It Had to Be You

  Molly's protective shell clamped shut. "I have dozens of friends. Dozens of them. And I happen to enjoy mathematics. I would never subject myself to an inferior education just to go to school with some silly, adolescent boys, who, I'm certain, wouldn't be nearly as mature as all my boyfriends in Connecticut."

  Phoebe had to hand it to her. She was willing to brazen it out right to the end.

  Molly's small lip curled. "You wouldn't understand since you're not gifted."

  "I hate to disillusion you, Mol, but my IQ isn't anything to sniff at, either."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Pull out your notepaper then. Let's solve some integrals together."

  Molly swallowed hard. "I—I haven't got that far yet."

  Phoebe concealed her relief. She hadn't done that kind of math for years, and she didn't remember a thing. "Don't judge a book by its cover, Mol. For example, if people judged you only by appearances they might decide you were unfriendly and a little bit snobbish. Both of us know that's not so, don't we?" She wanted to make Molly think, not to antagonize her, and she tried to take some of the sting out of her words with a smile. It didn't work.

  "I'm not a snob! I'm a perfectly nice person with dozens of friends, and—" She gasped.

  Phoebe followed the direction of her stricken gaze and saw Pooh pulling a bedraggled stuffed monkey from under Molly's bed. She quickly disengaged the animal from the poodle's mouth. "It's all right. Pooh didn't hurt your toy. See."

  Molly's face was scarlet. "I don't ever want that dog in my bedroom again! Never! And it's not mine. I don't play with toys. I don't know how it got there. It's stupid! Throw it away!"

  Phoebe had always been a sucker for lost souls, and her sister's rejection of the obviously well-loved stuffed monkey touched her in a way nothing else could have. At that moment, nothing could have made her send this confused, frightened young girl away.

  She casually tossed the stuffed animal to the foot of the bed. "I've decided I'm not sending you back to Crayton. I'm going to keep you here in a public school for the fall semester."

  "What! You can't do that!"

  "I'm your guardian, and I certainly can." Scooping up Pooh, she walked to the door. "We move into the condo next week. If school doesn't work out, you can go back to Crayton for second semester."

  "Why are you doing this? Why are you being so hateful?"

  She knew the child would never believe the truth, so she shrugged. "Misery loves company? I have to stay here. Why shouldn't you?"

  It wasn't until she reached the bottom of the staircase that the full implications of what she'd done hit her. She was already buried under problems she didn't know how to solve, and she had just added another one. When was she going to learn not to be so impulsive?

  Trying to escape her troubled thoughts, she made her way to the French doors at the rear of the house and stepped outside. The night was quiet and fragrant with the scent of pine and roses. The floodlights on the back of the house illuminated the fringe of deeper woods at the edge of the yard, including the old maple tree that had been her refuge when she was a child. She found herself heading there. When she reached the tree, she saw that its bottom branches were too high to reach. Leaning back against the trunk, she stared toward the house.

  Despite the peacefulness of the night, she couldn't shake off her worries. She didn't know anything about raising a teenager. How was she supposed to overcome Molly's hostility? She slipped her fingertips into the pockets of her slacks. Her problems with her sister weren't all that was bothering her. She missed Viktor and her friends. She felt like a freak when she walked in the door of the Stars complex. And she spent far too much time thinking about Dan Calebow. Why did he have to be so adamant in his refusal to let her rehire Ron?

  She sighed. It was more than his attitude toward Ron that kept him in her thoughts. She was much too aware of him. Sometimes when he was nearby, she experienced an emotion that was very close to panic. Her heartbeat accelerated, her pulses quickened, and she had the unsettling sensation that her body was coming awake after a very long hibernation. It was a ridiculous notion. She knew too well that she was permanently damaged when it came to men.

  Even though the night was warm, she removed her hands from her pockets and rubbed her arms against a sudden chill. Memories flooded her, and as the night sounds enveloped her, she could feel herself being drawn back to those early months in Paris.

