They should be in bed now, but they weren’t, and Thad seemed as reluctant as she to bring this last night to its natural conclusion. She focused on the music. If she let her mind stray, she’d lose the beauty of this last night, a night she wanted to hold on to forever.
He sipped scotch. With her unsettled stomach, she avoided her single glass of wine. The combo slid into “Come Rain or Come Shine.” She wanted to take the stage in this seedy jazz club, close her eyes, and let those dusky notes pour from her. She could become a jazz singer. She could rewrite her career, travel from one jazz club to another singing all the old standards. She loved jazz, and she sang it well.
But jazz wasn’t in her bloodstream. It wasn’t opera. Thad might not be able to tell the problems with her voice, but the moment Sergio heard her sing—the moment anyone at the Muni heard her sing—they would know something was wrong. Her voice was good enough for a small-town opera company, but not for the Muni. Not for the Royal Opera House or La Scala or Buenos Aires. Not for the Lyric or Munich or the Palais Garnier. Most of all, not for herself.
He gave her a lover’s smile, affectionate and full of promise. But the only promise between them was one more night of sex, and that suddenly felt tawdry, which was all wrong. There was nothing tawdry about what they’d shared these past few nights. She returned her gaze to the stag
e, determined to push the blues away and enjoy every last moment.
They didn’t leave the jazz club until after midnight, which was technically their fourth day, but she wasn’t that much of a stickler. Back at the hotel, they made long, slow love, hardly speaking. She’d never been so conscious of the rawness, the vulnerability, of seeing a person she loved stripped of his public face, her skin pressed to his.
It wasn’t quite dawn when she opened her eyes. She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. Even in sleep, he was perfect.
Blinking hard, she turned away and crept from the room.
* * *
She sneaked out of his bed like a thief in the night, although technically, it was five in the morning. He heard her, but he needed to be clearheaded for the conversation they had to have, and he pretended to be asleep. She was due at the Muni at ten this morning, but first, they needed to have a reckoning.
Three hours later, after a shower, a few phone calls, and two cups of coffee, he banged on her apartment door. Their personal reckoning was no longer the first item on his agenda.
She answered, perfectly coiffed—dark slacks and white blouse open at the throat, with that pigeon egg–sized fake ruby necklace on display. Her expression softened, but only for a moment before she looked at him as though he’d noisily unwrapped a piece of candy in the middle of her aria. “How did you get in?”
“All I had to do was hop into the elevator with one of your neighbors. Now tell me this: Why would a diva like you live in an apartment without security?”
She didn’t shift to the side to let him in. “I only moved here a few months ago. I told you that. It’s temporary until I find a permanent place.”
He slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and pushed past her into her two-bedroom apartment in the River North area of Chicago. Polished hardwood floors, a postage-stamp balcony, beige carpet, and expensive, but generic, modern furniture that had probably come with the rental because it wasn’t her style. The place would have been boring if she hadn’t personalized it with career mementos: framed photos, posters, some cut-glass trophies. Various props and bits of costumes sat on tables and chests: Venetian carnival masks, a collection of Cherubino cherubs, the crown he’d seen in photos of her as Lady Macbeth, along with a wicked-looking dagger.
His Heisman, on the other hand, was shoved away on the top shelf of his guest room closet, along with a bunch of plaques, game balls, and a couple of his own cut-glass trophies. He didn’t display any of it. Instead of making him feel good, those mementos only reminded him of unfulfilled potential.
He stepped around one of the seven thousand pieces of luggage the limo driver must have hauled up to her apartment. He hoped to God she’d made sure the driver was legit before she’d climbed in. “For somebody who spends so much time on the road, you’d think you’d have figured out by now how to downsize.”
“I have an image to maintain.” She shoved a makeup bag into her tote. “When I go on vacation, I only take a carry-on.”
“Hard to believe.” A poster from The Marriage of Figaro hung next to a framed, autographed photo of her with a guy who looked like a young Andrea Bocelli. The message at the bottom was written in Italian, but he didn’t have any trouble translating the word “amo.” “Liv . . . you know this isn’t going to work.” He picked up a needlework pillow that read, When Basses Go Low, I Go High.
She regarded him warily.
“You can’t stay in a building without security.”
“There’s an intercom system,” she said defensively. “Which you could have used.”
“No need. All I had to do was step into the elevator, remember?” He set the pillow back down. “Bottom line—any moron carrying a pizza box could get in this place.”
She knew exactly what he was talking about, but she still protested. “I’m being careful, and I’ll find a permanent place as soon as I have time. I like Chicago.”
“I remember. Middle of the country and all.” He bumped into one of her wheeled garment bags. “The point is, you were attacked in New Orleans, kidnapped in Vegas. Do you really think this is over?”
“I’m home now,” she said carefully. “I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding.”
“We’re not talking about the rest of your life. We’re talking about now.” He hadn’t planned on this, but he couldn’t see another way around it. “I want you to move in with me for a while.”
Her head shot up. “That’s ridiculous. We’re over, remember?”
“I’m not talking about us living together.”
“That’s exactly what you’re talking about.”