When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Stunned, Olivia spun toward him. “You locked the door!”

He reared up from the bubbles. “What do you mean?”

“The door! You must have pushed the lock when you came out here.”

“I didn’t do anything to the lock. Let me see.”

He rose—his body steaming in the cold night air, a male Aphrodite emerging from an artificial sea.

The veteran of a hundred locker rooms wasn’t self-conscious about nudity, and she should have been too focused on the locked door for more than a passing glance, but she wasn’t.

He was magnificent, every part of him. Shoulders and chest, narrow hips, lean and powerful legs. And . . . Wow.

He moved in front of her and tried the knob. “You’re right.”

She forced herself to refocus. “Of course I’m right!”

“What kind of idiot would use a lock like this on a balcony door?”

“They’re your friends, not mine.”

He felt above the door frame. “See if you can find an extra key anyplace out here.”

There was no furniture, nowhere to really look, but she poked around anyway. “Nothing. Why didn’t we bring our phones? We should have brought Paisley.”

“Depressing thought.” He abandoned his fruitless search above the door and reached for his boxers. “I don’t suppose any of those classes you take taught you how to pick a lock?”

“Lock-picking isn’t a requirement for grand opera, but I can order dessert in seven languages.”

“Currently useless, but still impressive. We’ll find another way in.”

“It’s freezing!” Like any serious opera singer, she religiously guarded herself against chills with scarves around her throat, herbal teas, and vitamin supplements, yet here she was.

“Get back in the water.”

As cold as she was, she couldn’t stay in the water while he set out alone trying to rescue them. She was better than that. Shivering, she followed him down the single set of stairs to the frozen ground. The motion-activated security lights came on. She wrapped the wet towel tighter, but it was useless for anything except modesty. “You didn’t leave the keys in the car by any chance?” she asked. “Stupid question. None of us who live in Chicago leave keys in our cars.”

They moved toward the front of the house. He craned his neck to look up at the windows. Her teeth were chattering so loudly that he heard them. “There’s no reason for both of us to be freezing our asses off. Get back in the water.”

“And have you take all the credit for rescuing us? No way. Besides, I can tolerate cold better than you.”

“I’m a trained athlete. How do you figure that?”

“I have more body fat.”

His gaze moved from the second-story windows down to her chest. “In all the right places.”

“Seriously?” Her towel had indeed slipped, and she jerked it back up. “We’re about to die from hypothermia, and you’re looking at my breasts?”

“You’re the one who brought them up.”

If she hadn’t been so cold, she would have laughed. Instead, she adopted some fake outrage. “As soon as this tour is over, I’m never speaking to you again.”

“Doubtful.”

“You’re not that irresistible.”

“Up for debate.”

He was irresistible. To any woman who didn’t possess an iron will.

They rounded the corner to the front of the house. Her flip-flops kept sinking into the snow, her toes had gone numb, and they were both covered with goose bumps. “How l-long . . . do you think before we d-die?”

“I don’t know. Five minutes?”

“You don’t know that!”

“Of course I don’t know that! And w-we aren’t going to die. The hot tub, remember?” He jiggled the front doorknob, but it, too, was locked.

Her teeth were rattling so hard her jaw hurt. “We . . . c-can’t stay in the water f-forever.”

His teeth had also begun to chatter. “Henri’ll come looking for us when we don’t show up.”

“We c-can’t stay in the hot tub all night.”

He gave her a level-eyed look that told her she might be acting like a brainless heroine from a 1950s rom-com instead of a woman who commanded center stage. She pulled herself together. “We’re going to . . . b-break a window.”

“Now there’s an idea.” He was already heading for the far side of the house.

“You don’t need to be . . . s-s-s-arcastic.” Her damp towel had stiffened, beginning to freeze. “Oh, God, I’m cold.”

He stopped walking and pulled her into his arms. “Body heat transfer.”

Neither of them had much body heat, but it still felt good. Her cold cheek against the side of his cold neck. His arms encircling her. Their thighs pressed together.

She felt a bulge press against her and drew back.

He grinned through his chattering teeth. “I’m not apologizing. It’s good to know I still have some decent blood flow.”

She wanted to go right back into his arms, but she widened the distance between them.

It had started to snow. One flake. Another. They landed in his hair, on her shoulders. Because of the design of the house, the front and side windows rose too high above the ground for easy access. They headed toward the rear of the house.

She might have a higher proportion of body fat, but he was accustomed to physical discomfort, and he moved more gracefully. In the reflection from the security lights, she saw that his lips were beginning to turn blue. Her fingers had cramped so painfully she lost her grip on the frozen towel and it fell. He stumbled on a patch of frozen ground. “Jesus, Liv . . .”

He said it like a prayer, and for a moment she forgot the cold. But only for a moment. “Don’t be a j-j-jerk.”

