When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

It wasn’t like in the movies. Thad didn’t crush her against the wall the instant the hotel door banged shut. They didn’t rip off each other’s clothes, mouths welded, or pull at each other’s hair, or drag each other to the floor, so overcome with lust they couldn’t make it to the bed. It wasn’t like that at all.

First . . .

They didn’t have condoms. Which wasn’t really a problem. They’d had a talk about this earlier. Neither of them had any STDs, and she was on the pill. The real issues were . . .

They’d let this go on too long, built it up too much, put too much pressure on themselves.

She said she had to pee, locked herself in the bathroom, and breathed the long, deep inhalations and slow exhalations of an opera singer with magnificent breath control . . . except when she was singing.

He knocked on the door. “I’m coming in.”

“No! I’m throwing up.”

“You are not,” he said from the other side.

“I think I have a stomach virus.”

“I think you have a chickenshit virus.”

“That, too.”

“I’ll wait.”

She turned on the faucet and washed her hands. She was used to seeing herself in wigs and tiaras. She was not used to seeing herself in a Stars ball cap, but she liked the way it looked on her head. Sporty. Carefree. Everything she wasn’t. “Can I have this hat?”

“No.” From the next room.

“You must have dozens of them. And you won’t let me have one?”

“I’m not feeling generous right now.”

“I understand.”

She reluctantly took off her fleece jacket and slipped out of her sneakers, but kept the cap on. “I’m getting undressed.”

“You do that.” He didn’t sound happy about it.

She pictured the beautiful underwear tucked away in her suitcase and the plain pair of sporty briefs she’d pulled on instead, along with an ugly, flesh-colored sports bra. What had she been thinking? That she’d pop into a gym for a quick pickup game?

Since she’d barely had three hours of sleep last night, she was lucky to be wearing underwear at all.

“Confess,” he said from the other side of the door. “You’re a virgin, right? That’s your deep, dark secret and why you’re running scared.”

“I’m not a virgin, and I’m not running scared. I’m just not good at transitions, and you know this is going to ruin everything. Next to Rachel, you’re sort of my best friend.”

“Exactly what a sex-starved man does not want to hear.”

“You’re right. I’m being stupid.” She slipped off her Cavatina3 and set it on the bathroom counter, followed by her poison ring, her Egyptian cuff, and, finally, her Stars ball cap.

She shook her hair out of its ponytail and took another deep breath. She was going to do this. She was going to forget that she’d fallen in love with him and simply enjoy it. This was about her body, not about her heart. She turned the knob.

He was sitting on the floor outside the door, his back against the wall, looking bored. “Sorry to tell you this,” he said, “but I’ve lost interest.”

“Regrettable.” She sat cross-legged on the floor next to him.

He bent one knee and propped his elbow on top. “Here are all the reasons you and I can never have a serious long-term relationship.”

“Keep talking dirty to me.”

“You’re completely dedicated to your career.”

“True.”

“In the world of opera, the sun pretty much rises and sets on you.”

“A slight exaggeration, but go on.”

“You’re a first stringer. A superstar.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’m a man who’s tired of playing backup.”

“Understandable.”

“I’m not designed to hold your purse while you sign autographs.”

“Hard to envision.”

“Or hand you a water bottle when you come offstage.”

“Environmentally unsound, those plastic water bottles, but I get your point.”

“In conclusion . . .”

“There’s a conclusion?”

“In conclusion, you’re a first stringer, Liv. And I could never be happy running around after you playing your backup.”

“So, you’re saying . . . ?”

“It’s not possible for me to have a serious relationship with you.”

She cocked her head. “You agree? We’re doomed?”

“Completely.”

“Fantastic!” She swung herself over him, braced her knees on each side of his hips, and kissed him all over. Long, deep kisses. Kisses that had nothing to do with love, only with need. The kiss changed shape, grew hungrier. He plowed his hands under her sweater and fumbled for the clasp of her bra.

Which didn’t exist. Because . . . sports bra.

He tugged at it.

