When Stars Collide

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  She reminded herself to stay focused on the present—today—not on the future, because wiping him out of her life would be horrible, and if she thought too hard about it, she’d ruin the little time they had left together.

  * * *

  Henri and Paisley met them in the suite for their last day before the tour ended. Instead of being upset by the photo, Henri was pleased. “Very romantic, yes? Windy City Live has already called. They want you both on tomorrow morning’s program. I hope you don’t mind adding it to your schedule.” His cell rang, and his smile became a frown. “Excuse me.” He stepped outside into the hallway.

  Olivia and Thad were still at the table finishing their coffee. She scrunched her nose at him. “What do you bet that’s Mariel calling to ream Henri out for the way we’re dragging the Marchand name through the mud.”

  Paisley, who’d been working on her eye makeup in the hotel suite’s mirror, shoved her mascara wand back in her bag. “Mariel doesn’t understand anything about publicity. She’s, like, all caught up in the 1950s or something. She’s not even on LinkedIn. At least Henri is starting to get it.” She reached back into her bag—maybe for a lipstick, maybe for her phone—but her hand stalled. “I was thinking . . .” She withdrew her hand. “Maybe you guys could, like, recommend me as a PA to some of your celebrity friends? Or as a publicist. Not you, Olivia, no offense—unless you know some pop stars or, like, even B-listers who want a personal assistant?”

  “Gosh, I can’t think of anyone,” Olivia said innocently. “But I bet Thad has contacts.”

  He stared into his coffee cup, taking the coward’s way out. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Paisley twisted the strap of her bag between her fingers and stared at them both. “Neither of you wants to help me, do you? You don’t respect me.”

  “It’s not about respect,” Thad said tactfully.

  “You don’t think I do a good job,” Paisley muttered.

  Olivia regarded her with some sympathy. Paisley had been raised in privilege, and it was as much her parents’ fault she was so clueless as her own. “Paisley,” she said as kindly as she could, “you haven’t gone out of your way to be helpful on this tour.”

  Paisley abandoned her purse. “That’s only because of how can I get excited about passing out sandwiches to reporters and, like, making sure your suitcases get to the right room?”

  A task Paisley hadn’t exactly performed well.

  Thad stepped in. “I understand promoting watches isn’t what you want to do, but once you take a job, you give it your best. That includes the parts you don’t like. And every job has those. You need to do them as diligently as you do everything else.”

  Olivia had a strong suspicion he might be talking about himself and the work he was doing with Clint Garrett.

  Paisley looked ready to cry. “That’s so not fair! I work hard! And I’ve gotten you twice as much publicity as you’d have gotten if you’d left it up to Henri or Mariel! I—” She stopped abruptly. Grabbing her bag, she headed for the door.

  Olivia shot up from the table and blocked her. “Maybe you’d better explain that.”

  “Forget it.” Paisley tossed her hair, looking as defiant as a teen who’d been caught out after curfew.

  It all fell into place. Olivia looked at Thad and could see he was thinking exactly the same thing. “You took those photos,” she said. “You’re the one who’s been feeding them to the gossip sites.”

  15

  Olivia stared at Paisley as the pieces came together. If she hadn’t been so distracted, she’d have figured it out days ago. Those four photos: Phoenix, LA, New Orleans, and yesterday’s kiss on Michigan Avenue. “You’ve been following us,” she said, stating what was now so obvious.

  Thad rose from the table, and Paisley took a step back, as if she were afraid he’d hit her. “So what if I did? You got twice as many interviews as you’d have gotten if all you had to talk about was your lame watches.”

  “That’s not the point,” Olivia said.

  Paisley looked down at her hands. “I told you I know how to work hard. Like, I got up really early to take that shot of you and Thad coming back from your hike. And I know how to get publicity. Obviously.”

  Thad’s expression was as stern as Olivia had ever seen it. “You didn’t have any right to expose our private lives.”

