It Had to Be You

  She tried to slip back into her old role. "Life's tough when you're irresistible to the opposite sex."

  "Spoken by someone who knows."

  When she attempted to frame a retort, nothing came out, and she realized that she didn't have any resources left to play the part she had staked out for herself. "Those sandwiches must be just about done by now."

  He went back to the stove, where he checked the bottoms of the sandwiches with a spatula, then lifted them out of the skillet. After neatly halving them, he returned to the table with two brown pottery plates and sat in one of the captain's chairs.

  For several minutes they ate in silence. Finally, he broke it. "Don't you want to talk to me about the game today?"

  "Not really."

  "Aren't you going to second-guess me on that double reverse? The sportswriters are going to rake me over the coals for that one."

  "What's a double reverse?"

  He grinned. "I'm beginning to see that there are some definite advantages to working for you."

  "You mean because I don't have any secret desire to coach the team myself?"

  He nodded and bit into his sandwich.

  "I'd never do that. Although I do think you might consider opening up the offense more and starting Bryzski instead of Reynolds."

  He stared at her, and she smiled. "Some of Bert's cronies got to me in the skybox."

  He smiled back. "The reporters were upset that you didn't show up at the postgame press conference. People are curious about you."

  "They'll just have to stay that way. I've seen a few of those postgame interviews. A person would actually have to know something about football to answer the questions."

  "You'll have to talk to the press sooner or later. Ronald can help you through it."

  She remembered that Dan still thought she and the general manager were personally involved. "I wish you wouldn't be so negative about him. He's doing a good job, and I certainly couldn't function without him."

  "Is that so?"

  "He's a wonderful person."

  He regarded her intently as he picked up a paper napkin and rubbed it over his mouth. "He must be. A woman like you has a lot to choose from."

  She shrugged and listlessly picked at her sandwich.

  "Damn. You're sitting there looking like a mule that's been kicked one too many times."

  "Gee, thanks."

  He balled his napkin and tossed it aside. "I can't stand to think that I did this to you. Where are your guts, Phoebe? Where's the woman who maneuvered me into taking Ronald back as GM?"

  She stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Like hell you don't. You conned me. It took me a couple of days to figure out your neat little scam. You and Ronald set me up. He actually had me convinced the two of you were lovers."

  She was relieved to see that he seemed annoyed rather than angry, but she picked her words carefully. "I don't know why that's so hard to believe. He's a very attractive man."

  "I'll have to take your word for it. But the fact is, the two of you aren't lovers."

  "How do you know?"

  "I just do, that's all. I've seen the way you treat him when you think I'm watching: running your eyes all over him, nibbling on your bottom lip, cooing when you talk."

  "Isn't that the way women behave with their lovers?"

  "That's just it. You behave the same way with the janitor."

  "I do not."

  "You behave like that with almost every man you meet."

  "So what?"

  "Everybody but me."

  He watched her push away her uneaten sandwich. "You try to tantalize me with that man-eater body of yours, but you can't pull it off very long, and the next thing I know, you're staring at your feet or foolin' around with your fingernails." He leaned back in his chair. "It hasn't escaped my notice that you stick your chest out for everybody in pants, but lately it seems I can hardly exchange two sentences with you before you're hunching your shoulders. Now, why is that?"

  "You have an overactive imagination."

  "I don't think so."

  She stood. "It's late. I have to go."

  He rose, too, and came around the end of the table to touch her for the first time since the incident in the gazebo. He was relieved when she didn't flinch, but his stomach still clenched when he thought about what he'd done to her.

  As she stood before him in his old blue shirt, she looked both beautiful and fragile, and he couldn't remember ever meeting a woman so full of contradictions. He didn't want to like her, but it was getting increasingly difficult not to.

  He closed his hand over her shoulder. "Are you still afraid of me?"

  "Of course not."

  She might not be afraid, but she was skittish, and his conscience couldn't tolerate that. Lowering his hand, he began very gently to rub her arm through the soft cotton sleeve. "I think you are. I think you're scared silly I'm going to turn into some kind of deviant and attack you again."

  "I'm not."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Of course I am."

  "Prove it."

  "How do you suggest I do that?"

  He didn't know what devil was prodding him; he only knew his teasing made her smile, and he loved the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when that happened. With a mischievous smile of his own, he pointed to his jaw. "Give me a kiss. Right here. A friendly little smacker like one friend gives to another."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  Her eyes were crinkling, and he couldn't resist teasing her a bit more, although it wasn't exactly teasing since he kept thinking about how that incredible body would feel pressed up against his own, which, considering their earlier encounter, wasn't the best reflection on his character.

  "Come on. I dare you. We're not talking about one of those unsanitary soul jobs. Just a friendly little peck on the cheek."

  "I don't want to kiss you."

  He noticed that she'd waited a few seconds too long to protest, and those golden brown eyes of hers were as soft as her lips. He was no longer in the mood to tease, and his voice sounded husky. "Liar. All this heat can't be coming just from me."

  He dipped his head, and the next thing he knew, he was nuzzling the side of her neck, finding a soft spot just below her ear. He didn't draw her into his arms, but the tips of her breasts brushed his chest.