She hopped off him. “Just for you.” She stretched out her arms and pulled him up. With her hands against his chest, she drew him to the bed, pushed him down on it, and tossed aside his shoes. Stepping back, she gave him her most seductive Delilah smile and tugged her sweater over her head. It was time to play. Not to think. Not to let her feelings surface. Only to enjoy.

She might be self-conscious about her utilitarian underwear, but it didn’t seem to bother him—this gorgeous man with his kryptonite green eyes and hell-raising body.

He leaned against the bed’s many pillows to watch her. She took forever unzipping her slacks and sliding them past her hips. She bent over slowly, offering up a prime view of her cleavage, as she stepped out of them.

Utilitarian bra. Serviceable underpants. She looped her hands behind her head, tunneled her fingers through her hair, and lifted it, letting it slither over her hands and wrists, all the time smoldering him with her eyes.

“You . . . are . . . killing . . . me,” he said in a rough rasp.

Her voice was liquid smoke. “Enjoy your death.”

Playing the seductress. This was what she did onstage. Carmen. Delilah. Crazy, sexy Lady Macbeth. Her body was performing as it had been trained to perform, but performing only for him—this strongman she had under her power just as Delilah had bewitched Samson.

She moved her hips, toyed with her hair, and contemplated how to most gracefully, most seductively, get a sports bra over her head without breaking the mood.

A dilemma for any woman, but she was not any woman.

She turned away from him and surreptitiously slipped the bottom band above her breasts so it wouldn’t catch. She gracefully crossed her arms. A twist, a tug with her thumbs, a determined pull without any visible sign of effort . . . Just like that, she had the ugly thing over her head. She dangled it from her fingertips and dropped it to the floor.

She let him take in the expanse of her back, the long ridge of her spine. She tucked her thumbs in the rear band of her briefs. Toyed there for a bit, teasing him as if she were about to take them off, only to remove her thumbs and leave them in place.

A soft groan came from the bed. Slowly, still in her briefs, she turned to face him, her breasts bare to his gaze. His eyes were half lidded, lips parted, the portrait of a fully clad, fully aroused man.

She smiled. You, my love, might be the king of the gridiron, but I, I am La Belle Tornade.

Once again, she reached for her hair, lengthening her torso, emphasizing her breasts. Reveling in her power. Until he said the most extraordinary thing.

“Sing for me. ‘Habanera.’”

For an instant she thought this was one of his desensitizing exercises, except horrifically ill timed. But those half-lidded eyes, his husky voice, told her otherwise. This was the seduction he wanted, a seduction no woman from his past, from his future, could offer. Only her.

And so she sang, leashing the power of her voice but making each note a smoky, pitch-perfect seduction. The French lyrics, the Spanish temptress. She warned him of her impermanence.

“L’amourest un oiseaurebelle . . .”Love is a rebellious bird no one can tame . . .

She spread her legs. Breasts bare. Moved her arms in subtle, liquid arcs. I can’t be tamed. I am my own woman.

Her hair cascaded over her wrists. She arched her back, her waist supple, voice molten. I love your perfect face. I adore your beautiful body. But I’m fickle. True only to myself.

She bathed him with her silken glissando. She was in control. Never again would she lose herself for a man. Make herself smaller. She was a wild, untamed bird taking what she wanted. If I love you, be afraid, because I will never be any man’s slave.Instead, I will fly away.

As the last note faded, he came up on his knees, and with a groan, pulled her onto the bed. “That . . . ,” he whispered, “was perfect.”

Her briefs quickly disappeared. Together, they struggled with his clothes until he was as naked as she, and she could take in the powerful body that had made his career. Strong and sculpted, lean and aerodynamic. She touched. Enjoyed. Toyed. She would have frolicked in his playground forever if he hadn’t taken her down, deliciously trapping her under his weight.

Now her hair was spilling over his big hands. His thumbs nested on her temples as they kissed again. A fierce, carnal kiss that was a graphic overture of what was to come.

Her thighs were open. His mouth trailed down her body, finding every pleasure point—nipples, waist, belly—going lower, lingering there but never quite long enough. She moaned, begging him.

