She had known how he would feel about it even before she saw him turn his head to see what all the fuss was about. At first he looked stunned, then murderous. For a moment their eyes locked. She wanted to blast him with her most smoldering gaze, but she couldn't manage it. Before he could sense her misery, she turned her attention to the photographers, who were calling her name. While they recorded her every curve, she knew she had never felt less womanly. Why had she ever thought a man like Dan could look at her as anything more than a body?
Bobby Tom came trotting up. "I got a feeling you're going to bring me luck today."
"I'll do my best."
She took her time giving him his kiss and then acknowledged the crowd's cheers with a wave. Jim Biederot appeared for his pregame insult. Several of the other players sidled up, and she wished them luck. Ron had pressed a pack of Wrigley's in her hand before the game, but Dan didn't approach her at the kickoff to claim it.
The ball arced into the air, and when the massive bodies of the players began to collide, she managed to avoid slapping her hands over her eyes. Although it was still terrifying to be near so much mayhem, she realized as the quarter progressed that she wasn't quite as panicked as she had been the week before. Ron had been teaching her the rudiments of the game, and more than once, she found herself caught up in the action.
Later, in the skybox, she had the satisfaction of watching Dan get ejected in the fourth quarter after insulting one of the refs. Inspired by her good luck kiss, Bobby Tom had caught five passes for 118 yards, but it wasn't enough to make up for his teammates' fumbles, especially against a powerhouse like the Sabers. With six turnovers, the Sabers beat the Stars by eighteen points.
She and Ron returned with the team on the charter flight back to O'Hare. She had changed from her python jeans into comfortable slacks and a red cotton sweater that hung to mid-thigh. As she approached Dan, who was sitting in the front row of first class and scowling over next week's game plan with Gary Hewitt, the offensive coordinator, she wished she could slip past him before he noticed her. Since that wasn't possible, she stopped momentarily beside his seat, arched her eyebrows, and flipped the pack of Wrigley's into his lap.
"You really should learn to control your temper, Coach."
He gave her a glare that could have scorched concrete. She quickly moved on.
After the plane took off, she left her seat in first class next to Ron and walked into the cabin to speak with the players. She was stunned to see how banged up they were. The team physician was giving one of the veterans a shot in the knee, while the trainer worked with another. Many of the men sported ice packs.
They seemed to appreciate the fact that she was willing to converse with them after an embarrassing loss. She noticed that there was a definite pecking order to the way in which they were seated. The coaches, GM, and important press occupied first class, while Stars staff members and the camera crew sat in the front of the coach section. The rookies occupied the next few rows, and the veterans took up the back of the plane. Later, when she asked Ron why the veterans chose the rear of the plane, he told her they liked to get as far away from the coaches as possible.
It was after one in the morning when they landed at O'Hare, and she was exhausted. Ron was taking her home since she hadn't driven to the airport. As she slid into the deep front seat of his Lincoln Town Car, she heard a brisk set of footsteps approaching.
"We need to talk, Phoebe. Let me drive you home."
She looked up to see Dan standing next to the car, his hand resting on the door as he leaned down to peer inside. He was wearing his wire-rimmed glasses, and he looked more like a stern-faced high school principal who was about to reach for his paddle than one of the gridiron's legendary hell-raisers.
She fumbled with her seat belt buckle as she snapped it together. "We can talk tomorrow. I'm going with Ron."
Ron, who was standing on the driver's side, had just finished placing their carry-on bags in the rear seat. He looked up as Dan came around the front of the car.
"I have some business I need to discuss with Phoebe, Ronald. I'll drive her home. We can trade cars at work tomorrow." He tossed over a set of keys and, ignoring her exclamation of protest, slid behind the wheel. While Dan adjusted the seat to accommodate his taller framer, Ron stared down at the keys in his hand.
"You're letting me drive your Ferrari?"
"Don't put any drool marks on the leather."
Ron snatched his carry-on bag from the back and handed over his own keys, so pleased at the prospect of driving "ICE 11" that he dashed off without telling Phoebe good-bye.
She sat in stony silence as Dan pulled out of the parking lot. Within minutes, they were heading south on the Tri State. In the gaudy lights of billboards advertising radio stations and beer, she could see that he was doing a slow burn, as if he were the wronged party instead of her. She made up her mind that she wasn't going to let him realize how much he'd hurt her.
"I suppose you know you disgraced yourself at the game today by showing up in that snake charmer outfit."
"I disgraced myself? Unless my memory's faulty, you were the one who got evicted."
"I got ejected, not evicted. That was a football game, not a damn landlords' convention." He glanced over at her. "What were you trying to prove, anyway? Don't you know that when you wear clothes like that, you might as well have a For Sale sign plastered on your chest."
"Of course I know it," she cooed. "Why do you think I do it?"
His hands tightened on the wheel. "You're really pushing me, aren't you?"
"My clothing isn't any of your concern."
"It is when it reflects on the team."
"Don't you think those infantile temper tantrums you throw on the sidelines reflect on the team?"
"That's different. It's part of the game."
She hoped her refusal to respond told him exactly what she thought of his logic.