  “I was doing my job! Exactly what you said, Thad. If you sign up to do a job, do the work. And that’s what I did.”

  “What you did was unprofessional and unethical,” Olivia said.

  “I’m sorry, okay!”

  She wasn’t sorry, and Olivia dug in. “Becoming successful means working hard, but it also means working with integrity. You won’t go far with any celebrity if you’re not discreet and trustworthy.”

  Paisley began picking at a cuticle. “I guess I shouldn’t have done it. But seeing how lame their feeds are made me crazy. I knew I could do better.”

  “Then be straightforward about it,” Thad said, “and do some photo mock-ups for Henri. Images that feel fresh but also work for the Marchand brand.”

  “Images that don’t involve Thad’s butt,” Olivia added.

  Paisley looked only momentarily disappointed. “I can do that.” She tugged on her hair. “So are you guys still pissed? Because if you’re not, maybe you could, like, write a recommendation for me?” She hurried on. “And maybe you could ask Clint if he’d show me around Chicago or something.”

  “You’re pushing it,” Thad said. “Let us see those mock-ups before you show them to Henri, and then we’ll talk.”

  * * *

  The Logan Square jazz club sat half a flight of stairs below street level. It was tiny and dark, with mismatched chairs, sticky tabletops, and an eclectic crowd of hipsters, boomers, and suburbanites. This was mellow, introspective jazz. Restrained and melodic, played behind the beat, a perfect counterpoint to the roiling emotional mess she’d become.

  Tonight was their last night in a hotel. Tomorrow, she’d move back into the apartment she’d rented not long before the tour had started and Thad would return to his condo. Tomorrow, she’d go to her first rehearsal. Tomorrow, their relationship would be over.

  She gazed at Thad’s hand curled around the tumbler of scotch. Those strong, capable fingers were as beautiful as the rest of him. He’d restrained his wardrobe for tonight: jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and his Victory780. No bright colors or fashion-forward cuts—his sockless ankles visible above a pair of designer loafers the only concession he’d made to his status as a male fashionista. As much as she loved giving him grief over his clothing choices, he wore everything beautifully.

  They should be in bed now, but they weren’t, and Thad seemed as reluctant as she to bring this last night to its natural conclusion. She focused on the music. If she let her mind stray, she’d lose the beauty of this last night, a night she wanted to hold on to forever.

  He sipped scotch. With her unsettled stomach, she avoided her single glass of wine. The combo slid into “Come Rain or Come Shine.” She wanted to take the stage in this seedy jazz club, close her eyes, and let those dusky notes pour from her. She could become a jazz singer. She could rewrite her career, travel from one jazz club to another singing all the old standards. She loved jazz, and she sang it well.

  But jazz wasn’t in her bloodstream. It wasn’t opera. Thad might not be able to tell the problems with her voice, but the moment Sergio heard her sing—the moment anyone at the Muni heard her sing—they would know something was wrong. Her voice was good enough for a small-town opera company, but not for the Muni. Not for the Royal Opera House or La Scala or Buenos Aires. Not for the Lyric or Munich or the Palais Garnier. Most of all, not for herself.

  He gave her a lover’s smile, affectionate and full of promise. But the only promise between them was one more night of sex, and that suddenly felt tawdry, which was all wrong. There was nothing tawdry about what they’d shared these past few nights. She returned her gaze to the stag
e, determined to push the blues away and enjoy every last moment.

  They didn’t leave the jazz club until after midnight, which was technically their fourth day, but she wasn’t that much of a stickler. Back at the hotel, they made long, slow love, hardly speaking. She’d never been so conscious of the rawness, the vulnerability, of seeing a person she loved stripped of his public face, her skin pressed to his.

  It wasn’t quite dawn when she opened her eyes. She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. Even in sleep, he was perfect.

  Blinking hard, she turned away and crept from the room.

