When Stars Collide

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “Just as I suspected. You know more about football than you pretend. And there’s nothing simple about an interception. Now stop stalling and sing.”

  She emitted a pained sigh and then, to his surprise, began to sing. A piece so mournful he wished it weren’t in English.

  “When I am laid . . . am laid in earth . . .”

  Despite its maudlin subject, the notes she produced were so round and rich they could only have come from the throat of the best in the world.

  “Passable,” he said over the constriction in his own throat when she finished.

  “It’s ‘Dido’s Lament’ from Dido and Aeneas.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He smiled at her and she gave him a wobbly smile in return. “It was beautiful, but kind of depressing,” he said. “How about you slay me? Right now. One of your big numbers.”

  “Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want me singing full voice inside a car.”

  “You don’t think I’m man enough to handle it?”

  “I know you’re not.” She dug in her purse, pulled out a tissue, ripped off a couple of pieces, and wadded them into balls. She leaned over, a breast pressed to his upper arm, and stuffed them in his ears. It was a wonder he didn’t drive off the road. “You asked for it.”

  And she let it rip. Even with his makeshift earplugs, her lavish, crystal-shattering Bugatti of a voice raised the hair on the back of his neck.

  When she was done, all he could do was breathe a prayer. “Jesus, Liv . . .”

  “I was holding back,” she said, almost defiantly. “It’s called marking. It’s what we do sometimes to save our voices during rehearsals.”

  “Got it. Like a no-contact football practice.” He tried to figure out how he could say what he couldn’t get off his mind. “Do you feel like taking requests?”

  “I’m not doing ‘Love Shack.’”

  He smiled. “I was thinking more like . . .” He hesitated, but he couldn’t make himself say it. Couldn’t reveal how much he’d been thinking about it. “Forget it. I changed my mind.”

  “Forget what?”

  He played dumb. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you want me to sing?”

  “Whatever you want. I’m easy.”

  “But you said . . .”

  He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t ask her to sing Carmen’s sensuous, rebellious “Habanera” just for him. Wouldn’t admit how much he wanted to be her private audience. He shot into the left lane. “Who am I to dictate anything to the Beautiful Turnip?”

  “Tornado. And you’re speeding again.”

  He backed off on the accelerator, and she began to sing, first something in French, then German, then Italian—none of them “Habanera.” She sang all the way to the Lincoln Tunnel, and the next evening, as they boarded the plane to fly to Las Vegas, his ears still buzzed. She wasn’t happy with her sound, but for him . . . it was glorious.

  * * *

  She was due at the Muni in a week. Olivia gazed out the window of the plane on their flight to Las Vegas, her feelings in turmoil. She could mark for the first few rehearsals to buy herself time. She’d sung Amneris enough that no one would think twice about it. But sooner or later, that time would run out.

  She told herself she was making progress. When they were in the car, she’d had to sing down an octave on the highs, but at least she was singing. At least? When had delivering anything but her best become her career goal?

  Las Vegas loomed ahead, enticing and terrifying. Every day her physical need for him grew more urgent, her sleep more restless, her dreams more erotic. If she didn’t see this through to its logical conclusion, she’d always regret it. And if she did? Their relationship would never be the same.

  She closed her eyes and tried not to think.

  * * *

  The panoramic windows of their connecting suites at the Bellagio looked out over the flamboyant sprawl of Las Vegas. It was midnight, and Rupert’s latest offering had already arrived, a woman’s Louis Vuitton duffel packed with exotic cheeses, imported caviar, and ludicrously expensive chocolates. “He’s going to go broke,” Liv said.

  “Yeah, I’d feel real bad about that.” Thad whipped his phone from his pocket. “Give me his number. I’m sure you have it.”

  The thought of what he might say to Rupert alarmed her. “I’m not giving you his phone number.”

  “Never mind. I already have it.”

  “How did you get his number?”

  He looked down his nose at her, deliberately condescending. “I’m a spoiled professional athlete, remember? I can get whatever I want.”

