When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Women had thrown themselves at him before, but he wasn’t used to getting an elbow to his gut when they did it. She’d caught him unaware, and he gave a woof of pain. At the same time, he automatically reached out to defend himself.

That made it worse.

All he’d wanted was a little fresh air, and now here he was, in a fight to the death with a black velvet–clad termagant.

He grabbed for her arms. “Stop it! Calm down!”

At his age, he should have known better than to ever tell a woman to calm down, and she kicked him hard in the shins. Unfortunately for her, she was barefoot, and she gave her own yelp of pain.

“What the hell’s wrong with you!” He trapped her arms and pulled her hard against him. She was tall and strong, but he was stronger. She cried out and went after him again.

He wanted to kill her, but he also didn’t want to hurt her. He kicked her legs out from under her.

He had just enough of the gentleman left to take the brunt of the impact as they dropped to the hard tile floor. He hit his damned elbow along with his hip but managed to pin her down by rolling on top of her and grabbing her wrists.

The perfectly composed performer had vanished. She was furious. “You bastard!” She spit out the words. “You evil bastard!”

When it came to name-calling, she didn’t offer much variety, but damn, she was strong. He could barely keep her contained as she fought against his grip on her wrists.

“Stop it right now, or I’m going to . . . I’m going to smack you!” He would never hit a woman in a million years, but she was out of control, and maybe the threat would calm her down.

It didn’t. Jaw set, teeth bared, she threw it all right back at him. “Go ahead, you bastard! You just try it!”

For all their drama, opera singers didn’t seem to have much creativity about how to cuss someone out. He tried a different approach, loosening his grip on her ever so slightly, but not letting her go. “Take a breath. Just breathe.”

“Vermin!”

At least she was expanding her vocabulary. Her hair had come loose and half her breast popped out of her gown, right down to the top of her nipple. He drew his eyes away. “You’ve had too much to drink, lady, and you need to take some deep breaths.”

She stopped struggling, but he wasn’t taking chances. He eased some of his weight off her. “That’s it. Keep breathing. You’re fine.” Crazy as a loon, but fine.

“Let me up!”

“Give me your word that you won’t take another swing at me.”

“You deserve it!”

“A debate for another day.” She didn’t look quite so insane, so he took a risk and rolled off her carefully, alert for a knee to his groin. “Don’t throw up on me, okay?”

She struggled to her feet, hair hanging in a crazy tangle, her voice throaty with dramatic menace. “Don’t you ever speak to me again!”

“You’ve got it.”

She scrambled awkwardly across the terrace and through the single door that led into her bedroom. The lock clicked hard behind her.

*  *  *

Olivia yanked the draperies shut over the door, weirdly proud of herself. Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! She’d never forget the way her friend Alyssa had looked the night Thad Owens had attacked her. Now, the big shot football player had gotten some of his own back.

She steadied herself on the edge of the bureau and managed to get her gown off. She, Olivia Shore, had a new career as a crusader for women. Tonight, she’d dispensed justice, a small blow for rightness in the face of all the disarray around her.

Out of nowhere, her stomach rebelled. She rushed to the bathroom, crouched over the bowl, and lost her dinner, along with the bottle of wine she’d unwisely consumed.

Afterward, she hung out on the tiled floor. Her shoulder stung where she’d scraped it. She set a warm washcloth against it, no longer feeling quite so proud of herself. She was drunk, and she’d acted crazy, and she could not do this. Not when she had so many other problems. And especially not when she had a contract she couldn’t break and four more weeks on the road with that piece of vermin.

She crawled into the bedroom, stripped off her underwear, and eventually located her pajamas. Her nighttime routine was highly disciplined. No matter how late or how tired she was, she performed it without fail. Humidifiers running. Makeup remover followed by a foam cleanser, toner, moisturizer, eye cream, and her precious retinol. She brushed and flossed, sometimes used whitening strips on her teeth. Then a few yoga poses to help her unwind. But tonight, she did none of that. With a dirty face, dirty teeth, dirty spirit, and the image of Thad Owens’s smug face looming over her, she crawled into bed.

