It Had To Be You

Chapter 17

The Giants' defensive line was stunned the first time they took their positions at the line of scrimmage and found themselves staring through their masks at eleven grinning faces. None of them could figure out why a team with a one-and-four record was smiling unless they had a few dirty tricks tucked up their sleeves. The Giants didn't like surprises, and they definitely didn't like to see the opponents smiling.

Words were exchanged.

Unfortunately for the Giants' defense, several of those words reflected unfavorably on the morals of Darnell Pruitt's mother. On the next play, the infuriated Stars' offensive tackle took out two powerful linemen and an All-Pro linebacker to produce a first down.

It was beautiful.

By the time the first quarter had ended, the Stars were ahead by three, and Phoebe had nearly screamed herself hoarse. Although the violence on the field still made her flinch, she'd gotten so involved in the game she forgot she was supposed to return to the skybox until Ron appeared to escort her. As he led her through the gate that would take her from the field, she was so caught up in the excitement that she turned back toward the bench, cupped her hands around her mouth, and screamed, "Think naked!"

She realized too late that she was making even more of a spectacle of herself than usual, but the players who were nearby grinned. Fortunately, Dan was too engrossed in diagramming a play to notice.

During the second quarter, Biederot engineered a touchdown drive ending in a pass to the Stars' rookie halfback, while the Giants could manage only a field goal. When the whistle blew, the Stars were ahead by seven.

Phoebe had already decided that she would only make a fool of herself during the dreaded halftime interview with ABC's Al Michaels if she pretended knowledge that she didn't have, so she responded honestly to all of the questions directed at her and shared with the audience the difficulties her own ignorance of the game was giving her. She decided that she'd done as well as she could when, at the end of the halftime show, Michaels remarked to Frank Clifford that he thought Phoebe Somerville was trying to make the best of a difficult situation and that she deserved a chance to prove herself. Michaels also took a few pokes at her father's screwball will, expressing the opinion that Bert Somerville had done an injustice to Phoebe, Reed Chandler, and the Stars.

The second half was excruciating. Her neck muscles ached with tension as she twisted her head from the field below to the skybox television screen. Ron had stripped off his jacket and pulled down his necktie. Jim Biederot was only intercepted once, and put on a dazzling passing display. Bobby Tom performed flawlessly, and the defense was awesome. There were no Star fumbles.

When the game was finally over, Phoebe threw herself from Viktor to Ron, while Pooh yipped at her heels and the Scoreboard flashed the outcome: Stars 24, Giants 10.

She declined Ron's request to come with him to the locker room. Instead, she and Viktor stayed in the skybox and watched the short postgame interviews that had recently been added to the Monday night game. Dan managed to be both modest and jubilant, heaping praise on his players. His words came to her in snatches.

"Great heads-up play by the defense… a lot of quarterbacks fancier than Jim Biederot, but no one's got more heart… We got burned on the blitz a couple of times, but we came right back…" He concluded the interview by saying, "You're not going to find a better ball club than the Giants. We're just glad we were ready for them."

Al Michaels congratulated Dan on the win, then moved to Bobby Tom, who had pulled his Stetson over his matted hair. "Bobby Tom, you were open all night. How do you account for that?"

Bobby Tom gave the camera his best Lone Star grin. "We worked hard this week. And, Al, I can't say enough good things about the way Jim threw the ball tonight…"

After several more questions, Michaels turned to Webster Greer. "What do you think made the difference for the Stars this week, Webster?"

Webster tugged on the towel that he'd hung around his neck, which was still glistening with sweat. "We've been a good ball club all season, but we've been tight. Miss Somerville talked to all of us before the game and helped us relax a little. We went out there and forced the Giants to play our game. It made a difference."

Al Michaels hadn't earned his reputation as one of the best sportscasters in the business by letting a tidbit like that slip by him. "Exactly what did she tell the team?"

Greer smiled and rubbed the towel over the back of his neck. "Nothing much. A couple of jokes. She's a nice lady."

