere.”
“I’ll be merciful.” Olivia grinned. “Or not.”
*
When they arrived in New Orleans, the final proofs from their photo shoots at the Seahawks’ stadium and the Seattle Opera were waiting for them at their French Quarter hotel overlooking Royal Street. Mariel Marchand was there, too. They hadn’t seen her since last week in San Francisco, and Henri was clearly unhappy that she’d managed to get hold of the proofs before him. Still, as Henri spread them across the coffee table in their suite, her reappearance couldn’t diminish his excitement. “These are extraordinaire. Even more impressive than I hoped.”