When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Thad returned from his run the next morning to the dazzle of The Diva’s vocalizations coming through her closed bedroom door. He found it hard to imagine how any human being could produce such extraordinary sounds. Last night, she’d said she was on vocal rest, but he suspected she’d been trying to dodge karaoke.

In the limo on the way to the airport, it seemed as if the previous night had never happened. He answered his texts while The Diva and Henri chatted away in French. Paisley looked as if she was trying to sleep. As much as he wanted to cross-examine The Diva about that letter she’d received, he restrained himself. For now, he’d keep a watchful eye.

Paisley yawned and pushed her aviators on top of her long sweep of blond hair. “That shirt is dope.” Her eyes looked bloodshot from what he suspected had been another night spent partying. “You could be a model.”

“He’s been there, done that,” The Diva said with the fake smirk she’d adopted to irritate him.

The shirt Paisley had complimented him on was salmon. Salmon, not pink. As for The Diva . . . Underneath her Burberry trench coat he caught a glimpse of a boring white sweater and dark slacks. Still, he had to give her props for those big earrings that looked like dangling squares of crumpled gold paper. And she did have a flair for dramatic scarves. Very different from Paisley’s jeans and leather jacket.

As they boarded the plane for the Los Angeles leg of their tour, Henri tapped him on the shoulder from behind. “Bien, Thad. I have a wonderful surprise for you this morning. I’ve invited someone to come along with us today.”

The dumbass jumped up from his seat. “Surprise!”

The Diva rushed forward. “Clint!”

Henri pounded Thad on the back. “So the two of you can talk about the football, oui?”

“Fucking oui,” Thad muttered.

Instead of greeting Thad, Garrett concentrated on The Diva. “You clean up pretty good, Livia.”

She smiled. “What are you doing here?”

“Henri’s a football fan. He invited me to come along today to keep T-Bo entertained.” The dumbass finally risked a glance at Thad. “She’s got shoes on. So much for keepin’ ’em barefoot and pregnant, right?”

Thad lunged forward, only to have The Diva step in his way. “Temper, temper,” she cooed.

Clint grinned. Thad had a reputation for keeping his cool, and he could see Clint was proud of having goaded him into losing it. His grin once again reminded Thad that the dumbass wasn’t nearly as dumb as he pretended to be. Nobody got to be the starting quarterback for an NFL team by being stupid.

Paisley, in the meantime, stood motionless in the aisle, lips parting, her stunned gaze fixed on Garrett. As Thad settled into his customary seat at the back of the plane, he realized he’d once again settled into second place, but this time, he couldn’t be happier.

To Paisley’s displeasure, The Diva buckled in next to Clint on the couch, forcing Paisley to take the seat across from him. Thad could almost hear Paisley’s mental wheels turning as she tried to figure out how to make her move. She waited until they were in the air. “Okay for me to take a couple of pictures to send my friends?”

“Sure,” The Diva said.

Thad smiled to himself. It wouldn’t take her long to figure out she was an unwelcome intruder in the lens of Paisley’s iPhone.

Sure enough, Paisley talked Garrett into a selfie, but The Diva looked more amused than offended. Garrett got up from the couch. Poor Paisley wasn’t used to male rejection, and she couldn’t hide her disappointment as he headed back toward Thad. Paisley didn’t understand that no woman on the planet could hold the numbskull’s attention when his mind was on football.

As Clint sidled in across from him, Thad didn’t bother to hide his irritation. Training camp wouldn’t start until July, and Garrett knew damn well Thad would give him one hundred percent then, so why did he have to hassle him now? It wasn’t like they could run drills on the plane.

A weird moaning sound penetrated the plane. Thad’s head came up in time to see Olivia’s hand pressed to her mouth. She was staring at the newspaper she must have picked up from the fresh stack in the cabin. She snapped open her seat belt and rushed back to him, the newspaper in her fist. “Look at this!”

He looked.

The photos were on the second page of the Phoenix Examiner’s Lifestyle section—one of the formal photos he and The Diva had posed for, along with a paparazzi shot of him carrying The Diva out of the bar last night.

