Phoebe's pout turned into something closer to a whine. "But this one was really hard, Jason. Ronnie kept telling me you wouldn't be mad about it, but I'm not so sure. I don't see how you can be happy about the Stars moving."
Jason choked on the coffee he had been in the process of swallowing. "Moving?" His cup landed in his saucer with a clatter, and all his flirtatiousness disappeared. "What the hell are you talking about? Moving where?"
Dan watched as Phoebe's bottom lip actually began to quiver. "Don't be mad. Ronnie explained it to me, and everything'll be fine. We're going to exercise that one-year option we have with you for next season, so it's not as if we're moving immediately. You'll have lots of time to find another team to play in your stadium."
Keane spoke to Phoebe through gritted teeth. "Exactly where are you thinking about taking the Stars?"
"Manhattan, maybe. Wouldn't that be a gas? I'm not absolutely sure, of course, that the other team owners will go along with it, but Ronnie hired these nerds to do this big market survey, and they told him the New York City area can definitely support another football team."
Keane, obviously having decided where the real power behind the Stars lay, shot Ron a look of pure fury. "That's ridiculous! The Stars won't be able to use Giants Stadium. There are already two teams playing there."
But Phoebe wasn't ready to turn over the stage to her GM yet, and once again she cupped Keane's arm. "Not Giants Stadium. That's in New Jersey, for goodness' sake, and I never go to New Jersey unless I'm on my way to Philadelphia. Just because I won't own the team anymore doesn't mean that I'm not planning on seeing every game. I'm crazy about football now that I know all the players."
"You can't move the team unless you have a stadium!" Keane was nearly shouting. "Didn't McDermitt tell you that?"
"But that's the best part! Donald has just about recovered from all those horrible things that happened to him a few years ago, and he wants to build a domed stadium on that West Side land he owns." Her eyebrows wiggled suggestively. "We're close friends, you know, and he told me he'd give me my very own skybox as a gift if I'd sign a contract with him before I turn over the team to Reed." She looked stricken. "Don't be mad, Jason. I have to do what Ronnie tells me. He gets all upset if I don't behave like a real businesswoman."
Dan was grateful no one was paying any attention to him because he'd gotten dizzy from the altitude. He had to hand it to the kid, however. Ron leaned back in his chair with the smug look of a mafioso who had controlling interest in a concrete block company.
Keane's attitude underwent a subtle transformation, and he regarded Phoebe in a manner that was both unfriendly and patronizing. The thought passed through Dan's mind that Keane, for all his smarts, had better take care. Dan knew from past experience how easy it was to get suckered by these two con artists.
"I have to warn you that the whole thing sounds much too tentative to me. It's extremely doubtful the League would agree to a third pro team in the New York City area. If I were you, I wouldn't set my heart on moving the Stars to Manhattan."
Phoebe gave the same giggle that only ten minutes earlier had set Dan's back teeth on edge. Now it sounded as musical as church bells. How could he ever have doubted her? Not only was she smart as a whip, but she had guts.
"That's exactly what Ronnie said," she chirped, "but I have a backup plan."
"You do?"
She leaned closer. "You wouldn't believe how much Baltimore wants its own NFL team. Ever since the—" She looked down the table at Dan, and he finally knew her well enough to recognize the glitter in her eyes. As he kept his expression inscrutable, his chest swelled with pride.
"What was the name of that team that left Baltimore?" she inquired.
"The Colts."
"Right. Ever since the Colts left, Baltimore's been dying to get another team. And then there's Orlando." An expression of pure bliss settled over her face. "Those men are the sweetest guys in the world. Last week when we talked, they presented me with the cutest little Montblanc pen with gold mouse ears on it." She gave a soft, Minnie-like squeal and sighed with pleasure. "Oh, I just love Orlando. Their stadium site is right next to Disney World."
Keane looked stunned.
"So you see, I do know how to be a tough businesswoman." She slipped her napkin from her lap and stood. "Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to make a trip to the little girls' room. And, Ronnie, you be civil to Jason while I'm gone. You've gotten everything you want, so you can afford to be gracious."
