It Had to Be You (42 page)

Still grinning, he rose from the small chair. “My friend’s not much of an athlete. He plays basketball, but just between the two of us, he’s pretty pathetic.”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s Ron McDermitt, our general manager.”

“Ron?”

“Do you have a problem with me giving him your phone number?”

“Problem? Oh, no. No, I don’t have a problem with that at all.”

She must have sounded too eager because he started to chuckle. Leaning down, he gave her a peck on the cheek. “I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you around.”

He was still shaking his head with amusement as he walked out to his car. His life was starting all over again, and the future was no longer murky, but crystal clear. Now that he’d settled things with Sharon, he could tell Phoebe how much he loved her. The knowledge had been inside him for a long time, but he’d been too confused by the erotic smoke screen that surrounded her to realize it. His sweet, smart, gutsy little bimbo. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the way she’d looked sitting on the side of his bed spilling out all her secrets. When she’d told him about her rape, he’d wanted to throw back his head and howl. She made him feel things that scared him to death.

He reached his car, and some of his euphoria faded. He’d survived childhood by learning not to love anyone too much, and the depth of emotion he felt for her terrified him a lot more than any defensive lineup he’d ever faced. He’d always held something back from women, but that wasn’t going to be possible with her. Telling her how much he loved her would be the biggest risk he’d ever taken because there was always the chance that she’d throw those feelings right back in his face.

He reminded himself that beneath all of Phoebe’s sassiness, she was the gentlest person he’d ever known. Surely there was no need for him to be afraid. Surely, his heart would be safe with her.

His eyes narrowed into vicious slits as he curled his lip at the Associated Press and spoke to her under his breath. “There’s no way I’m letting anybody on the Dolphins’ defense see a picture of me smilin’.”

“Thank God there aren’t any small children around.”

“I don’t know why you’d say that. I love kids.”

It was approaching his eleven o’clock curfew as they left the last party and made their way to the elevator. Darnell’s courtship of Miss Charmaine Dodd wasn’t progressing quickly enough to suit him, and he was hoping one of the Chicago papers would print a shot of him with Phoebe that would stir Miss Dodd to jealousy.

Phoebe had minimized her contact with Dan by waiting until that afternoon to fly into Miami, and she’d barely had time to change into her gown, an old one she’d bought for a Christmas party several years ago. It was a high-necked, tight-fitting sheath of shimmering gold lace worn over a flesh-colored body stocking. Darnell was wearing his tuxedo with a black silk shirt and gold bow tie that matched his diamond embellished tooth.

The elevator was empty when they reached it, allowing Darnell to return to the discussion he’d been more or less carrying on by himself ever since he’d come to her room three hours earlier. “I don’t see why everybody thinks Captain Ahab is evil. Damn, if it wasn’t for his leg, I’d have that man on my team any day. He doesn’t let anything stand in his way, dig? Those are the kind of men win football games.”

Moby Dick
was just one of the books she’d recommended that Darnell had devoured in the past few months on his quest for self-improvement. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that football might have made Darnell rich in material things, but the game had robbed him of the opportunity to use his intellect. Because Darnell was big, black, and strong, no one had bothered to discover that he also had a fine brain.

Darnell continued his praise of Captain Ahab all the way to the door of her hotel suite. She dreaded being alone with her thoughts and wished he didn’t have a curfew so she could invite him inside. Instead, she wished him good luck with a peck on the cheek. “Crunch some bones for me tomorrow, Darnell.”

He grinned and took off down the hallway in his size fifteen dress shoes. She sighed as she shut the door. Charmaine Dodd was a fool if she didn’t snatch him up.

The telephone rang. She unclipped one of her crystal earrings and sat down on the room’s chintz couch to answer. “Hello.”

“Where the hell have you been all week?”

The sharp crystal edges of her earring dug into her palm. She squeezed her eyes shut against the fresh wave of pain. “Hello to you, too, Coach.”

