When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(89)

The goon hadn’t been schooled in the NFL’s killing fields and Thad came up with the gun.

The bastard lay curled on the ground, the wind knocked out of him, but Thad couldn’t trust him to stay that way. Olivia was in the river. Drowning? Shot? Fair play wasn’t an option, not with her life in jeopardy. Was she still alive? Thad reared back, aimed for the bastard’s kneecap, and fired.

The goon cried out in agony. Thad raced for the river. Stripping off his jacket as he ran, he launched the gun into the water, kicked off his shoes, and dove.

The shock of the water—still frigid in early May—hit him like a tsunami. He opened his eyes underwater but couldn’t even see his hand in front of him, let alone the glimmer of a white gown. He surfaced, grabbed air, and went under again, fighting the icy temperature and the awful knowledge that she could be dead.

Again and again, he dove and came up, the water shooting needles into him.

The luminous dial of his Victory780 showed 9:52 p.m. Four minutes had elapsed since he’d left the Grand Foyer. At least three minutes had passed since he’d seen her go in. She’d been underwater too long to survive.

Desperate, he swam farther out and went under again. Came up.

Four minutes.

Five.

One of those bullets had hit its target. She was gone. He’d lost her.

He threw his head back and howled at the sky.

The water erupted.

*

Olivia shot to the top, sucking precious oxygen into her starved lungs. Where had that primitive, animal howl come from? Was Norman Gillis still there?

Numb with cold, she looked toward the riverbank but could see nothing through the heavy rain. Her hands and feet had lost all feeling, and her teeth were chattering. That howl . . . It had echoed underwater like the devil’s own cry. She glanced frantically around for the source.

A man was in the water, maybe fifteen feet away. Not Norman Gillis. She cried out, “Thad!”

He twisted frantically in the water. “Olivia?”

His wet white shirt made a dim beacon in the rainy darkness. She tried to swim toward him, but her limbs were so clumsy from creeping hypothermia she could barely move.

He reached her side and crushed her to him. Strands of dark hair plastered his forehead as he took her head in his hands, his breath ragged. “I thought you were dead. I thought . . .”

Her teeth were chattering so hard she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but cling to him. Love him.

“Liv . . . My Liv . . .” He had her in his arms, keeping their heads above water. “Where were you? I couldn’t find you. I thought . . .”

Her mouth wouldn’t form the words to tell him she’d been underwater the whole time, afraid if she resurfaced, she’d be shot. She had no breath left to explain the enormous lung capacity of an opera singer or tell him about the contests she and Rachel used to have to see who could stay underwater the longest. The last time, Rachel had won, but only by a few seconds.

“Liv . . .” He kept saying her name as if couldn’t get enough of it. Even in the darkness, she could see his expression. Stark. Stricken. “Hold on to me.” Looping his arm around her, he swam toward the riverbank, providing the power the cold had stolen from her.

They reached the cement wall that edged the riverbank, a place where, in warmer weather, people sat to enjoy the sun. The numbness had spread, disconnecting her from her body. With the arm strength that had served him so well over his career, he hoisted her onto the walkway and pulled himself up next to her.

They collapsed together, him holding her shivering body. She’d never been so cold.

“Don’t ever . . . do that again,” he said nonsensically.

She clung to him. The diadem she’d worn around her forehead was gone, along with her shoes. She heard someone groaning. Not Thad.

He came to his knees. Willing her arms to work, she pushed herself up far enough to see the hulking shadow of Norman Gillis curled on the grass beyond the walkway. He lay there moaning, as if he were coming out of unconsciousness. He wasn’t alone.

“You incompetent fool!” Kathryn Swift bent over the body of her son, grabbing at his clothes. “You’re just like your father. You can’t do anything right.”

Somehow Olivia made it to her knees, but Thad was already on his feet, his wet tuxedo shirt and dark trousers clinging to his body. “Step away from him, Mrs. Swift,” Thad said, in a voice accustomed to commanding obedience.

Kathryn ignored him and continued searching through her son’s clothes.

“I said get back!” Thad barked out the order.

Kathryn straightened. In one hand, she held Olivia’s Egyptian cuff. In the other, a purse-sized pistol.

“R-really?” The word, barely audible, crept through Olivia’s chattering teeth. Why did Kathryn have a gun and Olivia’s bracelet?

“Quiet, Liv,” Thad said softly, undoubtedly remembering how she’d lost her temper with their mysterious limo driver—a man he now suspected was Norman Gillis.

Norman staggered to his feet, whimpering in pain, but instead of standing by his mother, he hobbled toward the loading dock area. Kathryn ignored his desertion, as if he were no more than an irritant. Instead, she kept the gun trained on Thad. “This was a gift to myself when I turned seventy. I had Swarovski crystals embedded in the grip.”

“You’re a real trendsetter,” Thad said.