He raised his arms in mock surrender and turned toward the back door. It had glass panes, and while she looked in the snow patches for a rock to break the glass, he tried to see through it. “There’s a dead bolt that needs a key. I’m going to have to kick the door in.”

The door was metal, and kicking it in didn’t seem like it would be all that easy, not even for him.

She stood, shaking so much she could barely speak. “H-h-how about th-th-this?”

She held out a key.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I saw a r-r-rock that looked different. Tell your f-f-friend, if his fake rock didn’t fool me, it won’t fool a b-b-burg . . .” He had the door open, and she gave up trying to get the word out.

They rushed inside, closing the door behind them. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her through the house and up the stairs. “Of all my life experiences,” he muttered, “I never imagined myself wandering around in the Colorado mountains with only a pair of boxer shorts, my old Nikes, and a naked diva.”

“L-l-life is strange.”

The master bedroom’s walk-in shower had slate walls, a river-rock floor, and a stone boulder to sit on. Moments later, they were both inside. He adjusted the water, running it cool until their frozen bodies adjusted to the temperature, then gradually making it warmer. Finally, he flipped on the overhead rain fixture.

The water cocooned them. He was naked except for those silky boxers molding to his skin. How could a healthy woman be standing next to him and not look? She was hogging most of the spray, and she moved aside to let him in. As steam filled the room, the water painted his dark hair to his forehead and turned his eyes into green sea glass. She wanted to touch. To have him touch her. She wanted to slide her hands down that incredible chest, to kiss him. She wanted everything his body offered.

“I’m trying to be a gentleman and keep my eyes straight ahead, but can I look now?”

She yearned to have him look. To have him see the same beauty in her body that she saw in his. But she was more vulnerable than she’d ever been, and throwing herself into an ill-fated affair with a man she was growing increasingly fond of—no matter how tempting—would take her into a whole new universe of self-destruction. “You really should model for a bodywash commercial.”

“Already done it.” He kept his gaze fixed on her face, beads of water clinging to his lashes. “Now can I look?”

He made her knees weak, and the heat that had crept back into her body turned to flame. Calling on every ounce of her legendary self-control, she forced herself to reach for one of the towels hanging at the end of the shower. “Sorry, soldier. I’m not into self-destruction these days.”

“Self-destruction? What are you talking about? How about two people having a good time?”

As she tucked the towel between her breasts, she grew even more aware of the way the silky fabric of his boxers detailed his body, showing her exactly what she was turning down. She gripped the towel as if it were a life vest. “I’m on a long-term sabbatical from men, and I know you understand why. For the foreseeable future, all my good times are going to be onstage.”

He groaned. “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

She smiled despite the bone-deep sadness that had become part of her. “You think it’s depressing for you? What about me?”

“So you admit you want to.”

She let her eyes enjoy every bit of what she couldn’t let herself have. “Oh, yes . . . You’re a female fantasy.”

His brows drew together. “I’m not sure I like being reduced to a stereotype.”

“Own it.” She shuddered, this time not from the cold. “Stay away, Thad Owens. This is a terrible time for me, and you’re almost too tempting for a mortal female to resist.”

“Why am I not flattered?”

“Because you’re not used to being rejected.” She gave him a deliberately insincere smile, determined to keep things light. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

“Damned right it’s you!” He whipped off his boxers and turned back into the water, giving her a fine view of his very firm, very untouchable ass.

*  *  *

He was still grouchy the next morning. “You can make your own damned breakfast.”

She reached for the box of Wheaties he’d left on the counter and spilled it into a bowl. She suspected she wasn’t the only one who’d practiced a little self-gratification last night before she’d gone to sleep. Not that it had helped.

The only way to deal with her attraction to Thad Owens was to give him a hard time. She splashed milk on her cereal and regarded him with fake concern. “Rejection is hard for you, isn’t it? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it. If we can’t f— If we can’t get naked, I don’t want anything to do with you.”

She plopped down across from him. “You’re cute when you’re petulant.”

“And you’re sexy as hell, and I’ve seen you naked, and I want to see more.”

“No one could ever accuse you of being indirect.”

He abandoned his petulant act, which she’d suspected he’d specifically adopted to annoy her, and kicked back in his chair. “I don’t get it. We like each other. We have a great time together. You look at me like I’m an ice cream sundae, and I look at you the same way. So what’s the big deal?”

The big deal was she’d never again let anything—especially not the temporary temptation of Thad Owens—derail her. Her career was her life, and unless a man like Dennis Cullen came along—a man with no personal ego who devoted himself to his wife’s career—she was keeping her focus where it needed to be, on her work.

She knew the perfect way to deal with Thad. “I have a rule. No hookups, no flings, no affairs. Not without a commitment.”

