When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Thad wasn’t an indecisive person. His job required instant decision-making, yet all through their client dinner in the hotel dining room, he wrestled with whether to tell Olivia about the photo. She knew someone had it in for her, and nothing good would come of showing it to her. The aria she’d sung this afternoon might not have been up to her standards, but it had given him goose bumps. One look at that photo could completely derail her. It would be like showing a horror movie to a kid who was already spooked.

But Olivia wasn’t a kid.

As Henri escorted the last of their guests from the hotel dining room, Thad and Liv headed for the elevator. He inserted his room card and pushed the button for the top floor. “Something came for you in the mail.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“I grabbed it before you could open it.”

She cocked her head, waiting. He hesitated. “It’s from whoever’s playing mind games with you.”

“What is it?”

“A photo. You don’t need to see it. There’s no new information, and nothing will be gained from looking at it.”

“Don’t you think that’s for me to decide?”

“That’s why I’m telling you.”

The bell dinged for their floor. She nodded slowly, considering.

The door opened. He blocked it with his body to keep it from closing but didn’t get out. “You sang again today, and you can’t let something this stupid derail you. That’s why I’m asking you to let it go.”

She touched his arm. “I understand you’re looking out for me, but I have to see it.”

He’d known she’d say this. They stepped into the empty hallway with its plush carpet and softly glowing wall sconces. “I’m going to tell you what it is first,” he said.

She stopped walking. “Okay.”

“It’s a photograph of a gun.” He kept his voice calm and level. “A Smith & Wesson pistol.”

She sucked in her breath.

“My guess is that’s the kind of gun Adam used.”

She gave a short, tense nod.

“I suspect whoever is behind this wants you to think it’s a photo of the real thing, but it’s been copied from a site on the Internet.”

“I want to see it.”

“Leave it alone, Liv. There’s no point.”

“I have to see it.” She set off toward their rooms, her stilettos sinking stubbornly into the carpet.

He came up next to her. “If you even think about freaking out, I’ll never let you forget it.”

“Fair enough.” She passed the door to her suite and stopped in front of his, waiting for him to unlock the door. He needed to prepare her as best he could. “One more thing . . . There’s a bullshit message written across it.” He hated what he was about to tell her. “It says, ‘You made me pull the trigger.’ Now go ahead. Do your big freak-out just like whoever’s behind this wants you to do.”

Maybe he’d said the right thing because he liked the way she set her jaw. “Open that door.”

His suite was identical to hers, and she saw the opened envelope lying on the table. She marched toward it and pulled out the photo. He prepared himself for the worst, but instead of looking stricken, she looked mad as hell.

*  *  *

Thad hated sitting in the passenger seat with Olivia driving, but she’d insisted, and he’d only look like a sexist troll if he’d pressed her.

“You didn’t have to come with me,” she said, as they sped along I-78 toward Plainfield, New Jersey. “As a matter of fact, the way you keep twitching around and scowling makes me wish you hadn’t.”

“I like to drive, that’s all.”

“So do I. And I’m a better driver than you are.”

“You’re deluded.”

“I haven’t forgotten our Breckenridge trip. You speed.”

“Says the lady going six miles over the limit.”

“Six is reasonable. Twelve isn’t.”

She had a point.

Adam’s hometown of Plainfield, New Jersey, lay about an hour west of the city. It was late afternoon, the day after Thad had shown her the photo. Tomorrow night, they’d be flying to Vegas, and they couldn’t get there fast enough, although it bothered him that she hadn’t once brought up their agreement since they’d made it.

“You could at least have rented a decent car.” He sounded sulky.

“Excuse me, Mr. Big Shot, but I don’t need to rent a Rolls. I’m perfectly fine with a Mazda.”

“Because you’re not six foot three,” he retorted.

“I’m also not a whiny baby.”

If he kept complaining, he’d only prove her point. Until today, he hadn’t thought twice about riding with a woman driving, so sexism wasn’t his problem. What specifically bothered him was being Olivia’s passenger.

He’d never regarded himself as controlling. He respected women. Appreciated them. Hell, he worked for Phoebe Calebow. But when he was with Olivia Shore, all of a sudden, he wanted to call the shots, something she clearly wouldn’t allow to happen.

He tapped his foot against the floor mat. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish on this trip.”

“I don’t, either. But I’m tired of feeling like a victim, and I need to do something.”