Opera Singer and NFL Star

Make Sweet Music

Noted mezzo-soprano Olivia Shore and the Chicago Stars’ backup quarterback Thad Owens enjoyed a little PDA last night. The football star and the opera singer have been doing more than promoting a new line of watches for noted French watchmaker Marchand Timepieces. In an earlier interview at their hotel, the cagey couple showed no sign that their relationship was anything other than business, but it looks as if they’ve crossed into more personal territory.

“This is mortifying!” she exclaimed.

“Mortifying?” He took in the photo. “That’s a little overdramatic, don’t you think? Wait. I forgot. You’re a soprano, so you’re allowed to be—”

“We’re not a couple!” she cried.“How could they say something like that?”

“I am carrying you.” He examined the paparazzi photo more closely. As usual, he’d photographed well, but The Diva had been caught at an odd angle so that her very tidy butt looked larger than it was in reality.

She tugged at the silk scarf around her throat as if it were strangling her. “How could this have happened?”

“Bad angle, that’s all. Forget about it.”

She looked at him without comprehension, and he made a quick U-turn. “I’ll admit the whole thing is strange.” He thought back to the previous night. No one, including him, had known he and The Diva were going to end up at that bar, so it had to have been a random bystander. And yet . . .

“Is there a problem?” Henri had come back and joined them. Paisley popped up over his shoulder.

Olivia thrust the paper at him. “Look at this!”

“Putain!” Henri choked the ends of his neck scarf. “Pardon my profanity, Olivia, Paisley.”

Dude was old school for a forty-year-old.

“This is great?” Paisley was an expert at both vocal fry and turning her statements into questions. “Lots of people will see it. Brand recognition and everything.”

“Not the sort of brand recognition we aspire to.” Henri took a deep breath and shrugged. “Ah, well. These things happen.”

“Not to me.” Olivia spun on Thad. “This is your fault. I’ve never had a single paparazzo follow me, not once in my entire career. It’s because of you. You and your—your”—her hands flew in his direction—“your face, and your hair, and your body, and those actresses you date . . .”

On and on she went. He let her vent, figuring that, sooner or later, she’d come to her senses, even though she was a soprano.

He figured correctly. She finally ran out of steam and sank into the seat across the aisle from him. “I know this isn’t really your fault, but— Nothing like this has ever happened to me.”

“I understand,” he said with all kinds of sympathy.

Clint snorted.

Olivia turned to Henri, showing a depth of concern Thad didn’t feel. He was more upset about having The Diva’s name printed before his in the headline.

“I apologize, Henri,” she said. “I know this isn’t the image you want for Marchand. Nothing like this will ever happen again.”

Henri gave one of those Gallic shrugs only a true Frenchman could pull off. “You mustn’t distress yourself. Phoenix is behind us, and we have a full day ahead in Los Angeles, yes?”

To his credit, Marchand didn’t ask what they had been doing last night. Instead, he gave Paisley a series of instructions about the day’s itinerary, but as Paisley retreated, she had eyes only for Garrett. Olivia eventually moved to her seat at the front and donned the purple headset she pulled from her tote.

Garrett turned his attention back to Thad. “So here’s what I’ve been thinking about, T-Bo. When I was out with that thumb sprain. The Giants game. Third and four. Their D was waiting for the screen, and you shifted to an inside run. How’d you know they were expecting the screen? What tipped you off?”

Thad gave in to the inevitable. “I was reading the linebacker.”

“But what did he do? What did you see?”

“Always watch the middle linebacker, you idiot. Now leave me alone so I can kill myself.”

Clint reached across the aisle to slap him on the leg. “You know you love me, T-Bo, and we both know why. I’m your last best chance at immortality.”

With that, the son of a bitch went off to flirt with Paisley.

*  *  *

More reporters showed up in LA than in Phoenix, and five seconds into the first interview, Thad knew why.

The reporter was young, punk, and tatted. She balanced her notebook on the knee of her black cargo pants and asked her first question. “The two of you come from, like, such different worlds, so how do you, like, explain your attraction?”

Thad could see The Diva getting all ramped up to deny everything, which would only lead to more speculation, so before she could say a word, he cut in. “Aw, we’re only friends.” He gave the reporter a conspiratorial wink just for the fun of it. What The Diva couldn’t see wouldn’t hurt her.

