When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,57

spinning with ideas. We’re building a re-creation of Dendur at the front entrance for the guests to pass through.”

“I’m sure that’ll be amazing.”

Eugene Swift’s widow looked like the stereotype of a seventy-year-old art patron. Slim and trim, with a black velvet headband holding her gray bob away from her face, she wore what was surely vintage Chanel, along with the low, square-heeled black pumps—probably Ferragamo—that women of her age and social status favored. As her husband’s replacement on the board of the Chicago Municipal Opera, as well as one of its most generous donors, she was the last person Olivia wanted to know about her voice. “What are you doing in New York?” she asked.

Kathryn gave a dismissive wave. “We have a place here. Only myself and my son now that Eugene is gone.”

“He was a wonderful man,” Olivia said truthfully. “We all miss him.”

At Kathryn’s request, Olivia had sung at his funeral. Eugene Swift had been a true opera scholar with a deep appreciation of all its forms. He’d also been Olivia’s friend.

“He would have loved the Aida gala,” Kathryn said. “I’m suggesting costumes, but only for the women. Frankly, the idea of potbellied men draping themselves in white linen would put me off my dinner. I’m having a robe made for the event. I can give you the name of my dressmaker if you’d like.”

“I’m sure I can borrow something from the costume shop.”

“You’re a dear. Everyone will look forward to seeing what you wear.” Kathryn gazed up at the temple walls. Olivia knew her real passion lay with art museums, not opera, and Olivia appreciated her continued involvement with the Chicago Muni Opera to honor Eugene’s memory. “I adore this temple,” she said. “Since it’s not looted like the Elgin Marbles, one can admire it without feeling guilty.”

Olivia was well acquainted with the history of the temple, a gift from the Egyptian government for the part the United States had played in saving it, along with other artifacts, from the bottom of Lake Nasser when the Aswan Dam was constructed.

Unlike other socialites’ brows, Kathryn’s still had the ability to wrinkle. “It’s such a dilemma. One has to believe museums should return stolen artifacts to their rightful country, but what if it’s a country like Syria or Iraq where ISIS has destroyed so much? I don’t want to be accused of cultural insensitivity, but until those countries stabilize, our museums should hold on to what we have.” She set her hand on one of the temple’s oval cartouches. “I’ll never forgive LBJ for giving Dendur to the Metropolitan instead of to Chicago. It would have been such a magnificent addition to the Art Institute. Still, one has to admit that the Metropolitan’s done well by it.”

Olivia didn’t hear the rest of Kathryn’s monologue as a familiar, unwelcome figure made his way through the gate. He headed directly toward them, all athletic grace and frosty glare. As he stopped at Olivia’s side, she offered up her brightest smile. “Kathryn, this is Thad Owens. Thad, Mrs. Swift is our honorary hostess for the Muni gala.”

Kathryn extended a wrinkled hand displaying, among other things, an impressive jade ring. “Yes. The football player. I’ve met your delightful owner, Mrs. Calebow, several times.”

Before Olivia could point out that Phoebe Calebow owned the team, not Thad personally, he’d taken the older woman’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Swift.” The look he shot Olivia was anything but pleasurable.

She appreciated his concern, but she didn’t enjoy having a full-time watchdog. “We have to run, Kathryn.”

As soon as they cleared the temple gates, Thad started lecturing her. She barely listened. Instead, she was distracted by his Victory780—not the watch itself, but the way his wrist displayed it, with masculine perfection.

No matter what Mariel Marchand might think, she couldn’t have found a better man to represent that watch. He was a natural leader, protective of others and demanding of himself. He was self-confident, but didn’t take himself too seriously. He was intelligent, charismatic, and sexier than any man should be.

Desire thrummed through her body. Las Vegas. Why had she struck that crazy deal with him? Why wait for Las Vegas? Why not now? This morning? Tonight?

Never?

The world was spinning out of her control.

“When are you going to get a handle on your porn addiction?” she said, as they stepped out onto Fifth Avenue.

“My what?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you’re on your laptop, and the way you make sure no one can see what’s on