When Stars Collide

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  As he pondered his options, he wandered into her adjoining suite where she was doing some yoga sun salutations by the windows. He sprawled on the couch and pretended to look at his phone when, in fact, he was admiring her strength right along with the stretch of her yoga pants over her butt.

  He considered his dilemma. He owed these guys, and he didn’t want to cancel, but Henri was busy and Paisley was useless.

  The suite’s doorbell rang. Thad blocked her from answering and opened the door himself.

  Clint Garrett stood on the other side. “I was visiting a girlfriend in Memphis, and I thought I’d drop in.”

  “Memphis is a couple of hundred miles away,” Thad pointed out.

  Clint shrugged. “Whatever.”

  For once, Garrett’s timing was exactly right. “Come on in.”

  “Hey, Clint.” The Diva waved at him and returned to her sun salutations.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,” Clint said. “I saw that crap in the papers, and I heard Phoebe’s all stirred up about it. I want you to know I’m here for you, T-Bo.”

  Thad slapped him on the back. “Appreciate it. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Clint regarded him suspiciously. “Why’s that?”

  “I have to go out, and I need you to stay with Liv.”

  Olivia came out of her down dog. “I don’t need anybody to stay with me.”

  “Yeah, she does.” He gave Clint more details of the New Orleans attack and mentioned the threatening letters. “There’s been some other nastiness. A phone call, a couple of packages. She also has a stalker named Rupert.”

  Olivia reared up. “Rupert is not a—”

  Thad continued, ignoring her. “I don’t trust hotel security. Point of fact—you didn’t have any trouble getting up here. Plus, she has a habit of running off.”

  “I do not—”

  “I need to slip out for a couple of hours.” He gave Clint another tap on the back. “Can you keep an eye on her?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” the yogi huffed from the window.

  “She’s slippery,” Thad said. “Don’t let her get away from you.”

  “I am not slip—”

  “Got it,” Clint said. “Can I make out with her?”

  Bastard. “You can try. Doubt you’ll succeed.” On the other hand, Clint was a good-looking guy, and he met The Diva’s most important requirement in a lover: no possibility of a relationship.

  Thad eyeballed The Diva. “Clint’s not the brightest guy in the world, and sex is the only way he knows how to relate to women. I don’t think you’ll fall for his routine, but if you do . . . make sure he’s got that herpes outbreak under control.”

  Clint laughed and pounded Thad extra hard on the back. “You’re one of a kind, dude.”

  The Diva smiled. “I don’t need a babysitter, but it would be lovely to be with someone who’s not bossing me around.”

  “I know what you mean,” Clint said. “Boy, do I ever know what you mean.”

  Thad glared at him. “Do not let her out of your sight.”

  “Roger that.”

  Thad met his pals that night, but he didn’t have a good time. He was too busy thinking about what might be going on back at the hotel.

  * * *

  “That part always gets me.” Clint’s voice was suspiciously woolly with emotion. “‘You complete me.’ Everybody talks about that other thing. That ‘had me at hello’ thing, but when he says, ‘You complete me.’ What kind of dude says something like that? But still . . . It gets me.”

  Olivia wiped her eyes as the credits rolled on Jerry Maguire. “Why have I never seen this movie? I know why. Because I thought it was about football.”

  “Not enough action.” Recovering from his brief emotional display, he draped his arm over the back of the couch. “If T-Bo asks, tell him we watched The Waterboy.”

  The leg she’d been sitting on had gone to sleep, and she pulled it out from under her. “Isn’t that one of those Adam Sandler movies?”

  He nodded. “It’s most players’ favorite.”

  “Because Jerry Maguire is too girlie, right?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

  “Then what would you say?”

  “It’s too girlie.”

  She laughed and rose from the couch, wriggling her numb leg to get the blood moving again. “I’m going to bed, and you don’t have to stay. Really. Thad’s being ridiculous.”

  “S’okay. I’ll just hang out here for a while.”

  “Don’t be such a wimp. You’re not his bitch.”

  “Says you.”