Henri rushed forward from his position behind the couch. “Thad and Madame Shore might be from different worlds, but they both appreciate quality.”

Thad did his job. He showed off the Victory780, and Olivia roused herself enough to talk about the Cavatina3. Henri expanded his pitch. “At Marchand, we understand that men and women want different things from their timepieces. Men’s wardrobes are more conservative, so they tend to like a more ornate watch.”

“Present company excepted,” Olivia said with a glance at the amoeba print on Thad’s dress shirt.

He didn’t appreciate her lack of respect for his personal style. Still, he had to admit she looked pretty damn good, even in that black-and-white outfit she’d worn on the plane. Watch on one wrist, bracelets on the other, and her crumpled gold earrings. No other ornamentation, as long as he didn’t count her killer gray stilettos.

“The more subtle styling of the Cavatina3,” Henri said, “fits perfectly into the life of a successful woman like Madame Shore. It goes from day to night. Office to gym. It’s both classic and sporty.”

When the reporter tried to turn the interview back to the personal, Olivia stiffened up like a poker. “Thad and I only met two days ago. We barely know each other.”

The Diva might be a star in the opera world, but she didn’t know crap about dealing with the celebrity press, and that was exactly the wrong thing to say. He smiled. “Some people just hit it off from the start.”

“Professionally,” The Diva added, as prim as an old lady at a Victorian tea party.

The reporter shifted her notebook to the other knee. “That photo of the two of you looks like you have more than a professional relationship.”

The Diva’s lips pursed, and he could see she was about to issue another denial, so he jumped in again. “We were having fun, that’s for sure. Liv didn’t think I could bench press her, but I had my buddy use the timer on my Victory780 to prove her wrong. One minute point four three seconds. I guess I showed her.”

The Diva regarded him with so much incredulity she might as well have told the reporter straight out that he was lying.

The reporter laughed. “Okay. I get the message. No more questions.”

Henri accompanied Paisley to show her out, as if he didn’t trust his assistant to do the job alone, leaving Thad with less than a minute before the next reporter appeared. He pulled Olivia off the couch and hauled her through the closest door.

“What . . . ?”

He pressed her against the powder room sink. “Will you relax and stop acting like they found a sex tape.”

“How can I relax? Everybody is going to think we’re—we’re—”

“Lovers? So what? We’re both adults, and as far as I know, neither of us is married. You’re not, are you? Because I don’t mess around with married women.”

“Of course I’m not married!” she sputtered.

“Then we’re good.”

“We’re not good, and we’re not messing around. It looks like we’re—whatever. We only met two days ago.”

“I get it. You don’t want Rupert to think you’re easy.”

“I’m not easy!”

“Tell me about it. Now stop getting so wound up. Relax and smile.” As Thad turned her toward the powder room door, he smiled to himself. It wasn’t like him to give a woman a hard time, but The Diva was such a worthy adversary that he couldn’t seem to help himself.

They emerged together, directly in the path of the next reporter.

To his surprise, The Diva pulled on a smile. “You’re welcome, Thad.” And then, to the reporter, “He wouldn’t believe me when I said he had half his lunch stuck in his front teeth. A shame to let a ham sandwich spoil those shiny, white veneers. I’m sure he paid a fortune for them.”

His teeth were all his own, but that didn’t mean a thing. The Diva had grabbed the ball out of his hands and run it into the end zone.

*  *  *

That night, after the obligatory client dinner, Thad met some of his LA buddies in the hotel’s rooftop bar for a late-night drink. He didn’t invite The Diva to come along, even though the bar’s ivy-covered pavilion and great views were more her style than last night’s venue.

He hadn’t seen these guys in months, and he should have had a great time, especially since Garrett didn’t show up. But after last night, the evening felt anticlimactic, and he was in bed by two.

*  *  *

As Olivia’s best friend Rachel Cullen and her husband Dennis settled under a blue umbrella on the hotel restaurant’s patio the next day, their hands met, and Olivia regarded them wistfully. “You two are disgusting.”

Rachel squeezed her husband’s hand. “You’re sooo jealous.”

“An understatement,” Olivia replied. “You found the only man on the planet who was born to marry an opera singer.” If Olivia could find his clone, she might be able to have a lasting relationship.

