The hordes of visitors hadn’t yet descended, and the spacious light-filled gallery with its sweep of angled windows was quiet. This might be the Met’s most popular exhibit, but popularity hadn’t brought her here, nor had nostalgia for the times she’d performed in this same spot at cultural events and black-tie galas. She’d come here because the Temple of Dendur was dedicated to Isis, and Isis was one of the Egyptians’ most powerful gods of both healing and magic, two things she sorely needed.
The reflecting pool representing the waters of the Nile glistened in the morning light. She bypassed the temple’s gate and went directly into the temple itself, passing through its twin columns with their papyrus plant capitals. Two other visitors had beaten her here. Maybe they, too, felt the sacredness of this space because neither was speaking.
She’d once visited the temple with an Egyptologist who’d been able to read each of the ancient hieroglyphics covering the sandstone walls, but she’d been more interested in imagining the lives of the Nubian people who’d gathered here.
She touched the wall. Isis, if you have any mojo left, would you fix me? Would you ease my chest, open my throat? Give me back my confidence. Let me—
“Olivia?”
She spun around to see a small woman entering the temple. Her hope for solitude vanished.
“My dear.” The woman took Olivia’s hands. “I was just thinking about you!”
“Kathryn, how are you?”
“So busy! With the Aida gala only three weeks away, my head is spinning with ideas. We’re building a re-creation of Dendur at the front entrance for the guests to pass through.”
“I’m sure that’ll be amazing.”
Eugene Swift’s widow looked like the stereotype of a seventy-year-old art patron. Slim and trim, with a black velvet headband holding her gray bob away from her face, she wore what was surely vintage Chanel, along with the low, square-heeled black pumps—probably Ferragamo—that women of her age and social status favored. As her husband’s replacement on the board of the Chicago Municipal Opera, as well as one of its most generous donors, she was the last person Olivia wanted to know about her voice. “What are you doing in New York?” she asked.
Kathryn gave a dismissive wave. “We have a place here. Only myself and my son now that Eugene is gone.”
“He was a wonderful man,” Olivia said truthfully. “We all miss him.”
At Kathryn’s request, Olivia had sung at his funeral. Eugene Swift had been a true opera scholar with a deep appreciation of all its forms. He’d also been Olivia’s friend.
“He would have loved the Aida gala,” Kathryn said. “I’m suggesting costumes, but only for the women. Frankly, the idea of potbellied men draping themselves in white linen would put me off my dinner. I’m having a robe made for the event. I can give you the name of my dressmaker if you’d like.”
“I’m sure I can borrow something from the costume shop.”
“You’re a dear. Everyone will look forward to seeing what you wear.” Kathryn gazed up at the temple walls. Olivia knew her real passion lay with art museums, not opera, and Olivia appreciated her continued involvement with the Chicago Muni Opera to honor Eugene’s memory. “I adore this temple,” she said. “Since it’s not looted like the Elgin Marbles, one can admire it without feeling guilty.”
Olivia was well acquainted with the history of the temple, a gift from the Egyptian government for the part the United States had played in saving it, along with other artifacts, from the bottom of Lake Nasser when the Aswan Dam was constructed.
Unlike other socialites’ brows, Kathryn’s still had the ability to wrinkle. “It’s such a dilemma. One has to believe museums should return stolen artifacts to their rightful country, but what if it’s a country like Syria or Iraq where ISIS has destroyed so much? I don’t want to be accused of cultural insensitivity, but until those countries stabilize, our museums should hold on to what we have.” She set her hand on one of the temple’s oval cartouches. “I’ll never forgive LBJ for giving Dendur to the Metropolitan instead of to Chicago. It would have been such a magnificent addition to the Art Institute. Still, one has to admit that the Metropolitan’s done well by it.”
Olivia didn’t hear the rest of Kathryn’s monologue as a familiar, unwelcome figure made his way through the gate. He headed directly toward them, all athletic grace and frosty glare. As he stopped at Olivia’s side, she offered up her brightest smile. “Kathryn, this is Thad Owens. Thad, Mrs. Swift is our honorary hostess for the Muni gala.”
Kathryn extended a wrinkled hand displaying, among other things, an impressive jade ring. “Yes. The football player. I’ve met your delightful owner, Mrs. Calebow, several times.”
Before Olivia could point out that Phoebe Calebow owned the team, not Thad personally, he’d taken the older woman’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Swift.” The look he shot Olivia was anything but pleasurable.
She appreciated his concern, but she didn’t enjoy having a full-time watchdog. “We have to run, Kathryn.”
As soon as they cleared the temple gates, Thad started lecturing her. She barely listened. Instead, she was distracted by his Victory780—not the watch itself, but the way his wrist displayed it, with masculine perfection.
No matter what Mariel Marchand might think, she couldn’t have found a better man to represent that watch. He was a natural leader, protective of others and demanding of himself. He was self-confident, but didn’t take himself too seriously. He was intelligent, charismatic, and sexier than any man should be.
Desire thrummed through her body. Las Vegas. Why had she struck that crazy deal with him? Why wait for Las Vegas? Why not now? This morning? Tonight?
Never?
The world was spinning out of her control.
“When are you going to get a handle on your porn addiction?” she said, as they stepped out onto Fifth Avenue.
“My what?”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you’re on your laptop, and the way you make sure no one can see what’s on the screen. You’re clearly addicted to porn.”
He smiled. “When you can’t have the real thing . . .”
He was messing with her again. He wasn’t watching porn. Something else had his attention, and she wondered what it was.
*
Four-star hotels excelled at fulfilling their guests’ last-minute requests—in this case, supplying Thad with a pair of rain jackets. Liv’s was too big, his too small, but at least the top half of them was staying dry.
The weather, in typical April fashion, was cold and drizzly, which gave Thad the opportunity he’d been looking for. They had a few hours before tonight’s dinner, and after this morning’s visit to the Metropolitan Opera and Olivia’s reckless side trip to the museum, Thad’s determination to do something to help her had strengthened. But he needed a special place for what he had in mind.
Liv peered at him from under the hood of her rain jacket, a few drops slithering down her nose. “Where are you taking me?”
“Never you mind where I’m taking you. You keep forgetting I’m the man in this relationship, and what I say goes.”
That cracked her up, as he’d known it would, and she emitted a trio of unladylike snorts.
They were in his favorite part of Central Park, the North Woods. During his days with the Giants, he’d often come here to run. Because of its location in the park’s far northwest corner, the North Woods wasn’t as heavily visited as the central and southern sections, and today’s inclement weather had left it virtually deserted.
Which was exactly what he needed. Hotel suites, no matter how luxurious, weren’t soundproofed, leaving him to wonder where, in this busy, crowded city, he might take a woman who could potentially break glass with her voice. The answer had come to him as they were leaving the museum. The North Woods on a rainy day when no one would be around.
He’d been surprised how easily he’d gotten her to agree to go out with him in this less-than-ideal weather until he remembered she liked being outdoors nearly as much as he did, although in typical diva fashion she’d wrapped her neck in a couple hundred wool scarves.
“It’s raining,” she pointed out unnecessarily.
“It’s drizzling. There’s a difference. And I thought humidity was good for your voice.”
“Not if I’m freezing to death.”
“Are you?”