When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

To Paisley’s delight and Thad’s displeasure, Clint Garrett was back on the plane the next day as they left San Francisco for Seattle. “Don’t get all worked up.” Clint grinned at him. “Livia invited me.”

Thad glared at The Diva. “Why?”

He didn’t like the evil gleam in her eyes. “Because I like him, but even more, I love seeing how much he irritates you.”

Clint shrugged. “That pretty much explains it.”

“How long are you going to keep stalking me?” Thad demanded.

“Not much longer. I have some stuff to do next week.” Ignoring Paisley’s attempt to get his attention, Clint whipped out his computer and pulled up film from the Steelers’ loss. “Since you’ve got some free time . . .”

Fortunately, once they reached Seattle, Clint took off, although Thad knew he’d be back.

They had a formal photo shoot that afternoon, which Henri intended to use as part of a nationwide advertising campaign. Accompanied by a photographer, his assistant, a stylist, and Paisley, they set off for the Seahawks’ stadium, where they spent a couple of hours shooting various scenarios. His favorite showed himself and Olivia posed between the goalposts, both of them in evening dress with their watches on display. He wore a tux and leaned leisurely against the goalposts. Olivia, her hair arranged in an elaborate updo and strips of eye black under her eyes, wore a black gown and held the football as if it were a microphone and she was singing into it.

Afterward, they headed north to the Seattle Opera. On a bare stage, they experimented with scenes that referenced Carmen. The stylist put Olivia in an elaborate scarlet gown that pushed up her breasts and arranged her hair so it fell over her bare shoulders. The stylist put him in a white shirt that opened to the middle of his chest, tight black pants, and calf-high black leather boots. In their best shot, he lay on his side on the stage floor, head propped on a bent elbow, his other hand showcasing his watch as he balanced a football on end. Olivia loomed over him, her head thrown back, hair flying from a fan just out of camera range, her arm with the Cavatina3 extended. In the background, Henri played a recording of her famous “Habanera” to set the mood.

As the music played and Olivia experimented with various positions, he kept waiting for her to start accompanying herself, but to his disappointment, she didn’t. The vocal exercises he heard every morning had become a striptease in his head, and he was increasingly obsessed with the idea of her singing. Just for him.

Henri was rhapsodic about the photos. They were so different from any of Marchand’s past campaigns, which were nothing more than well-photographed close-ups of the watch from various angles. “These are going to be extraordinaire! Everyone will be talking about them. This will be our most successful campaign ever.”

Thad doubted Mariel Marchand would agree.

*  *  *

It was nearly midnight when they reached the hotel. In his suite, he found a pink satin box on the living room coffee table. He flipped the lid, stared at the contents, and walked over to their connecting door. “Open up.”

“Go away,” she said from the other side. “I’m too tired to spar with you tonight.”

“I sympathize, but open up anyway.”

She did, but with a frown. “What?” Her lipstick had worn off, and her hair stuck out from all the day’s sprays, gels, and pomades. He liked seeing her messy. It made her less formidable. More . . . manageable.

He showed her the satin box. “Just a guess, but I think this was intended for you instead of me.”

Inside were four very expensive perfumes: Hermès’s 24 Faubourg, Dior’s Balade Sauvage, a limited edition of Chanel’s N°5, and Tom Ford’s Lost Cherry. She picked up the card. “Rupert,” she said with a sigh. “And most perfume gives me a headache.”

“Exactly the same thing your Rupert does to me. Don’t you think this is getting out of hand?”

“Opera aficionados are different from other kinds of fans.” She took the box and carried it to her room. “There are going to be some very happy hotel housekeepers tomorrow.”

He shook his head and went into his bedroom, but as he began to kick off his shoes, he noticed that the shoulder bag he used as a carry-on was unzipped. The bag held his usual crap: a couple of books, headset, a spare pair of sunglasses, and his laptop. But now, the laptop, which he always kept in a separate compartment, was shoved in between a copy of a Jonathan Franzen novel he’d promised himself he’d read one day, and an account of the D-Day landings he was actually reading. He checked his suitcase and shaving kit. Neither seemed to have been disturbed.

He called the desk. As he suspected from the errant perfume delivery, the hotel had mixed up his and Olivia’s suites. Whoever had dug around in his case had assumed it belonged to her.

*  *  *

On their flight to Denver the next day, he mulled over the conversation he’d had with the hotel manager before they’d left. The bellman who’d delivered the perfume box was a longtime employee. The same for the housekeeper who’d serviced their floor. The manager declared them both above suspicion, and Thad didn’t argue. Housekeepers and employees with sticky fingers didn’t last long. Someone else had been in his room.