“Best job ever,” Dennis said.

Olivia gazed at her friend. “I hate you.”

Rachel gave her a smug smile. “Of course you do.”

With her silky, ash-blond hair, generous curves, and girl-next-door features, Rachel could have passed for the neighborhood’s prettiest soccer mom, while Dennis Cullen’s unruly mop of brown hair, big nose, and wiry build made him look more like a musician than his wife, although he made his living working temp jobs in IT.

Olivia and Rachel had met over ten years earlier at the Ryan Opera Center, the prestigious artistic development program at Chicago’s Lyric Opera. In the old days of opera rivalries, two mezzos competing for the same roles would never have become such close friends, but at the Lyric, mutual support and collaboration weren’t only encouraged but were expected. They’d formed a tight bond, helping and commiserating with each other as they’d worked side by side on the mezzo repertoire. Olivia was the more gifted singer and performer, but instead of being jealous, Rachel had become Olivia’s most enthusiastic cheerleader.

As the years had passed, Olivia’s career had soared, while Rachel’s merely remained respectable, but that hadn’t interfered with their friendship. Olivia continued to recommend Rachel for roles. They laughed and cried together. Olivia had been at Rachel’s side when her mother had died, and Rachel had held Olivia’s hand through Adam’s horrible, soul-wrenching funeral, something neither of them would ever forget. As Olivia studied the menu, she pretended not to see her friend’s concerned look. Rachel was intuitive, and she knew more was wrong than Olivia was letting on.

Their server appeared. Dennis ordered a chopped Thai salad for Rachel and crab cakes for himself.

“He even orders for you,” Olivia said as the server disappeared.

“He knows what I like better than I do.”

Olivia had a flashback to Adam, who used to ask Olivia to order for him because he couldn’t make up his mind. Being around Dennis could be painful. His dedication to Rachel’s career formed a distinct contrast to the resentment Adam had worked so hard to suppress. Dennis was an opera singer’s dream husband.

Rachel unwrapped her napkin. “Tell me the story of how you and Dennis met.”

“Again?” Olivia said. “I’ve told you the story a dozen times.”

“I never get tired of hearing it.”

“She’s like a child,” Olivia remarked to Dennis. And then to Rachel, “Should I start before or after he hit on me?”

Dennis groaned.

“Before,” Rachel chirped.

Olivia settled in. “I’d just started my period, and I had crazy bad cramps—”

“And a sugar craving,” Rachel added.

“It’s my story,” Olivia protested. “Anyway, I decided to soothe myself with a Starbucks Red Velvet Frappuccino.”

Rachel, whose sweet tooth continued to plump up her curves, nodded. “Very sensible.”

“I’m standing in line and this crazy-looking musician type tries to strike up a conversation.”

Rachel poked her husband. “You were totally hitting on her.”

Olivia smiled and proceeded with the unnecessary story. “I wasn’t in the mood to talk, but he was persistent. And kind of cute.”

“And not a singer,” Rachel said. “Don’t forget the best part.”

“A techie, as I learned even before the barista finished making my Frappuccino.”

“Which he gallantly paid for.”

“And which made me feel obligated to talk to him. The rest is history.”

“You’re skipping the best part. The part where you gave him my phone number without asking my permission, even though he could have been a serial killer.”

“Which he wasn’t.”

“But I could have been,” Dennis said.

Olivia smiled. “I liked him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep him for myself because I was still under Adam’s spell.” The table sobered, and Rachel’s look of concern returned. Olivia assumed an overly bright smile. “Bottom line. I loved being maid of honor at your wedding last year.”

Rachel nodded. “And you sang the most beautiful ‘Voi che sapete’ anyone has ever heard.”

Their food arrived. Rachel was in town auditioning for a role next winter at the LA Opera and they began trading opera gossip—a tenor with too much head voice and a conductor who refused to give Rossini the room to breathe. They talked about the amazing acoustics at Hamburg’s Elbphilarmonie and a new biography of Callas.