  He heard her sigh. "We don't like each other."

  "We don't have to like each other, honey. This isn't a permanent partnership. It's animal attraction." He kissed that alluring mole at the corner of her eye. "And it feels good. You feel good."

  She moaned and leaned against him. He gently cupped her arms, and his kisses moved lower until he found her mouth.

  Her lips were soft, neither parted nor sealed, just soft and right. She tasted good, smelled good, like baby powder and flowers. He felt like a randy sixteen-year-old, and as he slid his tongue over the plump curve of her bottom lip, he reminded himself that he'd outgrown her type of woman years ago. Unfortunately, his body seemed to have forgotten that fact.

  He deepened the kiss, telling himself that he might be starting to like her, but he didn't respect her, he didn't trust her, and if he couldn't touch those breasts of hers soon, he was going to explode. Except after what had happened in the gazebo, he needed to move slow, but, God, she was driving him crazy.

  She pressed against him and made a soft moaning sound that was like a shot of whiskey straight to his veins. He forgot about moving slow. He forgot about everything except this hot little, soft little, eat-me-up baby with the come-to-papa body.

  Her lips parted and he plunged inside her warm mouth, but he wanted more. He caught her hard in his arms, felt those cream whip breasts spread against his chest while rockets shot off in his head. And then he had one hand on the sweetest curve of beautiful ass he'd ever touched in his life, and he deepened the thrust of his tongue, but even that wasn't good enough because he wanted to curl it around her nipples and slide it between her legs and
lick the sugar right off her. He was hard and crazy and his hands were all over her, his lunacy fed by the throaty moans she was making and the frenzy of her movements against him.

  He wanted her to touch him. He wanted her on her knees, on her back, straddled, spread, any way he could get at her, right here where the heat from their bodies would bum up the floorboards and send them plunging straight down to the fiery center of the earth.

  He could feel her wildness matching his, her maniac hands digging into his arms, her hips pushing and thrusting against him, grinding. She was crazy, as crazy as he was, and just as needy. And those sounds, almost like fear, almost like…

  He went rigid as he realized that she was trying to get away from him, and he was holding her against her will.

  "God damn!" He pushed himself away, knocking over a chair in his haste.

  Her mouth was swollen and bruised from his kisses. Her breasts heaved and her hair was tousled, as if he'd plunged his hands through it, which maybe he had because he sure as hell didn't know what he was doing anymore. As he looked into her stricken eyes, he felt sick. He'd been with a lot of women, and this was the first time he'd ever had any trouble sorting out no from yes. The accusation in those tilty-up eyes made him feel like a criminal, and that wasn't right because they'd gone into this together.

  "I'm not apologizing again, goddammit!" he shouted. "If you didn't want me to kiss you, all you had to do was say no!"

  Instead of arguing with him, she lifted her hand in a small, helpless gesture that made him feel like the world's biggest bully. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  "Phoebe…"

  She grabbed her purse and ran from the kitchen, from his house, from the dangerous heat of two bodies on fire.

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Phoebe felt muzzy and depressed as she sipped her first cup of morning coffee. Slowly swiveling in her chair, she looked out through her office windows onto the empty practice fields. It was Monday, "Bumps and Bruises Day," when the players picked up the grade they had been given by the coaches for their performance during the game, had physical checkups, and looked at films. They didn't practice again until Wednesday, and she was grateful she wouldn't have to spend the day watching Dan run up and down the sidelines in a T-shirt and shorts, yelling and screaming and throwing clipboards as if he could propel his team to football glory through the sheer force of his will.

  Why had she let him kiss her last night when she'd known that she wasn't woman enough to see it through? She couldn't blame him for his anger; both of them knew she had gone into his arms willingly. But when she had heard the hot rasp in his breathing, felt his strength, and known she couldn't control him, she had panicked.

  She looked down at the body that made up the lie of who she was. If her outside matched her inside, she would be flat-chested, scrawny, brittle from lack of moisture. What good were curvy hips and full breasts if she couldn't let a man caress them, if they would never bring a baby into the world or nurture its new life?

  She didn't want to be this way anymore. She wanted to go back to those moments before her fear had taken over, when Dan's kiss had sent fresh new blood pulsing through her body. She wanted to go back to those moments when she had felt young again and infinitely female.

  She heard a knock and the door of her office opened. "Now, Phoebe, don't get upset." Ron crossed the carpet toward her, a stack of newspapers in his hands.

  "An ominous beginning."

  "Well, as to that… I suppose it depends on your outlook." He spread the newspapers in front of her.

  "Oh, no."

  Color photographs of Phoebe in her hot pink carwash dress and rhinestone sunglasses glittered on the pages of the assorted papers he spread in front of her. In one of the photographs, she had her knuckles pressed to her mouth. In another, her hand was resting on her waist and her breasts were outthrust so that she looked like a World War II pinup. Most of them, however, showed her kissing Bobby Tom Denton.

  "That headline is my particular favorite." Ron pointed toward one of the papers.

  STARS' OWNER COMPLETES FORWARD PASS

  "Although this one has a certain poetic quality."