“I stopped by the house on Tuesday night so we could see each other before I left, but Molly said you’d already gone to bed. You were giving interviews when I called the office on Thursday and Friday, and there was no answer at your house last night. I’m coming up to your room.”

“No!” She bit her lip. “I’m tired. It’s been a hard week.”

“I need to see you.”

It didn’t take a crystal ball to figure out why. He wanted sex, a quick romp with the bimbo while his prospective bride remained untouched. “Not tonight.”

He was clearly exasperated. “Look, give me your room number. We have to talk.”

“Another time, Dan. I’m exhausted.” She took a shaky breath. “Good luck tomorrow. I’ll see you on the sidelines.”

Her eyes glistened with tears as she set the receiver back on its cradle. She hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on her door and walked over to the window where she stared out at the lights twinkling over Biscayne Bay.

She’d learned a lot from the players in the past few months. She’d learned that if you wanted to play the game, you had to be able to take the hits. That’s what she was doing now. She was taking the hits. Dan had given her a killing blow, but she wasn’t going to let him see the damage. Tomorrow, when she heard the music to “Ain’t She Sweet?”, she would hold her head high, wave to the crowd, and cheer on her team. No one would know that she was playing hurt.

The afternoon the Stars beat the Dolphins in the AFC semifinals, Ray Hardesty sat in the den with his .38 in his lap and wished he had enough whiskey left in the house to get drunk. In one week the Stars would be meeting the Portland Sabers in the AFC Championship. He tilted the bottle to his mouth and drained the last half inch, but even the fire in his throat didn’t burn as hot as his rage. The Stars had never made it this far when Ray Junior was on the squad, and now they were going without him.

With a garbled, barely human sound, he flung the bottle across the room. It crashed into a trophy shelf and shattered, but he didn’t worry about the noise because there was no one around to hear it. After a marriage that had lasted for three decades, Ellen had left him. She’d told him he’d been acting crazy and he needed to go to a psychiatrist or something. Fuck that. He didn’t need to go to any psychiatrist. He just needed to get even with Dan Calebow.

After the Chargers game, he’d thought about killing Calebow. He’d eventually rejected the idea, not out of scruples, but because Calebow’s death wouldn’t necessarily guarantee a Stars’ loss. He needed something foolproof. He wasn’t rich enough to bribe anyone. Besides, the players made too much money these days to be susceptible, and most of the refs were honest. He wanted guarantees.

Phoebe Somerville appeared on the television screen. Last week he’d been hiding in the woods next to Calebow’s house when the coach had brought her home. The bedroom lights had gone on less than half an hour later. He’d been spying on them for months now, borrowing cars so Calebow wouldn’t spot him, and he knew their relationship was no longer casual. Although he’d filed the information away, until now he hadn’t known what to do with it.

The idea that had been slowly taking shape in his mind was both complex and amazingly easy. He’d probably be caught, but by then it would be too late, and he didn’t care what happened to him anyway. Only one thing mattered. Keeping the Stars from winning the AFC Championship.

On television, Phoebe Somerville’s interview had ended and the cameras returned to the Stars’ coach. Ray lifted his .38 and blew out the screen.

Dan had been through the media blitz that surrounds championship games as a player, but never as a coach, and he decided it was a good thing he’d learned to survive without sleep. Even so, by the time he freed up a few hours late Tuesday afternoon following the Stars’ victory over the Dolphins, he was definitely punchy. He was also mad as hell at Phoebe.

As he pulled into her driveway and got out of his car, he decided the first thing he was going to do when he finally got hold of her was to kiss her. Then he was going to give her a piece of his mind. He knew exactly how busy she was, but so was he, and she could have squeezed in ten minutes sometime during the last two days to talk to him. Both of them had been under a lot of pressure, but that didn’t mean they should shut each other out. She hadn’t even flown home with the team Sunday night, something he’d been looking forward to. The last time he’d seen her was in the locker room after the game when Ron had brought her down to congratulate the team.

