It Had to Be You Part 17

She smiled. "I think I'd better stick to sprinkles."

He glanced down at his watch. "I've got to go. I'm making a speech five minutes ago. My schedule's pretty crazy right now, but when things loosen up, let's go out to dinner. You like Italian?"

She had turned red again. "I-Yes, Italian's fine."

"Good. I'll call you."

"Okay." She seemed vaguely stunned.

Impulsively, he leaned forward and brushed her mouth with a quick kiss. On the way out to the parking lot, he smiled and licked his lips.

Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought he tasted vanilla.

12.

Phoebe ran into Bobby Tom Denton in the hotel lobby at eight-thirty on Sat.u.r.day evening. Although she had just arrived in Portland on a commercial flight from O'Hare, the Stars had been there since noon because NFL rules stated that visiting teams had to be in the city in which they were playing twenty-four hours before kickoff. She knew from an earlier glance at the schedule that the players had been in a meeting until 8:00 p.m. and were now free until their eleven o'clock curfew.

"Hey there, Miz Somerville." Her $8-million man gave her a grin that was nearly as wide as the black Stetson on his head. His stylishly frayed and faded jeans molded to his runner's legs, and his snakeskin cowboy boots had been perfectly broken in so that they were neither too new nor too run-down. Viktor would have been impressed.

Bobby Tom said, "I was worried you might not be here."

"I told you I'd come."

He pushed the brim of his hat back with his thumb. "You're going to be on the sidelines during the first quarter tomorrow, aren't you?"

She nibbled the corner of her lip. "Actually, Bobby Tom, I'm having some second thoughts."

"Hold on, now. I can see you and me need to have a serious conversation." One of his nimble, receiver's hands clasped her arm and gently steered her toward the bar. She could have protested, but she wasn't looking forward to an evening in a strange hotel room without even Pooh to keep her company.

The hotel bar was quiet and dark, and they settled in a small banquette in the corner, where Bobby Tom ordered a beer. "You look like the white wine type," he said. "How 'bout one of those fancy chardonnays."

Phoebe would have loved a chardonnay but she wasn't sure she liked being cla.s.sified as a "white wine type," so she requested a margarita. The waitress, who'd been gazing at Bobby Tom with hungry eyes, went off to fill their orders.

"Are you allowed to drink the night before a game?"

"We're allowed to do just about anything as long as we give the team all we've got the next day. Drinkin' and curfew are the only two things the coach isn't real strict about. We're supposed to be in our rooms by eleven, but Coach was pretty much a h.e.l.l-raiser in his playing days, and he knows we all have our own ways of blowin' off steam." Bobby Tom chuckled. "He's sort of a legend."

Phoebe told herself not to ask, but when it came to Dan Calebow, her curiosity seemed to have no bounds. "What do you mean? What kind of legend?"

"Well, some of the stories about him aren't fit for female ears, but I guess everybody knows how much he hated curfews. See, the coach only needs a couple of hours sleep at night, and when he was playin', he couldn't stand the idea of being cooped up in his room at eleven o'clock. Said it wound him up too tight for the game. So what he mostly did was slide in his room for bed check and then sneak out afterward for some serious partying. The coaches found out about it, of course. They fined him, benched him; none of it did any good, because he'd still be out closing down the bars. Finally, he told them if they didn't like it, they'd could either shoot him or trade him, but he wasn't gonna change. The only bad game he had his entire first season was when they put a guard outside his room. The next day, he threw five interceptions. After that, the coaches stopped bothering him about it. 'Course he settled down a little bit when he got older."

"Not much, I'll bet," she muttered as their drinks arrived.

Bobby Tom lifted his frosty mug. "Here's to whippin' some Saber b.u.t.t."

"To b.u.t.t whipping." She touched her gla.s.s to his, then licked a small s.p.a.ce in the salty rim and took a sip of her margarita.

"Miz Somerville-"

"Phoebe's fine." She took another sip. Later, she would regret the calories, but not now.