  “You shouldn’t let him talk to you like he does.” She sat back down. “I did a little research, and you have a higher quarterback rating after your second season than Dean Robillard did, and I know he’s supposed to have been this big shot Stars player. But Thad treats you like you’re a high school kid.”

  Clint nodded. “In football, you have to earn respect.”

  “And you haven’t done that?”

  “Not the kind of respect I want from him.”

  “But you’re a better player than he is. That’s what I don’t understand. You’re the starter. Not him.”

  “It’s not that simple. I’m faster than he is, and my arm’s stronger. But T-Bo . . . He’s this wizard. Even with his vision thing, he can find a receiver where nobody else can, and the way he reads a defense . . . It’s like he’s got ESP. I have to learn how to do what he does.”

  “Even if it means putting up with his abuse?”

  “Me and T-Bo . . . We have an understanding. I love the guy.” He regarded her more sharply. “Now when it comes to T-Bo and women . . . you might want to be careful.”

  “You don’t have to warn me. I’ve never been more clearheaded about anyone. No man is going to derail me.” She could see he didn’t believe her, and she tried to explain. “The three of us . . . You, Thad, me . . . We’re not like most other people. Our work comes first.”

  He nodded and then grinned. “Do you want to mess with him?”

  She tilted her head. “What do you have in mind?”

  * * *

  Where the hell was she? When he’d returned to the hotel and found the suite empty, he’d texted her and gotten no response. Then he’d texted the idiot he’d stupidly left to watch her.

  Crickets.

  He stalked to the lobby and talked to a bellman who’d seen Garrett drive off with The Diva in his Maserati GT convertible.

  Thad told himself she’d be fine. The idiot wasn’t an idiot. He’d keep her safe. But . . .

  She should have been sound asleep here in the suite with Garrett standing guard outside her bedroom door.

  He paced the floor like a parent waiting for a kid who’d violated curfew.

  Half an hour passed. An hour. Finally, he heard them laughing in the hallway. Fucking laughing!

  The door opened. She was all rumpled. Her dress had a swirly skirt, her hair was down and tangled, and she was barefoot, carrying her heels. What mainly struck him about Garrett was how young the kid looked. The epitome of youthful manliness. No fine lines webbed his eyes, no brackets ridged his mouth, and he’d bet anything that Garrett’s knees didn’t creak when he got out of bed in the morning.

  Thad kept his voice in control, but he still sounded like a reprimanding parent. “Where have you been?”

  “At a club,” Olivia said brightly.

  “A club?” He lost it, venting his anger on Garrett. “You took her to a club?”

  The kid shrugged. “She’s a wild one.”

  Thad turned on Olivia. “What about your voice? What kind of opera singer goes to a nightclub where the noise level is off the fucking decibel chart?”

  Her smile was maddeningly serene. “I didn’t talk.”

  “She’s a great dancer,” Garrett said quickly.

  “You are, too.” She gave the kid all kinds of smiles.

&nbs
p; Garrett glanced uneasily at Thad. “I guess it’s time I go.”

  “Good guess,” Thad snarled.

  One of Garrett’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, and then, out of nowhere, he called an audible. In the sneak play of the century, he kissed The Diva with pinpoint accuracy, right on the lips—a full-on, wide open, All Pro, forward pass . . .

  . . . with an eligible receiver kissing him right back.

  Thad leaped forward.

  The Diva shot out her arm—toward him, not toward the quarterback sneak—keeping Thad at a distance while she also kept her lips glued to Garrett’s. Finally, she unglued and patted the asshole on the chest. “Good night, lover.”

  Garrett smiled and headed into the hallway only to turn back and make a small, quick movement—so small and quick Thad doubted The Diva even noticed. The kid lifted his arms and pointed toward Thad, the gesture over almost as soon as it had begun.

  Son of a bitch. Garrett had tossed Thad a game signal. The same signal referees used to indicate that the offense had just earned a first down.

  The clueless Diva shut the door and smiled at Thad. “That was fun.”

  He took a deep breath. Then another. He barely recognized himself. He was Thad Walker Bowman Owens! He’d never been jealous of another man in his life, yet here he was, fuming over a wet-behind-the-ears kid barely out of college. A kid who could run faster than Thad, throw farther . . .