*  *  *

Thad was up early the next morning to shoot the breeze with the local sports radio jocks. Fortunately, The Diva had another assignment, because she was the last person he wanted to see. Paisley, a little worse for wear from whatever she’d done the night before, which almost definitely didn’t include work, accompanied him. Much to Henri’s displeasure, Paisley had shown up in a pair of ripped jeans, an animal print top, and bright red ankle boots. Not exactly Marchand’s image.

She took a seat next to Thad on the couch in the radio station’s green room, although there were two other chairs available, and thumbed her phone. “Have you seen the Marchand social feeds? I mean, so basic. Like, who cares? You should tell Henri to let me take over their social media.”

She shoved her phone at him, and he looked at the photos she’d taken at last night’s dinner: his profile caught against candlelight, his hand on his jacket lapel, his jawline, his eyes. Only one of the pictures showed the Victory780. There were no photos of The Diva.

“If you want to convince Henri to use your ideas”—something he highly doubted would ever happen—“remember there are two brand ambassadors on this tour.” One of whom is a raving psychopath.

“You’re more photogenic.”

“She’s more famous.” It nearly choked him to say it. He handed Paisley back her phone.

“My dad says Henri’s the one who wants to move Marchand into the twenty-first century, so whatever. I did some research, you know, like, last night before dinner. Those old watch ads that David Beckham did. They’re still sexy AF. Do you have any tattoos?”

“Haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Too bad.” She poked a finger through a carefully placed hole in her jeans. “My dad doesn’t think I can do this job, but I’ve got lots of ideas. Like I definitely want to do some of you in the shower. Because the Victory780 is waterproof and everything. I could— You could oil up so the water beads on your skin. It’ll be iconic.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“But you could wear swim trunks and everything.”

“You and your iPhone aren’t coming anywhere near my shower but ask Madame Shore. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. She probably even has a tattoo.”

Paisley regarded him doubtfully. “She’s kind of scary.”

“Once you get to know her, I’ll bet she’s a pussycat.” The kind with claws and deadly teeth.

He rose as the producer appeared to escort him into the studio. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Paisley take a photo of what was surely his butt.

He didn’t see The Diva again until that afternoon when they were scheduled to meet back at the hotel to shoot the photos that would accompany the newspaper stories.

She was sipping tea in the suite when he arrived, and she found something fascinating to stare at in the bottom of her teacup. The Diva knew how to look good for photos. She’d pinned up her hair and angled a printed scarf around her shoulders. Her white pencil dress showed off shapely arms and the impressive set of legs that had tried to emasculate him last night.

Henri appeared with the photographers. As they set up the shoot, Henri asked her about her jewelry. Studiously ignoring Thad, she showed him a wide, matte-gold bracelet set with stones. “A replica of an Egyptian cuff from a dear friend. And this is one of my favorite poison rings.” She flipped the domed top open, revealing a not-so-secret compartment. “Easy to fill it with poison and tip the contents into an enemy’s drink.” She darted an honest-to-God warning look at him.

“Or to off yourself,” he tossed back.

He had the satisfaction of seeing her wince.

The photographer was ready for them. Henri posed Thad behind The Diva, and then next to her on the couch. She tucked her fingers under her chin, displaying the watch. He kept his wrist visible.

He’d spent a lot of time getting his picture taken, and he was comfortable in front of cameras, but The Diva seemed antsy, shifting around, crossing and recrossing her legs. One of the photographers gestured toward an armchair near the windows. “Let’s try a few shots over there.”

The Diva settled in the armchair, and Thad took up a position behind her.

Marchand tugged on today’s silk neck scarf. “Thaddeus, may I suggest you put your hand on her shoulder?”

All the better to display the Victory780, but Thad had never been more reluctant to touch a woman.