“What exactly?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

Meaning she had no clue. As she pulled onto the freeway exit ramp, he stretched out his legs as far as the Mazda would allow. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s find a nice Holiday Inn and do what we’ve been wanting to do ever since we met.”

She stared straight ahead, but he saw her blink. “This isn’t Las Vegas.”

“Almost. We’re leaving tomorrow night, remember? And neither of us signed anything. We can change our minds any time we want.”

The troubled crease that formed between her brows made him regret bringing it up. “As soon as we cross that line,” she said, “everything will change between us.”

“It’ll change anyway,” he pointed out, trying to regain lost ground. “You’re the one who set the ground rules. Once the gala is over, we finish our commitment to Marchand, and we never see each other again, remember?”

She turned onto a four-lane road with modest houses set on large, wooded lots and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “There are so many people we can have sex with, but how many of them can we rely on? Can we trust? How many understand each other the way we do?”

It sounded as if Olivia Shore was trying to move him into the friend zone, something he wouldn’t let happen. “Our agreement stands,” he declared, as if he were the only one who had a say. “Our last night in Las Vegas. You. Me. A bed. And a long night of sin.”

*  *  *

A long night of sin . . . She had a good imagination, and all the erotic images that had been plaguing her for weeks played in her head like a film on fast-forward. How could she help that with Thad sitting right next to her? As the Plainfield, New Jersey, sign slipped into view, she imagined what it would be like to be in bed with him. Explore his body. Hold him naked against her. Feel him inside her.

“Watch it!” he exclaimed.

She slammed on the brakes. After all her bragging about being a better driver, she’d nearly rear-ended a Chevy Malibu.

He seemed to believe that continuing their relationship after the tour ended was a simple matter. It probably was to him, but she knew better. Sex changed everything. As unlikely as it would have seemed three weeks ago, The Diva and the quarterback were weirdly compatible. He was a special man—his humor, his loyalty, his decency—and he was as driven as she. He didn’t see the complication of extending their relationship, but he wouldn’t be the one handing over pieces of himself—little pieces at first, and then bigger ones, until she was once again lost.

She checked the GPS. They were nearly there. As she passed a plumbing truck doddering along in the right lane, she promised herself she’d enjoy every moment of their short, sex-fueled affair, and then she’d let him go. Since they’d never really been together, it wouldn’t even be an official breakup, and it would be easy to get through. She could only have one focus. Getting her voice back. Her goal from the beginning of her career was set in stone. To be the best, the stuff of legends, one of the immortals. She wouldn’t let anything derail her.

*  *  *

The bakery occupied the end of a strip mall that also included a tile store and a dog groomer. She pulled into a spot close enough to see the window, but not directly in front. Thad checked out the vintage sign hanging from a bracket over the front door. “My Lady’s Bakery?”

“Adam’s grandfather named it. He thought it sounded genteel.” A mess of plastic pennants were draped at the top of the window, and the artificial wedding cake at the center of the display looked particularly unappetizing, even from a distance. “It didn’t used to be this bad,” she said. “It was never exactly cutting-edge, but . . .”

“You’re not going to take responsibility for their bad window display, are you?”

“It seems symbolic. As if his sisters have given up now that Adam’s gone.” She saw the concern written on his too-handsome face. “I have to do this alone.” His jaw set in that stubborn line she was coming to know so well. She set her hand on his thigh. “I’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t happy, but he didn’t argue.

She approached the bakery’s door. The plaster roses on the wedding cake had lost some petals and the groom was missing a hand.

She’d learned a lot about Adam’s family during the time they were together. Neither of his older sisters had married or even dated much. They, along with their mother, were too busy focusing on the unexpected baby brother who’d arrived ten years after Brenda was born and nine years after her sister Colleen.

Their father was largely absent during Adam’s early years. He’d arrive at the bakery at four in the morning, work all day, and fall asleep after dinner, a schedule that resulted in a fatal heart attack when Adam was five. His mother and sisters took over the bakery, but Adam, with his magical voice, was always exempt from duties. Boys needed their sleep, so he was never required to get up early to tend a hot oven. His piano and voice lessons were more important than scrubbing heavy baking sheets or waiting on customers behind the counter. He was their crown prince, and they gave him everything they denied themselves.

Instead of resenting him, his teenage sisters set aside every dollar they could spare to help send him to Eastman, one of the best music colleges in the country. Even after their mother’s death, they still continued to dote on him. He was their life purpose. The only way their lives could have meaning was if he became successful, and they expected Olivia to make sacrifices just as they had. Now they wanted her to pay for failing him.