  When she'd arrived, she'd located a friend from Crayton and had moved into her tiny, third floor flat in Montparnasse, not far from the gaudy, bustling intersection where the Boulevard du Montparnasse meets the Boulevard Raspail. For weeks, she had seldom left her bed. Instead, she stared at the ceiling while she gradually convinced herself that she had somehow been responsible for her own rape. No one had forced her to dance with Craig. No one had forced her to laugh at his jokes and flirt with him. She had done everything she could to make him like her.

  Slowly she grew to believe that what had happened was her own fault. Her roommate, alarmed at her withdrawal, begged her to get out, and eventually it became easier to go along than to resist. She began spending her evenings drinking cheap wine and smoking pot with the ragtag band of students who frequented the sidewalks and brasseries of Montparnasse. Her misery had destroyed her appetite, and the last of her baby fat melted away, slimming her legs and emphasizing the hollows beneath her cheekbones. But her breasts remained as full as ever, and despite her shapeless clothing, the boys noticed. Their attentiveness deepened her self-hatred. They knew what kind of girl she was. That's why they wouldn't leave her alone.

  Without quite knowing how it happened, she punished herself by sleeping with one of them, a young German soldier who had come to Paris to train with UNESCO. Then she let a bearded Swedish art student into her bed, and after him, a long-haired photographer from Liverpool. Lying motionless beneath them, she let them do what they wanted because she knew in her heart that she deserved nothing better. More than their sweating bodies and invasive hands, she hated herself.

  Only gradually did she come to her senses. Appalled at what she had allowed to happen, she grew desperate to find a way to protect herself. Men were her enemies. To forget that was to put herself in peril.

  She began to observe the pretty young French women who spent their evenings strolling the Boulevard du Montparnasse. She sat in the brasseries and watched them tilt their faces toward their lovers, luring them with bold, knowing eyes. She saw the confident way they walked in their tight blue jeans with hips swaying and breasts thrust forward. One night as she observed a sultry-faced young beauty part her lips so her smitten lover could tip the sweet meat of a mussel shell between them, it all became clear to her. These young French women used sex to control men, and the men were helpless to defend themselves.

  That was when she began her own transformation.

  By the time Arturo Flores found her working in an art supply store near the Madeleine, her baggy, figure-concealing clothes had given way to tight French jeans and tiny, clingy camisoles that displayed her breasts. Platinum streaks drew men's gazes to the silky long hair that curled over her shoulders. With bold eyes, she issued her sultry, silent assessment of each one of them.

  You can look, chère, but you're not quite man enough to touch.

  The sense of relief she experienced as they flirted with her, only to tuck their tails between their legs when she rejected them, left her dizzy with relief. She had finally found a way to keep herself safe.

  Arturo Flores wasn't like the rest. He was much older, a gentle, brilliant, and lonely man who only wanted her friendship. When he asked if he could paint her, she agreed without hesitation, never dreaming that she would find seven years respite with him.

  Arturo was part of a close-knit circle of wealthy and prominent European men who were secretly homosexual, and his carefully selected friends became her friends. They were witty, cultured, frequently waspish, generally kind, and the demands they placed on her were not physi
cal. They wanted her attention, her sympathy, and her affection. In exchange, they taught her about art and music, history and politics. She received a finer education from Arturo's friends than her old boarding school classmates were receiving at college.

  But they couldn't make her forget. Her trauma was too deeply rooted to be easily conquered, and so she continued to punish the heterosexual men she met with small cruelties: an enticing smile, provocative clothing, a wicked flirtatiousness. She learned she could control all of them by letting her body make promises she would never allow it to keep.

  So sorry, Monsieur, Herr, Señor, but you're not quite man enough to touch.

  As she walked away from all of them, her hips swayed in the rhythm of the French girls who ruled the Boulevard du Montparnasse.