"I guess when it's just the two of us first names are okay, but since you're the owner and all, I won't do it when we're in public."

"After those pictures in the newspaper, I don't think I have to worry too much about maintaining respectability."

"Weren't they great! Even got my best side." His grin faded. "You weren't serious when you said you wouldn't be on the sidelines tomorrow, were you?"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea. Not unless we can come up with a new good luck ritual."

"Oh, no. We can't do that. Even though we lost, I had one of the best games of my career against the Broncos last week. I've been playing football for a lot of years, and when something's working for me, I stick with it. See, as soon as I start making changes, then I'm thinking about the change instead of how the zone is lined up and whether or not I can get open. You understand what I'm saying?"

"Bobby Tom, I'm really not crazy about having photos in all the Monday morning newspapers of the two of us kissing."

"I'm surprised I have to remind you about this, Phoebe, but we're playing the Sabers tomorrow, and beating them is a lot more important than some newspaper pictures. They won the Super Bowl last year. The whole country thinks we're flushing this season down the toilet. We have to prove to them that we've got what it takes to be champions."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you have to be champions? When you think about it, what's the point? It's not like you're finding a cure for cancer."

"You're right," he said earnestly. "It's not like that. It's bigger. See, you've got good and you've got evil. That's what it is. That's how important it is."

"I'm having some trouble following you, Bobby Tom."

He lifted his arm for the waitress and jabbed two fingers toward their drinks for refills. That's when she realized that she'd nearly drained hers. She had no head for alcohol, and she knew she should refuse another, but Bobby Tom was good company, and she was enjoying herself. Besides, he was paying.

"The way I figure it is this," he went on. "Mankind is aggressive by nature, you agree with that?"

"Mankind maybe, but not necessarily womankind."

Bobby Tom obviously had no interest in s.e.xual politics because he ignored her comment "Football lets out man's natural aggression. If it weren't for the NFL, we'd probably have gone to war with Russia half a dozen times in the last forty years. See, that's the way Americans are. The minute we get crossed, we're natural s.h.i.tkickers. Pardon my language, Phoebe, but everybody knows kickin' a.s.s is part of our national conscience. Football gives us a-whadya-call? A safe outlet."

He was actually making a convoluted sort of sense, which was when she knew the first margarita had gone to hear head. She picked up the second one, and licked another spot in the rim.

He clasped her arm and gave her a pleading look. "So, are you gonna be there for me or not tomorrow, 'cause I'll tell you G.o.d's truth-you're a fine woman, and I know you don't want a loss to the Sabers on your conscience."

"I'll be there," she sighed.

"I knew I could count on you." He gave her an engaging smile. "I like you, Phoebe. A lot. If we weren't business a.s.sociates, I could really go for you."

He was so boyish and darling, she smiled right back at him. "Isn't life a b.i.t.c.h?"

"You said it."

Even without a margarita glow, Bobby Tom Denton was easy to be with. They talked about Mexican food, whether sports teams should be named after Native Americans, and Bobby Tom's resemblance to Christian Slater. She took more time with her second margarita, but even so, she was definitely feeling a buzz when he leaned over and brushed her mouth with his.

It was a light, friendly kiss. Respectful. A mark of comradeship and well-being. The kiss a twenty-five-year-old man gives to a thirty-three-year-old woman he'd like to go to bed with, but knows he won't, and doesn't want to spoil the friendship, but still wishes it could be more than a friendship.

Phoebe understood.

Unfortunately, Dan didn't.

"Denton!" His voice shot through the quiet of the bar like a Confederate cannon over a smoldering battlefield. "Doesn't that high-priced wrist.w.a.tch of yours tell you you've got exactly three and half minutes to haul your b.u.t.t up to your room or miss curfew?" He loomed over their table in his jeans and a denim shirt that was open at the throat.