As she walked away from the table, she took all of their eyes with her. The door shut.
Dan wanted to jump to his feet and give her a standing ovation. At that moment, he knew without doubt that he couldn't marry Sharon Anderson, and he felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Phoebe filled his heart, not Sharon, and he was going to have to rethink everything. The future he'd been so certain about was now murky, a fact that should have depressed him. Instead, he experienced a surge of exhilaration.
Jason threw his napkin on the table, jumped to his feet, and rounded on Dan. "I thought we were friends! What the hell is going on here?"
Dan concealed his elation with a shrug. "It's front office business. I don't get involved."
"Not even when your football team may end up wearing fucking mouse ears on their helmets!"
Dan set down his coffee cup and deliberately wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "Considering her past history, I think Baltimore's more likely. It's closer to Manhattan."
Jason turned his anger on Ron. "This is all your doing, McDermitt. You've manipulated that fucking birdbrain! My God, you're leading her around by the fucking nose!"
Ron's smile revealed the teeth of a baby shark. "I've done what I had to, Keane. You've been screwing us over for years, and I finally found a way to stop you. Bert would never consider moving the team, but Phoebe doesn't have his sense of tradition, and it was quite easy to persuade her to look elsewhere. She has wonderful connections, you know, and I don't inquire too closely into how she's made them. One day she's on the phone with Trump. The next day with Disney. They've promised low rents, hefty concession percentages. They'll pick up the tab for security. I realize this will leave you with an empty stadium, but perhaps the Bears—"
"Fuck the Bears!" Keane shouted. "Do you think I want McCaskey breathing down my ass?" His eyes traveled from Ron to Dan and back again. And then they narrowed suspiciously. He turned to his attorney. "Stand outside the door and keep Phoebe occupied if she comes back. O'Brian, get Trump on the phone."
Dan could see the flicker of alarm in Ron's eyes, and he couldn't suppress his own dismay. You gave it your best shot, Phoebe, he thought. Unfortunately, Keane wasn't as easily suckered in as he had been.
A heavy silence descended on the room as the men waited for the call to go through. After several moments of muted conversation, O'Brian passed the phone over to his employer.
Keane spoke into the receiver with false heartiness. "Donald, it's Jason Keane. Sorry to interrupt your evening, but I'm tracing down an interesting rumor." He walked over toward the fireplace. "The word here is that you're thinking about building a stadium on that West Side land you own. If it's true, I might be interested in getting in on the action. Provided you have a team lined up."
He gripped the receiver tighter in his hand as he listened. "Is that so? No, I understand. I thought maybe the Jets… Really? Well, those things happen. Yes, indeed. Oh, certainly."
There was a long pause.
"I'll do that. Of course. Good speaking with you, too."
His face was gray as he slammed the phone to the cradle. "The son of a bitch wants the Stars. He told me he's promised Phoebe a pink marble skybox. The bastard actually had the gall to laugh."
Silence fell over the room.
Ron cleared his throat. "Do you want me to get the names of the men she spoke with in Orlando and Baltimore?"
"Don't bother," he snapped. Dan could almost see the wheels tur
ning in Keane's well-oiled mind. "Dan, I remember you admiring that antique George Low Wizard putter of mine. It's yours if you get Phoebe out of here."
"I'm always happy to help out a friend," Dan said slowly.
"And you." Keane jabbed his finger at Ron. "You're not going anywhere until we put together a new contract."
Ron took his time selecting a cigar from the humidor that had arrived at the table along with the brandy. He rolled it between his fingers like a miniature Daddy Warbucks. "It'll have to be an attractive offer, Jason. Very attractive. I rather like Orlando myself."
"It'll be plenty attractive, you slimy son of a bitch!"
"Then let's deal." Ron smiled as he slipped the cigar into the corner of his mouth. "And Keane—Don't forget who's holding Trump."