  BOBBY BUSSES BOMBSHELL BOSS

  Phoebe groaned. "They've made me look like a fool."

  "That's one way to interpret it. On the other hand—"

  "It's good for ticket sales." She no longer had any trouble reading his mind.

  He took a seat across from her. "Phoebe, I'm not certain you understand how dismal our financial picture is right now. This sort of publicity is going to fill seats, and we need to do everything possible to generate revenue immediately. With that brutal stadium contract we have—"

  "You keep mentioning our stadium contract. Maybe you'd better fill me in."

  "I suppose I should start at the beginning." He looked thoughtful. "You're aware that the days of the purely family-owned football team have just about disappeared?"

  "How many are left?"

  "Only two. The Pittsburgh Steelers, owned by the Rooney family, and the Phoenix Cardinals, owned by the Bidwells. Football has simply gotten too expensive for single-family ownership. Tim Mara sold off his half of the Giants in the late eighties, the McCaskeys got rid of a piece of the Bears, and, of course, Bert sold off fifteen percent of the Stars to some of his cronies."

  "Those are the men who keep leaving me the phone messages I'm not returning?"

  "The same. For now, corporate ownership violates league rules, but that's probably where we're eventually headed. How can the Green Bay Packers, for example, which is a publicly owned team, compete with all the land barons, oil and gas men, and automobile fortunes that are pumping money into the Chiefs and the Cowboys, the Lions, the Saints, all the rest?"

  He shook his head. "Teams have astronomical expenses and only limited ways of generating revenue: network television contracts, ticket sales, licensing agreements, and, for some of the teams, their stadium contracts. We don't get a penny from any food or liquor sold at the dome. We don't receive a cut from any of the advertising that's displayed, our rent is astronomical, and we have to pay for our own security as well as our cleanup."

  "How could Bert allow something like that to happen?"

  "He let his heart rule his head, I'm afraid. In the early eighties when the Stars' franchise became available, Bert wanted to buy it so badly that he didn't hang tough enough with the consortium of businessmen behind the sports dome. He also expected eventually to renegotiate the contract by making some threats and showing a little muscle."

  "Apparently he thought wrong."

  "The consortium that owns the stadium is headed by Jason Keane. He's a tough businessman."

  "I've heard of him. He shows up at a lot of Manhattan clubs."

  "Don't let his reputation as a playboy fool you. Keane's smart, and he had no intention of losing his sweetheart deal with the Stars. The contract comes up for renewal this December, and so far we've made no progress at all improving the terms."

  Resting her elbow on her desk, she plowed one hand through her hair and swept it back from her cheek. The Stars had lost their final three exhibition games as well as their season opener, so there was little possibility of the team's qualifying for the AFC Championship game. All the sportswriters were predicting that the Portland Sabers would make it to the Super Bowl again this year, and she hadn't failed to note that the Sabers had won their opener against the Buffalo Bills 25-10.

  The stadium contract was going to be Reed's problem, and there was no reason for her to waste time thinking about it except for an inescapable need to accomplish something her father hadn't been able to do. But how could she expect to remedy a situation Bert couldn't fix when she knew nothing at all about such things?

  Reed had called her several times since the night he'd come to visit her. He'd even sent her flowers before the opener. Each time they'd spoken he'd been unfailingly polite, although he wasn't happy about the two-year contract she'd signed with Ron. She
knew he was afraid that she was going to destroy the team before he could take it over. He would never understand that her need to be more than the figurehead her father had envisioned outweighed any desire she might have to get back at him for his childhood bullying.

  She gazed at the computer that sat idly on the corner of her desk. "Could you set me up with someone who can teach me how to use this thing?"

  "You want to learn how to operate a computer?"

  "Why not? I'm willing to try anything that's nonfattening. Besides, it might be fun to use my brain again."

  "I'll send someone over." Ron got up to leave. "Phoebe, are you sure you don't want to move into Bert's office? I feel guilty having all that space to myself."

  "You need it more than I do."

  After Ron left, she looked around at the blue-gray walls, steel case desk, and football artwork. She'd decided she wasn't going to be here long enough to bother personalizing Ron's former office with her own belongings. The utilitarian furnishings provided a marked contrast to the luxurious condo she and Molly were moving into. One of Bert's mistresses had obviously been blessed with good taste in decorating, if not in men.

  Peg Kowalski, Bert's former housekeeper, was spending the day supervising the transfer of Phoebe's and Molly's clothing and personal possessions. Peg, who was in her late fifties and tired of managing a large house, had immediately agreed to help out with cleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping as well as staying overnight with Molly if Phoebe needed to be out of town.

  Molly had shown little interest in the move. She'd also turned down Phoebe's invitation to a shopping expedition so they could update her hopelessly drab wardrobe before she started school on Wednesday. Phoebe had decided there was no point in confronting Molly with the lies she had told Dan. It would only make a bad situation worse.

  She had reports to read, phone calls to return, but, instead, she once again swiveled her chair so she could stare out the window. She had been playing games with men for so long she had no idea how to let one know she was honestly attracted to him. Mixed with her feelings of embarrassment and sadness was regret. If only she had been woman enough to let Dan Calebow make love to her, maybe she could have been healed.