“I’ll do that.” He responded curtly—right on the border of rude—but he needed to nip this in the bud before it went any further. He had enough difficulties ahead of him dealing with The Diva, and he didn’t want any complications from Henri’s assistant. Besides, he hadn’t been into twenty-one-year-olds since he was twenty-two.
She tossed her long hair. “I mean it. I want you to know you can count on me.”
“Got it.” He slipped his headset back on. She finally took the hint and left him alone. He dozed off to Chet Baker.
*
The Diva sat in the opposite corner of the limo, sunglasses still on, cheek resting against the window. So far, the only communication she’d shared with Thad was a look of active hostility when they’d gotten off the plane. Paisley’s thumbs raced over her phone, more likely texting a friend than doing any work. Henri was also on his cell, engaged in an energetic conversation. Since Thad only spoke some menu French, he couldn’t decipher the topic. The Diva, however, understood. She opened her eyes and waved a hand.
“C’est impossible, Henri.”
The way she said Marchand’s name . . . pushing the Aw-ree from the back of her throat. When Thad said the name, it took all his energy just to drop the h and the n. Forget all that back-of-the-throat stuff.
Their subsequent exchange didn’t enlighten Thad about exactly what was so uh—poss-eeee-bluh, but as they pulled up to the hotel, Aw-ree enlightened him. “We’ve had a slight change of schedule. We need to move up today’s interviews immediately after we check in. An inconvenience, but these things do happen, as I’m sure you understand.”
Not even ten minutes later, he and The Diva were being ushered into the hotel’s presidential suite, with Henri and Paisley following. In addition to a luxurious living area, the suite had a dining room, kitchen, grand piano, and big French doors that opened onto a sweeping terrace. A large coffee table in the center of the living room held platters of pastries and assorted bottles of wine and mineral water.
“You have a few minutes to freshen up before the reporters arrive,” Henri said. “Paisley will bring them in.”
Paisley looked petulant, as if escorting reporters wasn’t part of her job description. Henri didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and was pretending not to.
The Diva disappeared into the bathroom. As Henri double-checked the refreshments that had been laid out for the reporters, Thad wandered onto the tiled terrace to take in the view of Camelback Mountain. If only he were doing this promotion with a female rock star instead of a stuck-up opera singer. The next four weeks stretched in front of him like an endless road headed exactly nowhere.
*
In the bathroom, the stuck-up opera singer leaned against the closed door, squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to make herself breathe. It was more than she could bear. Being forced to travel with an animal like Thad Owens was the final calamity in the disaster of these past few weeks. No matter what, she couldn’t let him see any weakness in her, any vulnerability he believed he could exploit.
If she’d known what was going to happen, she wouldn’t have even considered signing this contract with Marchand. She’d never backed out of a contract in her life, but she couldn’t imagine how she’d endure this next month. Smiling. Talking. Being congenial. And making sure she was never alone with him.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She took off her sunglasses and glanced at the screen. It was Rachel checking up on her. Rachel, her dear, steady friend who understood in a way no one else could. Olivia slipped the phone unanswered back in her pocket. She was jittery, unfocused, too raw to talk to Rachel now.
She unwrapped her scarf. Her hair was a mess. She didn’t care. Instead of straightening it, she sat on the lid of the toilet seat and closed her eyes. Donizetti’s “Pour mon ame” had been playing in her head all day. The aria from La fille du régiment, with its nine high C’s, was a showpiece for the world’s best tenors. Adam hadn’t been one of them, yet that hadn’t stopped her former fiancé from trying to perform it.
She blinked her eyes hard. The Cavatina3 on her wrist came into focus. A yellow-gold and stainless-steel bracelet, an ivory dial with diamond chips by the numerals. Cavatina. A simple melody without a second part or a repeat. In music, a cavatina was straightforward and uncomplicated, unlike either the luxurious Cavatina3 watch or her own very complicated life.
She gazed at the white envelope that had been in her apartment mailbox that morning. It was addressed to her in the same neat, block-printed letters as the first note she’d received two days earlier. She forced herself to open it. Her hands were shaking.
Only five words. You did this to me.
Swallowing a sob, she ripped it into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet.
*
Paisley ushered in two of the newspaper reporters and disappeared into the corner with her phone. Ironically, the music critic was big and beefy; the sports reporter small and wiry. The editor of the lifestyle section arrived soon after, a middle-aged woman with short hair slicked to her skull and multiple ear piercings.
Thad had yet to meet a member of the press who didn’t appreciate free food. Each of the men polished off a couple of cannoli along with a half dozen lemon cookies while the lifestyle editor sipped a glass of chardonnay and nibbled a few almonds. Thad exchanged small talk with all of them, hiding his irritation that The Diva was still sealed up in the bathroom. Just as he got ready to pound on the door and ask her if she’d fallen in, she deigned to join them.
She’d set aside her trench coat, along with the scarf and sunglasses, and she advanced toward the reporters, stilettos clicking, studiously ignoring him. Her sweep of dark hair coiled in one of those loose bun things, which—along with her royal-blue stilettos—brought her height to someplace in the vicinity of his. Her figure was formidable: broad shoulders, long neck, straight spine, and trim waist, all of it accompanied by skyscraper legs. She was neither skinny nor plump. More . . . He searched for the right word, but all he could come up with was “daunting.”
Along with her stilettos and black slacks, the open throat of her white blouse showed off a gold rope necklace with a pigeon egg–sized stone that appeared to be a giant ruby. She wore multiple rings, a couple of bracelets, and the Cavatina3. He liked his women small and cuddly. This one looked like a tigress who’d raided an Hermès store.
The men rose as she approached. Henri performed the introductions. She extended her hand and gazed down her long nose at them, her lips curved in a regal smile. “Gentlemen.” She acknowledged the lifestyle editor with a handshake and gracious smile before she folded herself into the chair across from Thad, ankles crossed off to the side, broomstick up her ass.
He deliberately slouched into his chair and stretched out his own legs, making himself comfortable. The classical music critic led off, but instead of addressing The Diva, he turned to Thad. “Are you an opera fan?”
“Haven’t had much exposure,” he said.
The sports writer picked up on that. “What about you, Ms. Shore? Do you ever go to football games?”
“Last year I saw New Madrid play Manchester United.”