Chapter 20
« ^ »
"Are you sure you've told me everything that happened after I left?" Since the Ferrari's heater was going full blast, Phoebe's teeth weren't chattering from cold, but from an overdose of adrenaline.
"As close as I can remember."
She still couldn't quite comprehend the amazing fact that right now, Ron and Jason Keane were in the process of renegotiating their stadium contract. She thought about her father and experienced an unfamiliar sensation of peace as she realized she'd never had anything to prove to him, only to herself.
The Ferrari bounced on a bump in the road and she suddenly became conscious of their rural surroundings. "I thought you were taking me home."
"I am. My home."
"Why?"
"Because the last time I stopped by your house, Miz Molly was there along with three of her girlfriends. I don't think I ever realized what high-pitched voices four teenage girls have." He glanced over at her. "It occurs to me that you and I need some privacy so we can talk a few things over."
Phoebe couldn't think of anything they had to talk about that wouldn't wait until the next day. After what had happened last week in the weight room, she wasn't up to any more rejection, and she knew she shouldn't be alone with him. Since he was already driving down the lane that led to his house, however, it was a bit late to ask him to turn back.
"First we're going to talk," he said. "Then we're going to burn that dress of yours."
He was scowling, so she doubted that his remark was intended to be sexual, but as the Ferrari sped beneath the bare trees whose skeletal branches were silhouetted against the night sky, she realized her palms were damp. "It's Versace."
"Beg your pardon?"
"My dress. Versace. The designer. Or at least it's a Versace rip-off. I have this friend in Manhattan who can rip off any designer."
"What's wrong with your voice? It sounds funny."
"My teeth are chattering." The low-slung car bounced on a rut.
"I've got the heater on. It's warm."
"I'm not cold. I guess it's a delayed reaction. I was a little nervous this evening."
"You damn well should have been. Phoebe, in all my born days I never saw anything like what you did tonight. I'm a little disappointed in Ron, though, for not letting me in on your plans, especially since he invited me along."
"Ron didn't know exactly what I had in mind."
"Are you telling me he was winging it in there?"
"Not entirely. I told him the attitude I wanted him to assume, but not the details of what I planned to do. He has this problem with heart arrhythmia. It kicks up when he gets too nervous, and I was afraid he'd give me away. But he's gotten very good at improvising, so I wasn't too worried."
"My respect for my good friend Ron grows by the day."
They stopped in front of the stone farmhouse, where faint puddles of golden light spilled through the living room windows onto the porch. The Dutchman's-pipe vine hung dry and withered on its trellis at the end of the porch, but it still somehow managed to be beautiful in the cold December night. She waited until he came around to open her door, and when he did, she was forced to swing her legs out first because her dress was so tight.
He extended his hand to help her. When his fingers closed around her own, she tried to repress a shiver of excitement. A leaf crunched under the toe of her beaded black heels as she and Dan climbed the front steps together.
He unlocked the door and held it open for her. "I thought it was all over when Keane placed that phone call to your close personal friend, Donald Trump."
"Donald has quite a sense of humor. It didn't take any persuasion on my part to convince him to back up my story."
The hallway was lit by a single brass library lamp with a black shade that sat on a small antique chest. She followed him into the living room, where he flicked on more lights until the interior was filled with a cozy glow. Once again, she was struck by how snug his house was. A discarded navy sweatshirt lay across the arm of the green and red plaid couch, while copies of the Chicago papers, along with the Wall Street Journal, were scattered on the floor near one of the overstuffed chairs. She smelled clove and cinnamon.
"This place is so homey," she said wistfully.
He followed the direction of her gaze toward a rush basket piled high with pinecones on the hearth. "I like outdoors things around me."
He shed his tuxedo jacket and, while he made his way across the rug to the fireplace, pulled at his bow tie. The ends dangled as he leaned forward to ignite the fire that had been laid. After it caught, he closed the screen and straightened.
"Are you going to take off your coat?"