Phoebe's cheeks flushed. She felt as if she'd been handed a valentine.

It was nearly two in the morning before the plane left Newark for O'Hare. Even though the victory was only a few hours old, Ron was already thinking about next week.

"We picked up momentum tonight," he said as the plane reached its cruising altitude and the seat belt light went off. "I hope we don't lose it."

"Try to relax and enjoy the victory. They're not worried." She tilted her head toward the back of the plane, where the raucous noise of the players celebrating could be clearly heard.

"I suppose you're right."

Three rows ahead of her, she heard Dan laugh at something Tully had said. So far, she'd managed to avoid him, but she hadn't forgotten his threat. She wanted to believe that he understood what she'd been trying to do before the game, but somehow she doubted that he'd be as gracious as Webster.

Almost as if he were reading her thoughts, he turned his head and scowled at her. She watched with alarm as he began to unfasten his seat belt. Jumping quickly to her feet, she slipped past Ron and escaped to the back of the plane, where the battered players greeted her boisterously. She visited with all of them, but when Darnell asked her to get Pooh, she declined. She was already living in the danger zone, and she saw no need to dig in any deeper.

Ron was asleep by the time she returned to the first-class cabin. He barely stirred when she slid past him into her seat. As soon as she was settled, she leaned against the window and shut her eyes, only to discover that all the diet soda she'd consumed had caught up with her. Easing back out into the aisle, she walked hastily past Dan's first row seat and slipped into the lavatory.

She hated using airplane toilets. She was always afraid the plane would choose the exact moment she was most defenseless to crash, and she'd spend her final seconds of life spiraling toward earth with her bottom bare to the world. As a result, she hurried through, washed her hands, and was just opening the bolt on the door when it flew out of her grasp. Before she could react, Dan squeezed in next to her and shot the bolt back into its locked position.

"What do you think you're doing!"

His massive body pressed her up against the washbowl. "I'm giving us a little privacy so we can talk."

The tiny cubicle was much too cramped for both of them. One of his knees wedged between her thighs and her breasts flattened against his chest. It was hard for her to catch her breath.

"I don't want to talk to you now. It's obvious you're going to lose your temper, and I don't happen to feel like being yelled at."

Anger crackled from him. "Maybe you should have thought of that before you stormed into my locker room tonight."

"I didn't storm in!"

"You came this close to sabotaging a whole season's work!" His eyes narrowed into the same fierce slits that had found the weakness in the most awesome defensive lines in professional football. "I want my players focused before the game, not distracted from the jobs they have to do with a lot of idiotic mumbo jumbo. If those men ever needed proof that you don't understand this game, they got it tonight. You don't have any idea what they're facing when they run onto the field. It's serious business out there, not some kind of joke."

She struggled to squeeze past him, but she didn't have a prayer. His body pressed harder against hers, and his voice was low and furious.

"I don't ever want you doing what you did tonight, you hear me? You stay out of the locker room before the game. You're just lucky they're disciplined enough that your little exhibition didn't distract mem so much it cost us a win!"

She stared at him. "You don't have a clue why I was there, do you? You have no idea what I was trying to accomplish. My God, you really do think I'm some brainless bimbo."

"After listening to your asinine theories about naked football players, I'm not going to argue with you there."

She'd never thought of herself as a short-tempered person, but now her fist shot up from her side, and she punched him in the ribs as hard as she could.

He gave a soft "oof" and stared at her incredulously. She stared back, unable to believe what had just happened. Even though she was too close to have put any real force behind the blow, she had still struck another human being, something she had never done in her life. This man was turning her inside out, and the fact that she had let herself be pushed so far made her even angrier. A red mist swirled before her eyes.

"You stupid, pigheaded, simple-minded jock! I'll tell you what's wrong with me! I'm saddled with a head coach who is not only an emotional six-year-old, but mentally deficient as well."

"Deficient!" he sputtered. "Now you listen to me-"

Her elbow hit the mirror behind her as common sense fled, and she jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. "No! You listen to me, buster, and you listen well. I was in that locker room-not because I wanted to be there-but because you've managed to get my football team so tense that they haven't been able to hold on to the football."