He pinned her wrists to the bed on each side of her head, capturing the wild bird as he entered her. She laughed at the impossibility of it. Sank her teeth into his shoulder. He nipped at her ear. She wrapped her calves around his, her laughter turning into a throaty moan.

He drew back and smiled, the possessive, wicked-eyed smile of a man who’d buried himself thick and heavy inside her. The smile of a conqueror. She dug her nails into his back in retaliation. He moaned and thrust deeper. This was sex as grand opera—outrageously over the top, a cast of thousands playing with her body.

He crushed his mouth to hers and they moved together. Long, hard invasions and exquisite ripostes. Missionary sex blessed by the devil. Their bodies glistened with sweat. Their breathing rasped hot and jagged. They were endurance athletes. He knew how to wait for the perfect receiver. She knew how to hold a note until it pierced the sky. Neither would give up.

Until . . .

Even the finest of athletes reached a breaking point. He drove his hips, coming down hard. She met his aggression with her own.

They broke.

*  *  *

She fought against the tsunami of unwelcome emotion threatening to drown her. This was play. Only play. Delicious, sexy play that had nothing to do with the overwhelming rush of love she felt for this impossible man. “That was too perfect.” She curled into his shoulder. “From now on, whatever happens is going to be one big disappointment.”

He kissed the top of her head. “We set the bar high.”

“I lasted longer,” she said mischievously.

“You did not.”

“Did, too.”

His hand curved around her hip. “You are so asking for it.”

“Please.”

“Give me a couple of minutes.”

“That long?”

He gave her butt a light slap. “For weeks, you’ve been holding me off, and now you want it all at once?”

“I’m a prima donna. We’re allowed to be unreasonable.”

“You’re telling me.” He came up on his elbow and toyed with a lock of her hair, mayhem lurking in his eyes. “I don’t want to be insulting—you being a prima donna and all—but I think you need a little more practice.”

“Really?”

“I’m sure of it.” He trailed his fingers from her collarbone between her breasts to her stomach and lower. She gazed along the length of his body and fell back on the bed. He grinned, covered her, and they were kissing all over again.

She made him lie still while she explored, taking in everything she’d been yearning to see. Testing what pleased him. What pleased her. Marveling that a man who’d devoted his life to such a violent sport could have such a perfect body.

Then it was his turn. At first, she gave his curiosity free rein, but enough was enough. She settled on top and used him in the most exquisite way until they were bound together in a tumultuous, heart-stopping free-for-all. Not love. Only play.

Afterward, they napped.

He bent her over the arm of the easy chair.

They dawdled in the shower.

Held each other.

“Shit!” He shot up in bed.

She followed the direction of his gaze to the bedside clock. “Merde!”

It was nearly seven thirty. Their first Chicago client dinner began in half an hour. They scrambled for their clothes. She didn’t bother with her bra. He stuffed his bare feet into his sneakers and shoved his socks in his jacket pockets. They dashed from the hotel and out into the cold Illinois night.

*  *  *

Thad beat her to the dinner, but by less than ten minutes, and considering she’d had hair to untangle and makeup to apply, he was impressed with how quickly she’d pulled herself together. She’d arranged her hair in some kind of low, twisty bun that nested at the nape of her neck, and put on one of those pencil dresses she wore better than anyone. He hoped he was the only one who could see the faint red marks she’d tried to hide. By tomorrow, the marks she’d left on him would show up, but they’d be under his clothes. He’d have to be more careful with her next time.

And there definitely would be a next time.

It was the best sex of his life, like being in bed with a dozen different women. Her quicksilver changes of mood, of character—virgin to vixen—her sensuous movements and beautiful body, the laughter in her dark eyes, the danger. She’d sung for him just as he’d fantasized. “Habanera.” He had the uneasy feeling that she’d spoiled him for other women. Which was unfair. How could any woman compete with a trained actress of Olivia’s stature? But Olivia hadn’t seemed to be performing. Instead, he had the distinct feeling she’d shown him exactly who she was.