  The Diva smiled and gave him this soft, melty-eye, non-Diva look. “I adore you. I really do.”

  And that was it. Before he could conjure up even a semblance of a response, she’d sauntered into her bedroom, that swirly black skirt spanking her thighs.

  * * *

  Olivia smiled around her electric toothbrush. She was crazy about Clint Garrett. He was the mischievous little brother she’d always wanted—although she definitely wouldn’t have kissed her little brother the same way she’d kissed Clint. But tonight, with Thad looking on, it had been too much fun to resist.

  Fun. Something that hadn’t played a big part in her life until Thad Owens had appeared.

  Being with Clint tonight—trying to follow his steps in the country line dances—had been a reprieve from the overwhelming sexual sizzle she experienced when she was with Thad. The sizzle, mixed in with foreboding—an ominous sense she was inching too close to the rim of an active volcano.

  She rinsed her mouth and stowed her toothbrush in the charger. Even though Thad’s jealousy had only been a manifestation of his professional rivalry with Garrett, she’d enjoyed tweaking it.

  As she slathered her face with her almond-scented cleanser, dabbed on her toner, then her retinol, she decided Thad Owens might be the most decent man she’d ever met. He’d assumed the role of her caretaker, whether she wanted him to or not. It was so odd. She’d been the caretaker in her relationship with Adam. The guardian of his career, the custodian of his feelings, the one who always accommodated. Having someone watch out for her was a new experience.

  She hesitated, then turned the water on full force to mask the noise of her voice as she began singing her scales. Finally, she reached for a high C.

  She didn’t make it.

  11

  Thad played it cool for the next two days, acting as if the incident with Clint hadn’t happened, but her attitude still bugged the hell out of him. Thad had been leading the offense since he was a kid. He was the play-caller, not The Diva. What kind of game was she running?

  She gazed at him across the room service cart. They’d gotten in the habit of eating an early breakfast together in one suite or the other, and today she was deep into an egg white omelet.

  He looked up from his phone. “I’ve got this urge to hear you do Cassandra Wilson’s version of ‘Time After Time.’”

  Her nose went up. “Then call Cassandra Wilson. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to sing it for you.”

  “Come on, Liv. Give a guy a break.”

  “I can’t even do Cindy Lauper’s ‘Time After Time.’ And I don’t know what Cassandra’s version sounds like.”

  “I’ll play it.”

  And he did. She sat back in her chair, breakfast abandoned, and listened to Wilson’s wrenching, soulful version of the ancient Lauper hit. When it ended, she turned her head away and gazed out the window at the Manhattan skyline.

  She began to sing. It wasn’t Lauper or Wilson; it was some beautiful hybrid only she could produce. But even he knew it wasn’t opera, and as her voice faded away, she looked so wistful that he couldn’t bear it.

  He pushed back from his own breakfast. “We’ve got a couple of hours before we have to be at Tiffany, and I have an idea . . .”

  * * *

  The eleven crystal chandeliers in the lobby of the Metropolitan Opera House were still a spectacular sight in the morning light. This place couldn’t be more different from the basement jazz clubs where Thad usually hung out.

  “There are twenty-one more chandeliers in the auditorium.” Liv looked her normal superstar self in one of those black pencil dresses she’d changed into for the day, along with some gold Spanish earrings, her wide Egyptian cuff, and the Cavatina3. A pair of nude stilettos made her thoroughbred legs look ready for the runway.

  She rested her hand on the curved railing. “Right before the performance begins, twelve of the big chandeliers in the auditorium ascend above the audience. It’s a spectacular sight.”

  “I’ll bet.” Outside the Metropolitan’s soaring windows, a swarm of tourists clustered by the Lincoln Center fountain for photos, and in the distance, traffic jostled for position on Columbus Avenue. Manhattan was crazy. The noise. The traffic. The city’s chaos bothered him in a way Chicago’s midwestern bustle never did. Or maybe his sour mood had more to do with the memory of Clint Garrett’s lips on The Diva’s mouth.