She flinched, a movement so subtle he doubted anyone else noticed. He had no idea what he’d done to make her hate him so much. He was a straight shooter—blunt when he needed to be—but generally diplomatic. He liked most people, and he didn’t make a habit of collecting enemies. He respected women and treated them well. This was her problem, not his. Still, he had to admit to a perverse curiosity.

After the photographers left, Henri suggested they all meet for dinner at eight in the hotel’s four-star restaurant. Thad had plans to get together with some former teammates, and he declined. The Diva pleaded fatigue and said she’d order room service later. Henri didn’t extend the invitation to Paisley.

Thad excused himself to change into workout clothes, but as he reached the second-floor fitness center, he realized he’d forgotten his phone. He liked to listen to music on the treadmill, and he went back to retrieve it.

The living room’s double French doors were open, and she stood on the terrace by the rail. He hesitated. To hell with it. He was sick of her crap, and this was his chance to talk to her privately.

He walked over to the open doors but didn’t step out. “I’m behind you, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attack me again.”

She whirled around. She’d gotten rid of the big scarf and traded her stilettos for a pair of flats, but she still looked plenty put together in her white dress. Did she even own a pair of jeans?

“Do you need something?” She addressed him as if he were a servant who’d interrupted her.

She was so condescending his teeth started to itch. “I thought you might have something you wanted to tell me.”

“I can’t imagine what that would be.”

“Something on the order of, ‘I’m sorry as hell I acted like a lunatic last night, and thank you, Mr. Owens, for not knocking me silly.’ Which would have been easy to do.”

Her iceberg expression could have sunk a thousand ships. “I have nothing to say to you.”

She clearly wasn’t worth his time, and he could have walked away. But they were going to be together for a month, and he needed to have it out with her. “You’ve given me the cold shoulder from the beginning, lady. Do you treat most people like garbage, or am I a special case? I don’t give a damn what you think of me, you understand. But I am curious.”

Her nostrils flared like an opera heroine about to order a beheading. “Men like you . . . you’ve got it all. Money. Looks. The public fawning over you. But that’s not enough, is it?”

Now he was really steamed. “Here’s the difference between you and me. If I have a beef with somebody, I’m upfront about it. I don’t hide behind snarky comments.”

She drew in a deep breath that expanded her rib cage in a way he’d have found impressive if he weren’t so incensed. “You want upfront?” she said. “All right. Does the name Alyssa Jackson mean anything?”

“Can’t say as it does.”

“What’s one more victim, right?”

“‘Victim’?” It took a lot to make him lose his temper, but he’d never had anyone regard him with so much contempt. “Exactly what kind of victim?”

She gripped the railing with the hand that held one of her poison rings. “Alyssa and I shared an apartment for a while in the Bronx. It was when you were the Giants’ hot new quarterback—the one who didn’t last two seasons. But you were the big man in town, and all the women wanted you. Except the ones like Alyssa who didn’t.” Her lips curled with contempt. “And you don’t even remember her name.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “How about you refresh my memory? Exactly what am I supposed to have done to her?”

“I don’t know what the legal definition of sexual assault is, but what you did was close enough. I begged her to go to the police, but she refused.”

He clenched his teeth against his rising fury. “Now there’s a surprise.”

“You could have had any woman you wanted, but the easy ones weren’t the ones who appealed to you. They weren’t the ones who made you feel like a big man.”

He couldn’t listen to any more, and he turned away only to come to a halt as he reached the door. “You don’t know me, lady, and you don’t know a damn thing about my character. You also don’t know your old friend Alyssa as well as you think, so keep giving me the cold shoulder because we don’t have anything more to say to each other.”

*  *  *

Thad pounded down the service stairs to the second floor, his sneakers assaulting the stair treads. He’d never needed the gym more.

“Thaddeus Walker Bowman Owens!”He’d been twelve years old, in the car with his mother, and full of himself. They were on their way to his basketball practice when he’d called Mindy Garamagus a slut.

His sweet, mild-tempered mother had pulled to the side of the road and let him have it. A smack right across the face. The first and only time she’d hit him.

