When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(67)

He slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and pushed past her into her two-bedroom apartment in the River North area of Chicago. Polished hardwood floors, a postage-stamp balcony, beige carpet, and expensive, but generic, modern furniture that had probably come with the rental because it wasn’t her style. The place would have been boring if she hadn’t personalized it with career mementos: framed photos, posters, some cut-glass trophies. Various props and bits of costumes sat on tables and chests: Venetian carnival masks, a collection of Cherubino cherubs, the crown he’d seen in photos of her as Lady Macbeth, along with a wicked-looking dagger.

His Heisman, on the other hand, was shoved away on the top shelf of his guest room closet, along with a bunch of plaques, game balls, and a couple of his own cut-glass trophies. He didn’t display any of it. Instead of making him feel good, those mementos only reminded him of unfulfilled potential.

He stepped around one of the seven thousand pieces of luggage the limo driver must have hauled up to her apartment. He hoped to God she’d made sure the driver was legit before she’d climbed in. “For somebody who spends so much time on the road, you’d think you’d have figured out by now how to downsize.”

“I have an image to maintain.” She shoved a makeup bag into her tote. “When I go on vacation, I only take a carry-on.”

“Hard to believe.” A poster from The Marriage of Figaro hung next to a framed, autographed photo of her with a guy who looked like a young Andrea Bocelli. The message at the bottom was written in Italian, but he didn’t have any trouble translating the word “amo.” “Liv . . . you know this isn’t going to work.” He picked up a needlework pillow that read, When Basses Go Low, I Go High.

She regarded him warily.

“You can’t stay in a building without security.”

“There’s an intercom system,” she said defensively. “Which you could have used.”

“No need. All I had to do was step into the elevator, remember?” He set the pillow back down. “Bottom line—any moron carrying a pizza box could get in this place.”

She knew exactly what he was talking about, but she still protested. “I’m being careful, and I’ll find a permanent place as soon as I have time. I like Chicago.”

“I remember. Middle of the country and all.” He bumped into one of her wheeled garment bags. “The point is, you were attacked in New Orleans, kidnapped in Vegas. Do you really think this is over?”

“I’m home now,” she said carefully. “I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding.”

“We’re not talking about the rest of your life. We’re talking about now.” He hadn’t planned on this, but he couldn’t see another way around it. “I want you to move in with me for a while.”

Her head shot up. “That’s ridiculous. We’re over, remember?”

“I’m not talking about us living together.”

“That’s exactly what you’re talking about.”

“No, this is about security. Your personal safety. And this place can’t provide it.”

“So I’m supposed to pack up, and—”

“You’re already packed up.”

“—move in with you?”

Her skittishness wasn’t surprising, and he tried to make this more palatable. “Full disclosure—I’ve never invited a woman to move in with me, and I wouldn’t be doing it now if you weren’t living here. My God, you have a broom handle stuck in your sliding doors.”

“I’m on the tenth floor!”

“With other people’s balconies on each side of you.”

He picked up the deadly-looking dagger and pointed it in her general direction. “My building is secure. There’s a doorman, cameras, alarms, a concierge. You don’t have any of that.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Yes, you do.” He couldn’t avoid this any longer. He set the dagger next to an inkpot with a feathered plume and withdrew the folded, letter-sized envelope he’d already opened from his back pocket. She hesitated before she took it from him. She extracted what was inside as carefully as if she were handling a snake. Not far off.

It was the newspaper photo of the two of them kissing on Michigan Avenue. Except someone had ripped a hole in the paper where her head had been and written a note in red ink across the bottom.

You destroyed me and now I’m destroying you, my love. Think of me with every note you try to sing.





“This was delivered to your room at the hotel an hour ago,” he said gently.

She snatched the paper from his hand, ripped it, and shoved the pieces into the wastebasket by the couch. “I’m not letting this get to me. I’m absolutely not.”

“You already have, and ripping it up won’t make the threat go away.”

She sank into the couch, dropped her head, and rubbed her temples. “I hate this.”

He sat next to her and took one of her silver rings between his fingers. “The message says, ‘Think of me with every note you try to sing.’ What does that mean to you?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. It means—” Her head came up. “I don’t know.”

“Whoever is sending you these messages knows you’re having trouble with your voice and is capitalizing on it. Someone wants you to stop singing.”