“Commitment!” Those green eyes shot open. “We’ve only known each other a little over a week!”

She arranged her face in her most earnest expression. “Is commitment a problem for you?”

“Damn right, it’s a problem. I can barely commit to what I want to eat for dinner, let alone to a woman.”

A long, theatrical sigh. “Sorry. Unless you’re thinking about the possibility of marriage, we’re a nonstarter.”

He dropped his spoon, splashing milk on the tabletop. “Did you say ‘marriage’?”

She was an actress, and she had no trouble keeping a straight face. “If you want it, put a ring on it.”

She couldn’t have come up with a more efficient way of defusing the geomagnetic storm of sexual heat that sizzled around them. He shot up from the table. “I’m going out.”

“I thought you might want to.”

It wouldn’t take him long to realize she was baiting him, but for now, she’d enjoy the solitude. Or at least try to.

The piano in the great room was out of tune, but she played it anyway. Tested her voice. Bent her arms over the keyboard and tried not to cry.

*  *  *

Light snow fell on the windshield early the next morning as they drove back toward Denver. They’d taken a hike yesterday and listened to good jazz over dinner. Thad had grilled steaks and sidestepped her questions about his secretive computer habits. Her attempt at making mashed potatoes had ended up in the trash, but she’d made a killer salad. She wished they could have stayed longer.

He eased up on the accelerator. “That was some bullshit you were dishing out yesterday morning. Congratulations.”

She cradled her cup of the coffee they’d brought along. “I do like to take my entertainment where I can find it.”

He turned the wipers to slow speed. “Fair enough. But there’s something between us, and we both know it.” He glanced over at her. “So what’s the real reason you don’t want to take the next logical step?”

She tore her vision away from his profile and shimmied around the truth. “Amazingly, we like each other. We even sort of understand each other. Agree?”

“Agree. And . . . ?”

“I think we need to honor that. Wouldn’t you like having a female friend who’s not jumping you? Somebody you could confide your woman problems to and who could tell you when you’re being a jerk?”

“I already have one of those. Her name’s Piper. Cooper Graham’s wife.”

“But she’s part of your professional world. You need someone outside football you can trust.”

“Considering that I can’t wipe the image of you naked out of my brain, I don’t think it’s realistic to expect we could have that kind of friendship.” He glanced at the driver’s side mirror and pulled into the left lane. “What’s really holding you back? Tell your good buddy, Thad.”

She returned her coffee to the car’s cup holder. “I’ve already told you a lot more about my personal life than you’ve told me about yours. Why is that? Why is it that you want me to spill my secrets when you haven’t revealed anything personal to me?”

“And just like that, you change the subject.”

“Well?”

“I like women. Always have. And before you get offended, I’m not only talking about sex. I spend most of my life with men, and that means lots of sweat, blood, broken bones, and trash talk. Being with a smart woman who smells good and looks good and wants to do something other than play video games and talk about sports is important to me.” He glanced at the speedometer. “I’ve never jumped from woman to woman, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve probably got a lower number than ninety percent of the men in the NFL.”

“Admirable. I guess.”

He swung back into the right lane. He drove too fast, but he wasn’t a road hog. “I’d describe myself as a serial monogamist. I’ve had some great women in my life, and I only regret a couple of them. Your turn.”

She didn’t have to be honest with him, but she wanted to be. “I’ve learned the hard way. No singers, actors, frustrated artists, or anyone who needs a mother instead of a lover.”

“So far, I’m in the clear.”

She regarded him pointedly. “Also, no ambitious, successful men with well-deserved egos who are as dedicated to their careers as I am to mine and who, as it turns out, have only limited tolerance for a woman who’s their mirror image.” There. She’d said it.

He regarded her warily. “Adam burned you in more ways than one.”

She shrugged. “I don’t do well with needy men or with successful men, either.”

He started to ask her how she defined “successful” and then thought better of it. “It kind of narrows your dating pool.”

“Women like me: our careers come first. We can’t accommodate a romantic partner’s schedule. We’re not always available when a man wants to talk or have sex or needs a shoulder to cry on. We have our own money, and we don’t need theirs.”

“I think you’re underestimating a lot of men.”

“Am I? Men like you are attracted to women like me because we understand you. We understand what drives you. But, ultimately, our lives are as big or bigger than yours, and once the newness wears off, that starts to grate.”

“I’m not buying it.”

She might as well go all the way. “Before the disaster with Adam, I was involved with a prominent architect. A good man. Decent. He thinks of himself as a feminist.”

“And then he turned into a creep.”

“Not at all. He respected my career, but things came up, and I was smitten with him. I skipped a class because his old college friends were in town. Then I was late for a rehearsal because he was getting an award. He had an open slot in his schedule, and we’d talked about taking a vacation together. I was about to turn down a concert when I finally woke up and realized I was losing myself. I made a vow never again to get involved with another alpha type.”

