It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(40)

The whistle finally blew, signaling the end of the quarter. To everyone’s surprise, the Chicago Stars were tied with the Broncos, 7-7.

Bobby Tom dashed over to her, his expression so jubilant that she couldn’t help smiling back. “I hope you’re gonna be where I can get to you when we play the Chargers next week, Miz Somerville. You’re bringin’ me luck.”

“I think your talent is bringing you luck.”

Dan’s voice rang out, his tone fierce. “Denton, get over here! We’ve got three more quarters to play, or have you forgotten that?”

Bobby Tom winked and trotted away.





9


Phoebe stood in the flickering shadows of the torches that had been placed at intervals around the pool at the Somerville estate and watched as five giggling women surrounded Bobby Tom Denton. None of the Stars’ management or staff had regarded Bert’s death or the fact that Phoebe would soon be moving out of the house as an excuse to cancel the party he had hosted each year after the season opener. While Phoebe had been at the game, her secretary had supervised the caterers setting up for the event. Phoebe had replaced her carwash dress with a slightly less conspicuous apricot knit tank dress.

The team’s loss that afternoon to the Broncos had cast a pall over the early hours of the gathering, but as the liquor had begun to flow more freely, the mood had grown livelier. It was nearly midnight now, and the platters of steaks, ham, and lobster tails had been demolished. Phoebe had been introduced to all the players, their wives, and girlfriends as they arrived. The players were scrupulously polite to their new owner, but being around so many athletes had brought back too many bad memories, so she had removed herself to a wooden bench set by a clump of japonica bushes well off to the side of the pool.

She heard a familiar voice and felt a queer jolt as she looked toward the patio and saw Dan. Ron had told her that Sunday night was one of the busiest times for the coaches as they graded the players on their performances that afternoon and worked on the game plan for next week. Even so, she had found herself looking for him all evening.

She watched from the shadows as he moved from one group to another. Gradually, she realized he was drawing closer. She saw that he was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and the contrast between those studious glasses and his rugged good looks did strange things to her insides.

She crossed her legs as he came up to her. “I’ve never seen you in glasses.”

“My contacts bother me after about fourteen hours.” He took a sip from the can of beer in his hand and propped his foot on the bench next to her.

This man really was a Tennessee Williams wet dream, she thought, as a film strip slowly unwound in her head. She could see him in the shabby library of a decaying plantation house, his white shirt damp with sweat from a lusty encounter with young Elizabeth in the brass bed upstairs. He had a cheroot clamped between his teeth as he thumbed impatiently through an old diary trying to discover where his great-grandmother had buried the family silver.

Her body felt warm and languid, and she had to suppress the urge to rub against him like a cat.

The burst of loud laughter that came from the pool pulled her back to reality. She looked over in time to see five of Bobby Tom’s women shove him into the water fully dressed. When he didn’t immediately come up for air, she gritted her teeth. “I’m forcing myself not to run over and pull him out.”

Dan chuckled and took his foot down from the bench. “Relax. You have even more money invested in Jim Biederot than in Bobby Tom, and Jim’s just lassoed one of the chimneys so he can climb the side of the house.”

“I’m definitely not cut out for this job.”

Bobby Tom rose to the surface, blowing water, and pulled two of the women in with him. She was glad Molly’s bedroom looked out on the side of the house instead of the back.

“Tully told me Jim climbs the house every year,” Dan said. “Apparently, the party wouldn’t be the same without it.”

“Couldn’t he just put a lamp shade on his head like everybody else?”

“He prides himself on originality.”

A burly defensive lineman lay down on the concrete at the side of the pool and began to bench press a shrieking young woman. Dan pointed his beer can toward them. “Now there’s where your real trouble’s gonna start.”

She stood so she could get a better view and then wished she hadn’t. “I hope he doesn’t hurt her.”

“That wouldn’t matter so much as the fact she’s not his wife.”

At that moment a tiny fireball with a shining mane of Diana Ross hair charged from the rear of the patio toward Webster Greer, a 294-pound All-Pro defensive tackle.

Dan chuckled. “Watch and learn, Phoebe.”

The spitfire screeched to a stop on a pair of stiletto heels. “Webster Greer, you put that girl down right this minute or your ass is gonna be grass!”

“Aw, honey—” He dropped the redhead onto a chaise lounge.

“Don’t you ‘honey’ me,” the spitfire shrieked. “You want to find yourself sleeping in that bowling alley you built for yourself in our basement, that’s just fine with me, ’cause you sure as hell won’t be sleeping with me.”

“Aw, honey—”

“And don’t you come crying on my shoulder after I haul your ass to divorce court and take you for every penny you got.”