It Had to Be You

  "Me?" Her mouth curled in a delighted smile. "Really?"

  "Really."

  Her smile faded as she saw the way he was looking at her. She licked her lips. "I'm…"

  "Hot?" His molasses drawl made that short word last forever.

  She swallowed. "Warm."

  He smiled his Southern boy's crooked smile, slow and easy, conjuring up endless humid nights. "Not warm, darlin'. Hot."

  "Maybe…"

  "Me, too."

  She could feel every part of him through her clothes. He thrilled her, he scared her. He made her feel as if she'd only been half-alive before they'd met.

  His hand settled around her waist. "You and me. We're…"

  "Hot." The word slipped out.

  "Yes." He dropped his head and took her mouth.

  The lateness of the hour. The tension of the game. For whatever reason, the moment his lips touched hers, she lost all sense of restraint.

  He scooped his big hands beneath her hips, and his elbow whacked the wall as he lifted her. Their bodies ground together. Her knee bumped into the door. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gloried in the feel of him pressed so hard against her.

  Their kiss turned into a wild oral mating, something primitive and ungovernable, fed by a passion that had taken on a life of its own.

  With a hoarse exclamation, he lowered her onto the edge of the small counter behind her and shoved up her sweater and bra. Gathering her breasts in his hands, he lifted them to his mouth. She gripped his belt buckle, while she pushed her other hand under his shirt so she could feel the hard muscles of his chest.

  Her thighs were splayed wide to accommodate his legs, and his mouth dived to encompass one nipple. Sliding his hand down over her stomach, he cupped her.

  "Don't ever…" he murmured against her moist nipple while he rubbed her through her slacks, "… wear these again."

  "No…"

  "Only dresses I can pull up." He unfastened her slacks, pushed down the zipper.

  "Yes." She grappled with his belt buckle, shoved up his shirt.

  "And no panties." His mouth left her breasts. He slipped his hand inside the cotton fabric.

  Wet. Hot. He found her.

  With a gasp, she pressed her open mouth against his bare chest. The hair was silky under her tongue.

  "Here," he murmured hoarsely. "Inside…"

  "Do. Yes…" She worked at his zipper, but the fabric caught in the metal teeth halfway down. With a moan of frustration, she slid her hand inside, past the elastic band of his briefs to encircle him.

  He made a strangled exclamation and lifted her while she stroked. His shoulder bumped into the wall. He braced his left foot on the platform that held the commode and worked at her slacks and panties, but their removal was difficult because of the confined space. She felt the wet cold of the basin on her buttocks and his heat in her hand. His upper arm hit one wall, his opposite elbow the other. He was finally forced to use the toe of his shoe to free her garments from their snare around her ankles. Kissing her deeply, he worked her with his fingers.

  Her hand on him trembled. She had never done this to a man, but suddenly her hand wasn't enough. It was too distant from her heart. She pushed him as far away as she could manage and slipped from the edge of the basin. Turning her hips to the side, she bent into an impossibly awkward position and parted her lips. A shudder swept through her as she lost a new virginity to him.

  It was thrilling. Deliciously sweet to do such a thing to this man.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead as he felt the gentle tug of her mouth. He was abandoning all his principles, all his resolutions, and at that moment, he didn't care. The only commitment he'd made was to himself, and he could work that out later.

  Through his raging excitement, he observed the tender, vulnerable curve of her neck. Many women had served him in this way, so why did this time seem so different? And it was different. There was a sweet ineptitude about that soft, warm suction that thrilled him even as it mystified him.

  He caressed her hips, clenched her cheeks as his passion drove him higher. A dim internal voice pointed out to him that she wasn't doing it exactly right. Logic said she should be a pro at this, but the sweet awkwardness of that soft mouth defeated logic.

  He stroked her hair, and a fierce wave of tenderness swept through him. Without planning it, he found himself drawing her up. Regardless of how she looked, how she dressed, how she behaved—regardless of his own raging need and every single damning thing he knew about her, he couldn't take her like this. She deserved something better from him than a mile-high pop in an airplane John.

