When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,54
in the charger. Even though Thad’s jealousy had only been a manifestation of his professional rivalry with Garrett, she’d enjoyed tweaking it.
As she slathered her face with her almond-scented cleanser, dabbed on her toner, then her retinol, she decided Thad Owens might be the most decent man she’d ever met. He’d assumed the role of her caretaker, whether she wanted him to or not. It was so odd. She’d been the caretaker in her relationship with Adam. The guardian of his career, the custodian of his feelings, the one who always accommodated. Having someone watch out for her was a new experience.
She hesitated, then turned the water on full force to mask the noise of her voice as she began singing her scales. Finally, she reached for a high C.
She didn’t make it.
11
Thad played it cool for the next two days, acting as if the incident with Clint hadn’t happened, but her attitude still bugged the hell out of him. Thad had been leading the offense since he was a kid. He was the play-caller, not The Diva. What kind of game was she running?
She gazed at him across the room service cart. They’d gotten in the habit of eating an early breakfast together in one suite or the other, and today she was deep into an egg white omelet.
He looked up from his phone. “I’ve got this urge to hear you do Cassandra Wilson’s version of ‘Time After Time.’”
Her nose went up. “Then call Cassandra Wilson. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to sing it for you.”
“Come on, Liv. Give a guy a break.”
“I can’t even do Cindy Lauper’s ‘Time After Time.’ And I don’t know what Cassandra’s version sounds like.”
“I’ll play it.”
And he did. She sat back in her chair, breakfast abandoned, and listened to Wilson’s wrenching, soulful version of the ancient Lauper hit. When it ended, she turned her head away and gazed out the window at the Manhattan skyline.
She began to sing. It wasn’t Lauper or Wilson; it was some beautiful hybrid only she could produce. But even he knew it wasn’t opera, and as her voice faded away, she looked so wistful that he couldn’t bear it.
He pushed back from his own breakfast. “We’ve got a couple of hours before we have to be at Tiffany, and I have an idea . . .”
* * *
The eleven crystal chandeliers in the lobby of the Metropolitan Opera House were still a spectacular sight in the morning light. This place couldn’t be more different from the basement jazz clubs where Thad usually hung out.
“There are twenty-one more chandeliers in the auditorium.” Liv looked her normal superstar self in one of those black pencil dresses she’d changed into for the day, along with some gold Spanish earrings, her wide Egyptian cuff, and the Cavatina3. A pair of nude stilettos made her thoroughbred legs look ready for the runway.
She rested her hand on the curved railing. “Right before the performance begins, twelve of the big chandeliers in the auditorium ascend above the audience. It’s a spectacular sight.”
“I’ll bet.” Outside the Metropolitan’s soaring windows, a swarm of tourists clustered by the Lincoln Center fountain for photos, and in the distance, traffic jostled for position on Columbus Avenue. Manhattan was crazy. The noise. The traffic. The city’s chaos bothered him in a way Chicago’s midwestern bustle never did. Or maybe his sour mood had more to do with the memory of Clint Garrett’s lips on The Diva’s mouth.
“The Met’s chandeliers were a gift to the United States from the Austrian government in the 1960s,” she said. “A very nice thank-you present for the Marshall Plan.”
She shot him a sideways look that suggested she doubted he knew what the Marshall Plan was. He hadn’t taken only finance classes in college, so he suspected he knew more about the billions of dollars the US had earmarked for Western Europe’s World War II recovery efforts than she did.
He decided to deadpan it. “Not all jocks are ignorant, Liv. If it hadn’t been for the Marshall Plan, small towns all across America wouldn’t have a sheriff.”
She blinked and laughed, but whatever retort she intended to make was cut off by the appearance of a short, rotund man with steel-wool hair and an elastic smile. “Olivia! My dear! Does Peter know you’re here? And Thomas? It’s been forever since we’ve seen you.”
“Four months,” she replied, after they’d done one of those double-cheek kisses Thad considered anti-American. “And this isn’t an official visit. Charles, this is