When Stars Collide Read online

  She crawled into the bedroom, stripped off her underwear, and eventually located her pajamas. Her nighttime routine was highly disciplined. No matter how late or how tired she was, she performed it without fail. Humidifiers running. Makeup remover followed by a foam cleanser, toner, moisturizer, eye cream, and her precious retinol. She brushed and flossed, sometimes used whitening strips on her teeth. Then a few yoga poses to help her unwind. But tonight, she did none of that. With a dirty face, dirty teeth, dirty spirit, and the image of Thad Owens’s smug face looming over her, she crawled into bed.

  * * *

  Thad was up early the next morning to shoot the breeze with the local sports radio jocks. Fortunately, The Diva had another assignment, because she was the last person he wanted to see. Paisley, a little worse for wear from whatever she’d done the night before, which almost definitely didn’t include work, accompanied him. Much to Henri’s displeasure, Paisley had shown up in a pair of ripped jeans, an animal print top, and bright red ankle boots. Not exactly Marchand’s image.

  She took a seat next to Thad on the couch in the radio station’s green room, although there were two other chairs available, and thumbed her phone. “Have you seen the Marchand social feeds? I mean, so basic. Like, who cares? You should tell Henri to let me take over their social media.”

  She shoved her phone at him, and he looked at the photos she’d taken at last night’s dinner: his profile caught against candlelight, his hand on his jacket lapel, his jawline, his eyes. Only one of the pictures showed the Victory780. There were no photos of The Diva.

  “If you want to convince Henri to use your ideas”—something he highly doubted would ever happen—“remember there are two brand ambassadors on this tour.” One of whom is a raving psychopath.

  “You’re more photogenic.”

  “She’s more famous.” It nearly choked him to say it. He handed Paisley back her phone.

  “My dad says Henri’s the one who wants to move Marchand into the twenty-first century, so whatever. I did some research, you know, like, last night before dinner. Those old watch ads that David Beckham did. They’re still sexy AF. Do you have any tattoos?”

  “Haven’t gotten around to it.”

  “Too bad.” She poked a finger through a carefully placed hole in her jeans. “My dad doesn’t think I can do this job, but I’ve got lots of ideas. Like I definitely want to do some of you in the shower. Because the Victory780 is waterproof and everything. I could— You could oil up so the water beads on your skin. It’ll be iconic.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “But you could wear swim trunks and everything.”

  “You and your iPhone aren’t coming anywhere near my shower but ask Madame Shore. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. She probably even has a tattoo.”

  Paisley regarded him doubtfully. “She’s kind of scary.”

  “Once you get to know her, I’ll bet she’s a pussycat.” The kind with claws and deadly teeth.

  He rose as the producer appeared to escort him into the studio. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Paisley take a photo of what was surely his butt.

  He didn’t see The Diva again until that afternoon when they were scheduled to meet back at the hotel to shoot the photos that would accompany the newspaper stories.

  She was sipping tea in the suite when he arrived, and she found something fascinating to stare at in the bottom of her teacup. The Diva knew how to look good for photos. She’d pinned up her hair and angled a printed scarf around her shoulders. Her white pencil dress showed off shapely arms and the impressive set of legs that had tried to emasculate him last night.

  Henri appeared with the photographers. As they set up the shoot, Henri asked her about her jewelry. Studiously ignoring Thad, she showed him a wide, matte-gold bracelet set with stones. “A replica of an Egyptian cuff from a dear friend. And this is one of my favorite poison rings.” She flipped the domed top open, revealing a not-so-secret compartment. “Easy to fill it with poison and tip the contents into an enemy’s drink.” She darted an honest-to-God warning look at him.

  “Or to off yourself,” he tossed back.

  He had the satisfaction of seeing her wince.

  The photographer was ready for them. Henri posed Thad behind The Diva, and then next to her on the couch. She tucked her fingers under her chin, displaying the watch. He kept his wrist visible.