  As he tapped at his phone, she tried to grab it from him. “It’s the middle of the night. You’ll scare him!”

  “That’s the general idea.” He’d fended off opponents for years, and using both his height and the barrier of his elbow, he kept her at a distance as he moved over to the windows. “Mr. Glass, dis is Bruno Kowalski. Sorry to wake you up.” His fake tough-guy accent suggested he might have seen too many Scorsese movies. “I’m Miz Shore’s bodyguard.”

  She rolled her eyes, torn between pity for poor Rupert and a curiosity about what Thad was going to say.

  “The thing is . . . all these presents is upsettin’ her lawyer.” Thad winked at her. “Dude says she’s gonna be in trouble with the IRS. Somethin’ about exceeding fed’ral tax limits. She’s real stressed out about it. Maybe thinkin’ about givin’ up opera and goin’ on the road with a rock band.”

  What? she mouthed at him.

  He shrugged at her. “So all I’m sayin’ is . . . if you don’t want her to keep bein’ upset, you better cut it out.” Long, menacing pause. “If you know what I mean.”

  She could faintly hear Rupert’s high, squeaky response.

  “Yeah, I thought you’d understand. Now you have a real good day, Mr. Glass, okay?”

  She planted her hands on her hips as he disconnected. “‘Exceeding federal tax limits’? Who comes up with something like that?”

  “Somebody with a degree in finance from the University of Kentucky and an unhealthy interest in the IRS.” He slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Better than threatening to shoot out his kneecaps, right?”

  “You’re all heart.”

  * * *

  The International Jewelers Convention in Las Vegas was the busiest stop on their tour, and they spent two days meeting with jewelers and buyers. Several of them felt duty bound to point out what she already knew about her own jewelry. Her pigeon’s egg necklace didn’t hold a real ruby, her Egyptian cuff was a fake, her poison rings not real antiques, and her dangling Spanish earrings souvenir quality. When they offered to give her a good deal on the real thing, she told them she lost jewelry too easily instead of telling the truth, that she had genuine pieces she seldom wore locked up in her apartment.

  She and Thad posed for photos, sat for interviews, and chatted with bloggers. Through it all, the air between them crackled with erotic anticipation. Every gesture, every glance carried extra meaning.

  I can’t wait to see . . . To touch . . . To taste . . . To feel . . .

  Even in the air-conditioned exhibition hall, her cheeks felt flushed, her skin hot. She forgot names, lost track of conversations, and he was doing even worse. At one point, he addressed a clearly pregnant woman as “sir.”

  As they walked through the crowded aisles, his hand stroked the small of her back. She brushed against his hip. When they posed for photos, their fingers touched behind the person standing between them. It was foreplay shot into the stratosphere.

  Their last night arrived. She dressed with extra care for the private client dinner at José Andrés’s newest restaurant. Hair down. Barely there underpants. She debated between two black cocktail dresses. Under the more modest one, she could wear a deliciously sexy lacy black bra. But a bra would show beneath the other, a simple black sheath with a severely plunging V that required a set of silicone gel lift pads and a little fashion tape to hold every
thing together. Not nearly as alluring as the sexy lace bra. But the neckline of that more modest dress didn’t come to a point well below her breasts and wouldn’t drive him crazy all through dinner.

  She imagined herself toying with the edge of that enticing V and trailing her fingers along her exposed skin. Definitely worth sacrificing the lacy bra, she decided.

  She set aside her customary statement jewelry for understatement—a simple pair of earrings and an extra-long delicate silver chain dangling a tiny silver star charm. Rachel had bought that for her when they were both flat broke. As Olivia fastened it around her neck, the little star nestled between her breasts, right where she imagined the Stars quarterback would put his lips.

  She shivered. First, they had to endure a long, boring dinner.

  Las Vegas venues were brutally air-conditioned, and she dug out a vintage flamenco shawl that had been a gift from a Carmen fan. Bringing the ghost of Sevilla’s sultry Romani cigar maker along for the evening felt like the perfect good-luck charm.