  Hot cha cha

  Hot cha cha

  Hot hot

  Cha cha cha cha

  She was twenty-six before she'd permitted another man to touch her, the young doctor who attended Arturo during his illness. He was handsome and kind, and his physician's hands had been soothing with their caresses. She had enjoyed the closeness, but when he had tried to deepen the intimacy, she had frozen. He remained patient, but each time his hands slipped beneath her clothing, she was assaulted with memories of the night in the metal pool shed, memories of the young men she had allowed to heave over her. The physician was too much of a gentleman to tell her she wasn't enough of a woman for him, and he disappeared from her life. She forced herself to accept the fact that she was irreparably damaged when it came to sex and resolved not to let herself grow bitter. After the heartbreak of Arturo's death, she found other outlets for her softer emotions.

  In Manhattan, she surrounded herself with gentle, gay men, some of whom she held in her arms when they died. These men were the ones who received the love and affection she possessed in so much abundance. These were the men who took the place of lovers who would only have reminded her she was less than a woman.

  "Hello, cuz."

  She gave a strangled gasp and spun around to see Reed Chandler standing in a pool of light at the edge of the lawn, barely ten feet away.

  "Still hiding in the bushes, Flea Belly?"

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Just paying my respects."

  She was no longer a defenseless child, and she fought against the fear he still inspired in her. During the funeral she had been too numb to note the changes in his appearance, but now she saw that, although his features had matured, he looked much the same as he had during his college days. She imagined that women were still attracted to his gangster's good looks: the thick, blue-black hair, olive skin, and strong, stocky body. But the full lips that his various girlfriends had found so sensuous had always seemed merely greedy to her. That avaricious mouth reminded her of how much Reed had always wanted from life, and how much of what he wanted belonged to her.

  She noted that he dressed more like a banker now than a gangster. His blue-and-white-striped oxford shirt and navy trousers looked custom-made, and as he lit a cigarette, she saw the flash of an expensive watch on his wrist. She remembered her father telling her that Reed worked for a commercial real estate firm. At first she had been surprised that he hadn't gone to work for the Stars, but then she had realized that Reed was far too wily to give Bert that much control over his life.

  "How did you find me out here?"

  "I could always find you, Flea Belly. Even in the dark, that blond hair of yours is hard to miss."

  "I wish you wouldn't call me that."

  He smiled. "I always thought it was cute, but if you don't like it, I promise, I'll mend my ways. Can I call you Phoebe, or do you want me to address you more formally?"

  His teasing was gentle and she relaxed a bit. "Phoebe's fine."

  He smiled and held his cigarette pack out to her. She shook her head. "You should give that up."

  "I have. Many times." As he inhaled, she was again conscious of those full, greedy lips.

  "So how are you getting along? Is everyone treating you well?"

  "They're polite."

  "If anyone gives you a hard time, let me know."

  "I'm sure everything will be fine." She had never been less sure, but she wasn't going to admit that.

  "Having Carl Pogue quit was unfortunate. If Bert had realized there was any possibility of that happening, I know he wouldn't have done this. Have you hired a new GM yet?"

  "Not yet."

  "Don't wait too long. McDermitt is too inexperienced for the job. It would probably be a good idea to let Steve Kovak make the final decision. Or I'd be happy to help."

  "I'll keep that in mind." Her voice stayed carefully noncommittal.

  "Bert liked manipulating people. He didn't make this easy on either one of us, did he?"

  "No, he didn't."

  He shoved one hand in his pocket and then withdrew it, looking uneasy. Silence stretched between them. He shifted his weight, took a long drag on his cigarette, and blew the smoke out in a thin, harsh stream. "Listen, Phoebe, I've got something I need to tell you."

  "Oh?"

  "I should have talked to you about it a long time ago, but I've been avoiding it."

  She waited.

  He looked away from her. "A couple of years after we graduated, Craig Jenkins and I were at a party."

  Every muscle in her body grew tense. The night suddenly seemed very dark and the house far away.

  "Craig got drunk and told me what really happened that night. He told me he'd raped you."