The video surveillance footage had proved useless thanks to a party that had been going on in another suite on the floor. Between the grainy video and the number of people coming and going, it was impossible to see anything useful. The manager tactfully suggested Thad might have inadvertently moved the things in his case without remembering he’d done it.

“Possible, I guess,” Thad had said. But it wasn’t possible. He liked keeping his travel case organized.

Not long before the plane was ready to land, he moved next to The Diva. “Since we don’t have to report for duty until Monday, do you have plans for Denver?”

“Sleep in, work out, eat salad.”

“Admirable, but I have a better idea. One of my teammates is lending me his house outside Breckenridge. It’s beautiful country, and if you want to come along, you can hike instead of being stuck on a hotel treadmill.”

“Who’s going to be there?”

“Just me.”

“And baby boy’s afraid to be alone?”

“Now you’re making me feel bad.” The truth was, he didn’t want to be alone with himself right now, and he also didn’t want her where he couldn’t watch her.

She smiled and then sobered. “What’s this really about?”

“Don’t make me confess my insecurities all over again.”

“You have no insecurities. You’re the closest thing there is to a Greek god.”

“I’d be flattered if you sounded more impressed.”

“You know what they say. Pretty is as pretty does.”

He stifled a laugh.

She narrowed her beautiful eyes at him. “Is this about sex—which clearly isn’t going to happen—or are you still obsessing over Rupert?”

“Yes. Rupert, those letters, and that phone call. Also, someone got into my carry-on and, I suspect, your luggage. As for sex . . . Why are you so sure it’s not going to happen? A good-looking, sensitive guy like myself, and an overwrought opera singer like you . . . Seems possible.”

“Impossible. I’m too insecure to have an affair with a hot football player like yourself. I do hate the idea of being cooped up in a hotel for the weekend, though. More important, before she left, Mariel booked me into a spa for two nights.”

“That doesn’t sound bad.”

“Except this is a boot camp spa where they get you up at four in the morning for a ten-mile hike, then feed you nothing but radishes and water.”

“Mariel is a major pain in the ass.”

“It’s what happens to women who don’t eat.”

When Paisley found out what they had planned, she tried to wangle an invitation to join them, but Thad turned her down. “Who even knows if the place has Wi-Fi? It’s too big a risk.”

Henri wasn’t happy about his brand ambassadors slipping away from his watchful gaze, but after Thad reassured him they’d be back in time for their Monday morning commitments, Henri gave in with his customary good grace.

An hour later, Thad and The Diva were driving a rental car west toward Breckenridge.

*  *  *

His teammate’s multimillion-dollar, log-and-stone house had four different levels, a curved driveway, and big windows with sweeping mountain views. They unloaded the groceries they’d picked up on the way and changed clothes. When they reconvened in the kitchen, he couldn’t help but stare at her. “What’s wrong?” she said.

“You’re wearing jeans?”

“Who doesn’t wear jeans?”

“I don’t know. You?”

She laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

They borrowed heavy jackets and snow boots from the back of a closet and set off on a lower trail, hoping to avoid the deeper snow. Olivia had wrapped a warm scarf around her throat and pulled a headband over her ears. Her ponytail swung across her jacket collar as her breath clouded the air.

After their busy week, he didn’t feel the need to talk, and neither did she. He enjoyed listening to the crunch of snow under their boots, the wind ruffling the aspens, and the distant sound of a waterfall. As they reached a set of icy rocks, he held out his hand, but she ignored his help and navigated the rocks with the surefooted grace of an athlete. Taking into account all her dance and movement training, he supposed she was.

As the snow grew too deep to go on, they took their time gazing out over the mountain landscape. He couldn’t remember ever being with a woman so comfortable with silence—ironic, considering her profession—and he was the one who eventually broke it. “If you feel like cutting loose with one of your favorite arias, I’d be happy to listen.”

She pulled the muffler tighter around her neck. “The air’s too cold. We’re all insanely protective of our voices.”

He’d noticed. She drank lots of water, but never with ice, and kept a humidifier going in her bedroom. She also favored some fairly disgusting herbal teas. One of these days, however, he was determined to make her sing for him. Listening to her on YouTube was fine, but he wanted a private performance.

*  *  *

“I’m making a big salad,” she said that evening. “If you want anything else, be nice and don’t let me see you eat it.”

He’d worked up an appetite on their hike, but after all the heavy food this week, a salad sounded good, especially since he’d sneaked a rotisserie chicken into the shopping cart. Still, he’d lose his macho if he didn’t protest. “You’re a real downer, you know that?”

“If you’d died as many times as I have onstage, you wouldn’t be a big ball of cheer.”

“Good point.” He opened a bottle of red and poured two glasses. “Tell me about it. What attracted you to opera?”

