It Had to Be You Part 21

Alarmed, Phoebe took a quick step forward. "Ron ..."

He put up his hand and said softly, "Please don't involve yourself in this, Phoebe. I have a job to do, and I need to do it my own way."

Dan closed the distance between them, hovering over the general manager in a manner that was so physically menacing Phoebe cringed. He spoke in a low, venomous drawl.

"I'm going to have your a.s.s."

Ron's skin had a.s.sumed a faint greenish tone, but he kept his voice almost steady. "I want you to leave the building immediately. You're not to contact any of the other coaches or players until your suspension is up after the game next Sunday."

"I'll leave the building when I d.a.m.n well please!"

"For Phoebe's sake, please don't make this any worse."

Seconds ticked by as Dan regarded him with tight-lipped fury. "You're going to regret this."

"I'm sure you're right. Nevertheless, I have to do what I think is best."

Dan gave him a long, hard glare and stalked from the room.

Phoebe pressed her hand to her mouth. Ron gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

"The press conference will take place on the practice field at one o'clock. I'll come to your office to get you."

"Ron, I really don't-"

"Excuse me, Phoebe, but I'm afraid I'm going to be sick."

Releasing her arm, he dashed from the room, while she stared after him in dismay.

Dan's feet slammed the stair treads as he stormed down to the first floor. When he hit the landing, he drew back his foot and kicked the metal door open. Once he was outside, the bright Indian summer day did nothing to soothe his rage.

As he stalked toward his car, he plotted what he would do next. He was going to snap that little weasel's neck. Kick his weasel a.s.s inside out. Any kind of suspension was in direct violation of his contract, and his lawyers were going to make mincemeat out of Phoebe and her GM. He didn't have to take s.h.i.t like that. He was going to ... He was going to ...

He was going to stop acting like an a.s.s.

He braced one hand on the roof of his car and took a deep, unsteady breath. He was embarra.s.sed and furious, not at Phoebe but at himself. How could he have insulted her like that? He'd never in his life treated a woman so badly, not even Valerie. And Phoebe hadn't deserved it. She made him crazy, but she didn't have a mean bone in her body. She was funny and s.e.xy and sweet in her own particular way.

He hated losing control like this, but when he'd heard that smug reporter telling the world that Phoebe had been in his hotel room, he'd been so full of rage at the violation of their privacy that he'd wanted to kick in the television screen. He knew enough about the press to realize that Phoebe would end up taking the heat for something that had been his fault. If only he'd talked to her about it instead of insulting her.

He knew he would have handled the whole thing a lot better if it hadn't been for those photographs. The idea of strangers looking at her body infuriated him. His reaction was completely illogical, considering the fact that her body had been on display in most of the major museums of the world, but he couldn't help it. Besides, abstract paintings were different from brightly lit photographs. The photographs he'd seen in Beau Monde Beau Monde were works of art, but the world was filled with millions of h.o.r.n.y a.s.sholes who weren't going to know that. Thinking about the way they would be drooling over those pages had made his temper snap. were works of art, but the world was filled with millions of h.o.r.n.y a.s.sholes who weren't going to know that. Thinking about the way they would be drooling over those pages had made his temper snap.

His d.a.m.ned temper. When was he going to grow up and get it under control? It didn't take a degree in psychology to understand why he had such a hard time with it. Even when he was a little kid-four or five years old-his old man had beaten him up if he cried or complained because he was hurt or scared.

He could still hear his old man's drunken abuse. Fetch my belt so I can give you something real to cry about, little girly Fetch my belt so I can give you something real to cry about, little girly.

As he grew up, he'd discovered that the one emotion he could safely express around his old man was anger, whether on the football field or with his fists. h.e.l.l of a thing. A man thirty-seven years old still behaving like a playground bully. Except this time the bully had gotten what was coming to him. This time the bully had been cut down to size by the short little kid who couldn't even make the team.

Once again the anger came back to him, but now he was honest enough to admit it was a camouflage for shame. Shame that Ronald was the one who'd defended Phoebe. Shame that Ronald had been defending her against him.

If he hadn't been so mad at himself, he might have been able to enjoy the fact that Ronald McDermitt had finally shown some gumption. If he hadn't been so mad at himself, he might have believed there was actually some hope for the team after all.

14.

Ron cleared his throat "Ms. Somerville posed for the Beau Monde Beau Monde photographs before she inherited the Stars. She certainly had no intention of embarra.s.sing either the team or the NFL." photographs before she inherited the Stars. She certainly had no intention of embarra.s.sing either the team or the NFL."

"Is it true that the commissioner has privately warned her about her behavior?" a female reporter asked.

"That is not true," Ron replied. "She hasn't spoken with the commissioner."

Only because she hadn't returned his phone calls, Phoebe thought unhappily as she sat in silence between Ron and Wally Hampton, the Stars' public relations director. The press conference was going even worse than she had antic.i.p.ated. Not only had the local media shown up, but the national as well, hot on the trail of a terrific human interest story.

So many reporters had wanted to take part in the press conference that they had been forced to use the empty practice field. She, Ron, and Wally were seated near the fifty yard line behind a small table draped with a blue cloth bearing the Stars' logo. Some of the press members stood, while others had taken seats on wooden benches that had been set up for them.