"Are you actually suggesting-"

"You, Mr. Jock Strap, may be a brilliant strategist, but your knowledge of human nature is just about zero."

"You don't have the slightest idea-"

"Anytime-" She jabbed him again, punctuating the syllables with her index finger. "A-ny-time, do you hear me, that I want to address my players in my locker room, I will do it. Anytime I feel they're too tense, too jumpy, too uptight to do the job I am paying them a ridiculous amount of money to do, I'll stand in front of them and strip, if I want to. I'll do whatever I judge necessary to make certain that the Chicago Stars are able to do what they are supposed to do, which, in case you have forgotten, is what I helped them do tonight. That is, to win a football game! I, Mr. Pigskin-For-Brains, am the owner of this football team; not you. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

There was a long pause. Her cheeks were flushed, her heart pounding. She was appalled at her loss of control, and she braced herself for his retaliation, but instead of exploding, he almost seemed distracted.

"Uh-huh."

She gulped. "That's all you have to say?"

The plane hit a patch of turbulence, pressing his hips more firmly against hers. Her eyes flew open as she realized he was fully aroused.

Looking vaguely embarrassed, he held up both hands. "It's not intentional. I know you're trying to make a point and I heard every word you said. Honest. But you kept wiggling while you were talking, and the plane started to bounce, and-I don't know. It just happened."

Her temper rekindled. "I'm not in any mood for this."

"Neither am I. Not mentally, anyway. As for physically…"

"I don't want to hear it."

The jouncing continued, rocking their bodies together. Once again he shifted his hips, cleared his throat. "Are you-uh-seriously trying to tell me that you think you're-uh-responsible for us beating the Giants?"

The mildness of his tone, the hot friction between their bodies, took the starch out of her. "No… Not exactly… Of course not. Well, maybe a little bit… Partly. Yes, definitely partly."

"I see." He ducked his head and braced both hands on each side of the counter behind her. His hair smelled of pine and spice from his postgame shower. She could feel his thumbs against her hips. The plane continued to bounce and she fought to ignore the thrilling abrasion of her breasts rubbing against his chest.

"You're a loose cannon," he said quietly, "and I don't like surprises." His jaw brushed her hair as he spoke. "If you thought there was a problem with my coaching, you should have talked to me about it."

"You're right. Theoretically." Her voice sounded as if it were coming from a distance. "But, you can be intimidating."

Once again, she felt the soft caress of his jaw against her hair. "So can you."

"Me?" Her mouth curled in a delighted smile. "Really?"

"Really."

Her smile faded as she saw the way he was looking at her. She licked her lips. "I'm…"

"Hot?" His molasses drawl made that short word last forever.

She swallowed. "Warm."

He smiled his Southern boy's crooked smile, slow and easy, conjuring up endless humid nights. "Not warm, darlin'. Hot."

"Maybe…"

"Me, too."

She could feel every part of him through her clothes. He thrilled her, he scared her. He made her feel as if she'd only been half-alive before they'd met.

His hand settled around her waist. "You and me. We're…"

"Hot." The word slipped out.

"Yes." He dropped his head and took her mouth.

The lateness of the hour. The tension of the game. For whatever reason, the moment his lips touched hers, she lost all sense of restraint.

He scooped his big hands beneath her hips, and his elbow whacked the wall as he lifted her. Their bodies ground together. Her knee bumped into the door. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gloried in the feel of him pressed so hard against her.

Their kiss turned into a wild oral mating, something primitive and ungovernable, fed by a passion that had taken on a life of its own.

With a hoarse exclamation, he lowered her onto the edge of the small counter behind her and shoved up her sweater and bra. Gathering her breasts in his hands, he lifted them to his mouth. She gripped his belt buckle, while she pushed her other hand under his shirt so she could feel the hard muscles of his chest.

Her thighs were splayed wide to accommodate his legs, and his mouth dived to encompass one nipple. Sliding his hand down over her stomach, he cupped her.

