It Had to Be You (24 page)

With his acquiescence, the shackles that had bound her for so long broke away, and joy took their place. She fell on him. Kissed him with her tongue. Took his hair in her fists as she reclaimed her womanhood and loved him with all her heart.

It seemed natural for her to mount him.

She slipped her leg over his hips and gradually took him into her body, his size forcing her to go more slowly than she wished so she could accommodate him. When she had completely impaled herself, she gazed down at him. His eyes were open, but glazed, his lips taut. She began to move, timing the strokes as little sobs slipped through her lips. He cupped her buttocks so she didn’t lose him, his fingers soothing her where they were joined.

She splayed her hands in the hair on his chest, arched her back, and rode him higher and higher. Her hair began to fly. She had become a glittering blond amazon who had claimed the mightiest of men to service her. He bucked, but she stayed with him, her thighs gripping his powerful hips. She was in command. He was hers to take.

He was blowing now. His chest heaved as he emptied and filled his lungs, an athlete reaching for the limits of his endurance. She understood then that he was determined she would shatter first. He was a man who thrived on competition, and in this particular game, second place earned the trophy. He didn’t know how it was with her. He didn’t understand that she couldn’t.

But there was something she didn’t understand. To him, winning was everything. And he wasn’t above cheating.

With his fingers, he found her most vulnerable spot. She gasped for air, her head fell forward. He deepened that thrilling, unfair touch. The room whirled around her, spinning faster and faster, and the boundaries between what was his and what was hers dissolved.

It couldn’t be happening. It never happened. . . .

A great cry spilled from her very center. She heard a dim, answering roar and felt his fierce shudders. Spinning free of gravity, they hurtled into oblivion.

The air conditioner hissed. In the hallway someone slammed a door. She waited for him to speak because she didn’t know what to say.

He shifted his weight and rolled to the side. She felt chilly air on her bare back. He pulled his arm from beneath her and sat up on the edge of the bed, his back to her. She felt the first wisps of uneasiness.

“You were great, Phoebe.”

He turned and gave her a fake, too-friendly smile. A chill shot through her as she wondered if it was the same one he’d given all the football groupies when he was done with them.

“I had a real good time. Really.” He reached for his jeans. “Tomorrow’s a big day. Got to get up early.”

Every part of her had grown cold. She fumbled with the covers. “Of course. It’s late, I—” She slipped out of bed on the opposite side. “Let me just—” She grabbed for her clothes.

“Phoebe—”

“Here. I’ve got it all.” She made a dash for the bathroom. Her cheeks burned with shame, anger, and hurt as she pulled on her clothes. How could something that had been so earth- shattering for her have been so meaningless to him? She tried to force air past the knot in her throat. Her teeth began to chatter, and she clamped her jaw shut, determined not to let him know what he had done to her. She wouldn’t fall apart until she was alone.

When she emerged, she saw that he had pulled on his jeans. He faced the bathroom door. His hair was tousled, his expression guilty. “You want a drink or something?”

Drawing on the same bravado that had kept her sane for so many years, she tossed her ugly white bra at his feet. “Add this to your souvenir collection, Coach. I don’t want you to lose count.”

Then she was gone.

As the door shut behind her, Dan cursed under his breath. No matter how much he wanted to rationalize, he knew he had just acted like a first-class heel. Even so, he rubbed his arm and tried to tell himself that what he’d done wasn’t all that bad. Phoebe knew the score, so what was the big deal?

The big deal was the fact that, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced sex as good as what had just taken place in this room, and it scared him because it had been so unexpected. There’d been this crazy innocence about her that had excited him beyond belief. She’d been wild and sweet, and just thinking about that curvy body of hers was making him hard again.

He kicked away the bra she had tossed at him and stalked over to the minibar, where he pulled out a bottle of beer. As he twisted off the cap, he acknowledged the real reason he’d acted so badly. It was because he’d felt guilty. From the time he’d seen Phoebe kissing Bobby Tom in the bar to the moment that beautiful blonde had shown him the stars in a million different colors, he’d forgotten all about Sharon Anderson.

Dammit! He’d told himself he wasn’t going to do this kind of thing any more. He hadn’t been with another woman since he’d met Valerie, and that had been almost five years ago. The first time should have been with Sharon, not with Phoebe. Now, when he and Sharon finally climbed into bed, that sweet little nursery school lady was going to be competing in his mind with a seasoned sexual tri-athlete.

Even so, he shouldn’t have kicked Phoebe out like that. Guilt gnawed at him. Despite all her character defects, he couldn’t help liking her, and he was almost certain he’d hurt her feelings, although she had so much sass, it was hard to know for sure. Damn, that woman had made him crazy from the first time they’d met. If he weren’t careful, his lust for her would completely screw up his budding relationship with Sharon.

Right then he made a promise. No matter what he had to do, he wasn’t going to let that gorgeous sex bomb sink her claws into him any deeper than she already had. Maybe he owed her an apology, but that was it. From now on, he was a one-woman man.

Phoebe was mad as hell as she got ready to go onto the field for the first quarter of the Stars-Sabers game.
Jerk! Idiot! Moron!
She stood at the mouth of the tunnel and called herself every name in the book. Of all the brainless, self-destructive, idiotic things she could have done, this one took the cake.

She still felt woozy from her crying jag last night. Sometime around four in the morning, she had finally taken a long, painful look inside herself and realized there was only one explanation for the depth of hurt she was feeling. She was letting herself fall in love with Dan Calebow.

Her chest spasmed in a short, painful hiccup. Afraid she would start crying all over again, she dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to find some rational explanation for how she had let such a disaster happen. She should have been the last woman in the world to have succumbed to a sexy Southern drawl and a gorgeous set of biceps. But there it was. Some hormonal imbalance, some reckless streak of self-destruction, had sent her flying too close to the sun.

And how hot that sun had burned last night. She had never imagined making love could be like that—funny and tender and wonderful. Her throat tightened as she reminded herself that
she
might have been making love, but
he
had been having sex.

She realized she was dangerously close to tears, and she couldn’t afford to fall apart again. Fixing a blazing smile on her face, she walked out into the Oregon sunshine, where she planned to exact at least a small measure of revenge for every sweet second she’d spent last night lying in his treacherous arms.

The photographers spotted her before the crowd did. A prerecorded tape began playing the old standard, “Ain’t She Sweet?” She realized this must be the surprise Ron had said he would have for her when she went on the field. She was going to be the only owner in the NFL with her personal theme song.

Accompanied by wolf whistles, she struck a pose, blew a kiss, and walked toward the bench, her hips wiggling to the beat. The photographers snapped away at the dazzling red and black python-printed leather jeans that hugged every curve of her lower body, and the fitted black silk man’s vest cupping her bare breasts. The owner of the trendy boutique next to the hotel had been persuaded to open the door just for her at ten o’clock that morning after Phoebe had decided the conservative linen dress she’d brought with her would no longer do. The boutique owner had suggested a man’s bow tie to accessorize the outfit, but Phoebe had chosen to loop a more feminine bit of black lace ribbon around her throat, while she showed her team spirit with clusters of silver stars dangling from her earlobes. The outfit was expensive, outrageous, and completely inappropriate, a flagrant in-your-face to Dan Calebow.

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.”