At first all the questions had been centered around Bert's will, but it hadn't taken them long to move on. So far, they had questioned Ron's management skills, Dan's coaching, and Phoebe's morals. Ron and Wally Hampton were answering all of the questions, even those addressed directly to her.

An overweight male reporter with bad skin and a scraggly beard stood. Wally Hampton whispered to her that he represented a sleazy tabloid. "Phoebe, are you going to do any more nudie shots?"

Wally interceded. "Ms. Somerville is much too busy with the Stars for any other outside activities."

The man scratched his chin beneath his beard. "This isn't the first time you've taken off your clothes for the public, is it?"

"Ms. Somerville's work for the great artist Arturo Flores is well-known," Ron said stiffly.

The tabloid reporter was interrupted by a local sports columnist. "There's been a lot of criticism of Coach Calebow recently, especially with so many turnovers every game. Some people think he's juggling his starters around too much. The players are starting to complain that they're being overworked and that he's taking the fun out of the game. For whatever reason, the team hasn't looked good yet this season. Any plans for changes?"

"None at all," Ron said. "It's still early and we're making adjustments." He went on to praise Dan's coaching abilities, and she wondered what would happen when the press learned that Dan had been suspended. Ron seemed to believe they could pa.s.s it off as a bad case of the flu, but she didn't think it would be that easy. What Ron had done was definitely illegal, and Dan was probably already on the phone to his lawyers.

She told herself not to think of his sneers and insults, but it was hard to put them out of her mind. Maybe it was all for the best that he had shown her so clearly what kind of person he was. Now she was forced to face the fact that she had been letting herself fall in love with the wrong man.

The obnoxious tabloid reporter was speaking again, an unpleasant leer on his face. "What about Coach Calebow's performance off the field, Phoebe? How's that?"

The other reporters shot him disgusted glances, but Phoebe wasn't fooled. Sooner or later they would have gotten around to asking the same thing. They would just have been more polite in their phrasing.

"Coach Calebow has a fine record-"

Phoebe couldn't take any more, and she put her hand on Ron's sleeve to stop him. "I'll answer this one." She leaned into the microphone. "Are you asking me to rate Coach Calebow's performance as a lover? Is that what your question means?"

For a moment the reporter looked taken aback by the directness of her attack, but then he gave an unctuous grin. "Sure, Phoebe. Tell it like it is."

"All right then. For the record, he's a terrific lover." She paused while the astonished reporters stared at her. "So is Coach Tally Archer, Bobby Tom Denton, Jim Biederot, Webster Greer, all of the running backs, and most of the offensive and defensive line. Now does that cover everyone in the organization I'm rumored to be sleeping with? I wouldn't want to leave anyone out."

The press corps laughed, but she wasn't done yet. Although she was shaking inside, she gazed directly at the obnoxious reporter and smiled. "By the way. If I remember correctly, you, sir, were a small small disappointment." disappointment."

The members of the press roared. If Phoebe hadn't won them over, she had at least proved that she wasn't quite as dumb as they thought.

The condominium Bert had kept for his mistresses was one of twenty luxury units set into a wooded area on the fringes of Naperville, which was located on the western edge of DuPage County. The attractive two-story beige brick unit was topped by a wood-shingled mansard roof. A pair of graceful Palladian windows sat on each side of an impressive set of double front doors inset with long ovals of leaded gla.s.s. Bra.s.s coach lamps glimmered in the six o'clock sun as Phoebe parked the car in the garage and walked into the house.

The interior was pleasantly decorated in soft shades of aqua, pearl gray, and white, giving the rooms a light, tropical feel. The kitchen opened out onto a sun room for informal eating, and a cathedral ceiling made the small living room seem s.p.a.cious.

"Molly? Peg?" Phoebe crouched down to pet Pooh, who was delirious with joy at her return. When there was no answer, she and the poodle went upstairs.

Her aqua and white bedroom held bleached oak furniture and a wide expanse of windows. She had been uncomfortable sleeping in the king-sized bed that dominated the room and had replaced it with a queen from the guest room at the estate. After tossing her linen jacket down on the puffy spread, she walked into the closet, where she changed into a pair of jeans and a Stars' T-shirt.

Neither Molly nor Peg had returned by the time Phoebe carried the whole wheat roll and pasta salad she found in the refrigerator out to the sun room. She padded across the pearl gray tiles in her sweat socks and sat on one of the white filigreed iron chairs that rested in front of a matching gla.s.s-topped table. A comfortable love seat upholstered in aqua and white peonies provided a cozy seating area at the end of the room.

She rubbed her toes along Pooh's back as she toyed with her salad. For once in her life she wasn't having any difficulty keeping off the extra five pounds that wanted to settle on her hips. Maybe because the blues were getting a firmer grip on her every day. She missed Viktor and her friends. She missed the gallery openings. She wanted a flat chest and a different childhood. She wanted a nice husband and a baby. She wanted Dan Calebow. Not the real man who had verbally attacked her that morning, but the funny, tender man she had imagined him to be the night they had made love.