They drove for several miles in silence. Phoebe's misery settled in deeper. She was so tired of playing a part all the time, but she didn't know any other way to behave. Maybe if they'd met under different circumstances, they would have had a chance.
Dan's belligerence had faded when he finally spoke again. "Look, Phoebe. I feel bad about last night, and I want to apologize. I liked being with you and all, and I didn't mean to be so abrupt. It was just gettin' kind of late…" His apology trailed lamely into silence.
She could feel her throat closing, and she fought against it. Pulling the fragments of her willpower together, she spoke with the bored lockjaw drawl of a South Hampton socialite. "Really, Dan, if I'd known you would react in such an immature fashion, I would never have gone to bed with you."
His eyes narrowed. "Is that so?"
"You reminded me of a teenager who'd just done it in the backseat of the family car and was having an attack of guilty conscience. Frankly, I'm accustomed to a bit more sophistication on the part of my lovers. At the very least, I expected another round. It's hardly worth all that effort if you're only going to do it once, is it?"
He made a strange, choking sound and drifted into the right lane. She kept at him, prodded on by the pain of knowing he couldn't see through her, that this was the way he expected her to behave. "I don't think I'm terribly demanding, but I do have three requirements of my lovers: courtesy, endurance, and quick recovery for a repeat performance. I'm afraid you failed all three."
His voice grew dangerously low. "Aren't you going to criticize my technique, too?"
"Well, as to that. I found your technique to be quite… adequate."
"Adequate?"
"You've obviously read all the books, but…" She forced an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, I'm probably too picky."
"No. Go on. I wouldn't miss this for the world."
"I guess I hadn't imagined you'd have so many—Well, so many hang-ups. You're a very uptight lover, Daniel. You should relax more and not take sex so seriously. Of course you were operating at a disadvantage." She paused, then
went in for the kill. "In all fairness, what man could be at his best having sex with the woman who signs his paychecks?"
She was dismayed to hear a soft chuckle. "Phoebe, darlin', you're takin' my breath away."
"I wouldn't dwell on it too much. I'm certain it was just a temporary thing. Bad chemistry."
In the flash of headlights, she could see him grin. For a fraction of a second she almost forgot the sting of his rejection and smiled herself.
"Honey lamb, there are a lot of things in this world I feel insecure about. Religion. Our national economic policy. What color socks to wear with a blue suit. But, I've got to tell you that my performance in that hotel room last night isn't one of them."
"With that ego of yours, I'm not surprised."
"Phoebe, I said I was sorry."
"Apology accepted. Now if you don't mind, I'm exhausted." She rested her head against the window and closed her eyes.
He was just as good at nonverbal communication as she. Within seconds, he'd flipped on the radio and filled the interior of the car with the hostile music of Megadeth. Nothing had been settled between them.
Phoebe saw little of Dan during the week that followed. His days seemed to be spent in watching miles of film, attending an endless number of meetings with his coaches and players, and spending some time each day on the practice field. To her surprise, Molly agreed to accompany her to the game on Sunday against the Detroit Lions, although when Phoebe suggested she bring a friend, she refused, saying that all the girls at her school were bitches.
The Stars beat the Lions by a narrow margin, but the following Sunday at Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh, the team once again fell victim to a series of turnovers and lost a close game. They were now one and three for the season. She ran into Reed at the Pittsburgh airport. He was so cloyingly sympathetic, while at the same time subtly critical, that she couldn't wait to get away from him.
The next morning, when Phoebe arrived at her office, her secretary handed her a note from Ronald asking her to meet him immediately in the second-floor conference room. As she grabbed her coffee mug and made her way down the hall, she noticed that all the phones were ringing and wondered what new catastrophe had struck?
Dan was leaning against the paneled back wall, ankles and forearms crossed, a scowl on his face as he stared at the television that rested on a movable steel cart along with a VCR. Ron was seated in a swivel chair at the end of the table.
As she slid into the chair to his left, he leaned over and whispered, "This is a tape of 'Sports in Chicago,' a popular local program that aired last night while we were flying home. I'm afraid you need to hear this."
She turned her attention to the television and saw a good-looking, dark-haired announcer seated in a tub chair against a backdrop of the Chicago skyline. He gazed into the camera with the intensity of Peter Jennings covering a major war.
"Through skillful trades and smart draft choices, Bert Somerville and Carl Pogue managed to assemble one of the most talented group of players in the league. But it takes more than talent to win victories, it takes leadership, something the Stars now sorely lack."
The screen began to show clips from Sunday's game, a series of fumbles and broken plays. "General manager Ronald McDermitt is not a football visionary—he's never even played the game—and he simply doesn't have the maturity to keep a maverick coach like Dan Calebow in line, a coach who needs to be concentrating more on the fundamentals his young players need and less on razzle-dazzle. The Stars are an organization verging on chaos, hampered by inept management, erratic coaching, shaky finances, and an owner who is an embarrassment to the NFL."
Phoebe stiffened as the camera began to display a montage of photos of her taken over the years. Briefly, the announcer sketched in the details of Bert's will.