"Don't ever…" he murmured against her moist nipple while he rubbed her through her slacks, "… wear these again."

"No…"

"Only dresses I can pull up." He unfastened her slacks, pushed down the zipper.

"Yes." She grappled with his belt buckle, shoved up his shirt.

"And no panties." His mouth left her breasts. He slipped his hand inside the cotton fabric.

Wet. Hot. He found her.

With a gasp, she pressed her open mouth against his bare chest. The hair was silky under her tongue.

"Here," he murmured hoarsely. "Inside…"

"Do. Yes…" She worked at his zipper, but the fabric caught in the metal teeth halfway down. With a moan of frustration, she slid her hand inside, past the elastic band of his briefs to encircle him.

He made a strangled exclamation and lifted her while she stroked. His shoulder bumped into the wall. He braced his left foot on the platform that held the commode and worked at her slacks and panties, but their removal was difficult because of the confined space. She felt the wet cold of the basin on her buttocks and his heat in her hand. His upper arm hit one wall, his opposite elbow the other. He was finally forced to use the toe of his shoe to free her garments from their snare around her ankles. Kissing her deeply, he worked her with his fingers.

Her hand on him trembled. She had never done this to a man, but suddenly her hand wasn't enough. It was too distant from her heart. She pushed him as far away as she could manage and slipped from the edge of the basin. Turning her hips to the side, she bent into an impossibly awkward position and parted her lips. A shudder swept through her as she lost a new virginity to him.

It was thrilling. Deliciously sweet to do such a thing to this man.

Sweat broke out on his forehead as he felt the gentle tug of her mouth. He was abandoning all his principles, all his resolutions, and at that moment, he didn't care. The only commitment he'd made was to himself, and he could work that out later.

Through his raging excitement, he observed the tender, vulnerable curve of her neck. Many women had served him in this way, so why did this time seem so different? And it was different. There was a sweet ineptitude about that soft, warm suction that thrilled him even as it mystified him.

He caressed her hips, clenched her cheeks as his passion drove him higher. A dim internal voice pointed out to him that she wasn't doing it exactly right. Logic said she should be a pro at this, but the sweet awkwardness of that soft mouth defeated logic.

He stroked her hair, and a fierce wave of tenderness swept through him. Without planning it, he found himself drawing her up. Regardless of how she looked, how she dressed, how she behaved-regardless of his own raging need and every single damning thing he knew about her, he couldn't take her like this. She deserved something better from him than a mile-high pop in an airplane John.

"No," she whispered, and he saw something both bereft and bewildered in her amber eyes that tore his gut apart.

He kissed her lips and lost himself in that swollen mouth. She sobbed his name, shuddered, and he understood she had slipped past reason. Setting aside the violent demand of his own body, he stroked her with a deep and gentle movement of his hand. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, and the sound of those short, frenzied pants nearly drove him over the edge.

"Phoebe, darlin', you're killing me." With a hoarse exclamation, he plunged his tongue into the moist recesses of her mouth. When she shattered, he swallowed her cries.

She fell against him, her body limp and vulnerable, the nape of her neck moist with soft blond tendrils clinging to it. He felt her chest heave as she tried to draw breath. She attempted to slide her thighs together. At the same time, she shuddered, and he knew she wasn't done. He couldn't leave her like this, and he stroked her again.

She climaxed almost instantly. She gasped for breath and then began to tremble, signaling that her need still wasn't satisfied. He resumed his stroking.

"No… Not without you."

At the sound of her soft, whispered wail, he ached to drive himself deep inside her. Nothing was holding him back. At that moment he couldn't even picture Sharon's face. And Phoebe was a curvy, buxom, good-time girl, custom-designed by God for just this kind of romp. Of all the women he'd ever been with, this one should have been the last to give him scruples. Instead, she seemed to be giving him the most.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to accept the fact that he couldn't finish this. Phoebe was too lost in passion to think straight, so he would have to do it for her.

"I don't have anything with me," he lied.