“Don’t you ever say that about a woman! How does a girl get to be a slut? Ask yourself that. Does she do it all by herself?” Tears had filled his eyes as she’d looked at him as though he were some kind of worm. “The only men who use that word against a woman are weak, men who feel powerless. Don’t judge what you don’t understand. You have no idea who she is!”

His mother was right. Even then he knew that the only thing wrong with Mindy Garamagus was that she made him feel like the immature twelve-year-old he was.

That night, he’d gotten a similar lecture from his dad. It was long before the word “consent” had become part of the zeitgeist, but the message was loud and clear.

Even without his parents’ lectures, he couldn’t imagine himself ever taking advantage of a woman. How could sex be fun if you weren’t both into it?

He’d once again forgotten his phone, but no way in hell was he going back to get it.

*  *  *

No matter how much money Marchand had offered her, Olivia would never have signed that contract if she’d known she’d be traveling with Owens instead of Cooper Graham, as she’d originally been told. Graham had a wife, kids, and a squeaky-clean reputation. Traveling with him would have been a nice distraction, something she’d never needed more than she did at this point in her life.

The tension headache that had been lurking for days was back. She exchanged her dress for black yoga pants and a long white top, lay down on the bed, and reached for the headphones she always traveled with. Moments later, she heard the soothing sound of Bill Evans’s “Peace Piece.”

She tried to relax, but not even the evocative harmonies of the man who’d been one of the world’s greatest jazz pianists could soothe her. Something about the unflinching way Owens had looked at her made her uneasy. More than uneasy. “You don’t know me, lady, and you don’t know a damn thing about my character.” But she did know his character!

Didn’t she?

She couldn’t stand the uncertainty. She turned off the music and reached for her phone. Alyssa picked up her call on the second ring.

The two of them had once been close, but now that her former roommate was immersed in motherhood, they’d drifted apart, and it had been at least a year since they’d spoken. “Hey, famous lady!” Alyssa said. “I’ve missed you. Hunter, get down from there! Jesus . . . That kid . . . Honest to God, Olivia, don’t ever have kids. I’ve been to the emergency room twice with him just this month. Do you have any idea how many things a three-year-old can stick up his nose?”

As Alyssa detailed the exact objects Hunter had stashed in his nasal cavity, Olivia remembered how Alyssa’s irreverent humor used to make her laugh.

“So what’s up with you?” Alyssa said. “Ready to tackle Tosca yet?”

Olivia’s mezzo-soprano wasn’t well suited for that role, but Alyssa had never had more than a rudimentary grasp of opera. “A temporary gig,” Olivia said. “I signed on to promote Marchand watches.”

“Marchand? Tell me you’re giving out free samples.”

“Unfortunately not. Also . . .” She gripped the phone tighter. “There are two of us on the road together promoting the brand. I’m traveling with Thad Owens.”

“The football player? That’s hysterical.”

An icicle slithered down Olivia’s spine. “‘Hysterical’?”

“The soprano and the quarterback. What a combination, right? Is he still hot? That man was gorgeous.”

Olivia shot to her feet, dread pooling in her stomach. “Alyssa, I’m talking about Thad Owens. The football player who tried to rape you.”

Alyssa laughed. “God, Olivia. You knew that was bogus. Remember? I told you all about it.”

“You didn’t tell me any such thing!” Olivia exclaimed. “You said he backed you into the bedroom. Pinned you down. You came home crying. And you talked about it for weeks afterward.”

“I only cried because Kent walked in on us, and I only talked about it when he was around. Remember how suspicious he was. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten.” She pulled the phone away. “Hunter, stop it! Give me that!” She readjusted the phone. “Anyway . . . So I met Thad at a party just when Kent and I were getting serious. Kent went off to shoot pool or something, and Thad and I started talking. One thing led to another, and we were making out. Then Kent walked in on us, and I needed to come up with an excuse quick. I told you all that.”

“You didn’t tell me anything!” Olivia felt sick. “I tried to get you to go to the police.”