"Socialite Phoebe Somerville's behavior is turning a serious and noble game into a circus. She doesn't understand the sport, and doesn't seem to have any experience managing anything more complicated than her checkbook. Her provocative clothing on the sidelines and her snubs to media requests for interviews make it clear how little respect she has for this talented team and the sport so many of us love."
The camera cut to an interview with Reed. "I'm certain that Phoebe is doing her best," he said earnestly. "She's more accustomed to moving in artistic circles than athletic ones and this is difficult for her. Once she's fulfilled the requirements of her father's will, I'm sure I'll be able to get the Stars back on track quickly."
She gritted her teeth as Reed went on, smiling into the camera and coming across as the perfect gentlemen to her wild-eyed party girl.
The moussed-up talking head came back on camera. "Despite Reed Chandler's chivalrous defense of his cousin, January is a long time away. In the meantime, when is Miss Somerville going to provide direction to her general manager? Even more troubling, how can she clamp down on her explosive head coach when a troubling rumor has surfaced. Normally, we would not report this sort of thing, but since it has a direct bearing on what's happening with the Stars, we feel it's in the public interest to reveal that a reliable source saw her emerging from Calebow's Portland hotel suite in the early hours of the morning two weeks ago."
Dan uttered a blistering obscenity. Phoebe gripped her hands together.
The announcer regarded the camera gravely. "Their meeting might have been innocent, but if it wasn't, it doesn't bode well for the Stars. We should also note that Miss Somerville's indiscretions don't stop at a rumored fling with her head coach."
He picked up a copy of Beau Monde magazine, a glossy, upscale publication with a circulation nearly as large as Vanity Fair. Phoebe groaned inwardly. She'd had so much on her mind lately that she'd forgotten all about Beau Monde.
"Our new NFL Commissioner Boyd Randolph would be well-advised to take a look at the latest issue of popular Beau Monde magazine, which will be showing up tomorrow on area newsstands and features our own Miss Somerville in the buff. Perhaps these photographs, which FCC regulations prohibit me from showing on camera, will spur the commissioner to have a serious discussion with Miss Somerville about her responsibilities to the NFL."
His brows drew together in the studied outrage of a reporter trying to pump up his Nielsen's. "Professional football has worked hard at cleaning up its image after the drug and gambling scandals of the past. But now a young woman with no interest in the game wants to drag it right through the dirt again. Let's hope that Commissioner Randolph won't let that happen."
Dan pointed his finger toward the announcer. "Isn't that weasel one of Reed's buddies?"
"I believe so." The broadcast had come to an end, and Ron hit the switch on the remote control.
"Chandler's a real prince," Dan muttered in disgust. He snatched up the manila envelope that lay on the table, and Phoebe's outrage gave way to a sinking sense of dread.
"My secretary just gave it to me," Ron said. "I haven't had a chance to look at it yet."
Dan whipped out the magazine. Phoebe wanted to take it away from him, but she knew that would only postpone the inevitable. A page ripped as he began thumbing through it, searching for the offending photographs.
"Why bother?" she sighed. "You've already seen everything I've got."
Ron winced. "It's true then? You really were together in his hotel room."
Dan turned on her. "Why don't you just hire the Goodyear blimp so you can announce it to the whole world?"
Her fingers trembled as she cupped her now cold coffee mug. "It's not going to happen again, Ron, but you need to know the truth."
He looked at her like a worried father confronting a well-loved, but ill-behaved child. "I blame myself. It never occurred to me to talk to you about the impropriety of fraternizing with Dan. I should have realized—This, coupled with the photographs, is going to be a public relations nightmare. Didn't you realize that posing nude for a magazine, even a respectable one like Beau Monde, would embarrass the team?"
"I posed for those photographs in June, a mo
nth before I inherited the Stars. With everything that's happened, I'd forgotten about them."
Dan still hadn't found the photographs. He gritted his teeth. "I'm telling you this, Ronald. If we get any calls from Playboy, you'd better tie her down and gag her, because she'll be buck naked and airbrushed before you know it."
Abruptly, he stopped flipping and stared. Then he began to curse.
Phoebe hated the need she felt to defend herself. "Those photographs were done by Asha Belchoir, one of the most respected photographers in the world. She also happens to be a friend of mine."
Dan whapped the page with the back of his hand. "You're painted!"
Ron reached out. "May I?"
Dan tossed the magazine on the table as if it were a piece of garbage. It landed open, revealing a double page spread of Phoebe reclining in front of Flores's "Nude #28," a surrealistic portrait he had done of her not long before his death. Superimposed on Phoebe's naked body was an exact reproduction of the section of the painting that her reclining form covered. The effect was beautiful, eerie, and erotic.
Ron turned the page to reveal an enlarged photograph of Phoebe's breast, its nipple puckered beneath a coating of chalk white paint. Her skin had become a surrealistic canvas for miniature blue silhouettes of other breasts executed in Flores's characteristic style.
The final photograph was a full-length vertical nude taken from the rear. She was lifting her hair, knee bent, one hip slightly outthrust. Her unpainted skin formed a canvas for black and crimson handprints on her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the curve of her buttock, the back of her thigh.