It Had to Be You (25 page)

“1
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 month 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.

Dan jabbed at the magazine photo with his index finger. “Some man must have had a good time doing that to you!”

Phoebe didn’t take time to consider that his anger seemed out of proportion for someone who was trying so hard to distance himself from her.
“Men,
darling. One for each color.” It was a lie. The body artist had been a pudgy, middle-aged woman, but he didn’t have to know that.

Ron picked up his pen and tapped it on the tabletop. “Phoebe, I’ve scheduled a press conference for both of us at one o’clock. Wally Hampton in PR will brief you. Dan, I want you to stay out of sight until tomorrow. When the press finally catches up with you, don’t comment on anything except the game. You know how to handle it. And unless you want the story to end up on the front page, keep your fists in your pockets if any reporter has the nerve to bring up the hotel room incident to your face.”

She rose from her chair. “No press conference, Ron. I told you from the beginning that I won’t do interviews.”

Dan’s lips twisted. “If you give her permission to strip first, I bet she’ll do it.”

“That’s enough, Dan.” Ron turned to Phoebe. “I apologize for the press conference.”