“Oh, yeah . . . Now I remember. I was afraid if I told you the truth, you’d tell Kent. You were always the righteous one.” Water ran in the background. “Here, Hunter. Have a drink.” The water shut off. “Can you believe I walked away from a chance at a relationship with Thad Owens because I didn’t want a loser like Kent to dump me?”

Olivia sank back down on the side of the bed and dug her hand into the mattress. “The only loser, Alyssa, is you.”

“What are you getting so upset about? It’s not like I accused him or anything.”

“You did accuse him. To me.”

“Did you say something to him?”

“Oh, yes. I said a lot.”

“Shit.”

“Shit, indeed.” In her rush to judgment against Thad Owens, Olivia had forgotten that Alyssa could be both self-centered and manipulative. That was exactly why Rachel had never liked her. Olivia should have trusted her best friend’s opinion. She pressed her hand to her stomach. “False accusations have consequences, Alyssa. They make real rape victims afraid to speak out because they don’t think anyone will believe them.”

“Ease up, okay? Stop being so judgy.”

Olivia’s voice shook. “Wrong is wrong, and lying like you did is a betrayal of every woman who’s been assaulted.”

“Jesus, Olivia. You’re making too big a deal out of this. You always did think you were better than anybody else.”

“Good-bye, Alyssa. And lose my number.”

“Hey, you’re the one who called me.”

“It won’t happen again.”

*  *  *

Olivia was furious with herself. She hadn’t been thinking clearly for days, but that was no excuse for the way she’d attacked him. Some superhero she’d turned out to be. A crusader for justice? How about a dispenser of injustice. She’d known Alyssa wasn’t always reliable, and even drunk, she shouldn’t have attacked someone without verifying the facts. Adam was already on her conscience, and she didn’t need another transgression to add to her list of misdeeds. She had to apologize immediately.

She paced the living room waiting for him to get back from the gym. Eventually, the door opened. She tried to form exactly the right words, but before she could utter a single one, he’d strode past her as if she didn’t exist and disappeared into his bedroom.

She started pacing again. This was torturous. She pressed her ear to his door and heard the shower water stop running. She hurried to the closest couch, kicked off her flats, and picked up a magazine.

No one liked to admit when she’d been wrong, but this was a big wrong, and it had to be righted. Once this was over, she could only hope he didn’t believe in holding a grudge.

She tugged at the knee of her yoga pants, turned a page of the magazine without having read a word. His door finally opened.

When she’d seen him only as a sexual predator, his off-the-chart good looks had been an insult. But now? He wore a dark blue blazer, faded jeans, a gray T-shirt, and he might be the handsomest man she’d ever met. Thick dark hair, dazzling green eyes set off with dark brows and full lashes, cheekbones that hit the sweet spot between too sharp and too blunt. His top and bottom lips were perfect. If she’d been born with his looks instead of being saddled with her own strong features, she might have had an easier time of it. All that perfection was wasted on a man who threw footballs for a living.

She’d lost precious seconds ruminating over what couldn’t be changed, and he was nearly at the door. She jumped up from the couch. “I need to talk to you.”

It was as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Wait!”

The hotel room door shut behind him. She shot across the room and out into the hallway. “Mr. Owens! Thad! Wait!”

He continued his march to the elevator.

“Thad!”

The doors slid open and he stepped between them. She just made it inside before they closed.

He punched the button for the lobby without a glance in her direction. The elevator began to descend. “Thad, I want to apologize. I—”

The elevator slid to a stop, and an elderly couple got on. They smiled automatically, and then the woman took a closer look at Olivia.

Please, no.

“Olivia Shore! Oh, my goodness! Is it really you? We heard you sing Princess Eboli in Don Carlos last year in Boston. You were amazing!”

“Thank you.”

Her husband piped in. “‘O don fatale.’ That high B-flat. Unforgettable!”

“I can’t believe we’re meeting you in person,” the woman gushed. “Are you performing here?”

“No, I’m not.”

