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.”