“Who’s your favorite player, Thad? Other than yourself?”

It took supreme effort to bring his attention back to the effusive, overly cologned male owner of a chain of Illinois jewelry stores sitting next to him and chomping on filet mignon.

Thad had several prepared answers to this question, but since this was Chicago, only one would do. “Gotta be Walter Payton.” Depending on where he was, he sometimes went with Jerry Rice or Reggie White. Maybe Dick Butkus. He tended to stay away from quarterbacks. How would he compare the great Stars QBs—Bonner, Tucker, Robillard, and Coop—against guys like Montana, Brady, Young, and Manning? Maybe—one day—Clint Garrett. Those kinds of comparisons messed with his head.

His dinner companion nodded approvingly. “Walter ‘Sweetness’ Payton. Greatest running back of all time.”

Jim Brown might have argued with that, but Thad nodded.

At the other end of the table, Liv was enduring her own interrogation from the bearded husband of a department-store buyer. “So how’s come you never went on American Idol?”

He could sense her trying hard not to grit her teeth. “American Idol isn’t really an opera competition.”

His own dinner companion had launched into a monologue about Peyton Manning, and Thad nodded without paying attention. His conscience was giving him trouble.

“You and I can neverhave a serious, long-term relationship.” That’s what he’d told Liv, and he remembered how happy it had made her. But he and Liv had different ideas about what “long-term” meant. In his mind, they’d sail on the lake this summer and maybe even head to the Caribbean after the football season was over when she had a break between her gigs.

In her mind, she was dumping him in two days.

After what had transpired between them, that was unacceptable.

Unthinkable.

*  *  *

There they were . . . plastered all over the Internet. An enlarged photo of Liv and him.

The Diva and the Quarterback Lock Lips on Chicago’s Mag Mile

Only the Chicago Tribune, his hometown newspaper, put his name first.

Popular Stars backup quarterback Thad Owens is in a surprise relationship with opera megastar Olivia Shore, who’ll soon be performing in Aida at the Chicago Municipal Opera. . . .

He set his laptop aside in the rumpled bedsheets. It was the morning of their third day. In her mind, their last day. Olivia jammed her hands in the pockets of the hotel’s white terry-cloth robe, her hair pulled on top of her head with a scrunchie, looking not at all like the sex kitten he’d been enjoying less than a half hour ago. “How can they keep doing this?”

He crooked his elbow behind his head. “We’re an item right now, Liv.” He knew how skittish she was, and he was careful to emphasize “right now.”

She planted one hand on her hip and renewed her protest. “Everybody doesn’t need to know about it.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You have to admit that a hookup between the Queen of High Culture and a lowbrow jock like myself is something people might find interesting.”

She leveled him with her regal glare. “You are not, in any way, a lowbrow jock. And I hate the term ‘hookup.’ It makes me feel like a salmon.” She reached for a towel. “I’m taking a shower. Alone this time because we have to meet Henri soon, and if you get in with me, you know what’ll happen.”

He gave her a lazy smile. “Tell me.”

She momentarily forgot how pissed she was about the photo and gave him her own sexy smile in return, a smile that made him hard all over again. “You’re incorrigible.” She disappeared into the bathroom.

He sank back into the pillows. He, Thaddeus Walker Bowman Owens, had one of the greatest voices in opera singing just for him. Naked. All he had to do was ask. True, she couldn’t completely unleash that powerful voice in their hotel suite without security showing up. Also true, she wasn’t happy with the sound she was producing. But at least she was singing—Whitney Houston when they were in the shower together, Nina Simone after breakfast, and this morning in bed, rising up on her knees gloriously naked, she consecrated him with Mozart.

He begrudged every minute they had to spend on this, their last official day of the tour, doing interviews and meet-and-greets. He wanted it to be just the two of them.

