When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(87)

On their way back to the table, he took Liv’s arm. The gesture was automatic, and for just a moment, he could have sworn she leaned against him.

The moment passed. She drew away. “Rupert! How lovely to see you.”

Rupert?

She introduced him to a small man sitting at a table off to the side. “Rupert, this is Thad Owens. Thad, Rupert Glass.” She shot Thad a telling look he immediately understood. Rupert resembled one of the Seven Dwarfs, the one who wouldn’t look at anybody. Bashful? The top of his head came just to Olivia’s shoulder. He had a tuft of hair at the crown, a couple more tufts near his ears, and he looked about as dangerous as a plastic spoon.

“My dear,” he whispered, turning several different shades of red. “My deepest apologies if I did anything to distress you with my meager gifts.”

“You could never distress me, Rupert.” Olivia patted his hand. “But there are so many young singers who would bloom under the kind of support you’ve given me.”

Thad couldn’t help himself. “Plus the IRS won’t bother them like they do her.”

Olivia quickly excused them both. “You didn’t have to say that,” she hissed, as she hustled him away.

“It’s those quiet ones who turn out to be serial killers.”

Just for a moment they exchanged one of their quick smiles, but then he remembered he was furious with her and wiped his away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

“You didn’t,” he snapped back.

She squeezed his arm. That was it. Just squeezed it.

Back at the table, she chatted with Brittany in English and with Lucien en fran?ais. The Muni’s conductor came over to the table, and they spoke in Italian. Then—son of a bitch—didn’t she switch to German when an old dude with a silver-topped walking cane appeared.

Damn, but he missed her. He’d never been so in sync with another person. None of his ex-girlfriends. No buddy or teammate. No one.

He told himself to snap out of it. She said she was in love with him, but it wasn’t like he’d marry her. That would be a nightmare and a half—living his life as Mr. Olivia Shore. All he wanted was for them to be together for a while. Simple. Uncomplicated. Why couldn’t she see that?

He barely tasted his food, a filet topped with some kind of shrimp thing. As Liv and Brittany chatted away, he mainly talked to Henri’s husband, Jules, an interesting guy who was a big soccer fan. Still, he wanted Liv’s attention for himself.

Between dinner and dessert, the room darkened to show a video of the student music program. Olivia whispered something to Brittany about the ladies’ room and excused herself.

He didn’t realize he was staring after her until he caught Brittany’s sympathetic smile. “You shouldn’t have let that one get away,” she whispered.

He wouldn’t tell her it was the other way around.

*

Olivia hadn’t intended to duck out on the after-school music program video, but her drunken binge two nights ago had temporarily soured her on alcohol, and she’d drunk one too many glasses of water. She entered the ladies’ room to find Mariel Marchand washing her hands at the sink. Mariel gave her a cool nod in the mirror. “You look lovely tonight, Olivia.”

Mariel didn’t. Although she wore her black gown and glittering jewelry with all the elegance of a true Frenchwoman, her skin looked sallow, and she seemed tired.

“Thank you. And your gown is beautiful,” Olivia replied honestly.

“Chanel.” The word was sad, almost bitter, as if she were reciting her state of mind instead of the luxury designer’s name. “I suppose you’ve heard by now that Henri’s campaign was a rousing success. Hideously expensive, of course, but sales of Marchand products doubled. A triumph for him.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Henri did not say anything to you?” She snatched up a towel. “He has always been so much a better person than I am.”

Olivia refrained from agreeing.

“Lucien raised us both on the Marchand tradition, but it seems Henri was smarter than me.”

Olivia sidestepped. “I’m happy the campaign is doing so well, but I know this must be a challenging time for you.”

“I am an ambitious woman, something you understand.” She dried her hands on the towel as if she were scrubbing them. “The press release goes out tomorrow. Lucien Marchand is retiring in September, and Henri is taking over as president and CEO while I continue my role as chief financial officer.”

“I see.”

“My career is everything to me. You understand. You’re just like me. Our careers are our lives. Women with husbands and children”—she spoke the words as if they were frivolities—“allow themselves to be distracted from their goals, but not us. We do not lose sight of what we want.”

Olivia didn’t like being put in the same category as Mariel. “You’re a bright woman, Mariel. I’m sure you’ll adapt.”

“I don’t want to adapt!” She balled her towel and threw it in the trash. “I want to lead!” The door closed behind her.

Successful people had to be able to adapt, Olivia thought. Throughout her career, she’d learned to be flexible—to new directors, different staging, a variety of teachers. She was good at adapting, something she hadn’t thought much about until this very moment.