  He’d spent a lot of time getting his picture taken, and he was comfortable in front of cameras, but The Diva seemed antsy, shifting around, crossing and recrossing her legs. One of the photographers gestured toward an armchair near the windows. “Let’s try a few shots over there.”

  The Diva settled in the armchair, and Thad took up a position behind her.

  Marchand tugged on today’s silk neck scarf. “Thaddeus, may I suggest you put your hand on her shoulder?”

  All the better to display the Victory780, but Thad had never been more reluctant to touch a woman.

  She flinched, a movement so subtle he doubted anyone else noticed. He had no idea what he’d done to make her hate him so much. He was a straight shooter—blunt when he needed to be—but generally diplomatic. He liked most people, and he didn’t make a habit of collecting enemies. He respected women and treated them well. This was her problem, not his. Still, he had to admit to a perverse curiosity.

  After the photographers left, Henri suggested they all meet for dinner at eight in the hotel’s four-star restaurant. Thad had plans to get together with some former teammates, and he declined. The Diva pleaded fatigue and said she’d order room service later. Henri didn’t extend the invitation to Paisley.

  Thad excused himself to change into workout clothes, but as he reached the second-floor fitness center, he realized he’d forgotten his phone. He liked to listen to music on the treadmill, and he went back to retrieve it.

  The living room’s double French doors were open, and she stood on the terrace by the rail. He hesitated. To hell with it. He was sick of her crap, and this was his chance to talk to her privately.

  He walked over to the open doors but didn’t step out. “I’m behind you, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attack me again.”

  She whirled around. She’d gotten rid of the big scarf and traded her stilettos for a pair of flats, but she still looked plenty put together in her white dress. Did she even own a pair of jeans?

  “Do you need something?” She addressed him as if he were a servant who’d interrupted her.

  She was so condescending his teeth started to itch. “I thought you might have something you wanted to tell me.”

  “I can’t imagine what that would be.”

  “Something on the order of, ‘I’m sorry as hell I acted like a lunatic last night, and thank you, Mr. Owens, for not knocking me silly.’ Which would have been easy to do.”

  Her iceberg expression could have sunk a thousand ships. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  She clearly wasn’t worth his time, and he could have walked away. But they were going to be together for a month, and he needed to have it out with her. “You’ve given me the cold shoulder from the beginning, lady. Do you treat most people like garbage, or am I a special case? I don’t give a damn what you think of me, you understand. But I am curious.”

  Her nostrils flared like an opera heroine about to order a beheading. “Men like you . . . you’ve got it all. Money. Looks. The public fawning over you. But that’s not enough, is it?”

  Now he was really steamed. “Here’s the difference between you and me. If I have a beef with somebody, I’m upfront about it. I don’t hide behind snarky comments.”

  She drew in a deep breath that expanded her rib cage in a way he’d have found impressive if he weren’t so incensed. “You want upfront?” she said. “All right. Does the name Alyssa Jackson mean anything?”

  “Can’t say as it does.”

  “What’s one more victim, right?”

  “‘Victim’?” It took a lot to make him lose his temper,
but he’d never had anyone regard him with so much contempt. “Exactly what kind of victim?”

  She gripped the railing with the hand that held one of her poison rings. “Alyssa and I shared an apartment for a while in the Bronx. It was when you were the Giants’ hot new quarterback—the one who didn’t last two seasons. But you were the big man in town, and all the women wanted you. Except the ones like Alyssa who didn’t.” Her lips curled with contempt. “And you don’t even remember her name.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “How about you refresh my memory? Exactly what am I supposed to have done to her?”

  “I don’t know what the legal definition of sexual assault is, but what you did was close enough. I begged her to go to the police, but she refused.”

  He clenched his teeth against his rising fury. “Now there’s a surprise.”

  “You could have had any woman you wanted, but the easy ones weren’t the ones who appealed to you. They weren’t the ones who made you feel like a big man.”