  * * *

  She sneaked out of his bed like a thief in the night, although technically, it was five in the morning. He heard her, but he needed to be clearheaded for the conversation they had to have, and he pretended to be asleep. She was due at the Muni at ten this morning, but first, they needed to have a reckoning.

  Three hours later, after a shower, a few phone calls, and two cups of coffee, he banged on her apartment door. Their personal reckoning was no longer the first item on his agenda.

  She answered, perfectly coiffed—dark slacks and white blouse open at the throat, with that pigeon egg–sized fake ruby necklace on display. Her expression softened, but only for a moment before she looked at him as though he’d noisily unwrapped a piece of candy in the middle of her aria. “How did you get in?”

  “All I had to do was hop into the elevator with one of your neighbors. Now tell me this: Why would a diva like you live in an apartment without security?”

  She didn’t shift to the side to let him in. “I only moved here a few months ago. I told you that. It’s temporary until I find a permanent place.”

  He slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and pushed past her into her two-bedroom apartment in the River North area of Chicago. Polished hardwood floors, a postage-stamp balcony, beige carpet, and expensive, but generic, modern furniture that had probably come with the rental because it wasn’t her style. The place would have been boring if she hadn’t personalized it with career mementos: framed photos, posters, some cut-glass trophies. Various props and bits of costumes sat on tables and chests: Venetian carnival masks, a collection of Cherubino cherubs, the crown he’d seen in photos of her as Lady Macbeth, along with a wicked-looking dagger.

  His Heisman, on the other hand, was shoved away on the top shelf of his guest room closet, along with a bunch of plaques, game balls, and a couple of his own cut-glass trophies. He didn’t display any of it. Instead of making him feel good, those mementos only reminded him of unfulfilled potential.

  He stepped around one of the seven thousand pieces of luggage the limo driver must have hauled up to her apartment. He hoped to God she’d made sure the driver was legit before she’d climbed in. “For somebody who spends so much time on the road, you’d think you’d have figured out by now how to downsize.”

  “I have an image to maintain.” She shoved a makeup bag into her tote. “When I go on vacation, I only take a carry-on.”

  “Hard to believe.” A poster from The Marriage of Figaro hung next to a framed, autographed photo of her with a guy who looked like a young Andrea Bocelli. The message at the bottom was written in Italian, but he didn’t have any trouble translating the word “amo.” “Liv . . . you know this isn’t going to work.” He picked up a needlework pillow that read, When Basses Go Low, I Go High.

  She regarded him warily.

  “You can’t stay in a building without security.”

  “There’s an intercom system,” she said defensively. “Which you could have used.”

  “No need. All I had to do was step into the elevator, remember?” He set the pillow back down. “Bottom line—any moron carrying a pizza box could get in this place.”

  She knew exactly what he was talking about, but she still protested. “I’m being careful, and I’ll find a permanent place as soon as I have time. I like Chicago.”

  “I remember. Middle of the country and all.” He bumped into one of her wheeled garment bags. “The point is, you were attacked in New Orleans, kidnapped in Vegas. Do you really think this is over?”

  “I’m home now,” she said carefully. “I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding.”

  “We’re not talking about the rest of your life. We’re talking about now.” He hadn’t planned on this, but he couldn’t see another way around it. “I want you to move in with me for a while.”

  Her head shot up. “That’s ridiculous. We’re over, remember?”

  “I’m not talking about us living together.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re talking about.”

  “No, this is about security. Your personal safety. And this place can’t provide it.”

  “So I’m supposed to pack up, and—”

  “You’re already packed up.”

  “—move in with you?”

  Her skittishness wasn’t surprising, and he tried to make this more palatable. “Full disclosure—I’ve never invited a woman to move in with me, and I wouldn’t be doing it now if you weren’t living here. My God, you have a broom handle stuck in your sliding doors.”

  “I’m on the tenth floor!”

  “With other people’s balconies on each side of you.”