She took a deep breath and turned the knob.

The late afternoon’s unsold baked goods sat on paper doilies in the glass display case: a few black-and-white cookies, muffins, some cupcakes decorated to look like Cookie Monster. Everything palatable; nothing imaginative.

Both sisters were working behind the counter. Brenda glanced up as Olivia came in, and her welcoming shopkeeper’s expression vanished. Colleen was taking a cake from the case. As she spotted Olivia, she shoved it back inside so hard it slipped off its doily. “What do you want?”

What, indeed?Now that Olivia was here, she couldn’t think of anything to say.

They resembled Adam in different ways. His more sculptured features had become blurred in Brenda—as if someone had run an eraser over her face, leaving her with lost cheekbones, a short, unfinished nose, and small eyes turned down at the corners. Colleen had Adam’s dark brown eyes, but everything else was more angular: sharply pointed chin and nose, inclined eyebrows, rigid mouth. They both seemed to have used the same drugstore hair dye, a shade of red that stripped their short hair of any sheen.

Olivia stuffed her hands in the pockets of her trench coat. Her fingers brushed a crumpled tissue and the edge of her cell phone. “Adam used to talk about how hard both of you worked to keep him in voice lessons,” she said. “He felt guilty about it.”

Brenda’s insignificant chin came up. “We didn’t regret a moment of it.”

A pot banged in the back of the bakery. Colleen splayed her hands against her apron. “He was always good to us. Always.”

Olivia knew Adam frequently sent them money, although if he was short of cash, the money had come from Olivia. When he’d died, Olivia had made a private arrangement with the funeral home to take care of the expenses. The sisters believed Adam’s last opera company had paid for it.

She stepped closer to the counter and pointed stupidly toward the bakery case. “I’ll take whatever you have left.” She had no money on her. She’d left her purse in the car.

“We’re not selling to you,” Colleen said.

Olivia’s chest tightened. Even if she’d been standing on one foot with Thad holding her other foot, she wouldn’t have been able to get a note out. “I couldn’t make Adam happy,” she finally said.

“You broke his heart!” Brenda cried.

“I didn’t mean to.” Only in retrospect did Olivia see that Adam was suffering from depression. She remembered how difficult it had become for him to memorize a new libretto. The way his periods of insomnia had alternated with nights he’d sleep for twelve or thirteen hours. If only she’d gotten him to a doctor.

Colleen whipped around from behind the counter, her sharp features vicious. “You always had to come first. It was always Olivia this, Olivia that. It was never about him.”

“That’s not true. I did everything I could for him.”

“All you did was rub your success in his face,” Brenda retorted.

That wasn’t true, either. Olivia had made herself smaller for him, giving up her own practice time, downplaying her achievements, but there was no point in arguing with them. No point to this visit. “I’ve been getting some ugly letters,” she said. “I want them to stop.”

“What kind of letters?” The raw hatred in Colleen’s eyes, so like Adam’s, made Olivia feel sick.

Brenda seemed almost smug. “Whatever’s happening, you’ve brought it on yourself.”

This was hopeless. Olivia understood their pain and grief, but that didn’t give them the right to torment her. “I don’t want to go to the police,” she said as calmly as she could, “but if this keeps on, I’ll be forced to.”

Colleen crossed her arms over her chest. “You do whatever you have to.”

“I will.”

*  *  *

The visit had been a waste of time. She found Thad pacing in front of the tile store, hands shoved in the pockets of his three-thousand-dollar—she’d checked—Tom Ford leather jacket. He stopped walking. “That didn’t take long. How did it go?”

“Great. They fell on their knees begging me to forgive them.”

“I like it better when I’m the sarcastic one.” He reached out as if he intended to hug her then let his arm fall back to his side. “Let’s get going. I’m driving.”

This time she didn’t fight him.

*  *  *

“Sing for me,” he said, as they passed the sign for Scotch Plains on their way back to Midtown.

“I can’t sing now.”

“No better time. You’re mad, but it won’t take long before your overworked guilt engine kicks in, and you’ll be right back where you were. Let me hear you sing before that happens.”

“I know you want to help, but this isn’t as simple to get over as an interception or an incomplete pass.”