Olivia envied the pride Dennis took in his wife’s accomplishments. Rachel’s career always came first, and he arranged his own work around her schedule. Unlike her life with Adam. Only now did Olivia see that Adam had been suffering from depression. He’d had trouble memorizing a new libretto, and his periods of insomnia alternated with nights he’d sleep for twelve or thirteen hours. But instead of getting him to a doctor, she’d broken up with him. And now he was having his revenge.

Rachel grimaced. “Did you hear that Ricci is singing Carmen in Prague? I hate her.”

Olivia refocused. “‘Hate’ is a strong word.”

“You’ve always been nicer than me.”

Sophia Ricci was, in fact, a lovely person, although Olivia had gone through a brief period of resenting her because she’d once been Adam’s girlfriend. That wasn’t, however, the reason for Rachel’s complaint. Sophia was a lyric soprano, and whenever a lyric took over one of the few leading roles written for a mezzo, it always stirred up resentment. “Maybe she’ll get laryngitis,” Olivia said, and then retreated. “I’m being awful. Sophia’s an amazing talent, and I wish her well.”

“But not super well.” Rachel extracted a cashew from her salad. “Just enough so the critics write something like, ‘Sophia Ricci’s “Habanera,”while competent, can’t compete with the commanding sensuality of Olivia Shore’s exquisite Carmen.’”

Olivia smiled fondly at her generous friend. More than anyone, Olivia understood how much Rachel would love to perform Carmen in a top-tier house like the Muni, but those invitations never came her way.

“I’ve taken over Rachel’s social media,” Dennis said. “Exposure is everything. Look at all the mezzos in pop music—Beyoncé, Adele, Gaga. Those women understand how to use social media.”

A too-familiar face appeared across the patio. Thad spotted Olivia and headed toward their table. As Olivia performed the introductions, she noticed that Rachel had that half-dazed look so many women seemed to adopt whenever Thad Owens came into their view.

“Please.” Rachel gestured toward the empty seat at the table. “We’re almost done eating, but feel free to order something.”

“I just finished lunch.” He looked at Olivia. “A couple of sports reporters.”

Olivia felt a stab of guilt knowing he was working harder than she was.

Dennis and Thad exchanged some surface football talk before the conversation turned back to opera. “Lena Hodiak told me she’s covering for you in Aida,” Rachel said. “You’ll like her. She sang Gertrude in Hansel and Gretel last year in San Diego, and she’s lovely.”

Thad regarded her questioningly.

“That means Lena is her understudy,” Rachel explained. “Covering for Olivia is a thankless job, as Lena’ll discover. Olivia never gets sick.”

Dennis jumped in. “Tell me about this gig you have with Marchand. How did the two of you snag it?”

“I was at least their third choice,” Thad said without a trace of rancor.

“I got a call from my agent last September,” Olivia said. “I had an open spot in my schedule, and the money was great. Also, I thought I’d be traveling with Cooper Graham, the Stars’ former quarterback.”

“Instead, she got lucky,” Thad said.

Olivia smiled and glanced at her watch. “I wish we could talk longer, but we have a photo op coming up, and Thad needs time to make sure his hair is perfect.”

Thad pushed back his chair. “She’s jealous because I photograph better than she does.”

Rachel frowned at him, ready to leap to her friend’s defense, but Olivia shrugged. “Sad, but true.”

Thad laughed. Dennis jumped to his feet and pulled out his cell. “Let me get a couple of photos first for Rachel’s social media. I’ll tag you both.”

Olivia suspected Thad wasn’t any more interested in being tagged than she was, but she adored Dennis’s enthusiasm. How could she not be envious?

*  *  *

They opened the door of their suite to the sight of Henri engaged in a heated conversation with an elegant woman who appeared to be around his age, perhaps early forties. She had a sleek European look: an all-black pencil dress with multiple strands of pearls at her neck. Her blunt-cut hair fell from a middle part to just below her jaw. Next to her, a cowed Paisley rapidly blinked her eyes, as if she were trying not to cry, making Olivia suspect this woman wasn’t as inclined to ignore Paisley’s incompetence as Henri. In fairness, while Paisley was spoiled, disorganized, and grossly immature, Olivia had seen the photos on her iPhone, and she had to admit Paisley had a good eye for Thad Owens’s ass.

Henri broke off the conversation as soon as he spotted them. “Mariel, look who has joined us. Olivia, Thad, this is my cousin Mariel.”

