She emitted a pained sigh and then, to his surprise, began to sing. A piece so mournful he wished it weren’t in English.
“When I am laid . . . am laid in earth . . .”
Despite its maudlin subject, the notes she produced were so round and rich they could only have come from the throat of the best in the world.
“Passable,” he said over the constriction in his own throat when she finished.
“It’s ‘Dido’s Lament’ from Dido and Aeneas.”
“That’s what I thought.” He smiled at her and she gave him a wobbly smile in return. “It was beautiful, but kind of depressing,” he said. “How about you slay me? Right now. One of your big numbers.”
“Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want me singing full voice inside a car.”
“You don’t think I’m man enough to handle it?”
“I know you’re not.” She dug in her purse, pulled out a tissue, ripped off a couple of pieces, and wadded them into balls. She leaned over, a breast pressed to his upper arm, and stuffed them in his ears. It was a wonder he didn’t drive off the road. “You asked for it.”
And she let it rip. Even with his makeshift earplugs, her lavish, crystal-shattering Bugatti of a voice raised the hair on the back of his neck.
When she was done, all he could do was breathe a prayer. “Jesus, Liv . . .”
“I was holding back,” she said, almost defiantly. “It’s called marking. It’s what we do sometimes to save our voices during rehearsals.”
“Got it. Like a no-contact football practice.” He tried to figure out how he could say what he couldn’t get off his mind. “Do you feel like taking requests?”
“I’m not doing ‘Love Shack.’”
He smiled. “I was thinking more like . . .” He hesitated, but he couldn’t make himself say it. Couldn’t reveal how much he’d been thinking about it. “Forget it. I changed my mind.”
“Forget what?”
He played dumb. “What do you mean?”
“What do you want me to sing?”
“Whatever you want. I’m easy.”
“But you said . . .”
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t ask her to sing Carmen’s sensuous, rebellious “Habanera” just for him. Wouldn’t admit how much he wanted to be her private audience. He shot into the left lane. “Who am I to dictate anything to the Beautiful Turnip?”
“Tornado. And you’re speeding again.”
He backed off on the accelerator, and she began to sing, first something in French, then German, then Italian—none of them “Habanera.” She sang all the way to the Lincoln Tunnel, and the next evening, as they boarded the plane to fly to Las Vegas, his ears still buzzed. She wasn’t happy with her sound, but for him . . . it was glorious.
*
She was due at the Muni in a week. Olivia gazed out the window of the plane on their flight to Las Vegas, her feelings in turmoil. She could mark for the first few rehearsals to buy herself time. She’d sung Amneris enough that no one would think twice about it. But sooner or later, that time would run out.
She told herself she was making progress. When they were in the car, she’d had to sing down an octave on the highs, but at least she was singing. At least? When had delivering anything but her best become her career goal?
Las Vegas loomed ahead, enticing and terrifying. Every day her physical need for him grew more urgent, her sleep more restless, her dreams more erotic. If she didn’t see this through to its logical conclusion, she’d always regret it. And if she did? Their relationship would never be the same.
She closed her eyes and tried not to think.
*
The panoramic windows of their connecting suites at the Bellagio looked out over the flamboyant sprawl of Las Vegas. It was midnight, and Rupert’s latest offering had already arrived, a woman’s Louis Vuitton duffel packed with exotic cheeses, imported caviar, and ludicrously expensive chocolates. “He’s going to go broke,” Liv said.
“Yeah, I’d feel real bad about that.” Thad whipped his phone from his pocket. “Give me his number. I’m sure you have it.”
The thought of what he might say to Rupert alarmed her. “I’m not giving you his phone number.”
“Never mind. I already have it.”
“How did you get his number?”
He looked down his nose at her, deliberately condescending. “I’m a spoiled professional athlete, remember? I can get whatever I want.”
As he tapped at his phone, she tried to grab it from him. “It’s the middle of the night. You’ll scare him!”
“That’s the general idea.” He’d fended off opponents for years, and using both his height and the barrier of his elbow, he kept her at a distance as he moved over to the windows. “Mr. Glass, dis is Bruno Kowalski. Sorry to wake you up.” His fake tough-guy accent suggested he might have seen too many Scorsese movies. “I’m Miz Shore’s bodyguard.”
She rolled her eyes, torn between pity for poor Rupert and a curiosity about what Thad was going to say.
“The thing is . . . all these presents is upsettin’ her lawyer.” Thad winked at her. “Dude says she’s gonna be in trouble with the IRS. Somethin’ about exceeding fed’ral tax limits. She’s real stressed out about it. Maybe thinkin’ about givin’ up opera and goin’ on the road with a rock band.”
What? she mouthed at him.
He shrugged at her. “So all I’m sayin’ is . . . if you don’t want her to keep bein’ upset, you better cut it out.” Long, menacing pause. “If you know what I mean.”
She could faintly hear Rupert’s high, squeaky response.
“Yeah, I thought you’d understand. Now you have a real good day, Mr. Glass, okay?”
She planted her hands on her hips as he disconnected. “‘Exceeding federal tax limits’? Who comes up with something like that?”
“Somebody with a degree in finance from the University of Kentucky and an unhealthy interest in the IRS.” He slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Better than threatening to shoot out his kneecaps, right?”
“You’re all heart.”
*
The International Jewelers Convention in Las Vegas was the busiest stop on their tour, and they spent two days meeting with jewelers and buyers. Several of them felt duty bound to point out what she already knew about her own jewelry. Her pigeon’s egg necklace didn’t hold a real ruby, her Egyptian cuff was a fake, her poison rings not real antiques, and her dangling Spanish earrings souvenir quality. When they offered to give her a good deal on the real thing, she told them she lost jewelry too easily instead of telling the truth, that she had genuine pieces she seldom wore locked up in her apartment.
She and Thad posed for photos, sat for interviews, and chatted with bloggers. Through it all, the air between them crackled with erotic anticipation. Every gesture, every glance carried extra meaning.
I can’t wait to see . . . To touch . . . To taste . . . To feel . . .
Even in the air-conditioned exhibition hall, her cheeks felt flushed, her skin hot. She forgot names, lost track of conversations, and he was doing even worse. At one point, he addressed a clearly pregnant woman as “sir.”
As they walked through the crowded aisles, his hand stroked the small of her back. She brushed against his hip. When they posed for photos, their fingers touched behind the person standing between them. It was foreplay shot into the stratosphere.
Their last night arrived. She dressed with extra care for the private client dinner at José Andrés’s newest restaurant. Hair down. Barely there underpants. She debated between two black cocktail dresses. Under the more modest one, she could wear a deliciously sexy lacy black bra. But a bra would show beneath the other, a simple black sheath with a severely plunging V that required a set of silicone gel lift pads and a little fashion tape to hold everything together. Not nearly as alluring as the sexy lace bra. But the neckline of that more modest dress didn’t come to a point well below her breasts and wouldn’t drive him crazy all through dinner.