Maybe it was the result of all those weeks of wearing pearls and headbands, but she didn't want to stand before him in the vulgar dress she'd used to disarm Jason Keane, not while they were enclosed by the cozy comfort of this wonderful old house. "I'm still a little cold."
If he knew she was lying, he gave no sign. "I'm going to have a beer. Do you want something to warm you up? Coffee? Tea?"
"No, thank you." As he moved into the open kitchen at the back, she slipped off her coat and replaced it with the zippered sweatshirt he'd left on the arm of the couch. It held the fresh scent of laundry detergent along with a fragrance that wasn't quite spice and wasn't quite citrus, but was indisputably Dan Calebow. She sat down at one end of the couch just as he came back into the room with a bottle of Old Style in his hand.
He settled at the other end, leaned back against the overstuffed arm, and propped one ankle over his knee. "You and Ron are getting good at pulling scams. Tonight was even better than the one you pulled on me. By the way, I'm a big enough man to admit you were right about him and I was wrong."
"Thank you."
"I'll even admit you might have been partially right about the team being too tense earlier in the season."
"Only partially right?"
"Mostly right," he conceded. "But that doesn't mean I'm not looking forward to living the remainder of my life without hearing any more speeches about naked football players." He shuddered. "Do you and Ron think you could let me in on your next scam ahead of time? I hope you realize I almost committed assault and battery tonight, although I'm not entirely sure whether I would have gone after Keane or you."
"Probably Keane. For all your yelling, I can't imagine you hitting a woman."
"You're forgetting about Valerie."
"You should introduce her to Jason. They're perfect for each other."
"How do you know that?"
"Instinct. That man would enjoy every kinky little game she could conjure up."
"I don't know. Some of them—"
"Never mind. I have a weak stomach." Even though Dan had told her he was no longer seeing Valerie, the thought of them together dug into her like sharp little spurs, and her voice was more waspish than she intended. "I'm sure other women must seem tame to you after being married to the kinky congresswoman."
He sighed. "You're determined to pick a fight with me, aren't you?"
"I'm not doing any such thing."
"Yes, you are, and I'm not in a fighting mood." He uncrossed his legs and set his beer bottle down on the hooked
rug. "What I'm in a mood to do is fetch a pair of pliers and see if I can get you out of that dress."
She caught her breath and heat spread through her body, followed by uncertainty. "Dan, don't joke about this."
"I'm not joking." His expression was so solemn it almost scared her. "Believe me, I've tried to keep my hands off you. But I can't do it any longer."
"Is this now?" she asked quietly.
"Did I say now?"
"No."
"Then it's not now. It's just what I said."
"Oh." She moistened her dry lips.
"First I'd like you to take off my sweatshirt. I've got a good fire going, and it's plenty warm."
"I'd rather leave it on."
"Are you saying you don't want to make love?"
"No." She wished she hadn't protested so quickly, and she tried to speak more reasonably. "The minute you see this dress, you'll start yelling again."
"Phoebe, any woman with half a brain could figure out that yelling's about the last thing on my mind right now."
"That's what you say now, but your temper is unpredictable. It hasn't occurred to you that I did exactly what you expect the team to do."
"You want to come at that one again?"
"I put my body on the line for the good of the game. Isn't that what football's all about?"
"You're starting to make me crazy. You know that, don't you?"
She couldn't resist him when those little green lights of amusement were dancing in his eyes. "There's a small hook at the back of the collar."
"Slide over here and show me."
She did as he asked, and he gently pressed on her shoulders, indicating that he wanted her to lie facedown across his lap. She rested her cheek against his knee, her breast against his thigh.
He stroked her hair, freeing the strands that were tucked under the sweatshirt. "See, what I'm thinking is this. We'll start out here on the couch and sort of work our way from room to room."
"It sounds like spring housecleaning."
He gently drew the bulky garment off her shoulders, slid it out from beneath her, and dropped it on the floor. His fingertips stroked her back through the net fabric. "I suppose there might be a few parallels. I can think of some interesting things we could do with soap and water."
It Had to Be You Page 29