  A knock sounded on their connecting door. She draped the shawl over her shoulders and picked up her small evening purse.

  At first, he didn’t say a thing. He simply stood there taking her in. Then he breathed a soft, flattering obscenity.

  She tilted her head so her hair fell over one shoulder and breathed just deeply enough to swell the exposed inner slopes of her breasts.

  He groaned. “You’re diabolical.”

  Exactly what she wanted to hear.

  * * *

  The front desk called up to tell them their limo had arrived. It was early, but she and Thad were both ready, and they headed down to the lobby. As they settled into the car’s back seat, they were so focused on each other she barely heard the driver tell them that Henri had already left and would meet them at the restaurant.

  “Just what we don’t need.” Olivia slipped the flamenco shawl higher around her shoulders. “More time alone together.”

  Thad gazed at her legs. “The next three hours can’t go by fast enough.”

  Olivia slid onto the bench seat that ran the length of the limo, putting a little distance between them. He gave her a lazy smile. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you tonight.”

  She swallowed hard, let the shawl slip down over one shoulder, and relied on her acting skills for false bravado. “You worry about yourself, cowboy, because I’m in the mood for a long, hard ride.”

  “That’s it! There’s only so much a man can take.” He grabbed for his phone and plunged in a set of earbuds. “You entertain yourself with some Candy Crush and ignore me. Dizzy Gillespie and I have a date.”

  She smiled as he closed his eyes. This was going to be a night to remember.

  But as she gazed at the limo’s blue and purple ceiling lights, her amusement faded. She’d dictated the terms. They would have tonight along with three additional days in Chicago before she went into rehearsals. In four more days, it would be over between them. There’d be no more hotel suites with connecting doors, no more late-night chats and early-morning breakfasts. Their relationship would end.

  The thought of never seeing him again was a knife through her heart. She closed her eyes. Tried to shut herself off from the truth that had been nagging at her for days like a bad toothache.

  She’d fallen in love with him.

  Stupid! Once again, she’d fallen for the wrong man, but how could she not? He was exciting, perceptive, and rock-bottom decent. His intellect upended every stereotype about professional athletes. Whenever she saw him, her senses went on high alert, and denying the depth of her feelings for him wouldn’t change them. Besides, when it came to Thad Owens—denial was dangerous.

  Thad was a powerful, ambitious man with a big life. His career had made him a second stringer, existing on the edge of Clint Garrett’s spotlight, but unlike Dennis Cullen, Thad would never be happy taking a back seat in his private life, and she could never be happy with a man unable to do exactly that. A man who’d be willing to follow her from Johannesburg to Sydney and on to Hong Kong. Who’d put up with her rehearsal schedule, her crazy hours.

  Opera was her life’s blood. Its drama and grandeur fueled her. The euphoria of hitting impossible notes, of digging so deeply inside herself that she became the character. The exhilaration of having an entire audience stop breathing as they waited to hear what she’d do next. That was where her heart and soul lived, and she couldn’t give that up, not even for love.

  His eyes were still closed, absorbed in Dizzy’s riffs. Thad represented everything she couldn’t have without giving up on herself. Without abandoning her destiny.

  She had to use these next few days to build memories she could tuck away for the rest of her life. Memories she could unearth when she was alone in some distant hotel room or when she gave a bad performance or a critic was brutal. She would savor the memories and know she’d made the right choice.

  Thad shifted on the back seat and punched a button on the limo’s overhead control panel. “Driver?”

  She’d been so engrossed in her thoughts that she’d lost track of time. Now, as she looked out through the darkened limousine windows, she could only see desert. They’d left the lights of Las Vegas behind.

  13

  “Driver!” Thad shouted into the ceiling intercom.

  The limo picked up speed—going much too fast—and the smoked-glass partition separating them from the driver stayed shut. Thad scrambled past her and banged on it. “Stop the car!”