  He picked up the deadly-looking dagger and pointed it in her general direction. “My building is secure. There’s a doorman, cameras, alarms, a concierge. You don’t have any of that.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Yes, you do.” He couldn’t avoid this any longer. He set the dagger next to an inkpot with a feathered plume and withdrew the folded, letter-sized envelope he’d already opened from his back pocket. She hesitated before she took it from him. She extracted what was inside as carefully as if she were handling a snake. Not far off.

  It was the newspaper photo of the two of them kissing on Michigan Avenue. Except someone had ripped a hole in the paper where her head had been and written a note in red ink across the bottom.

  You destroyed me and now I’m destroying you, my love. Think of me with every note you try to sing.

  “This was delivered to your room at the hotel an hour ago,” he said gently.

  She snatched the paper from his hand, ripped it, and shoved the pieces into the wastebasket by the couch. “I’m not letting this get to me. I’m absolutely not.”

  “You already have, and ripping it up won’t make the threat go away.”

  She sank into the couch, dropped her head, and rubbed her temples. “I hate this.”

  He sat next to her and took one of her silver rings between his fingers. “The message says, ‘Think of me with every note you try to sing.’ What does that mean to you?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. It means—” Her head came up. “I don’t know.”

  “Whoever is sending you these messages knows you’re having trouble with your voice and is capitalizing on it. Someone wants you to stop singing.”

  “That’s impossible. No one knows about my voice except you.”

  “And Rachel, right? The best friend you tell everything to.”

  “I’d trust Rachel!” she exclaimed. “Besides, I haven’t told her all of it. She has no idea how bad it’s gotten.”

  He knew she didn’t want to hear this, but he had to say it anyway. “The two of you are in competition for the same roles. You told me she also sings Amneris, right?”

  “So do dozens of other performers!” she exclaimed. “Rachel and I are on different career paths.”

  “But maybe Rachel wants to be on the same path.”

  She jumped up. “I won’t hear another word. I mean it, Thad. I’d trust Rachel with my life.”

  Which might be exactly what she was doing, but he knew better than to say that. “Regardless of who’s behind this, someone is threatening you, and you can’t stay here.” He rose and cupped her shoulders. “We’ve been traveling together for almost a month. We know how to share space. This doesn’t have to be complicated. You can go your way. I’ll g
o mine.”

  She looked away. “You know it won’t be that easy.”

  “It’ll be as easy as we make it.”

  She turned from him. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll . . . rent another apartment.”

  “That’ll take some time.”

  Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “This isn’t the way it was supposed to be.”

  “I know,” he said. “We’ll figure it out as we go along.”

  * * *

  If the Lyric Opera’s baronial, throne-shaped, art deco building was the grand dame of Chicago opera, the Chicago Municipal Opera was its stylish, sassy granddaughter. In the chilly, midmorning sunshine, the Muni’s flowing, contemporary glass-and-concrete curves were perfectly reflected in the Chicago River.

  “I went here once,” Clint said, as they pulled into the parking lot.

  “Your audition for The Bachelor?” Thad chimed in from the back seat where Clint and Olivia had exiled him.

  Clint grinned. “Dude, I haven’t been to one of those since you made me hold your hand when you auditioned. Remember how hard you cried when they said you were too old?”

  Thad snorted, and Olivia smiled, her first of the morning. Watching the two of them spar was her brightest moment since she’d gotten out of Thad’s bed that morning.

  Thad had insisted on driving her to the Muni, even though her beloved old red BMW M2 waited patiently in the garage. He’d shrugged off her reminder that his license had been stolen, along with his wallet. “When you’re playing for a Chicago sports team, the cops tend to overlook crap like driver’s licenses.”

  “Not all of them, I’m sure,” she’d said. “And the last thing you need is to be picked up for driving without a license.”

  So he’d put in a phone call to Clint, and now here she was—with an unsteady voice and the ominous mental image of her headless body in the newspaper photo—being driven to her first day back at work with two of the city’s most famous jocks. Her life had shot so far from its orbit she’d entered a different universe.