  “The Met’s chandeliers were a gift to the United States from the Austrian government in the 1960s,” she said. “A very nice thank-you present for the Marshall Plan.”

  She shot him a sideways look that suggested she doubted he knew what the Marshall Plan was. He hadn’t taken only finance classes in college, so he suspected he knew more about the billions of dollars the US had earmarked for Western Europe’s World War II recovery efforts than she did.

  He decided to deadpan it. “Not all jocks are ignorant, Liv. If it hadn’t been for the Marshall Plan, small towns all across America wouldn’t have a sheriff.”

  She blinked and laughed, but whatever retort she intended to make was cut off by the appearance of a short, rotund man with steel-wool hair and an elastic smile. “Olivia! My dear! Does Peter know you’re here? And Thomas? It’s been forever since we’ve seen you.”

  “Four months,” she replied, after they’d done one of those double-cheek kisses Thad considered anti-American. “And this isn’t an official visit. Charles, this is my . . . friend Thad Owens. Thad, Charles is one of the administrators who keeps this place running.”

  Charles shook hands politely, but he was far more focused on The Diva. “I was thinking about Elektra this morning and your Klytaemnestra. ‘Ich habe keine guten Nächte.’ I still get shivers. You were incandescent.”

  “Elektra,” she said. “Our operatic version of a slasher movie.”

  “So deliciously bloody.” He rubbed his hands. “And you’re doing Amneris at the Muni in Chicago. Everyone’s thrilled.” The Diva’s smile momentarily froze, but Charles didn’t notice.

  They exchanged more opera talk, with Charles treating Liv as if she were a goddess who’d descended into his midst. A few more staff members appeared, and one of them actually kissed her hand. Thad had to admit it was interesting watching someone other than himself being fawned over. It was also enlightening. He knew Liv was a big deal in the opera world, but seeing the reality drove the point home.

  And made his mission even more urgent.

  The expression on her face over breakfast as she’d listened to Cassandra Wilson had been too much for him. He’d told her he wanted a bac
kstage tour of the Met because he was curious about the place, which was true, but more important, he hoped being back in these familiar surroundings might somehow unlock her voice.

  Helping The Diva get her voice back had become almost as much of an obsession for him as picturing the two of them in bed on their last night in Las Vegas. It still seemed months away even though it was only a few days. As he knew from experience, great athletes didn’t choke under pressure—except when they did. He’d done some research into psychogenic voice disorders, and he wondered if the lessons he’d learned from athletics through the years could carry over into music.

  Unlocking the potential of others was something he’d become good at. The Diva was a head case, but so was every athlete at one time or another. Maybe it was his ego talking, but he liked the idea of being the person who freed her.

  Eventually, Liv extricated herself from her admirers and took him up some stairs to the parterre level, where the box seats were located, and where they could look down on a rehearsal for an upcoming production of something in Russian, the name of which he didn’t catch. Seeing what had to be a hundred singers moving around was impressive. “There are three additional big stages,” she told him. “They come out on motorized platforms.”

  And he thought putting on an NFL game was complicated.

  Liv took him to the maze that made up the various rooms of the costume department: areas packed with bolts of fabric, sewing machines, long tables where garments were being cut and hand-stitched, and rows of headless mannequins wearing parts of costumes.

  “Madame Shore!” An older woman with cropped, pumpkin-colored hair bustled toward them, a pair of reading glasses jiggling on a long chain at her chest.

  “Luella! It’s good to see you.”

  Liv performed the introductions, and Luella took over the tour, showing him vast racks where thousands of garments were stored. “We had fourteen hundred costumes for War and Peace alone,” Luella told him.

  He met a cobbler resoling a pair of boots and watched a wig being made. The meticulous process of adding only two hairs at a time required a patience he couldn’t imagine.

  Everywhere they went, he witnessed the staff’s affection and admiration for Olivia, an affection she returned. She remembered the names of husbands, wives, children, and boyfriends. She asked about ailments and work commutes. She advanced through her world the same way he did through his, paying attention to everyone, from the top administrators to the most junior employee.