When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Her New Orleans attack had gone public. The mainstream newspapers restricted the item to a few factual sentences, but the Internet gossip sites were all over it.

It couldn’t have looked sleazier.

Thad was still upset as they rode the elevator to the lobby where they’d meet the limo taking them to the airfield for their flight to Atlanta. “They’re insinuating that I beat you up!” he exclaimed.

They were doing exactly that, but she tried to minimalize it. “Not really,” she said weakly.

“Close enough.”

“I don’t understand why we’re getting all this attention.”

“Because I’m a dumb jock and you’re a high-class diva, and it’s too good a story to pass up.”

“The only thing dumb about you is your taste in T-shirts.” His, she happened to know, was a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar Valentino.

He gazed down at the navy-and-red graphic of astronauts floating in space. “Might have been a mistake.”

“You think?”

Only Henri and Paisley were waiting by the limo. Fortunately, Mariel had left the tour, but Olivia suspected she’d turn up again, like a head cold that wouldn’t go away. She’d probably run off to Uncle Lucien so she could complain about the rubes Henri had hired to represent the company.

“We’ll look on the bright side,” a less-than-cheerful Henri said as they arrived at the airfield, “two new radio outlets called to schedule an interview.”

“For all the wrong reasons,” Thad said.

Once they were on board, Thad received a phone call of his own. Since he’d taken a seat across from Olivia, she could hear his side of the conversation, which mainly consisted of unhappy grunts. When he pocketed his phone, she regarded him with concern. “Everything okay?”

“The Stars press office. Phoebe Calebow isn’t happy.”

Even Olivia knew about the legendary Phoebe Calebow, the owner of the Chicago Stars and the most powerful woman in the NFL.

He extended his legs as far as the space would allow. “Phoebe has a low tolerance for anything that even hints at one of her players abusing a woman.”

“I can talk to her, if you’d like.”

He curled his lip. “No thanks, Mom. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m only trying to be helpful.”

“Nobody just ‘talks’ to Phoebe Calebow, not unless they’re royalty. Or a member of the Calebow family. She’s the most intimidating hot woman you’ve ever met.”

“I’ve seen the photos. She could have been a Playboy centerfold in the old days when she was younger. Or even now, if they still had centerfolds.”

“People used to underestimate her because of her looks, but only an idiot makes that mistake now. Trust me when I say nobody wants to get on her bad side.”

She could see he was worried, which meant she was worried for him.

*  *  *

As the next few days unfolded, Marchand Timepieces received more press coverage than they could have expected, but not entirely the right kind. Too many of the country’s X-rated morning radio show hosts suddenly wanted interviews, all of which Henri refused in favor of the more respectable media.

Olivia quickly perfected her responses to questions about New Orleans. Instead of disclosing that the attack had happened in a bookstore, which only made it seem more bizarre, she referred to a small shop in the French Quarter and a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “It was so random. Obviously, someone who’s mentally disturbed was behind it. I’m so thankful Thad rushed over to meet me at the police station. He’s a good friend.”

That ended the questions from all but the most persistent.

They moved from Atlanta to Nashville, and Thad kept trying to make her sing. She appreciated what he was attempting to do for her, but singing a few bars of Billie Holiday wouldn’t overcome the kind of block she was dealing with. Still, he was persistent and she was desperate. Whenever they were alone and had a break between interviews, he shoved his phone at her with song lyrics displayed. Today it was “Georgia on My Mind.”

“Let’s hear it,” he said.

“This isn’t going to fix me,” she retorted.

“Stop being so negative. You sounded better this morning than you did yesterday, and you like singing jazz.”

She glanced at the lyrics to “Georgia on My Mind.” “There’s a big difference between singing Ray Charles and launching into an F-natural for Amneris’s “Quale insolita gioia nel tuo sguardo.” At his quizzical expression, she translated. “‘What rare joy shines on your face.’”

“Thanks.”

“Not your face. Radamès’s face. And he’s thinking about his love for Aida, not any passion he holds for Amneris, worse luck for her.”

“Shows what happens when a woman gets too serious about someone, even in ancient Egypt.”

“Exactly.” She thought of Adam. Of Aida. Of the way Amneris sends Radamès to his death. She snatched the phone from him and began to sing. “Georgia . . . Georgia . . .”

Thad closed his eyes and listened.

This was jazz, not opera, and her chest constriction eased. Not enough to produce the sounds she needed to perform. Far from it. But as he’d said, better than yesterday.

*  *  *

Thad had promised to take some of his Nashville buddies out that night, but he’d committed before he’d gotten tangled up with keeping The Diva safe. He couldn’t see himself dragging her along into another noisy bar. She’d have to strain her voice to talk, and she was under enough stress. Besides, it was guys only, and he was supposed to meet them in an hour.

