When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(44)

“Close enough.”

“I don’t understand why we’re getting all this attention.”

“Because I’m a dumb jock and you’re a high-class diva, and it’s too good a story to pass up.”

“The only thing dumb about you is your taste in T-shirts.” His, she happened to know, was a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar Valentino.

He gazed down at the navy-and-red graphic of astronauts floating in space. “Might have been a mistake.”

“You think?”

Only Henri and Paisley were waiting by the limo. Fortunately, Mariel had left the tour, but Olivia suspected she’d turn up again, like a head cold that wouldn’t go away. She’d probably run off to Uncle Lucien so she could complain about the rubes Henri had hired to represent the company.

“We’ll look on the bright side,” a less-than-cheerful Henri said as they arrived at the airfield, “two new radio outlets called to schedule an interview.”

“For all the wrong reasons,” Thad said.

Once they were on board, Thad received a phone call of his own. Since he’d taken a seat across from Olivia, she could hear his side of the conversation, which mainly consisted of unhappy grunts. When he pocketed his phone, she regarded him with concern. “Everything okay?”

“The Stars press office. Phoebe Calebow isn’t happy.”

Even Olivia knew about the legendary Phoebe Calebow, the owner of the Chicago Stars and the most powerful woman in the NFL.

He extended his legs as far as the space would allow. “Phoebe has a low tolerance for anything that even hints at one of her players abusing a woman.”

“I can talk to her, if you’d like.”

He curled his lip. “No thanks, Mom. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m only trying to be helpful.”

“Nobody just ‘talks’ to Phoebe Calebow, not unless they’re royalty. Or a member of the Calebow family. She’s the most intimidating hot woman you’ve ever met.”

“I’ve seen the photos. She could have been a Playboy centerfold in the old days when she was younger. Or even now, if they still had centerfolds.”

“People used to underestimate her because of her looks, but only an idiot makes that mistake now. Trust me when I say nobody wants to get on her bad side.”

She could see he was worried, which meant she was worried for him.

*

As the next few days unfolded, Marchand Timepieces received more press coverage than they could have expected, but not entirely the right kind. Too many of the country’s X-rated morning radio show hosts suddenly wanted interviews, all of which Henri refused in favor of the more respectable media.

Olivia quickly perfected her responses to questions about New Orleans. Instead of disclosing that the attack had happened in a bookstore, which only made it seem more bizarre, she referred to a small shop in the French Quarter and a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “It was so random. Obviously, someone who’s mentally disturbed was behind it. I’m so thankful Thad rushed over to meet me at the police station. He’s a good friend.”

That ended the questions from all but the most persistent.

They moved from Atlanta to Nashville, and Thad kept trying to make her sing. She appreciated what he was attempting to do for her, but singing a few bars of Billie Holiday wouldn’t overcome the kind of block she was dealing with. Still, he was persistent and she was desperate. Whenever they were alone and had a break between interviews, he shoved his phone at her with song lyrics displayed. Today it was “Georgia on My Mind.”

“Let’s hear it,” he said.

“This isn’t going to fix me,” she retorted.

“Stop being so negative. You sounded better this morning than you did yesterday, and you like singing jazz.”

She glanced at the lyrics to “Georgia on My Mind.” “There’s a big difference between singing Ray Charles and launching into an F-natural for Amneris’s “Quale insolita gioia nel tuo sguardo.” At his quizzical expression, she translated. “‘What rare joy shines on your face.’”

“Thanks.”

“Not your face. Radamès’s face. And he’s thinking about his love for Aida, not any passion he holds for Amneris, worse luck for her.”

“Shows what happens when a woman gets too serious about someone, even in ancient Egypt.”

“Exactly.” She thought of Adam. Of Aida. Of the way Amneris sends Radamès to his death. She snatched the phone from him and began to sing. “Georgia . . . Georgia . . .”

Thad closed his eyes and listened.

This was jazz, not opera, and her chest constriction eased. Not enough to produce the sounds she needed to perform. Far from it. But as he’d said, better than yesterday.

*

Thad had promised to take some of his Nashville buddies out that night, but he’d committed before he’d gotten tangled up with keeping The Diva safe. He couldn’t see himself dragging her along into another noisy bar. She’d have to strain her voice to talk, and she was under enough stress. Besides, it was guys only, and he was supposed to meet them in an hour.

As he pondered his options, he wandered into her adjoining suite where she was doing some yoga sun salutations by the windows. He sprawled on the couch and pretended to look at his phone when, in fact, he was admiring her strength right along with the stretch of her yoga pants over her butt.