"Howdy, Coach. You want to hear the funniest doggone thing? I was just explaining to Phoebe here how you've always been a little bit flexible about curfew. And then you show up. If that isn't-"

"Two minutes, forty-five seconds! And I'm fining you five hundred dollars for every minute you're not in your room."

Looking hurt, Bobby Tom got to his feet. "Dang, Coach, what's got you so riled?"

"You ran three bad patterns on Friday. How 'bout that for starters?"

Bobby Tom peeled some bills from a wad in his pocket and slapped them on the table. Then he gave Dan a long, shrewd gaze. "I don't think this has anything to do with bad patterns." He tipped the brim of his Stetson toward Phoebe. "See you on the sidelines tomorrow, Miss Somerville."

"See you, Bobby Tom."

As he disappeared, Dan barked at her like a drill sergeant "My room! Now."

"Uh-I don't think so."

"When you start playing games with the best wide-out in the AFC, you've stepped clean over the line. Now unless you want our dirty linen aired in public, I suggest you start moving."

Phoebe reluctantly followed him out of the bar and into the lobby. She knew she should remind him that she was the boss, but as they stepped inside the elevator and began to travel in weighted silence up to the seventh floor, she found that she couldn't work up any steam.

He'd certainly worked up a full head, however, and the heat from it was burning right through her short, turquoise knit shift. Luckily for her, she didn't care. The two margaritas had left her with a cozy sense of well-being that made her want to puff out her lower lip and tell him not to be such an old fuddy-duddy.

She hadn't known their suites were so close until he stopped in front of the door across from her own. He unlocked it and gave her a none-too-gentle push inside. Then he shoved his fist, index finger extended, toward the brocade-covered sofa.

"Sit."

Although her brain had begun to issue the most alarming warnings, the warm tequila haze enveloping her made it impossible to take them seriously, so she gave him a mock salute as she followed orders.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't you get cute with me!" He splayed one big hand on his hip. "You stay away from my players, you hear me? These men are here to win football games; they're not your personal love toys, and I don't ever again want to see anything like I saw tonight!"

And that was just the beginning. He ranted and raved, turning red in the face just as he did on the sidelines when he was yelling at a ref. Finally, he paused for breath.

She gave him a lopsided smile and slipped the tip of her index finger into her mouth. "What's the matter, puddin'? Didn't you ever kiss a girl in a bar?"

He seemed stunned, as if he'd never before been sa.s.sed by a woman. G.o.d, he was cute. Cute and s.e.xy and hunky and mean. Uhmm. Grrr G.o.d, he was cute. Cute and s.e.xy and hunky and mean. Uhmm. Grrr... . It would take a lot of woman to tame a man like him.

She uncrossed her legs.

It would take a bed, too. And the smell of jasmine drifting in through the open window. And the soft nighttime creak of a paddle wheel fan turning in the ceiling of the old plantation house.

She stood.

Young Elizabeth could tame him with her smoldering violet eyes, and her white b.r.e.a.s.t.s spilling like vanilla pudding over the lacy cups of her slip.

Yowl! He had come home to her, this moon-howling man. Drunk again. Dissolute. Smelling of whiskey and cheap perfume from a s.l.u.t named Lulabelle. But he still wasn't sated, this hot-blooded, hot-c.o.c.ked man. Only one woman could satisfy him. He had come home to her, this moon-howling man. Drunk again. Dissolute. Smelling of whiskey and cheap perfume from a s.l.u.t named Lulabelle. But he still wasn't sated, this hot-blooded, hot-c.o.c.ked man. Only one woman could satisfy him.

Come to me, baby; I'll make you feel so good. I'm all woman, and I know how to tame my man.

She sauntered toward him, lips wet and parted, a lock of blond hair playing peek-a-boo with her lashes, every pore of her skin feeling his heat and getting ready to scorch him with her own. Why had she ever been afraid of him, a hot, dangerous cat like her? Let him see what kind of woman she was. Let him feel her sizzle.

"Phoebe?"