Mariel gave them a very French smile—cordial but restrained—and a businesslike handshake. “Mariel Marchand. It’s a pleasure.”

She was more handsome than pretty, with a high forehead, aquiline nose, and small eyes enlarged with bold eye makeup.

“Mariel is our chief financial officer,” he said. “She’s come to check up on us.”

Olivia had done enough research to know that Lucien Marchand, the head of the company, was in his seventies and childless. Mariel and Henri, his niece and nephew, were his only blood relatives, and one of them would take over the family firm. It wasn’t hard to see that Mariel had the advantage over genial Henri.

“I trust my cousin is not making you work too hard,” Mariel replied in an accent less marked than Henri’s.

“Only Thad,” Olivia said honestly. “I have it easier.”

“I heard you at the Opéra Bastille two years ago as Klytaemnestra in Elektra. Incroyable.”She turned her attention to Thad without waiting for Olivia to acknowledge the compliment. “You must explain this game you play to me,” she said.

“Nothing much to it, really. Run a little, pass a little, keep the ball away from the bad guys.”

“How intriguing.”

Olivia mentally rolled her eyes and excused herself.

Mariel was with them at their client dinner that night, lending a touch of French elegance to the affair and flattering Thad outrageously. “You have to be so strong to play this game. So agile.”

“So brainless,” Olivia muttered because . . . how could she resist?

Thad overheard and leaned back in his chair. “Some of us are born to win.” He gave Olivia a lazy smile. “Others seem to keep dying on the job.”

He had a point. Olivia had lost count of how many times she’d been stabbed to death in Carmen or crushed to death as Delilah. In Dido and Aeneas, she’d expired from the weight of her grief, and in Il trovatore, she’d barely escaped a fiery pyre. None of which took into account the people she’d killed.

Thad didn’t seem to know much about opera, so she wasn’t sure how he knew about all the bloodthirsty roles she’d sung, but she suspected Google had a hand in it. She’d done some googling of her own and discovered that nearly every article about Thaddeus Walker Bowman Owens mentioned not only his physical skills and dating life, but the respect his teammates had for him.

She was beginning to understand why, and their four weeks together no longer seemed quite so long.

*  *  *

“You didn’t have to come with me, you know?” Olivia said, as they climbed the trail above the Griffith Observatory, not far from where the Uber had dropped them off. It was barely six in the morning, and the air smelled of dew and sage. “If I’d known you were going to be such a grouch, I wouldn’t have invited you.”

“You didn’t invite me, remember? I overheard you last night at dinner talking about hiking up here this morning.” Thad yawned. “It wouldn’t have been right for me to stay in bed while you’re working yourself to death.”

“I’m not the only one. Whenever we have any downtime, you’re either on the phone or on your computer. What’s that about?”

“Video game addiction.”

She didn’t believe him, although she’d noticed he never left his laptop open. “We’re leaving for San Francisco in a couple of hours.” She took in the Hollywood sign far above them. “This was the only time I could get any exercise.”

“Or you could have stayed in bed.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve been working out while all I’ve done is eat.”

“And drink,” he pointed out unhelpfully.

“That, too. Unfortunately, the era of the obese opera singer is over.” She stepped around a pile of horse manure. “In the old days, all you had to do was take center stage and sing. Now you have to look at least a little bit plausible. Unless you’re doing the Ring cycle. If I had the voice and the endurance to sing Brünnhilde, I could eat whatever I wanted. Let’s face it. You can’t sing Brünnhilde’s battle cry if you’re a sylph.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She wished she could let loose with a little of Brünnhilde’s “Ho-jo-to-ho!” right here on the trail just to see if she could make T-Bo lose his cool, but she didn’t have it in her.

They were gaining elevation and moving at a fast enough clip that she needed to watch her footing. She remembered hiking up here with Rachel a few years ago. Whenever the two of them approached a steep ascent, Rachel, who was less fit, would ask Olivia a question requiring such an involved answer that Olivia would end up talking through the entire climb while Rachel conserved her energy. It had taken Olivia forever to catch on to her tricks.

“Enough about me.” She beamed at him. “Tell me your life story.”