Phoebe’s housekeeper, Peg, let him in as she was getting ready to leave for the day. He dropped his coat over the banister and heard high-pitched squeals coming from the back of the house. At first he didn’t recognize the sounds, not because they were so unusual, but because they were so unexpected.

Pooh trotted out to greet him. With the dog at his heels, he made his way through the living room, then came to an abrupt stop as he reached the archway that led into the kitchen. What he saw there nearly knocked him off his feet.

“I want to do it, Phoebe!”

“It’s my turn!”

“Mine!”

“Hush! You can both do it, you little stinkers. Here’s a knife for each of you. That’s the way, Jared. Good job, Jason. A little more icing on the side. No, Jared, don’t lick it until we’re—Oh, well, what are a few germs between friends? Right, pal?”

Jesus.
He knew it wasn’t just lack of sleep that was making his eyes sting, but emotion. He’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life than Phoebe icing that ugly-looking cake with those two little towheaded boys kneeling on chairs beside her.

She didn’t look at all like the mother of his imagination. Her man-killer fingernails were painted vampire red. Big gypsy hoop earrings played peek-a-boo with her calendar girl hair, and at least three bracelets clinked on each of her wrists. She had on an oversized Stars’ sweatshirt—she’d gotten that part right, at least—but instead of wearing it with some nice jeans like mothers were supposed to, she had on the tightest, slinkiest pair of gold stretch pants he’d ever seen in his life.

No, she didn’t look like anybody’s mother, but those two little boys with chocolate smeared all over their faces obviously adored her. And so did he, with all his heart. He pictured her showing up for their kids’ PTA meetings decked out in red satin and rhinestones, but instead of dismaying him, the idea filled him with pleasure. She’d marry him. Of course, she would. As he watched her, he refused to let the shadows of his childhood give him any doubts. A woman didn’t break a fifteen-year sexual fast with a man she didn’t love.

“Sing that song again, Phoebe,” one of the children demanded while Pooh licked up the chocolate crumbs on the floor beneath the table.

“Which song?”

“That one about monsters.”

“The werewolf song?” As the boys nodded, Phoebe launched into a spirited rendition of Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London,” accenting the beat by swinging those amazing hips of hers. God, she was beautiful, and as he watched her, he felt an odd sense of peace. He couldn’t imagine anything better than spending the rest of his life with her.

She swept the twins off their chairs to dance, her back still turned toward the doorway. He watched her wiggle to the rhythm, and he smiled when the boys tried to imitate her. She swung them around, then froze as she saw him.

“Don’t let me stop the party,” he said with a grin.

“What are you doing here?”

“Peg let me in as she was leaving.”

The boys started to squirm and Phoebe released them. “I’m afraid you’ve got me at a bad time.”

Jared tugged on her hand. “The cake’s all frosty now. Can me and Jason have a piece?”

“Of course. Let me get some plates.”

Her hands were clumsy as she pulled the plates down. She saw that Dan had knelt in front of the boys so they were at eye level. Lines of fatigue were etched in his face, but she didn’t permit herself to feel any sympathy. Keeping up with two women at the same time was undoubtedly exhausting. She blinked her eyes against a fresh flood of pain.

“That cake looks mighty good, fellas. You make it?”

“Peg maked it,” Jared replied.

“But Phoebe let us put frosty on it,” his twin added.

“Chocolate,” Jared explained unnecessarily, since it was decorating most of his face.

Dan chuckled, and the sound ripped through Phoebe’s heart. She quickly placed a wedge of cake on each of two plates and set them on the cluttered table.

Dan stood to watch the boys scramble for their chairs. “Yessirree, that cake sure does look good.”

Jason didn’t let the fact that his mouth was already full stop him from talking. “The man wants some, Phoebe.”

She tried to keep her voice light. “Not such big bites, killer. You’ll choke.”

Molly burst into the kitchen. “I’m home! Hi, guys. Hi, Coach.” She gave each twin a pat, leaned down to get a kiss from Pooh, who’d jumped up on her, then regarded Phoebe cautiously. “Did Peg tell you what happened?”

“She said you had a meeting.”