As the cold marble tiles of the lobby hit her bare feet, she remembered her flats lying next to the couch in the suite. Owens clearly didn’t want to talk to her, and she should turn back, but the idea of carrying this weight any longer was worse than the embarrassment of going after him.
He exited through the center front door. Guests turned to look at her as she rushed barefooted across the lobby. Outside, the first taxi in line had its door open, and Owens was speaking to the driver as he got in. She abandoned what was left of her dignity, sprinted toward the car, grabbed the door, threw herself in . . .
And fell right on top of him.
It was like landing on a bag of cement.
The hotel doorman hadn’t seen her awkward leap. He closed the car door and gestured for the taxi to move forward to make room for the next car. The cabdriver gazed at them in the rearview mirror with eyes that had seen it all, shrugged, and pulled away.
She scrambled off Thad. As she sprawled onto the seat next to him, he looked at her as if she were a cockroach, then leaned back and deliberately pulled out his phone. He began scrolling through it as if she weren’t there.
She curled her toes against the gritty floor mat. “I’m sorry. I want to apologize. I made a terrible mistake.”
“You don’t say,” he replied with total indifference, his eyes staying on his phone.
Olivia curled her toes deeper into the grit. “I talked to my friend. My former friend. She admitted she’d lied to me about everything. Her boyfriend walked in on the two of you, and— The details don’t matter. The point is, I’m sorry.”
“Uh-huh.” He’d put his phone to his ear and spoke into it. “Hey, Piper. Looks like we’re playing phone tag. I got your message, and I should be back in the city by then. Remember to let me know when you decide you’re ready to cheat on your husband.” He disconnected.
She stared at him.
He turned to her. “You had something to say to me?”
She’d already said it, but he deserved his pound of flesh. “I’m truly sorry, but . . .”
One of those perfect dark eyebrows arched. “But?”
Her temper got the best of her. “What would you have done if you thought you were stuck for the next four weeks with a sexual predator?”
“You have a strange idea of what constitutes an apology.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, and then, “No! I’m not sorry. Yes, I am, but— Believing what I did, I had to confront you.”
“You might be a great singer, but you’re crap at making apologies.”
She could only grovel for so long. “I’m a soprano. Sopranos aren’t supposed to apologize.”
He actually laughed.
“Truce?” she said, hoping for the best even though she knew she didn’t deserve it.
“I’ll think about it.”
The cab turned down a one-way street and pulled up in front of a seedy-looking bar with a neon cactus flickering in the window.
“While you’re thinking,” she said, “would you mind lending me cab fare to get back to the hotel?”
“I might,” he said. “Or . . . I have a better idea. Come in with me. I doubt the guys have ever met an opera singer.”
“Go into that awful bar?”
“Not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but mingling with the commoners might be good for you.”
“Another time.”
“Really?” His eyes narrowed. “You think all it takes is a couple of ‘I’m sorry’s’ to make up for character assassination? Words are cheap.”
She regarded him steadily. “This is payback, right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’m barefoot,” she pointed out with a certain degree of desperation.
He regarded her with silky animosity. “I wouldn’t have thought of it otherwise. If there’s too much broken glass, I’ll carry you over it.”
“You want revenge this much?”
“Hey, I said I’d carry you, didn’t I? But never mind. I know you don’t have the guts.”
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. Instead, 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.”
“American Samoa,” Junior clarified. “It’s the NFL’s favorite training ground.”
“I had no idea,” Olivia said.