She took the envelope he handed her with a gracious nod, but as the elevator rose, she crushed it in her fist.

Thad held the door of their suite open and entered behind her, stepping into the overwhelming smell of too many flowers. Vases stuffed full of a dozen varieties covered the top of the piano.

The Diva sighed. “Rupert again.”

“Again? He does this frequently?”

“Flowers, boxes of expensive chocolates, champagne. I’ve tried to discourage him, but as you can see, it hasn’t worked.” She extracted a florist card from one of the arrangements, glanced at it, and set it back down.

“Rupert is one of your lovers?”

“One of legions.”

“Seriously?”

“No, not seriously! He’s at least seventy.”

Thad took in the flowers. “Am I the only one who thinks this is creepy?”

“You have to understand opera fans. They feel like a dying breed, and that can make them overzealous when it comes to their favorite singers.”

“Are there others like Rupert?”

“He’s my most ardent. As for the rest . . . It depends on the production. I’ve gotten Spanish shawls, cases of good rioja, even a few Iberian hams from the Carmen aficionados. And, of course, cigars.”

“Why cigars?”

“Carmen works in a cigar factory.”

“I know that.” He didn’t. “So what other weird gifts have your twisted superfans sent?”

“They’re passionate, not twisted, and I love every one of them. Silver scissors for Samson et Dalila.”

“Stay away from my hair.”

“Lots of Egyptian jewelry—scarab earrings and bracelets—because I sing Amneris in Aida. She’s the villain, but she has her reasons—unrequited love and all that. I’ve even gotten a silver hookah.” As an afterthought, she added, “Aida is set in Egypt.”

“I know that.” He did.

“Mozart fans have sent me more cherubs than I can count.”

“For?”

“Cherubino. We mezzos are famous for our breeches parts.”

“Women playing men?”

“Yes. Cherubino in Marriage of Figaro. He’s a horndog. Sesto in La clemenza di Tito. Hansel in Hansel and Gretel. My friend Rachel owns that role.”

“Hard to imagine you playing a guy.”

“I pride myself.”

He smiled. Her passion for her work and loyalty to her fans were unmistakable. Passion was what drew him to people, their enthusiasm for their jobs or their hobbies—whatever gave their life joy and meaning, whether it was making a great marinara sauce, collecting Louisville Sluggers, or singing opera. Nothing bored him more than bored people. Life was too great for that.

She scratched the back of her calf with the toes of one grubby foot. “I’m sure you receive gifts.”

“I got a good deal on a Maserati.”

“I’ll have to mention that to Rupert. Anything else?”

“The occasional loan of a vacation home, plus more liquor than I can drink and too many restaurant meals comped. It’s ironic how often people who don’t need money get the breaks, while the ones who could use a helping hand come up empty.”

She regarded him thoughtfully. “Not exactly the viewpoint of an entitled jock.”

He shrugged. “There’s a big link between genetics and athletic ability. I got lucky.”

She studied him a moment longer than necessary before gazing at her feet. “I need a shower. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It felt like the end of a good date, and he had a crazy urge to kiss her. An impulse she obviously didn’t share because she was already on her way to her bedroom.

He opened the terrace doors and stepped outside. He felt restless, itchy. The Diva was too cavalier about these gifts for his taste. He’d had to deal with a couple of overzealous fans like Rupert, and one of them had turned into a verified stalker. He drummed on the terrace rail, turned back inside, and went to the piano. The note that had come with the flowers lay faceup on top.

La Belle Tornade,

You are my gift from the gods.

Rupert P. Glass

Thad grimaced. The crumpled envelope the desk clerk had given her when they’d gotten back to the hotel lay next to the florist’s card. She must have forgotten she’d set it down.

This envelope was postmarked Reno. He wasn’t prone to opening other people’s mail, but his instincts told him to make an exception.

He pulled out a single sheet of plain white paper printed with block letters.

This is your fault. Choke on it.

The Diva’s bedroom door opened. “What are you doing?”

“Opening your mail.” He held up the note. “What’s this about?”

She glanced at it as she snatched it from him. “The opera world is full of drama. Stay out of my mail.”

“This is more than drama,” he said.

She lifted her chin, but he noticed her hand was shaking. “It’s personal.”

“I’ll say.”

“It doesn’t concern you.” She turned toward her bedroom.

He cut in front of her. “It does now. If you’re involved with crazies, I need to know in case we run into any of them in the next four weeks.”

“We won’t.” That strong jaw of hers set in a stubborn line that told him she wouldn’t say more. She ripped the note in two, dropped it in the trash, and headed into her bedroom.

4

Thad returned from his run the next morning to the dazzle of The Diva’s vocalizations coming through her closed bedroom door. He found it hard to imagine how any human being could produce such extraordinary sounds. Last night, she’d said she was on vocal rest, but he suspected she’d been trying to dodge karaoke.

In the limo on the way to the airport, it seemed as if the previous night had never happened. He answered his texts while The Diva and Henri chatted away in French. Paisley looked as if she was trying to sleep. As much as he wanted to cross-examine The Diva about that letter she’d received, he restrained himself. For now, he’d keep a watchful eye.

Paisley yawned and pushed her aviators on top of her long sweep of blond hair. “That shirt is dope.” Her eyes looked bloodshot from what he suspected had been another night spent partying. “You could be a model.”