She did her normal grand-entrance thing—arm extended, distant smile, regal stride—and she was right back on his nerves again. He wanted to rumple her up. Knock her off her pedestal. Smear that bright red lipstick. Pull out the pins holding her hair together. Shuck off her clothes and stick her in a pair of ratty jeans and an old Stars sweatshirt.
But as good as his imagination was, he couldn’t imagine her like that.
He hated formal dinner parties almost as much as he hated pass interceptions, but he talked to everyone. He was surprised how good The Diva was at it. She asked about their jobs, their families, and willingly looked at photos of their kids. Unlike him, her interest seemed genuine.
The meal began. Thad wasn’t much of a drinker, so he cut himself off after two glasses of wine, but The Diva seemed to have an iron stomach. Two glasses, three, then four. One more glass as everyone left, and the two of them headed to their separate bedrooms.
His had high ceilings and a single door that led onto the terrace. He went naked into the bathroom to brush his teeth. As usual, he avoided his reflection. No need to depress himself. But despite its size, the bedroom felt stuffy and confining. He pulled on a pair of jeans and opened the door that led to the terrace.
Tempered-glass fencing offered unobstructed views of the city lights, while the potted trees and flower beds gave the illusion of a park, with strategically placed seating areas for comfort. The chilly night air felt good on his skin.
He thought about the day. About what lay ahead. About training camp only four months away and how much playing time he would or wouldn’t get. As he moved around a potted tree to get a better view of the skyline, he thought about his future and a career that had fallen short of his dreams.
*
Wine wasn’t good for her voice. Wine, caffeine, dry air, drafts, trauma—none of it good for her voice, which was why she seldom had more than a single glass of wine. Yet here she was, not just a little drunk, but drunk-drunk. Unsteady on her feet, unsteady in her head. She’d been on edge for days, nerves shredded, ready to detonate. Now, a dangerous, alcohol-fueled energy made her want to gather her gown around her knees, climb up on the terrace rail, and use it as a balance beam just to see if she could do it. She wasn’t suicidal. She left that for others. Instead, she wanted a challenge. Better yet, a target. Something to conquer. She wanted to be a superhero, a protector of the weak, a drunken crusader fighting for justice. Instead, she was battling a ghost.
Something moved behind her. Too close. Him.
She wheeled around and attacked.
2
Women had thrown themselves at him before, but he wasn’t used to getting an elbow to his gut when they did it. She’d caught him unaware, and he gave a woof of pain. At the same time, he automatically reached out to defend himself.
That made it worse.
All he’d wanted was a little fresh air, and now here he was, in a fight to the death with a black velvet–clad termagant.
He grabbed for her arms. “Stop it! Calm down!”
At his age, he should have known better than to ever tell a woman to calm down, and she kicked him hard in the shins. Unfortunately for her, she was barefoot, and she gave her own yelp of pain.
“What the hell’s wrong with you!” He trapped her arms and pulled her hard against him. She was tall and strong, but he was stronger. She cried out and went after him again.
He wanted to kill her, but he also didn’t want to hurt her. He kicked her legs out from under her.
He had just enough of the gentleman left to take the brunt of the impact as they dropped to the hard tile floor. He hit his damned elbow along with his hip but managed to pin her down by rolling on top of her and grabbing her wrists.
The perfectly composed performer had vanished. She was furious. “You bastard!” She spit out the words. “You evil bastard!”
When it came to name-calling, she didn’t offer much variety, but damn, she was strong. He could barely keep her contained as she fought against his grip on her wrists.
“Stop it right now, or I’m going to . . . I’m going to smack you!” He would never hit a woman in a million years, but she was out of control, and maybe the threat would calm her down.
It didn’t. Jaw set, teeth bared, she threw it all right back at him. “Go ahead, you bastard! You just try it!”
For all their drama, opera singers didn’t seem to have much creativity about how to cuss someone out. He tried a different approach, loosening his grip on her ever so slightly, but not letting her go. “Take a breath. Just breathe.”
“Vermin!”
At least she was expanding her vocabulary. Her hair had come loose and half her breast popped out of her gown, right down to the top of her nipple. He drew his eyes away. “You’ve had too much to drink, lady, and you need to take some deep breaths.”
She stopped struggling, but he wasn’t taking chances. He eased some of his weight off her. “That’s it. Keep breathing. You’re fine.” Crazy as a loon, but fine.
“Let me up!”
“Give me your word that you won’t take another swing at me.”
“You deserve it!”
“A debate for another day.” She didn’t look quite so insane, so he took a risk and rolled off her carefully, alert for a knee to his groin. “Don’t throw up on me, okay?”
She struggled to her feet, hair hanging in a crazy tangle, her voice throaty with dramatic menace. “Don’t you ever speak to me again!”
“You’ve got it.”
She scrambled awkwardly across the terrace and through the single door that led into her bedroom. The lock clicked hard behind her.
*
Olivia yanked the draperies shut over the door, weirdly proud of herself. Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! She’d never forget the way her friend Alyssa had looked the night Thad Owens had attacked her. Now, the big shot football player had gotten some of his own back.
She steadied herself on the edge of the bureau and managed to get her gown off. She, Olivia Shore, had a new career as a crusader for women. Tonight, she’d dispensed justice, a small blow for rightness in the face of all the disarray around her.
Out of nowhere, her stomach rebelled. She rushed to the bathroom, crouched over the bowl, and lost her dinner, along with the bottle of wine she’d unwisely consumed.
Afterward, she hung out on the tiled floor. Her shoulder stung where she’d scraped it. She set a warm washcloth against it, no longer feeling quite so proud of herself. She was drunk, and she’d acted crazy, and she could not do this. Not when she had so many other problems. And especially not when she had a contract she couldn’t break and four more weeks on the road with that piece of vermin.
She crawled into the bedroom, stripped off her underwear, and eventually located her pajamas. Her nighttime routine was highly disciplined. No matter how late or how tired she was, she performed it without fail. Humidifiers running. Makeup remover followed by a foam cleanser, toner, moisturizer, eye cream, and her precious retinol. She brushed and flossed, sometimes used whitening strips on her teeth. Then a few yoga poses to help her unwind. But tonight, she did none of that. With a dirty face, dirty teeth, dirty spirit, and the image of Thad Owens’s smug face looming over her, she crawled into bed.
*