It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(2)

“So nice of you to attend. Especially in this awful heat. Viktor, sweetie, would you take Pooh?”

She held out the small white poodle to Viktor Szabo, who was driving the women crazy, not just because of his exotic good looks, but because there was something hauntingly familiar about this gorgeous hunk of a Hungarian. A few of them correctly identified him as the model who posed, hair undone, oiled muscles bulging, and zipper open, in a national advertising campaign for men’s jeans.

Viktor took the dog from her. “Of course, my darling,” he replied in an accent that, although noticeable, was less pronounced than that of any of the Gabor sisters, who had lived in the States many decades longer than he had.

“My pet,” Phoebe purred, not at Pooh, but at Viktor.

Privately Viktor thought Phoebe was pushing it a bit, but he was Hungarian and inclined to be pessimistic, so he blew a kiss in her direction and regarded her soulfully while he settled the poodle in his arms and arranged his posture best to display his perfectly sculpted body. Occasionally he moved his head so that the light caught the sparkle of silver beads discreetly woven into the dramatic ponytail that fell a quarter of the way down his back.

Phoebe extended a slim-fingered hand whose long, peony-pink nails were tipped with crescents of white toward the portly U.S. Senator who had approached her and regarded him as if he were a particularly delectable piece of beefcake. “Senator, thank you so much for coming. I know how busy you must be, and you’re a perfect honey.”

The senator’s plump, gray-haired wife shot Phoebe a suspicious look, but when Phoebe turned to greet her, the woman was surprised at the warmth and friendliness in her smile. Later, she would notice that Phoebe Somerville seemed more relaxed with the women than the men. Curious for such an obvious sexpot. But then it was a strange family.

Bert Somerville had a history of marrying Las Vegas showgirls. The first of them, Phoebe’s mother, had died years before while trying to give birth to the son Bert craved. His third wife, Molly’s mother had lost her life in a small plane accident thirteen years earlier on the way to Aspen, where she was planning to celebrate her divorce. Only Bert’s second wife was still living, and she wouldn’t have walked across the street to attend his funeral, let alone fly in from Reno.

Tully Archer, the venerable defensive coordinator of the Chicago Stars, left Reed’s side and approached Phoebe. With his white hair, grizzled eyebrows, and red-veined nose, he looked like a beardless Santa Claus.

“Terrible thing, Miss Somerville. Terrible.” He cleared his throat with a rhythmic hut-hut. “Don’t believe we’ve met. Unusual not to have met Bert’s daughter, all the years we’ve known each other. Bert and I go way back, and I’m going to miss him. Not that the two of us always agreed on things. He could be damned stubborn. But, still, we go way back.”

He continued shaking her hand and rambling on without ever making eye contact with her. Anyone who didn’t follow football might have wondered how someone who seemed on the verge of senility could possibly coach a professional football team, but those who had seen him work never made the mistake of underestimating his coaching abilities.

He loved to talk, however, and when he showed no intention of running out of words, Phoebe interrupted. “And aren’t you just a dear to say so, Mr. Archer. An absolute sugarplum.”

Tully Archer had been called many things in his life, but he had never been called a sugarplum, and the appellation left him temporarily speechless, which might have been what she intended because she immediately turned away only to see a regiment of monster men lined up to offer their condolences.

In shoes the size of tramp steamers, they shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Thousands of pounds of beef on the hoof with thighs like battering rams, they had thick, monstrous necks rooted in bulging shoulders. Their hands were clasped like grappling hooks in front of them as if they expected the national anthem to begin playing at any moment, and their freakish, oversized bodies were stuffed into sky blue team blazers and gray trousers. Beads of perspiration from the midday heat glimmered on skin that ranged in color from a glistening blue-black to a suntanned white. Like plantation slaves, the National Football League’s Chicago Stars had come to pay homage to the man who owned them.

A slit-eyed, neckless man who looked as if he should be leading a riot at a maximum security prison stepped up. He kept his eyes so firmly fixed on Phoebe’s face that it was obvious he was forcing himself not to let his gaze drift lower to her spectacular breasts. “I’m Elvis Crenshaw, nose guard. Real sorry about Mr. Somerville.”

Phoebe accepted his condolences. The nose guard moved on, glancing curiously at Viktor Szabo as he passed.

Viktor, who stood only a few feet from Phoebe, had struck his Rambo pose, a feat not all that easy to carry off considering the fact that he had a small white poodle cradled in his arms instead of an Uzi. Still, he could tell the pose was working because nearly every woman in the crowd was watching him. Now, if he could only catch the attention of that sexy creature with the marvelous derriere, his day would be perfect.

Unfortunately, the sexy creature with the marvelous derriere had stopped in front of Phoebe and had eyes only for her.

“Miz Somerville, I’m Dan Calebow, head coach of the Stars.”

“Well, hel-lo, Mr. Calebow,” Phoebe crooned in a voice that sounded to Viktor like a peculiar cross between Bette Midler and Bette Davis, but then he was Hungarian, and what did he know.