  "No," she whispered, and he saw something both bereft and bewildered in her amber eyes that tore his gut apart.

  He kissed her lips and lost himself in that swollen mouth. She sobbed his name, shuddered, and he understood she had slipped past reason. Setting aside the violent demand of his own body, he stroked her with a deep and gentle movement of his hand. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, and the sound of those short, frenzied pants nearly drove him over the edge.

  "Phoebe, darlin', you're killing me." With a hoarse exclamation, he plunged his tongue into the moist recesses of her mouth. When she shattered, he swallowed her cries.

  She fell against him, her body limp and vulnerable, the nape of her neck moist with soft blond tendrils clinging to it. He felt her chest heave as she tried to draw breath. She attempted to slide her thighs together. At the same time, she shuddered, and he knew she wasn't done. He couldn't leave her like this, and he stroked her again.

  She climaxed almost instantly. She gasped for breath and then began to tremble, signaling that her need still wasn't satisfied. He resumed his stroking.

  "No… Not without you."

  At the sound of her soft, whispered wail, he ached to drive himself deep inside her. Nothing was holding him back. At that moment he couldn't even picture Sharon's face. And Phoebe was a curvy, buxom, good-time girl, custom-designed by God for just this kind of romp. Of all the women he'd ever been with, this one should have been the last to give him scruples. Instead, she seemed to be giving him the most.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to accept the fact that he couldn't finish this. Phoebe was too lost in passion to think straight, so he would have to do it for her.

  "I don't have anything with me," he lied.

  She slid her hand up his thigh, touched him. "Could I…" She tilted her head, looked at him, and the uncertainty in her eyes cut through him. "Maybe I could do the same thing to you."

  Her throat spasmed as she swallowed, and those eyes, as uncertain as a fawn's, undid him. He simply couldn't let this go any farther. Painfully, he fastened his slacks.

  "It's all right. I'm fine."

  "But…"

  He looked away from her wounded eyes. His hands weren't altogether steady as he slipped her sweater back down over her breasts. "Everybody in the front of the plane should be asleep by now, but maybe you'd better slip out first, as soon as you finish putting yourself back together."

  She struggled with her slacks, rubbing against him with every movement. When all her clothing was back in place, she looked up at him. "How do you do it?" she asked quietly.

  "Do what?"

  "Act so hot, and then turn so cold."

  She believed she'd been rejected. Even though he'd tried not to, he knew he'd hurt her. "Right now I'm about ready to explode," he said.

  "I don't believe you. What is it Tully calls you? 'Ice'?"

  He couldn't fight with her, not after he'd seen how vulnerable she was, and he could only think of one way to heal the hurt. He gave an elaborate sigh and managed to sound annoyed. "It's starting again, isn't it? The only time the two of us aren't arguing is when we're kissing. I don't know why I even try to be a good guy with you because it always backfires."

  Her lips were still swollen from his mouth. "Is that what you were doing? Being a good guy."

  "About as good as I've ever been. It
doesn't come naturally, either. And you know what? You owe me for it."

  "I what?" Those amber eyes weren't defenseless any longer. Just as he'd intended, they had begun to flash sparks.

  "You owe me, Phoebe. I was trying to show a little respect for you."

  "Respect? I don't think I've ever heard it called that."

  The sarcasm in her voice didn't quite hide her hurt, so he kept pressing. "That's exactly what it is. And as far as I'm concerned, you just now threw that respect right back in my face. Which means you owe me what I didn't get in here, and I plan to collect."

  "How do you plan to do that?"

  "I'll tell you how. One day—Any day I happen to choose. Any hour. Any time. Any place. I'm going to look at you, and I'm going to say one word."

  "One word?"