She slid her hand up his thigh, touched him. "Could I…" She tilted her head, looked at him, and the uncertainty in her eyes cut through him. "Maybe I could do the same thing to you."

Her throat spasmed as she swallowed, and those eyes, as uncertain as a fawn's, undid him. He simply couldn't let this go any farther. Painfully, he fastened his slacks.

"It's all right. I'm fine."

"But…"

He looked away from her wounded eyes. His hands weren't altogether steady as he slipped her sweater back down over her breasts. "Everybody in the front of the plane should be asleep by now, but maybe you'd better slip out first, as soon as you finish putting yourself back together."

She struggled with her slacks, rubbing against him with every movement. When all her clothing was back in place, she looked up at him. "How do you do it?" she asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Act so hot, and then turn so cold."

She believed she'd been rejected. Even though he'd tried not to, he knew he'd hurt her. "Right now I'm about ready to explode," he said.

"I don't believe you. What is it Tully calls you? 'Ice'?"

He couldn't fight with her, not after he'd seen how vulnerable she was, and he could only think of one way to heal the hurt. He gave an elaborate sigh and managed to sound annoyed. "It's starting again, isn't it? The only time the two of us aren't arguing is when we're kissing. I don't know why I even try to be a good guy with you because it always backfires."

Her lips were still swollen from his mouth. "Is that what you were doing? Being a good guy."

"About as good as I've ever been. It doesn't come naturally, either. And you know what? You owe me for it."

"I what?" Those amber eyes weren't defenseless any longer. Just as he'd intended, they had begun to flash sparks.

"You owe me, Phoebe. I was trying to show a little respect for you."

"Respect? I don't think I've ever heard it called that."

The sarcasm in her voice didn't quite hide her hurt, so he kept pressing. "That's exactly what it is. And as far as I'm concerned, you just now threw that respect right back in my face. Which means you owe me what I didn't get in here, and I plan to collect."

"How do you plan to do that?"

"I'll tell you how. One day-Any day I happen to choose. Any hour. Any time. Any place. I'm going to look at you, and I'm going to say one word."

"One word?"

"I'm going to say now. Just that one word. Now. And when you hear that word, it means you stop doing whatever you're doing, and you follow me to wherever I choose to take you. And when we get there, that body of yours becomes my own personal playpen. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He waited for her to explode, but he should have known she wouldn't let him off so easily. Phoebe knew almost as much about playing games as he did.

"I think so," she said thoughtfully. "Let me see if I've got this straight. You're telling me that, because you didn't make it to the mountaintop, so to speak, I owe you a debt. When you look at me and you say now, I'm supposed to turn into your love slave. Do I have it right?"

"Yep." The sadness had faded from his eyes, and he was definitely beginning to enjoy himself.

"No matter what I'm doing."

"No matter what."

"No matter where you choose to take me."

"A broom closet, if I've a mind to. It's completely up to me." He was playing with fire and actually anticipating the moment it would flame out of control.

"If I'm at work?" she inquired with remarkable calm.

"There's a fifty-fifty chance that's exactly where you'll be."

"In a meeting?"

"You lift that curvy little butt of yours right out of the chair and follow me."

"In a meeting with the commissioner?"

"You say, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Commissioner, but I believe I have a case of the stomach flu coming on, so will you excuse me. And Coach Calebow, could you come with me just in case I happen to faint in the hall and need somebody to pick me up?' "

"I see." She looked thoughtful. "What if I'm doing an interview with-oh, let's say, Frank Gifford?"

"Frank's a good guy. I'm sure he'll understand."

The explosion was going to come any second now. He knew it.

She crinkled her forehead. "I just want to make absolutely certain I've got this right. You say now, and I'm supposed to turn into your-How was it you put it? Your personal playpen?"

"That's what I said." He braced himself.

"Playpen."

"Yep."

She took a deep breath and smiled. "Cool."

Stunned, he watched her slip through the door. When it shut, he threw back his head and laughed. She'd done it. She'd gotten him again.