“My parents were retired music teachers, and I grew up with music in the house.” As she gathered the produce they’d bought from the refrigerator, her jeans stretched tight over her butt. It was a great butt. The kind of butt you wanted to squeeze in your hands. The kind of butt—

He’d lost track of their conversation.

“. . . listened to jazz, rock, classical, all of it.” She straightened, spoiling his view. “I loved making fun of the opera singers. I’d dress up in a funny costume and pretend to sing, exaggerating everything—the gestures, the vibrato, the drama. But when I was around fourteen, I stopped making fun and started trying to imitate the singers in earnest. That’s when my formal lessons began. I had some great teachers, and I fell in love with it.”

He handed her a glass of wine. “Here’s one of many things I don’t understand about opera . . . We have a two-week break in Chicago between the end of our regular tour obligations and our final gig, that big gala at the Chicago Municipal Opera. Or at least I have a two-week break. You’ll be in rehearsals. Don’t big productions like Aida take more than two weeks to rehearse?”

“A lot more. But not for an established performer. I’ve sung Amneris in Aida so many times I don’t need six weeks of rehearsal. Two weeks is enough for me to adjust to the cast and familiarize myself with any changes in the staging.” She gestured toward him with her wineglass. “What about you? What attracted you to football?”

He turned on the faucet and ran the lettuce under cold water. “I always played sports and was good at them, which gave me some serious entitlement issues. It’s hard to be humble when you’re great at everything.”

He’d meant to make her laugh. Instead, she regarded him with something that almost seemed like compassion. “But not as great as Clint Garrett.”

No way was he letting her poke around in his psyche. “There’s always someone better, right? Even in your case.”

“I like competition. It makes me work harder, and not just on my voice. I want to be the best at everything—languages, dance, acting. I’m a classic overachiever.”

She sounded almost embarrassed to admit she was ambitious, but there was nothing he admired more than a good work ethic. He started to comment on it only to notice she’d gone still. She held a forgotten tomato in one hand and stared off into space, her lips tense, eyes unhappy. He wondered if she was thinking about her ex-fiancé, the guy who hadn’t been able to compete at her level.

“You should never have to apologize for trying to be the best,” he said.

She gave him a smile that didn’t quite work. “Never.”

*  *  *

They ate in the great room, plates on their laps, and watched the stars come out over the mountains. He’d taken a seat not far from her on the couch. Olivia regarded him surreptitiously. He wasn’t the kind of man who believed it was sexy to glue his eyes to a woman’s breasts or give her one of those smarmy eye-rakes. Instead, he leaned into the couch cushions with his customary lazy grace, an ankle propped on his opposite knee, one arm draped across the back of the couch. She’d known a lot of good-looking men, but despite his wisecracks about his appearance, she’d never once caught him stealing a look at himself in the mirror, and that disconnect intrigued her.

Instead of turning on the television, they talked when they felt like it and listened to jazz. She introduced him to a new vocalist. He introduced her to a saxophonist he’d just discovered. But when he switched the playlist from jazz to her newest album, she protested. “Turn it off. All I hear when I listen are my mistakes.”

He’d seen the album’s rave reviews, so he doubted there were many mistakes, but he’d watched enough of his own game film to understand. Instead of his successes, all he could see were lost opportunities.

*  *  *

Only as she got ready for bed did things start to turn awkward. He couldn’t remember ever spending this much time around such a desirable woman without sleeping with her. Everything about her screamed sex. Her breasts, her butt, that curtain of shiny dark hair. Then there were her smarts and sass. He wanted her. Sex with Olivia Shore had been on his mind ever since that Phoenix dive bar.

He couldn’t exactly recall the last time he’d had to make the first move, but something about Olivia Shore made him slip his hands into his pockets instead of around her body. She was so fierce and strong—ready to avenge wrongs and slay selfish lovers with her powerful arias—but he’d also seen her vulnerability.

He had an unsettling thought—a notion that, up until this very second, he could never have imagined entertaining. What if Olivia Shore was out of his league?

Absurd. He was Thad Walker Bowman Owens. No woman had ever been out of his league. He was a star. And Olivia . . . ?

Olivia Shore was a superstar.

With an abrupt good night, he headed upstairs.

*  *  *

After dinner, Olivia had turned on the hot tub on the private balcony outside the master bedroom where she was staying, and now a veil of steam rose from the water into the cold night air. Her muscles ached pleasantly from their hike. A few days ago she’d been sweating in the Phoenix heat, and now she was gazing out on snow. This was one amazing country.

She stripped, opened the door, and wearing only flip-flops, walked carefully across the icy deck and gradually lowered herself into the hot water.

The cold air slapped her face as the heat enveloped her body. She studied the inky, star-laced sky. This would be a perfect moment, if only she could shake off the guilt that refused to ease its grip on her.