  "I'm going to say now. Just that one word. Now. And when you hear that word, it means you stop doing whatever you're doing, and you follow me to wherever I choose to take you. And when we get there, that body of yours becomes my own personal playpen. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  He waited for her to explode, but he should have known she wouldn't let him off so easily. Phoebe knew almost as much about playing games as he did.

  "I think so," she said thoughtfully. "Let me see if I've got this straight. You're telling me that, because you didn't make it to the mountaintop, so to speak, I owe you a debt. When you look at me and you say now, I'm supposed to turn into your love slave. Do I have it right?"

  "Yep." The sadness had faded from his eyes, and he was definitely beginning to enjoy himself.

  "No matter what I'm doing."

  "No matter what."

  "No matter where you choose to take me."

  "A broom closet, if I've a mind to. It's completely up to me." He was playing with fire and actually anticipating the moment it would flame out of control.

  "If I'm at work?" she inquired with remarkable calm.

  "There's a fifty-fifty chance that's exactly where you'll be."

  "In a meeting?"

  "You lift that curvy little butt of yours right out of the chair and follow me."

  "In a meeting with the commissioner?"

  "You say, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Commissioner, but I believe I have a case of the stomach flu coming on, so will you excuse me. And Coach Calebow, could you come with me just in case I happen to faint in the hall and need somebody to pick me up?' "

  "I see." She looked thoughtful. "What if I'm doing an interview with—oh, let's say, Frank Gifford?"

  "Frank's a good guy. I'm sure he'll understand."

  The explosion was going to come any second now. He knew it.

  She crinkled her forehead. "I just want to make absolutely certain I've got this right. You say now, and I'm supposed to turn into your—How was it you put it? Your personal playpen?"

  "That's what I said." He braced himself.

  "Playpen."

  "Yep."

  She took a deep breath and smiled. "Cool."

  Stunned, he watched her slip through the door. When it shut, he threw back his head and laughed. She'd done it. She'd gotten him again.

  Chapter 18

  « ^ »

  Molly had just walked in the door from school the next afternoon when the phone rang. She heard Peg moving about in the laundry room as she set her book bag on the kitchen counter and picked up the receiver. "Hello."

  "Hi there, Miz Molly. It's Dan Calebow."

  She smiled. "Hello, Coach Calebow."

  "Say, I've got a little problem here, and I thought you might like to help me out."

  "If I can."

  "Now that's exactly what I like about you, Miz Molly. You have a cooperative nature, in contrast with another woman I could name, whose entire mission in life seems to be making things tough for a guy."

  Molly decided he was talking about Phoebe.

  "I was thinking about dropping by your house for an hour or so tonight with a couple of gen-u-ine Chicago pizzas. But you know how Phoebe is. She'd probably refuse to let me in the door if I asked her straight out, and even if she said it was okay, you've seen how she likes to pick fights with me. So I figure things would go a lot better if you'd invite me over. That way Phoebe'd have to be polite."

  "Well, I don't know. Phoebe and I…"

  "Is she still smackin' you? 'Cause if she is, I'm gonna have some words with her."

  Molly caught her bottom lip between her teeth and murmured, "She doesn't hit me anymore."

  "You don't say."

  There was a long pause. Molly picked at the corner of a lavender spiral notebook that had fallen out of her book bag. "You know I wasn't telling the truth about that, don't you?"

  "You weren't?"

  "She wouldn't—Phoebe wouldn't ever hit anybody."

  The coach murmured something that sounded like, "Don't count on it."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Nothing. You go on with what you were saying."

  Molly wasn't ready to comment further about her relationship with Phoebe. It was too confusing. Sometimes Phoebe acted as if she really liked her, but how could that be when Molly wasn't even nice to her? More and more lately she'd wanted to be nice, but then she'd remember that her father had loved only Phoebe, and any good feelings she had toward her older sister evaporated. She did like Coach Calebow, however. He was funny and nice, and he'd made the kids at school notice her. She and Jeff talked every day at their lockers.

  "I'd like it if you'd stop by tonight," she said. "But I don't want to be in the way."

  "Now how could a sweet young lady like you be in the way?"