The elevator stopped at the lobby. Thad strode out ahead of the older couple. Olivia could see they were eager to engage her in a longer conversation. She quickly excused herself and hurried after him.

As the cold marble tiles of the lobby hit her bare feet, she remembered her flats lying next to the couch in the suite. Owens clearly didn’t want to talk to her, and she should turn back, but the idea of carrying this weight any longer was worse than the embarrassment of going after him.

He exited through the center front door. Guests turned to look at her as she rushed barefooted across the lobby. Outside, the first taxi in line had its door open, and Owens was speaking to the driver as he got in. She abandoned what was left of her dignity, sprinted toward the car, grabbed the door, threw herself in . . .

And fell right on top of him.

It was like landing on a bag of cement.

The hotel doorman hadn’t seen her awkward leap. He closed the car door and gestured for the taxi to move forward to make room for the next car. The cabdriver gazed at them in the rearview mirror with eyes that had seen it all, shrugged, and pulled away.

She scrambled off Thad. As she sprawled onto the seat next to him, he looked at her as if she were a cockroach, then leaned back and deliberately pulled out his phone. He began scrolling through it as if she weren’t there.

She curled her toes against the gritty floor mat. “I’m sorry. I want to apologize. I made a terrible mistake.”

“You don’t say,” he replied with total indifference, his eyes staying on his phone.

Olivia curled her toes deeper into the grit. “I talked to my friend. My former friend. She admitted she’d lied to me about everything. Her boyfriend walked in on the two of you, and— The details don’t matter. The point is, I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” He’d put his phone to his ear and spoke into it. “Hey, Piper. Looks like we’re playing phone tag. I got your message, and I should be back in the city by then. Remember to let me know when you decide you’re ready to cheat on your husband.” He disconnected.

She stared at him.

He turned to her. “You had something to say to me?”

She’d already said it, but he deserved his pound of flesh. “I’m truly sorry, but . . .”

One of those perfect dark eyebrows arched. “But?”

Her temper got the best of her. “What would you have done if you thought you were stuck for the next four weeks with a sexual predator?”

“You have a strange idea of what constitutes an apology.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, and then, “No! I’m not sorry. Yes, I am, but— Believing what I did, I had to confront you.”

“You might be a great singer, but you’re crap at making apologies.”

She could only grovel for so long. “I’m a soprano. Sopranos aren’t supposed to apologize.”

He actually laughed.

“Truce?” she said, hoping for the best even though she knew she didn’t deserve it.

“I’ll think about it.”

The cab turned down a one-way street and pulled up in front of a seedy-looking bar with a neon cactus flickering in the window.

“While you’re thinking,” she said, “would you mind lending me cab fare to get back to the hotel?”

“I might,” he said. “Or . . . I have a better idea. Come in with me. I doubt the guys have ever met an opera singer.”

“Go into that awful bar?”

“Not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but mingling with the commoners might be good for you.”

“Another time.”

“Really?” His eyes narrowed. “You think all it takes is a couple of ‘I’m sorry’s’ to make up for character assassination? Words are cheap.”

She regarded him steadily. “This is payback, right?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m barefoot,” she pointed out with a certain degree of desperation.

He regarded her with silky animosity. “I wouldn’t have thought of it otherwise. If there’s too much broken glass, I’ll carry you over it.”

“You want revenge this much?”

“Hey, I said I’d carry you, didn’t I? But never mind. I know you don’t have the guts.”

She laughed in his face. A big, theatrical “ha!” that came straight from her diaphragm. “You don’t think I have the guts? I’ve been booed at La Scala!”

“They booed you?”

“Sooner or later it happens to everyone who sings there. Callas, Fleming, Pavarotti.” She reached for the door handle, stepped out onto the dirty pavement, and turned to gaze down at him. “I gave them the finger and finished the performance.”

He didn’t move. “I think I might be having second thoughts.”

“Afraid to be seen with me?”

“I’m afraid of you in general.”

“You’re not the first.” She marched toward the flickering neon cactus.