“Which explains Adam.”

“Pathetic, aren’t I? I can’t have a relationship with someone successful because it hurts my career, and I can’t have a relationship with someone who’s struggling because it hurts my career.” She slumped into the seat. “I need a Dennis. Unfortunately, I gave him away to Rachel.”

He ignored that piece of self-pity. “You’re making something simple too complicated. Sometimes a relationship can just be fun. Casual.”

“At what point have I ever struck you as a casual person?”

“Fair point.”

It felt good to be honest. “I’ve learned a hard lesson. Relationships compromise my work, and it’s my work that gives my life meaning.”

He kept his gaze fixed on the highway. “Since you’re so clear-eyed, it wouldn’t have to be that way with us.”

She took her time replying. “I like being with you, Thad, and you like being with me, and before long, I might end up turning down Carmen at the Mariinsky to sit on the sidelines and watch you not play.”

He shifted in his seat as if he weren’t entirely comfortable. “That could work two ways, you know.”

“Oh, really? I can see it now. ‘Sorry, Coach, I can’t show up for the game today because my lover is singing Despina in Così fan tutte, and I need to be there to support her.’”

“Okay, maybe not that.”

“You’re the anti-Dennis, and we’re not going to happen, no matter how much I might be lusting after you. I’m not saying I am, but I’m not saying I’m not, either.”

“Flattering,” he said dryly.

She needed to make sure there was no misunderstanding, but that meant revealing something she’d never confessed to another person. She steadied herself. “I want to be one of the immortals, Thad,” she said quietly. “I want to do great work. Not just good. Great. I want to do work so monumental people will still be listening to my recordings long after I’m gone.”

Her openness took him aback, and he responded in the only way he knew how, by launching an offensive. “You’re making something as simple and natural as sex way too complicated.”

“Says the man who wants to get laid.”

“You do, too.”

“And I hope it’ll happen one of these days. But not with you.” She gripped her hands in her lap. “I can’t go to bed with you, Thad Owens, no matter how much I might want to. Because, whether you admit it or not, who I am is more than a man like you can handle.”

His mouth set in a grim line. “That’s what you think.”

They rode the rest of the way to Denver in silence.

*  *  *

They arrived at the hotel at nine in the morning. Henri had kept his word. Thad and Olivia had adjoining suites. Hers had a kitchen and dining area. His didn’t. But they were back in civilization again, and as long as the door stayed open between them, he didn’t care about having the smaller space.

She went off to unpack. He hung up his jacket. Their conversation in the car had rattled him—not because he didn’t understand what she’d said but because he did, and it had tilted his perspective in a way he didn’t like. She was right. No matter how intelligent or successful the women in his life had been, they had accommodated themselves to him more than he’d ever accommodated himself to them. He’d come first. Always.

An eerie sound emerged from the next suite, breaking his train of thought. It wasn’t exactly a scream, but something close enough to make him rush into the other room.

She stood in the center of the living area, a brown envelope at her feet, a crumpled white T-shirt in her hand. He took in her ashen face and the rust-colored stains that covered the shirt.

“Jesus . . .”

She dropped the T-shirt. Beneath the bloody stains, he made out the T-shirt’s inscription. Tenors do it better.

He hurried to her side and picked up the envelope. It was postmarked San Francisco with no return address. Had whoever mailed this been in San Francisco when they were there? Had they been watching her?

She pressed her fingers to her lips and stared down at the T-shirt. “Adam . . . He . . . must have been wearing this when he shot himself. I—I gave it to him.”

Thad knelt down and examined the T-shirt. “When?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long ago was it? When did you give it to him?”

Her fingers balled into a fist. “I—I don’t remember exactly. Not long after we started dating.” She turned away.

“Did he wear it much?”

She gave a jerky nod.

He picked up the T-shirt and came to his feet. She recoiled as he held out the shirt. “Look at the tag, Liv.”

She recoiled. “Get it away from me.”

“Look at it.”

Her shoulders heaved, but she finally did as he demanded. “I don’t see—” She broke off as she saw what he saw. The T-shirt’s tag was stiff and crisp. It had never been washed.

“This isn’t his shirt,” she said as the realization struck her. “It’s never been washed, and the size is wrong. It looks like the shirt I gave him, but this isn’t it.”

“Somebody is playing a nasty mind game with you.”

They both jumped as a knock sounded on the door. A bellman stood on the other side with a gift basket so large he’d brought it up on a cart. Emerging from the cellophane were two bottles of champagne, a pair of crystal glasses, and an assortment of gourmet cheeses, nuts, crackers, and designer chocolates.

The bellman wheeled in the cart. “Compliments of Mr. Rupert Glass.”