  A small exclamation slipped through her lips. Instead of feeling vindicated, she felt raw and exposed. She didn't want to talk about this with anyone, but especially not with Reed.

  He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry; I'd always thought you were lying. I went to Bert right away, but he didn't want to talk about it. I guess I should have pressed harder, but you know how he was."

  She couldn't bring herself to speak. Was he telling the truth? She had no idea whether he was sincere or simply trying to win her trust so he could influence her decisions while she owned the Stars. She didn't want to believe that her father had learned the truth but never acknowledged it. All the old feelings of pain and betrayal engulfed her.

  "I feel as if I need to make this up to you somehow, and I want you to know that I'm here for you. As far as I'm concerned, I owe you a debt. If there's anything I can do to make your time here easier—any help I can give you—promise me you'll let me know."

  "Thank you, Reed. I'll do that." Her words sounded stiff and unnatural. She was strung so tightly that she felt as if she would fly apart if she didn't get away from him. Despite his display of concern, she could never trust him.

  "I think I'd better go in now. I don't want to leave Molly alone for too long."

  "Of course."

  They walked in tense silence to the house. When they reached the edge of the lawn, he stopped and gazed at her. "As far as I'm concerned, we're in this together, cuz. I mean it. Truly."

  Leaning down, he brushed his greedy lips across her cheek and walked away.

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  A vein bulged at Dan's temples as he screamed. "Fenster! On thirty-two scat left, the tailback goes left! Otherwise we would have called it thirty-two scat freakin' right!" He slammed the clipboard to the ground.

  Someone came up beside him, but he was watching the tailback so intently that several minutes passed before he looked over. When he turned, he didn't instantly recognize the man, and he was about to tell him to get the hell off his practice field before he realized who it was.

  "Ronald?"

  "Coach."

  The kid didn't look like himself; he looked like a South American gigolo. His hair was slicked back, and he wore dark glasses along with a black T-shirt, baggy slacks, and one of those boxy European sport coats with the collar turned up and the sleeves pushed to his elbows.

  "Jesus, Ronald, what'd you do to yourself?"

  "I'm unemployed. I don't have to dres
s like a stiff anymore."

  Dan spotted a cigarette in the kid's hand. "Since when do you smoke?"

  "On and off. I just never thought it was a good idea to do it around the men." He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and gestured toward the field with his head. "You're going with the new tailback sweep."

  "If Fenster can learn his left from his right."

  "Bucker looks good."

  Dan was still distracted by the changes in Ronald, not only the difference in his appearance, but his unusual composure. "He's coming along."

  "So did Phoebe pick the new GM yet?" Ronald asked.

  "Hell, no."

  "That's what I figured."

  Dan made a snort of disgust. Phoebe'd had a list of candidates since the day she'd arrived more than a week ago, but instead of making a choice, she'd told him she wanted Ronald back. He'd reminded her they had an agreement and told her she'd damn well better live up to it or she could find herself another head coach. When she realized he meant it, she'd stopped arguing. But they had lost their final preseason game last weekend, and with their season opener against the Broncos this Sunday, she still hadn't interviewed a single candidate.

  Instead of working, she sat at the desk in Ronald's old office and read fashion magazines. She wouldn't use Bert's office because she said she didn't like the decor. When anybody gave her even the simplest form to sign, the bridge of her nose would pucker and she'd say she'd get to it later, but she never did. Monday, when he'd barged in on her because she'd somehow managed to hold up everybody's paychecks, she'd been painting her goddamn fingernails! He'd gotten mad then, but he'd barely begun to yell before her lip had started to tremble and she'd said he couldn't talk to her like that because she had PMS.

  Sometime this week Phoebe had shot right past Valerie in her ability to make him crazy. NFL team owners were supposed to inspire a combination of respect, awe, and fear in their employees. Even seasoned head coaches tread warily around a man like Al Davis, the strong-willed owner of the Raiders. Dan knew he would never be able to hold his head up again if anybody ever found out that the owner of his team couldn't stand any yelling because she had PMS!