8
The next night, Thad propped himself against the pillows in his bed with the doors open between their suites and his mind switching between insights he didn’t want to examine too closely, the fake bloody T-shirt, and the gutter. Olivia had appeared at tonight’s client dinner in full diva regalia—shiny, dark hair worn loose, dramatic eye makeup, and crimson lipstick. She’d worn a long, white gown with an Egyptian collar necklace, probably a gift from Rupert. He didn’t ask. With her stilettos, she’d been taller than all the men there but him.
He’d stuffed the T-shirt back into its envelope and tucked the whole thing in the bottom of his suitcase. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
Olivia hadn’t yet turned the light out in her suite. Maybe she was having a hard time falling asleep, too. He slipped on his headphones and pulled up YouTube on his computer. It wasn’t long before he’d found a video of her singing Carmen.
Even people who didn’t know opera knew the melody of its famous song, but now he also knew its name: “Habanera.” And there she was. Commanding the stage. Smoldering in a tatty red dress with her breasts spilling over its low, square neckline like offerings poured from a cornucopia. Dirty bare feet, skin tanned and glistening with sweat, she taunted the men, her skirt swirling around her strong, spread legs, her arms as sinuous as snakes, her tumble of hair roiling and seething around her head. And that voice. That magnificent voice.
He watched one clip and then another. No wonder she was being hailed as the opera world’s premier Carmen. Like Carmen, Liv wouldn’t let any man stand between her and the freedom to live life on her own terms. In the final clip, he saw Don José stab her, watched her die, and wanted to kill the son of a bitch, wanted to rip off his head with his own bare hands.
He shoved his computer aside. He was way too emotional for opera.
* * *
“You’re ridiculous,” she told him the next afternoon as he sat in the chair by her side, one foot in the water, getting a fucking pedicure. Some of his pals submitted to this affront to all that was masculine, but never him. And yet here he was because he didn’t want her going off alone, not while she was fair game to whoever was out there trying to spook her.
“No reason my toenails shouldn’t be as pretty as the rest of me,” he said.
She attempted to give him the stink eye but spoiled it with a smile. “If your looks matched your personality, you’d be one of those WWE fighters with no neck and a cauliflower nose.”
He ignored the compliment. “I’m surprised you even know what the WWE is.”
“I get around. This isn’t necessary, you know.”
He pretended to misunderstand. “Who wants ugly toes?”
“I appreciate your concern, but nothing is going to happen to me in a Denver nail salon in broad daylight.”
“Rupert could show up with a diamond necklace and a damned machete.”
She laughed. “If only you knew him.”
He didn’t care to. Maybe he was being overcautious, but between the threatening messages, tossed suitcases, the T-shirt with the phony blood, and those over-the-top gifts, he didn’t like the idea of her roaming around alone. Since he couldn’t be with her all the time, he’d pulled Henri aside, told him something vague about Olivia having an overly aggressive fan, and asked him to keep an extra eye on her.
“Please don’t schedule one of those waxing things,” he said. “I have to draw the line somewhere.”
“I’ll be merciful.” Olivia grinned. “Or not.”
* * *
When they arrived in New Orleans, the final proofs from their photo shoots at the Seahawks’ stadium and the Seattle Opera were waiting for them at their French Quarter hotel overlooking Royal Street. Mariel Marchand was there, too. They hadn’t seen her since last week in San Francisco, and Henri was clearly unhappy that she’d managed to get hold of the proofs before him. Still, as Henri spread them across the coffee table in their suite, her reappearance couldn’t diminish his excitement. “These are extraordinaire. Even more impressive than I hoped.”
The photographer knew what she was doing. The rich, muted colors gave the photos the look of old master oil paintings—an eye-catching contrast with the crazy poses he and Olivia had adopted.
Their watches were perfectly displayed, and they’d nailed it with their expressions—his nonchalance and her regal dignity as they stood by the goalposts—he, in a tuxedo, holding the football as if it were a cocktail shaker; Olivia nearby, her queenlike audaciousness daring the viewer to mock the patches of eye black on her cheekbones.
The photos at the Seattle Opera were even more striking. Olivia crouched fiercely over him in a billowing scarlet dress, hair eddying in a torrent around her head, pale white arms outstretched, fingers clawed, while he lounged on his side, shirt falling open, football on end, prepared to meet his demise.
Olivia frowned at him. “I look like a witch next to you.”
So wrong. She looked like a goddess. He patted her on the head. “I can’t help it if I’m photogenic.”
She sighed. “I hate you.”
“Enough!” Mariel pointed her finger at Paisley, who was taking photos of Thad studying his photos. Paisley looked like she wanted to swallow her phone. Instead, she fled from the suite.
Mariel gave a sigh of disgust and told them what they already knew. “Her grandfather and Uncle Lucien went to school together.”