He took the bait as they climbed. “Great childhood. Great parents. Almost great career.”

He began walking faster. She fell into his rhythm, at the same time keeping her distance from the drop-off to her left. “I need details.”

“Only child. Spoiled rotten. My mom is a retired social worker and my dad’s an accountant.”

“You, of course, were a star student, quarterback of the high school football team, and homecoming king.”

“I got robbed. They gave the crown to Larry Quivers because he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, and everybody felt sorry for him.”

“That’s the kind of tragedy that builds character.”

“For Larry.”

She laughed. The trail was getting steeper still, the city stretching below them, and again, he’d picked up the pace. “What else?” she said.

“I worked for a landscaping company during the summers. Played for the University of Kentucky and graduated with a degree in finance.”

“Impressive.”

“I was drafted and signed by the Giants. Also played for the Broncos and the Cowboys before I came to Chicago.”

“Why the two middle names? Walker Bowman?”

“Mom wanted her father honored. Dad wanted the honor to go to his grandfather. They drew straws to see which name came first, and Mom won.”

They were practically jogging, and she berated herself for that slab of chocolate truffle layer cake she’d had for dessert last night. This was what happened when you hiked with a competitive athlete. A leisurely morning climb turned into an endurance contest. Which she didn’t intend to lose.

No question he was the stronger of the two. Her thighs were starting to burn, and she seemed to be getting a blister on her little toe, but he was already breathing harder than she was. Any second now, he’d realize exactly how much breath control a professionally trained opera singer possessed.

“Married? Divorced?” she asked.

“Neither.”

“That’s because you haven’t met anybody as good-looking as you, right?”

“I can’t help the way I look, okay?”

He actually sounded testy. Fascinating. She was storing that information away as ammunition for future use when she came to a sudden stop. “Look at that.” Out of the corner of her eye, she’d spotted a small hole in the ground underneath some brush. And right in front of that hole . . .

An arm slammed around her chest, pulling her back. She yelped, “Hey!”

“That’s a tarantula!” he exclaimed.

“I know it’s a tarantula.” She wiggled free. “It’s a beauty.”

He shuddered. “It’s a tarantula!”

“And it’s not hurting a soul. Remember our agreement. I handle the bugs and snakes. You deal with the rodents.”

The tarantula scampered back into its hole. Thad pressed her ahead of him on the trail, away from the nest. “Move it!”

“Sissy.” She’d begged for a tarantula as a pet, but her staid, conservative parents had refused. They’d been older when she was born, dedicated musicians who’d preferred not having their lives disrupted. Still, they’d loved her, and she missed them. They’d died within a few months of each other.

“I’ll bet you didn’t know that female tarantulas can live for twenty-five years,” she said, “but once the male matures, he only lives for a few months.”

“And women think they have it tough.”

Her cell rang in her pocket. The number wasn’t familiar, probably a junk call, but her thighs needed a break, and she answered. “Hello?”

“Che gelidamanina . . .” At the sound of the familiar music, the phone slipped from her fingers.

Thad, with his athlete’s reflexes, caught it before it hit the ground. He put the phone to his ear and listened. She heard the music coming faintly from the phone. She snatched it away from him, shut it off, and shoved it back in her pocket.

“You want to tell me about that?” he said.

“No.” They hadn’t reached the summit, but she turned and began heading back down the trail. Then, because she didn’t have to make eye contact with him, she said, “It’s Rodolfo’s love song to Mimì in La bohème.”

“And?”

“Che gelidamanina . . . It means,‘What a cold little hand.’” She shuddered. “I told him not to sing it.”

“Who?”

The sun was coming up, and so was the temperature. She fixed her eyes on the observatory in the distance. She didn’t have to say anything. She could clam up right now. But he was steady and solid, and she wanted to tell him. “It’s a popular audition piece for tenors, but Adam couldn’t manage the high C. He had to take it down a half tone—high C becomes a top B-natural. But that only showcases a weakness. I tried to talk him out of auditioning with it, but I couldn’t.”

“Adam?”

“Adam Wheeler. My former fiancé.”

“And this is how the asshole treats you? He calls you up like some lunatic and—”

“You don’t understand.” She took an unsteady breath. “Adam is dead.”