Her uncharacteristic plunge into self-pity was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Pooh yipped and rushed out to investigate. Phoebe heard the rustle of packages, a soft greeting to Pooh, and then the sound of footsteps going upstairs. Pushing aside her salad, she made her way to the foyer in time to look through the sidelights and see Peg Kowalski's white Toyota pulling out of the drive.

She went upstairs and knocked on Molly's door. When there was no answer, she pushed it open anyway.

The bed was littered with sacks from the teenagers' dream stores: The Gap, Benetton, The Limited. Pooh, lying in the middle of the rubble, was watching as Molly pulled an a.s.sortment of clothes from the sacks.

Molly looked up at her, and for a few seconds, Phoebe thought she saw guilt reflected in her sister's small features. Then the old sullenness came back.

"Mrs. Kowalski took me shopping for school clothes. She has a teenage granddaughter, so she knew all the best stores."

Phoebe knew the best stores, too, but whenever she had suggested they shop, Molly had refused. "I can see that." Swallowing her disappointment, she took a seat on the side of the bed.

Molly reached out to stroke Pooh. Phoebe had realized several weeks ago that Dan had been right about her sister's affection for the dog, but she hadn't commented on it "Let me see what you bought."

For a while Molly behaved like a normal teenager. As she whipped out a denim jacket, ribbed sweaters, stonewashed jeans, and T-shirts, her eyes glowed with excitement. Phoebe couldn't fault Peg's taste. She'd helped Molly put together a perfect teenage girl's wardrobe.

"Have you thought about getting your ears pierced?"

"Could I?"

"I don't know why not. Think about it."

"I want to," Molly replied without hesitation.

"All right, then. We'll go on Friday." She refolded a pair of jeans and spoke carefully. "You haven't said much about school. How's it going?"

Each time Phoebe had asked the question in the past two weeks, Molly had refused to respond with anything more than monosyllables. Now her expression grew stony.

"How do you think? I hate it. Even the advanced cla.s.ses are easy."

"Your cla.s.ses were easy at Crayton, too."

"Public school is full of cretins."

"When you registered, your counselor mentioned that the English department uses student tutors in the writing lab. Why don't you volunteer?"

"Why should I?"

"Sometimes it feels good to help other people." When Molly failed to respond, Phoebe continued her cautious probing. "At least you get to go to school with boys."

Molly became very busy picking at the tag on a pair of jeans. Phoebe tried again. "What's it like?"

"What do you mean?"

"Going to school with boys."

"They're big show-offs. And they're disgusting in the lunchroom."

"What about the boys in the advanced cla.s.ses? Are they show-offs, too?"

"Some of them, I suppose. But a lot of them are nerds."

Phoebe suppressed a smile. "I've always liked nerds. There's nothing s.e.xier in a man than intelligence. Of course, there is something to be said for dumb and cute."

Molly giggled, and for a few moments the barriers between them dissolved. "The boy who has a locker next to mine has long hair. He's really loud and obnoxious, always making guitar noises, but he's kind of cute, too."

"Is he?"

"He's in my advanced English cla.s.s, but he's having trouble keeping up."

"Maybe you could offer to help him out."

"He doesn't even know who I am." Molly shoved a sack out of the way, her face clouding. "n.o.body likes me. All the girls are b.i.t.c.hes. If you're not a Pom Pom and you don't have the right clothes, they won't even talk to you."

Now Phoebe understood what had motivated the shopping spree. "I'm sure all the girls aren't that way. You just have to find the right group. It'll take time."

"I don't care about them! You told me that I only had to stay a semester, and then I'm leaving."

Defeated, Phoebe rose from the side of the bed. "Enjoy your new clothes. I wish we could have gone shopping together. I would have liked that."

Maybe she imagined it, but she thought she saw a flash of uncertainty cross her sister's face.

Just before bedtime that night, Phoebe clipped Pooh's fuchsia leash to her collar and led her outside for a walk. After the danger of Manhattan's streets, she loved this quiet residential area where she had the freedom to walk at night without worrying about becoming a statistic.

The town houses b.u.t.ted up against an area of wooded parkland. A paved bicycle path lit by an occasional streetlamp ran along the fringe. She loved the dense quiet, the loamy smell of the woods, and the crispness in the night air that announced the end of summer.

Pooh trotted ahead, sometimes stopping to poke her nose at a pile of acorns or beneath a clump of dry leaves, occasionally squatting to leave her mark on a particularly blissful spot. Phoebe's sneakers squeaked on the sidewalk, and the fleecy sweatshirt she wore was warm and cozy. For a few moments she let everything unpleasant slip away and enjoyed the night quiet.

Her sense of well-being was broken by the sound of a car turning into her court. She watched it slow down in front of her condo, then begin to pull into her driveway only to come to a stop as the headlights caught her. The driver immediately backed the car and drove toward her. Even before the vehicle stopped at the curb, she saw that it was a red Ferrari.

She tensed as Dan unfolded from the car and came toward her. He was wearing his gla.s.ses, and he'd thrown a Stars' windbreaker over a plum-colored shirt and jeans. Pooh began barking and straining at the end of her leash to get to him.