He’d never been with a woman who was so generous, so free, so unexpected. They tangled, they experimented, they laughed. They played the best kind of mind games with each other, and neither of them could possibly be ready to throw that away for some ridiculous deadline that only one of them felt was necessary. Liv was stubborn, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew as well as he they had something special. Now all he had to do was get her to admit it. That photo couldn’t have come at a worse time.

*  *  *

For all her professional outrage, Olivia wasn’t entirely unhappy with that photograph. Her ego had taken a battering these last few months, and being publicly linked with a man like Thad Owens made her feel better, which was depressing because it signaled that she might be measuring her self-worth in terms of a man, which was absolutely not true, but it was still satisfying to know that people might now see her in a different light—not as an elitist opera singer, but as a woman who could attract a man like Thad Owens, which—

She slapped her hands over her ears. Everything about Thad had sent her into a tailspin even before they’d had sex. And now that they’d had sex, it was a thousand times worse. Maybe this wasn’t love. Maybe it was simply a crush. Could a woman her age have a crush? Maybe she could convince herself that’s exactly what it was because she couldn’t have found a worse man to have fallen in love with. Thad Owens, the anti-Dennis.

She reminded herself to stay focused on the present—today—not on the future, because wiping him out of her life would be horrible, and if she thought too hard about it, she’d ruin the little time they had left together.

*  *  *

Henri and Paisley met them in the suite for their last day before the tour ended. Instead of being upset by the photo, Henri was pleased. “Very romantic, yes? Windy City Live has already called. They want you both on tomorrow morning’s program. I hope you don’t mind adding it to your schedule.” His cell rang, and his smile became a frown. “Excuse me.” He stepped outside into the hallway.

Olivia and Thad were still at the table finishing their coffee. She scrunched her nose at him. “What do you bet that’s Mariel calling to ream Henri out for the way we’re dragging the Marchand name through the mud.”

Paisley, who’d been working on her eye makeup in the hotel suite’s mirror, shoved her mascara wand back in her bag. “Mariel doesn’t understand anything about publicity. She’s, like, all caught up in the 1950s or something. She’s not even on LinkedIn. At least Henri is starting to get it.” She reached back into her bag—maybe for a lipstick, maybe for her phone—but her hand stalled. “I was thinking . . .” She withdrew her hand. “Maybe you guys could, like, recommend me as a PA to some of your celebrity friends? Or as a publicist. Not you, Olivia, no offense—unless you know some pop stars or, like, even B-listers who want a personal assistant?”

“Gosh, I can’t think of anyone,” Olivia said innocently. “But I bet Thad has contacts.”

He stared into his coffee cup, taking the coward’s way out. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Paisley twisted the strap of her bag between her fingers and stared at them both. “Neither of you wants to help me, do you? You don’t respect me.”

“It’s not about respect,” Thad said tactfully.

“You don’t think I do a good job,” Paisley muttered.

Olivia regarded her with some sympathy. Paisley had been raised in privilege, and it was as much her parents’ fault she was so clueless as her own. “Paisley,” she said as kindly as she could, “you haven’t gone out of your way to be helpful on this tour.”

Paisley abandoned her purse. “That’s only because of how can I get excited about passing out sandwiches to reporters and, like, making sure your suitcases get to the right room?”

A task Paisley hadn’t exactly performed well.

Thad stepped in. “I understand promoting watches isn’t what you want to do, but once you take a job, you give it your best. That includes the parts you don’t like. And every job has those. You need to do them as diligently as you do everything else.”

Olivia had a strong suspicion he might be talking about himself and the work he was doing with Clint Garrett.

Paisley looked ready to cry. “That’s so not fair! I work hard! And I’ve gotten you twice as much publicity as you’d have gotten if you’d left it up to Henri or Mariel! I—” She stopped abruptly. Grabbing her bag, she headed for the door.

Olivia shot up from the table and blocked her. “Maybe you’d better explain that.”

“Forget it.” Paisley tossed her hair, looking as defiant as a teen who’d been caught out after curfew.

It all fell into place. Olivia looked at Thad and could see he was thinking exactly the same thing. “You took those photos,” she said. “You’re the one who’s been feeding them to the gossip sites.”