  He couldn’t listen to any more, and he turned away only to come to a halt as he reached the door. “You don’t know me, lady, and you don’t know a damn thing about my character. You also don’t know your old friend Alyssa as well as you think, so keep giving me the cold shoulder because we don’t have anything more to say to each other.”

  * * *

  Thad pounded down the service stairs to the second floor, his sneakers assaulting the stair treads. He’d never needed the gym more.

  “Thaddeus Walker Bowman Owens!” He’d been twelve years old, in the car with his mother, and full of himself. They were on their way to his basketball practice when he’d called Mindy Garamagus a slut.

  His sweet, mild-tempered mother had pulled to the side of the road and let him have it. A smack right across the face. The first and only time she’d hit him.

  “Don’t you ever say that about a woman! How does a girl get to be a slut? Ask yourself that. Does she do it all by herself?” Tears had filled his eyes as she’d looked at him as though he were some kind of worm. “The only men who use that word against a woman are weak, men who feel powerless. Don’t judge what you don’t understand. You have no idea who she is!”

  His mother was right. Even then he knew that the only thing wrong with Mindy Garamagus was that she made him feel like the immature twelve-year-old he was.

  That night, he’d gotten a similar lecture from his dad. It was long before the word “consent” had become part of the zeitgeist, but the message was loud and clear.

  Even without his parents’ lectures, he couldn’t imagine himself ever taking advantage of a woman. How could sex be fun if you weren’t both into it?

  He’d once again forgotten his phone, but no way in hell was he going back to get it.

  * * *

  No matter how much money Marchand had offered her, Olivia would never have signed that contract if she’d known she’d be traveling with Owens instead of Cooper Graham, as she’d originally been told. Graham had a wife, kids, and a squeaky-clean reputation. Traveling with him would have been a nice distraction, something she’d never needed more than she did at this point in her life.

  The tension headache that had been lurking for days was back. She exchanged her dress for black yoga pants and a long white top, lay down on the bed, and reached for the headphones she always traveled with. Moments later, she heard the soothing sound of Bill Evans’s “Peace Piece.”

  She tried to relax, but not even the evocative harmonies of the man who’d been one of the world’s greatest jazz pianists could soothe her. Something about the unflinching way Owens had looked at her made her uneasy. More than uneasy. “You don’t know me, lady, and you don’t know a damn thing about my character.” But she did know his character!

  Didn’t she?

  She couldn’t stand the uncertainty. She turned off the music and reached for her phone. Alyssa picked up her call on the second ring.

  The two of them had once been close, but now that her former roommate was immersed in motherhood, they’d drifted apart, and it had been at least a year since they’d spoken. “Hey, famous lady!” Alyssa said. “I’ve missed you. Hunter, get down from there! Jesus . . . That kid . . . Honest to God, Olivia, don’t ever have kids. I’ve been to the emergency room twice with him just this month. Do you have any idea how many things a three-year-old can stick up his nose?”

  As Alyssa detailed the exact objects Hunter had stashed in his nasal cavity, Olivia remembered how Alyssa’s irreverent humor used to make her laugh.

  “So what’s up with you?” Alyssa said. “Ready to tackle Tosca yet?”

  Olivia’s mezzo-soprano wasn’t well suited for that role, but Alyssa had never had more than a rudimentary grasp of opera. “A temporary gig,” Olivia said. “I signed on to promote Marchand watches.”

  “Marchand? Tell me you’re giving out free samples.”

  “Unfortunately not. Also . . .” She gripped the phone tighter. “There are two of us on the road together promoting the brand. I’m traveling with Thad Owens.”

  “The football player? That’s hysterical.”

  An icicle slithered down Olivia’s spine. “‘Hysterical’?”

  “The soprano and the quarterback. What a combination, right? Is he still hot? That man was gorgeous.”

  Olivia shot to her feet, dread pooling in her stomach. “Alyssa, I’m talking about Thad Owens. The football player who tried to rape you.”