The scene at Adam’s graveside had been so over the top it belonged onstage. As his sisters, clad in black from head to toe, had laid the last two flowers on his coffin, Colleen, the oldest of the two, advanced on Olivia, her face contorted with grief. “You killed him.” Her words were little more than a whisper, but they gradually grew louder. “You led him on. Made him believe you had a future when all you cared about was yourself. You might as well have pulled the trigger!”

The onlookers had stared. A few had drawn back. More had inched forward, unwilling to miss a word.

Adam’s other sister, Brenda, had rushed to Colleen’s side, her face mirroring her sister’s grief. Olivia had stood there paralyzed, unable to defend herself against the truth in those words, until Rachel had dragged her away from them to the car. “You can’t let this get to you,” Rachel had said.

But how could it not?

Olivia jumped as the bedroom’s sliding doors opened and Thad stepped out. “I knocked a couple of times, but you didn’t seem to hear.” He had a towel wrapped around his waist and his feet stuffed into a pair of sneakers. She stared at his bare chest. “Go back to your computer and your mysterious phone calls,” she said. “I’m having me time.”

“Nobody likes a hot tub hog.” He dropped the towel to reveal a pair of navy boxer briefs. “Turn around if you don’t want to see these come off.”

She definitely did want to see, and if she were a different woman with a different profession, she might let herself enjoy everything this deliciously sexy man had to offer, but her relationship with Adam had caused enough destruction in her life. For all Thad Owens wanted was the world to see him as a good-natured guy who lived for football, she wasn’t fooled. Every instinct she possessed told her he wasn’t nearly as straightforward as he pretended to be, and the last thing she needed in her life right now was more complexity.

She waited a few seconds for him to settle into the water before she looked. He’d grown some beard stubble since the morning, and the glow from the hot tub lights intensified the green of his eyes, while feathers of steam drifted around his broad shoulders. The rush of heat racing through her body didn’t come from the water temperature.

He leaned against the tub’s edge. “I was about to get in the shower when I saw you down here.”

The possibility that he’d seen her traipse naked across the deck unsettled her, even though she liked her body. She liked the height that gave her presence onstage and the strength that allowed her to endure long performances. Pop stars who relied on microphones could afford to be rail thin, but opera singers’ unamplified voices had to carry out into the audience over a full orchestra. While the era of the obese opera singer had ended, a small, malnourished body couldn’t cut it, either. Yet those super-thin bodies were probably what Thad Owens feasted on.

The realization that she was thinking about how a professional athlete-playboy would judge her body made her angry with herself. But also curious. “What do you think is most attractive in a woman? Body, brains, or power?”

“All of the above.”

“But if you could only have one?”

“Let me point out that you’re the person who’s reducing women to a single attribute.”

She smiled. “I was speaking theoretically.”

“Then how about we reverse the questions? What’s most attractive to you in a man? Body, brains, or power?”

“Point made.”

“I guess we all have certain physical traits we’re attracted to.”

Thick, dark hair, great chest, perfect profile.

“What really attracts me is a person who has a passion,” he said. “Their job, their hobby. Whether it’s saving tigers, or making a great barbecue sauce. I like people who want to suck all the juice out of life.”

He kept surprising her. She understood exactly what he meant because she felt the same way. “What’s your passion?” she asked. “Or is the answer too obvious?”

The way he hesitated made her suspect he was about to make another wisecrack, but he surprised her once again. “Being the best. Just like you said. What else is there?”

She’d watched him with Clint Garrett. She’d seen how much he resented Clint, yet she’d also overheard enough of their conversations to know he was determined to make Clint a better player. She wondered how he’d resolve this conflict inside himself. Or maybe he hadn’t.

They fell into quiet, but this silence didn’t feel as comfortable as their others had. Maybe it was the dark, the brush of water against her skin. Maybe it was the sight of those muscular shoulders emerging from the water. She imagined herself sliding over to him. Pressing her hands against his chest. His hands coming to her breasts. She imagined— “I’m getting out.”

She hadn’t brought a towel, only flip-flops. He was better prepared. She reached over the side and grabbed the towel he’d left there. “I’ll bring you another one.”

“Don’t cover up on my account.”

“You’re not going to seduce me.” As soon as the words were out, she wished she hadn’t spoken them.

“Hey, you’re the one who keeps bringing up sex.”

She shot up in the water, gripping the towel around herself. “Liar. You bring it up every time you waltz around in front of me without a shirt.”

“I’ve never once waltzed around—”

“And when you look at me with that face.” She climbed out.

“I can’t help my—”

“And bat those green eyes.”

His voice raised in outrage. “I never batted an eye in my life!”

She stomped across the snowy deck in her flip-flops. “Every time you— You—” She grabbed the bedroom doorknob.

It was locked.