Page 13 of When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars 9)

She laughed in his face. A big, theatrical “ha!” that came straight from her diaphragm. “You don’t think I have the guts? I’ve been booed at La Scala!”

“They booed you?”

“Sooner or later it happens to everyone who sings there. Callas, Fleming, Pavarotti.” She reached for the door handle, stepped out onto the dirty pavement, and turned to gaze down at him. “I gave them the finger and finished the performance.”

He didn’t move. “I think I might be having second thoughts.”

“Afraid to be seen with me?”

“I’m afraid of you in general.”

“You’re not the first.” She marched toward the flickering neon cactus.

3

Decades of fossilized cigarette smoke clung to the bar’s walls, and the ancient black and brown floor tiles were a cautionary tale in asbestos abuse. Yellowed rodeo posters were shellacked to the ceiling, brown vinyl stools fronted the bar, and fake Tiffany Michelob lamps hung over the wooden tables.

Olivia considered her yoga pants and her bare feet. “I’m glad I travel with antibiotics.”

“I’ll bet you the bartender has a bottle of Boone’s Farm tucked away somewhere to cheer you up. I know you like your wine.”

“Thoughtful.”

One of the four oversized men sitting at a back table held up his arm, gesturing toward him. “T-Bo!”

Thad’s hand settled in the small of her back, propelling her forward. The men rose, dwarfing the table. Thad glowered at the youngest one sitting at the end. “What’s he doing here?”

The object of his disdain was maybe in his early twenties, with a big square face, solid jaw, shoulder-length light brown hair, and a manicured beard.

“I don’t know. He just showed up.” This came from a gorgeously athletic man with a fade—Afro on top and closely shaved sides with a scalp tattoo showing through. He wore a colorfully embroidered men’s leather bomber jacket over a bare chest draped with a half dozen necklaces.

“Damn, Ritchie, it’s bad enough I have to put up with Garrett during the season,” Thad groused. “I don’t have to do it now, too.”

“You tell him that,” the man named Ritchie responded.

Instead of looking at Thad, the target of Thad’s abuse was looking at her, which seemed to make Thad recall that he hadn’t arrived alone. “This is Olivia Shore. But you should call her Madame. She’s a big-deal opera singer doing some research on the life of lowbrow jocks.”

He was deliberately trying to embarrass her.

* * *

Thad didn’t feel one bit bad about embarrassing her. She deserved it. Except she didn’t seem all that embarrassed. Ins

tead, she stuck out that damned royal hand as if she expected them to kiss her fingers. “Enchanté,” she said, with a French accent so heavy he was afraid she’d choke on it. “And you may call me Olivia.”

The idiot child Thad was supposed to help turn into a superstar quarterback gestured to the empty chair next to him. “Come sit by me.”

“I’d be delighted.”

Hell. Thad tried to remember why he’d thought it was a good idea to bring her along. It was because— Never mind why. She was here now. But instead of being uncomfortable, she looked as though she made a habit of hanging out in dive bars.

Clint pulled out the chair for her. “Since Thad’s not doing the introductions, I’m Clint Garrett, starting quarterback for the Chicago Stars. Thad works for me.”

“How fortunate for him,” she cooed.

“Clint’s young and stupid,” Thad said. “Ignore him. Now the giant sitting at the other end of the table is Junior Lotulelei. Unlike Clint, he’s a real player. Offensive tackle for the 49ers now, but the two of us used to play together on the Broncos. That’s in Denver,” he added, to needle her. “Liv here doesn’t know much about American football. More a soccer fan.”

“Olivia,” she pointedly corrected him. At the same time, she was regarding Junior curiously, which wasn’t surprising since he was three hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle, and his hair grew so high above his head and so far down his back that it practically lived in another country. “Junior’s the best player to ever come out of Pago Pago.”

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