When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(55)

This time she didn’t fight him.

*

“Sing for me,” he said, as they passed the sign for Scotch Plains on their way back to Midtown.

“I can’t sing now.”

“No better time. You’re mad, but it won’t take long before your overworked guilt engine kicks in, and you’ll be right back where you were. Let me hear you sing before that happens.”

“I know you want to help, but this isn’t as simple to get over as an interception or an incomplete pass.”

“Just as I suspected. You know more about football than you pretend. And there’s nothing simple about an interception. Now stop stalling and sing.”

She emitted a pained sigh and then, to his surprise, began to sing. A piece so mournful he wished it weren’t in English.

“When I am laid . . . am laid in earth . . .”

Despite its maudlin subject, the notes she produced were so round and rich they could only have come from the throat of the best in the world.

“Passable,” he said over the constriction in his own throat when she finished.

“It’s ‘Dido’s Lament’ from Dido and Aeneas.”

“That’s what I thought.” He smiled at her and she gave him a wobbly smile in return. “It was beautiful, but kind of depressing,” he said. “How about you slay me? Right now. One of your big numbers.”

“Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want me singing full voice inside a car.”

“You don’t think I’m man enough to handle it?”

“I know you’re not.” She dug in her purse, pulled out a tissue, ripped off a couple of pieces, and wadded them into balls. She leaned over, a breast pressed to his upper arm, and stuffed them in his ears. It was a wonder he didn’t drive off the road. “You asked for it.”

And she let it rip. Even with his makeshift earplugs, her lavish, crystal-shattering Bugatti of a voice raised the hair on the back of his neck.

When she was done, all he could do was breathe a prayer. “Jesus, Liv . . .”

“I was holding back,” she said, almost defiantly. “It’s called marking. It’s what we do sometimes to save our voices during rehearsals.”

“Got it. Like a no-contact football practice.” He tried to figure out how he could say what he couldn’t get off his mind. “Do you feel like taking requests?”

“I’m not doing ‘Love Shack.’”

He smiled. “I was thinking more like . . .” He hesitated, but he couldn’t make himself say it. Couldn’t reveal how much he’d been thinking about it. “Forget it. I changed my mind.”

“Forget what?”

He played dumb. “What do you mean?”

“What do you want me to sing?”

“Whatever you want. I’m easy.”

“But you said . . .”

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t ask her to sing Carmen’s sensuous, rebellious “Habanera” just for him. Wouldn’t admit how much he wanted to be her private audience. He shot into the left lane. “Who am I to dictate anything to the Beautiful Turnip?”

“Tornado. And you’re speeding again.”

He backed off on the accelerator, and she began to sing, first something in French, then German, then Italian—none of them “Habanera.” She sang all the way to the Lincoln Tunnel, and the next evening, as they boarded the plane to fly to Las Vegas, his ears still buzzed. She wasn’t happy with her sound, but for him . . . it was glorious.

*

She was due at the Muni in a week. Olivia gazed out the window of the plane on their flight to Las Vegas, her feelings in turmoil. She could mark for the first few rehearsals to buy herself time. She’d sung Amneris enough that no one would think twice about it. But sooner or later, that time would run out.

She told herself she was making progress. When they were in the car, she’d had to sing down an octave on the highs, but at least she was singing. At least? When had delivering anything but her best become her career goal?

Las Vegas loomed ahead, enticing and terrifying. Every day her physical need for him grew more urgent, her sleep more restless, her dreams more erotic. If she didn’t see this through to its logical conclusion, she’d always regret it. And if she did? Their relationship would never be the same.

She closed her eyes and tried not to think.

*

The panoramic windows of their connecting suites at the Bellagio looked out over the flamboyant sprawl of Las Vegas. It was midnight, and Rupert’s latest offering had already arrived, a woman’s Louis Vuitton duffel packed with exotic cheeses, imported caviar, and ludicrously expensive chocolates. “He’s going to go broke,” Liv said.

“Yeah, I’d feel real bad about that.” Thad whipped his phone from his pocket. “Give me his number. I’m sure you have it.”

The thought of what he might say to Rupert alarmed her. “I’m not giving you his phone number.”

“Never mind. I already have it.”

“How did you get his number?”

He looked down his nose at her, deliberately condescending. “I’m a spoiled professional athlete, remember? I can get whatever I want.”

As he tapped at his phone, she tried to grab it from him. “It’s the middle of the night. You’ll scare him!”