  The car swerved off the highway. She clutched the bar for support as they lurched onto a bumpy road. Thad regained his balance first. “Let me have that.” He grabbed Olivia’s silky flamenco shawl and began twisting it around his hand.

  Olivia snatched up her phone and hit the emergency SOS button.

  Nothing happened.

  “Get back!” Thad pushed her behind him and slammed his wrapped arm into the partition window, shattering the tempered glass between them and the driver into pebbles.

  The limo careened, throwing them both to the floor. As Thad scrambled to his feet, she tried again to use her phone. “I can’t get a signal!”

  “Cell jammer.”

  The car lurched to a stop.

  Thad dove toward the broken place where the partition had been, but the driver threw open the door, killed the headlights, and jumped out before Thad could touch him. She leaped for one of the passenger doors, while Thad went for the other. They were both locked. He glanced toward the limo’s bar, looking for something to make into a weapon—a wine bottle or glass—but the compartments were empty.

  “Whatever happens, stay behind me,” he ordered.

  “This is because of me,” she cried. “You know it is.”

  “Do what I say.”

  A click. The rear passenger door flew open, and the dome light went on. “Get out,” a gruff voice said.

  Thad pushed in front of her and stepped from the limo. Her flamenco scarf dropped to the ground as he blocked the door with his body to shield her inside.

  This was all wrong. She should be the one protecting him. She made another desperate visual search of the interior. Nothing in the bar. Nothing in her purse except a room key and tissues. She dropped her cell and scooped up two handfuls of the security glass pebbles that had fallen onto the seat from the broken partition. Even though it was tempered glass, the edges bit into her palms.

  “Move over,” that same gruff voice shouted outside. She could see nothing through the windows except the dark.

  Thad stayed where he was, blocking the rear door. “What do you want?”

  “Move over or I’ll shoot. Both of you! Out here!”

  “Stay inside,” Thad ordered her.

  She wasn’t having it. Keeping her fists clenched, glass inside, she pushed against him and wedged herself out of the limo into the emptiness of the Mojave Desert.

  At first, she could see nothing beyond the ooze of dim yellow light from the limo’s interior. A jet flew overhead, maybe from N
ellis Air Force Base, maybe from McCarran. As her eyes adjusted, she took in the hulking shape of the man standing outside the light. He wore a dark suit, but the brim of his chauffeur’s hat concealed most of his face. Was he the man who’d accosted her at the bookstore? They seemed to be roughly the same size, but so were millions of other men.

  “Step away from the car!” he shouted into the darkness.

  Instead of fear, a hot rush of fury took over. “We’re not going anywhere!”

  The earth erupted in front of them. She gasped. He hadn’t been bluffing about the gun.

  Thad grabbed her and pushed her into the darkness. “Do what he says.”

  “Why?” She was furious. Possessed by a raging wildfire. Furious with their kidnapper. With herself for involving Thad in her mess. With this cretin who was terrorizing them. “Big man with a gun!” She gripped the glass pebbles tighter in her fists. “What do you want, big man?”

  “Shut up, Liv,” Thad ordered.

  “Shut up!” their kidnapper shouted at exactly the same time. He spun on Thad. “Give me your wallet. Toss it over there.”

  Thad did as he demanded.

  “Now your phone,” the man said.

  “Don’t do it!” Olivia exclaimed.

  Thad ignored her. The man kept the gun leveled as he bent down to snatch them both up.

  “Now that watch.”

  Thad unclipped the Victory780 and tossed it toward his feet.

  The man turned in her direction. “Give me your purse.”

  She couldn’t get past her fury. “It’s in the limo, you moron.”

  “Liv . . .” Thad’s voice sounded a sharp, warning note.

  But she’d sucked Thad into what should have been her crisis alone, and she was beyond reason. “Big man wants to do drama! I do drama better than anyone!”

  The man lunged for her. She let both hands fly, hurling the glass at his face.

  He gave a howl of shock, and that was all Thad needed to charge him. The gun fired and flew into the air. She screamed, lost her balance, and fell.

  “Liv!” Thad spun toward her.