As he pondered his options, he wandered into her adjoining suite where she was doing some yoga sun salutations by the windows. He sprawled on the couch and pretended to look at his phone when, in fact, he was admiring her strength right along with the stretch of her yoga pants over her butt.

He considered his dilemma. He owed these guys, and he didn’t want to cancel, but Henri was busy and Paisley was useless.

The suite’s doorbell rang. Thad blocked her from answering and opened the door himself.

Clint Garrett stood on the other side. “I was visiting a girlfriend in Memphis, and I thought I’d drop in.”

“Memphis is a couple of hundred miles away,” Thad pointed out.

Clint shrugged. “Whatever.”

For once, Garrett’s timing was exactly right. “Come on in.”

“Hey, Clint.” The Diva waved at him and returned to her sun salutations.

“Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,” Clint said. “I saw that crap in the papers, and I heard Phoebe’s all stirred up about it. I want you to know I’m here for you, T-Bo.”

Thad slapped him on the back. “Appreciate it. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you’re here.”

Clint regarded him suspiciously. “Why’s that?”

“I have to go out, and I need you to stay with Liv.”

Olivia came out of her down dog. “I don’t need anybody to stay with me.”

“Yeah, she does.” He gave Clint more details of the New Orleans attack and mentioned the threatening letters. “There’s been some other nastiness. A phone call, a couple of packages. She also has a stalker named Rupert.”

Olivia reared up. “Rupert is not a—”

Thad continued, ignoring her. “I don’t trust hotel security. Point of fact—you didn’t have any trouble getting up here. Plus, she has a habit of running off.”

“I do not—”

“I need to slip out for a couple of hours.” He gave Clint another tap on the back. “Can you keep an eye on her?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” the yogi huffed from the window.

“She’s slippery,” Thad said. “Don’t let her get away from you.”

“I am not slip—”

“Got it,” Clint said. “Can I make out with her?”

Bastard.“You can try. Doubt you’ll succeed.” On the other hand, Clint was a good-looking guy, and he met The Diva’s most important requirement in a lover: no possibility of a relationship.

Thad eyeballed The Diva. “Clint’s not the brightest guy in the world, and sex is the only way he knows how to relate to women. I don’t think you’ll fall for his routine, but if you do . . . make sure he’s got that herpes outbreak under control.”

Clint laughed and pounded Thad extra hard on the back. “You’re one of a kind, dude.”

The Diva smiled. “I don’t need a babysitter, but it would be lovely to be with someone who’s not bossing me around.”

“I know what you mean,” Clint said. “Boy, do I ever know what you mean.”

Thad glared at him. “Do not let her out of your sight.”

“Roger that.”

Thad met his pals that night, but he didn’t have a good time. He was too busy thinking about what might be going on back at the hotel.

*  *  *

“That part always gets me.” Clint’s voice was suspiciously woolly with emotion. “‘You complete me.’ Everybody talks about that other thing. That ‘had me at hello’ thing, but when he says, ‘You complete me.’ What kind of dude says something like that? But still . . . It gets me.”

Olivia wiped her eyes as the credits rolled on Jerry Maguire. “Why have I never seen this movie? I know why. Because I thought it was about football.”

“Not enough action.” Recovering from his brief emotional display, he draped his arm over the back of the couch. “If T-Bo asks, tell him we watched The Waterboy.”

The leg she’d been sitting on had gone to sleep, and she pulled it out from under her. “Isn’t that one of those Adam Sandler movies?”

He nodded. “It’s most players’ favorite.”

“Because Jerry Maguire is too girlie, right?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

“Then what would you say?”

“It’s too girlie.”

She laughed and rose from the couch, wriggling her numb leg to get the blood moving again. “I’m going to bed, and you don’t have to stay. Really. Thad’s being ridiculous.”

“S’okay. I’ll just hang out here for a while.”

“Don’t be such a wimp. You’re not his bitch.”

“Says you.”

“You shouldn’t let him talk to you like he does.” She sat back down. “I did a little research, and you have a higher quarterback rating after your second season than Dean Robillard did, and I know he’s supposed to have been this big shot Stars player. But Thad treats you like you’re a high school kid.”

Clint nodded. “In football, you have to earn respect.”

“And you haven’t done that?”

“Not the kind of respect I want from him.”

“But you’re a better player than he is. That’s what I don’t understand. You’re the starter. Not him.”

“It’s not that simple. I’m faster than he is, and my arm’s stronger. But T-Bo . . . He’s this wizard. Even with his vision thing, he can find a receiver where nobody else can, and the way he reads a defense . . . It’s like he’s got ESP. I have to learn how to do what he does.”

“Even if it means putting up with his abuse?”

“Me and T-Bo . . . We have an understanding. I love the guy.” He regarded her more sharply. “Now when it comes to T-Bo and women . . . you might want to be careful.”