She stopped in front of him and cupped those hard fists hanging at his sides into the soft palms of her own hands. She gazed into his sea-green eyes and realized there was no need to be afraid of his strength when her own power was so much greater than his.

She arched her back and leaned into him. She was a cat in heat, and she kissed him with her lips parted, slanting her mouth over his, slipping out of one sandal to rub her hot pink toenails along the worn denim that sheathed his calf. As he accepted her tongue, a sense of exhilaration swept through her, fed by the knowledge of her own power. Why had she ever been afraid of s.e.x when this was so easy, so natural?

He was making a soft, hoa.r.s.e sound in his throat, or maybe it was her. Their mouths were joined, their hands clasped at his sides, and she wouldn't let the fear in. His tongue plundered. She told herself she was woman enough to meet his pa.s.sion and liquor-relaxed enough to see it through to the end. Then, maybe she would be free.

"Phoebe ..." He whispered her name into the warm, moist opening of her mouth, and he wasn't yelling anymore. His big hands slid up along her hips to her waist; his thumbs rose over her ribs. In a moment he would brush the undersides of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, turning them into warm, living flesh. They were already tingling, waiting.

"Don't stop," she pleaded against his lips. "No matter what I say, don't stop."

Stunned, he pulled back from her. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes."

Seconds ticked by as her words slowly registered in Dan's brain. Disappointment rushed through him, followed quickly by disgust and then cynicism. Why was he surprised? He should have learned his lesson from Valerie and realized what Phoebe had wanted all along. She was another woman who needed to play submission games. All of her no's no's last Sunday night had meant last Sunday night had meant yes. yes. She had been manipulating him, and he'd been sucked right in. She had been manipulating him, and he'd been sucked right in.

Wearily, he gazed down at her lush curves, the soft sweep of the lashes framing those tilty-up amber eyes, the swollen lips of that wet, suck-me-up mouth. Was it too much to ask for a simple, uncomplicated romp in bed? No mind games. Nothing kinky. Just a few laughs and some good raunchy s.e.x.

He was suddenly furious. As furious as he'd been when he'd found Bobby Tom drooling over her in the bar. She'd probably been feeling him up under the table. Rubbing against him with those long, bare legs. Brushing her centerfold t.i.ts against his arm. Hitting him with a whole load of s.h.i.t. Don't stop just because I say no, Bobby Tom. I really mean yes. Don't stop just because I say no, Bobby Tom. I really mean yes.

Maybe Valerie had warped him, but it seemed as if the women in this country had gotten irredeemably screwed up when it came to s.e.x. They either wanted to be stomping high heels into your chest or having you handcuff them to the bedposts. There didn't seem to be any middle ground.

He'd been down this path a hundred times, and he could play the tough guy without even thinking about it. After what she'd put him through, a little rough stuff with Phoebe Somerville might be just what he needed to get rid of those images of her that kept popping up in his mind at the worst times. Tonight, he would put an end to it.

"Whatever you say, baby."

Phoebe heard the edge of menace in Dan's voice, but she was feeling too good to let it frighten her. He lifted one hand to the back of her neck and plowed into her hair, catching it in his fist and tugging on her roots a bit too hard. With the other, he began to open the small covered b.u.t.tons at the neck of her dress. The heel of his hand brushed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and the material fell open.

He gave a snort when he saw her plain white bra. Doubtless he was accustomed to s.e.xier lingerie, but she'd never felt right in it. Her bare shoulders caught the chill of the air-conditioning as he pushed the bodice of the dress down to her elbows, trapping her arms in the sleeves. He worked the three heavy hooks that secured the wide elasticized strap of the bra in the back.

"You're big, baby, but you're not Dolly Parton. One of those s.e.xy little underwires from Victoria's Secret would do the job."

The sneer in his voice penetrated her tequila haze, diffusing some of her feeling of power. She tried to pull her arms from the constriction of her dress, but at that moment, her bra gave, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s tumbled free.