“Just as I suspected. You know more about football than you pretend. And there’s nothing simple about an interception. Now stop stalling and sing.”

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.

She imagined herself toying with the edge of that enticing V and trailing her fingers along her exposed skin. Definitely worth sacrificing the lacy bra, she decided.

She set aside her customary statement jewelry for understatement—a simple pair of earrings and an extra-long delicate silver chain dangling a tiny silver star charm. Rachel had bought that for her when they were both flat broke. As Olivia fastened it around her neck, the little star nestled between her breasts, right where she imagined the Stars quarterback would put his lips.

She shivered. First, they had to endure a long, boring dinner.

Las Vegas venues were brutally air-conditioned, and she dug out a vintage flamenco shawl that had been a gift from a Carmen fan. Bringing the ghost of Sevilla’s sultry Romani cigar maker along for the evening felt like the perfect good-luck charm.

A knock sounded on their connecting door. She draped the shawl over her shoulders and picked up her small evening purse.

At first, he didn’t say a thing. He simply stood there taking her in. Then he breathed a soft, flattering obscenity.

She tilted her head so her hair fell over one shoulder and breathed just deeply enough to swell the exposed inner slopes of her breasts.

He groaned. “You’re diabolical.”

Exactly what she wanted to hear.

*  *  *

The front desk called up to tell them their limo had arrived. It was early, but she and Thad were both ready, and they headed down to the lobby. As they settled into the car’s back seat, they were so focused on each other she barely heard the driver tell them that Henri had already left and would meet them at the restaurant.

“Just what we don’t need.” Olivia slipped the flamenco shawl higher around her shoulders. “More time alone together.”

Thad gazed at her legs. “The next three hours can’t go by fast enough.”

Olivia slid onto the bench seat that ran the length of the limo, putting a little distance between them. He gave her a lazy smile. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you tonight.”

She swallowed hard, let the shawl slip down over one shoulder, and relied on her acting skills for false bravado. “You worry about yourself, cowboy, because I’m in the mood for a long, hard ride.”

“That’s it! There’s only so much a man can take.” He grabbed for his phone and plunged in a set of earbuds. “You entertain yourself with some Candy Crush and ignore me. Dizzy Gillespie and I have a date.”

She smiled as he closed his eyes. This was going to be a night to remember.

But as she gazed at the limo’s blue and purple ceiling lights, her amusement faded. She’d dictated the terms. They would have tonight along with three additional days in Chicago before she went into rehearsals. In four more days, it would be over between them. There’d be no more hotel suites with connecting doors, no more late-night chats and early-morning breakfasts. Their relationship would end.

The thought of never seeing him again was a knife through her heart. She closed her eyes. Tried to shut herself off from the truth that had been nagging at her for days like a bad toothache.

She’d fallen in love with him.

Stupid! Once again, she’d fallen for the wrong man, but how could she not? He was exciting, perceptive, and rock-bottom decent. His intellect upended every stereotype about professional athletes. Whenever she saw him, her senses went on high alert, and denying the depth of her feelings for him wouldn’t change them. Besides, when it came to Thad Owens—denial was dangerous.

Thad was a powerful, ambitious man with a big life. His career had made him a second stringer, existing on the edge of Clint Garrett’s spotlight, but unlike Dennis Cullen, Thad would never be happy taking a back seat in his private life, and she could never be happy with a man unable to do exactly that. A man who’d be willing to follow her from Johannesburg to Sydney and on to Hong Kong. Who’d put up with her rehearsal schedule, her crazy hours.

Opera was her life’s blood. Its drama and grandeur fueled her. The euphoria of hitting impossible notes, of digging so deeply inside herself that she became the character. The exhilaration of having an entire audience stop breathing as they waited to hear what she’d do next. That was where her heart and soul lived, and she couldn’t give that up, not even for love.

His eyes were still closed, absorbed in Dizzy’s riffs. Thad represented everything she couldn’t have without giving up on herself. Without abandoning her destiny.

She had to use these next few days to build memories she could tuck away for the rest of her life. Memories she could unearth when she was alone in some distant hotel room or when she gave a bad performance or a critic was brutal. She would savor the memories and know she’d made the right choice.

Thad shifted on the back seat and punched a button on the limo’s overhead control panel. “Driver?”

She’d been so engrossed in her thoughts that she’d lost track of time. Now, as she looked out through the darkened limousine windows, she could only see desert. They’d left the lights of Las Vegas behind.