“You don’t have to warn me. I’ve never been more clearheaded about anyone. No man is going to derail me.” She could see he didn’t believe her, and she tried to explain. “The three of us . . . You, Thad, me . . . We’re not like most other people. Our work comes first.”

He nodded and then grinned. “Do you want to mess with him?”

She tilted her head. “What do you have in mind?”

*  *  *

Where the hell was she?When he’d returned to the hotel and found the suite empty, he’d texted her and gotten no response. Then he’d texted the idiot he’d stupidly left to watch her.

Crickets.

He stalked to the lobby and talked to a bellman who’d seen Garrett drive off with The Diva in his Maserati GT convertible.

Thad told himself she’d be fine. The idiot wasn’t an idiot. He’d keep her safe. But . . .

She should have been sound asleep here in the suite with Garrett standing guard outside her bedroom door.

He paced the floor like a parent waiting for a kid who’d violated curfew.

Half an hour passed. An hour. Finally, he heard them laughing in the hallway. Fucking laughing!

The door opened. She was all rumpled. Her dress had a swirly skirt, her hair was down and tangled, and she was barefoot, carrying her heels. What mainly struck him about Garrett was how young the kid looked. The epitome of youthful manliness. No fine lines webbed his eyes, no brackets ridged his mouth, and he’d bet anything that Garrett’s knees didn’t creak when he got out of bed in the morning.

Thad kept his voice in control, but he still sounded like a reprimanding parent. “Where have you been?”

“At a club,” Olivia said brightly.

“A club?” He lost it, venting his anger on Garrett. “You took her to a club?”

The kid shrugged. “She’s a wild one.”

Thad turned on Olivia. “What about your voice? What kind of opera singer goes to a nightclub where the noise level is off the fucking decibel chart?”

Her smile was maddeningly serene. “I didn’t talk.”

“She’s a great dancer,” Garrett said quickly.

“You are, too.” She gave the kid all kinds of smiles.

Garrett glanced uneasily at Thad. “I guess it’s time I go.”

“Good guess,” Thad snarled.

One of Garrett’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, and then, out of nowhere, he called an audible. In the sneak play of the century, he kissed The Diva with pinpoint accuracy, right on the lips—a full-on, wide open, All Pro, forward pass . . .

. . . with an eligible receiver kissing him right back.

Thad leaped forward.

The Diva shot out her arm—toward him, not toward the quarterback sneak—keeping Thad at a distance while she also kept her lips glued to Garrett’s. Finally, she unglued and patted the asshole on the chest. “Good night, lover.”

Garrett smiled and headed into the hallway only to turn back and make a small, quick movement—so small and quick Thad doubted The Diva even noticed. The kid lifted his arms and pointed toward Thad, the gesture over almost as soon as it had begun.

Son of a bitch.Garrett had tossed Thad a game signal. The same signal referees used to indicate that the offense had just earned a first down.

The clueless Diva shut the door and smiled at Thad. “That was fun.”

He took a deep breath. Then another. He barely recognized himself. He was Thad Walker Bowman Owens! He’d never been jealous of another man in his life, yet here he was, fuming over a wet-behind-the-ears kid barely out of college. A kid who could run faster than Thad, throw farther . . .

The Diva smiled and gave him this soft, melty-eye, non-Diva look. “I adore you. I really do.”

And that was it. Before he could conjure up even a semblance of a response, she’d sauntered into her bedroom, that swirly black skirt spanking her thighs.

*  *  *

Olivia smiled around her electric toothbrush. She was crazy about Clint Garrett. He was the mischievous little brother she’d always wanted—although she definitely wouldn’t have kissed her little brother the same way she’d kissed Clint. But tonight, with Thad looking on, it had been too much fun to resist.

Fun. Something that hadn’t played a big part in her life until Thad Owens had appeared.

Being with Clint tonight—trying to follow his steps in the country line dances—had been a reprieve from the overwhelming sexual sizzle she experienced when she was with Thad. The sizzle, mixed in with foreboding—an ominous sense she was inching too close to the rim of an active volcano.

She rinsed her mouth and stowed her toothbrush in the charger. Even though Thad’s jealousy had only been a manifestation of his professional rivalry with Garrett, she’d enjoyed tweaking it.

As she slathered her face with her almond-scented cleanser, dabbed on her toner, then her retinol, she decided Thad Owens might be the most decent man she’d ever met. He’d assumed the role of her caretaker, whether she wanted him to or not. It was so odd. She’d been the caretaker in her relationship with Adam. The guardian of his career, the custodian of his feelings, the one who always accommodated. Having someone watch out for her was a new experience.

She hesitated, then turned the water on full force to mask the noise of her voice as she began singing her scales. Finally, she reached for a high C.

She didn’t make it.