  Alyssa laughed. “God, Olivia. You knew that was bogus. Remember? I told you all about it.”

  “You didn’t tell me any such thing!” Olivia exclaimed. “You said he backed you into the bedroom. Pinned you down. You came home crying. And you talked about it for weeks afterward.”

  “I only cried because Kent walked in on us, and I only talked about it when he was around. Remember how suspicious he was. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten.” She pulled the phone away. “Hunter, stop it! Give me that!” She readjusted the phone. “Anyway . . . So I met Thad at a party just when Kent and I were getting serious. Kent went off to shoot pool or something, and Thad and I started talking. One thing led to another, and we were making out. Then Kent walked in on us, and I needed to come up with an excuse quick. I told you all that.”

  “You didn’t tell me anything!” Olivia felt sick. “I tried to get you to go to the police.”

  “Oh, yeah . . . Now I remember. I was afraid if I told you the truth, you’d tell Kent. You were always the righteous one.” Water ran in the background. “Here, Hunter. Have a drink.” The water shut off. “Can you believe I walked away from a chance at a relationship with Thad Owens because I didn’t want a loser like Kent to dump me?”

  Olivia sank back down on the side of the bed and dug her hand into the mattress. “The only loser, Alyssa, is you.”

  “What are you getting so upset about? It’s not like I accused him or anything.”

  “You did accuse him. To me.”

  “Did you say something to him?”

  “Oh, yes. I said a lot.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit, indeed.” In her rush to judgment against Thad Owens, Olivia had forgotten that Alyssa could be both self-centered and manipulative. That was exactly why Rachel had never liked her. Olivia should have trusted her best friend’s opinion. She pressed her hand to her stomach. “False accusations have consequences, Alyssa. They make real rape victims afraid to speak out because they don’t think anyone will believe them.”

  “Ease up, okay? Stop being so judgy.”

  Olivia’s voice shook. “Wrong is wrong, and lying like you did is a betrayal of every woman who’s been assaulted.”

  “Jesus, Olivia. You’re making too big a deal out of this. You always did think you were better than anybody else.”

  “Good-bye, Alyssa. And lose my number.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who called me.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  * * *

  Olivia was furious with hers
elf. She hadn’t been thinking clearly for days, but that was no excuse for the way she’d attacked him. Some superhero she’d turned out to be. A crusader for justice? How about a dispenser of injustice. She’d known Alyssa wasn’t always reliable, and even drunk, she shouldn’t have attacked someone without verifying the facts. Adam was already on her conscience, and she didn’t need another transgression to add to her list of misdeeds. She had to apologize immediately.

  She paced the living room waiting for him to get back from the gym. Eventually, the door opened. She tried to form exactly the right words, but before she could utter a single one, he’d strode past her as if she didn’t exist and disappeared into his bedroom.

  She started pacing again. This was torturous. She pressed her ear to his door and heard the shower water stop running. She hurried to the closest couch, kicked off her flats, and picked up a magazine.

  No one liked to admit when she’d been wrong, but this was a big wrong, and it had to be righted. Once this was over, she could only hope he didn’t believe in holding a grudge.

  She tugged at the knee of her yoga pants, turned a page of the magazine without having read a word. His door finally opened.

  When she’d seen him only as a sexual predator, his off-the-chart good looks had been an insult. But now? He wore a dark blue blazer, faded jeans, a gray T-shirt, and he might be the handsomest man she’d ever met. Thick dark hair, dazzling green eyes set off with dark brows and full lashes, cheekbones that hit the sweet spot between too sharp and too blunt. His top and bottom lips were perfect. If she’d been born with his looks instead of being saddled with her own strong features, she might have had an easier time of it. All that perfection was wasted on a man who threw footballs for a living.

  She’d lost precious seconds ruminating over what couldn’t be changed, and he was nearly at the door. She jumped up from the couch. “I need to talk to you.”