  "Well, if you're sure."

  "I certainly am. When Phoebe gets home, tell her that I'll be dropping by whenever I can get away. Will that be okay?"

  "That'll be fine."

  "And if she says she's not letting me in the door, you tell her you invited me and she can't weasel out. See you tonight, Miz Molly."

  "See you."

  Dan hung up Phoebe's telephone. He grinned down at her from his comfortable perch on the corner of her desk. "I'm coming over with pizza tonight. Your sister invited me."

  Phoebe concealed her amusement. "Is it possible for you to do anything in a straightforward fashion? When you walked in my office less than three minutes ago, did it occur to you to simply ask me directly if you could stop by instead of telephoning Molly?"

  "As a matter of fact, it didn't occur to me."

  "Maybe I don't want to see you."

  "Of course you do. Everybody knows I'm irresistible to women."

  "In your dreams, Tonto."

  "What are you so grouchy about?"

  "You know what time the plane landed. I had to be here for an eight o'clock meeting, and I've only had a couple of hours of sleep."

  "Sleep is highly overrated."

  "For you, maybe, but not for those of us who are real human beings instead of cleverly designed androids programmed to stay awake all the time."

  He chuckled, and she dug in her drawer for the bottle of aspirin she kept there. She still couldn't believe what had happened between them last night in the plane. When he'd issued that silly ultimatum at the end, she hadn't been able to resist sparring with him, despite the fact that she should know enough by now not to fall into his games, let alone try to beat him at them. Still, she couldn't suppress the hope that last night had changed things between them.

  He would never know what a precious gift he had given her. She was no longer afraid of sexual intimacy, at least not with him. Somehow this good-looking, cocky, Alabama bruiser had helped her reclaim her womanhood. If only she weren't so afraid that he was also going to break her heart into a million pieces.

  He transferred himself from the corner of her desk to the nearest chair. "We've got some unfinished business to take care of. If you'll remember, we got distracted last night before we completed our discussion."

  She busied herself with the cap of the aspirin bottle. "Damn. I can never get these things off. I hate safety caps."
br />   "Don't look at me. I can bench press 290, but I can't budge those suckers."

  She fiddled with the cap and finally gave up. Dan was right. They needed to talk. Setting aside the bottle, she folded her hands on the desk in front of her. "Do you want to go first?"

  "All right." He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. "It's pretty simple, I guess. I'm the head coach, and you're the owner. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell me how to do my job, just like I don't tell you how to do yours."

  Phoebe stared at him. "In case it's slipped your mind, you've been telling me how to do my job since you broke into my apartment in August."

  He looked injured. "I thought we were going to have a discussion, not an argument. Just once, Phoebe, make a little effort to hold on to that quick temper of yours."

  Her hand crept toward the aspirin bottle. She spoke slowly, softly. "Go on, Coach Calebow."

  Her formal mode of address didn't deter him. "I don't want you to interfere with the team again before the game."

  "What do you consider interference?"

  "Well, I guess it pretty much goes without saying that showing up in the locker room before the game would be at the top of my list. If you have something you want communicated to the players, tell me and I'll pass it on. I'd also appreciate it if you'd stay in the front of the plane when we're traveling. I guess the only exception to that would be on the flight home if we've won. Then it'd probably be appropriate for you to make a quick walk-through to congratulate the men. But I'd want you to do it in a dignified fashion. Shake some hands, and then leave them alone."

  She slipped on her leopard-spot glasses and gazed at him steadily. "I'm afraid you're operating under the mistaken impression that I was having an attack of female hysteria last night when I reminded you—quite forcefully as I remember—that the Stars are my team and not yours."

  "You're not going to start that again, are you?"

  "Dan, I've been doing my homework, and I know that a lot of people with some impressive credentials think you're on your way to being one of the finest coaches in the NFL. I know that the Stars are lucky to have you."

  Despite the sincerity in her voice, he regarded her warily. "Keep talking."