"I'm not going to any team owners' meetings," she replied with enough saccharine to supply a Weight Watchers convention, "so it won't be a problem."
"Is that so?" His country boy grin was at odds with the chill in his eyes. "Well, then, ma'am, Lawrence Taylor used to be the team chaplain for the New York Giants. A real sweet-tempered gentleman who'd lead us all in prayer sessions before the game."
She knew she was missing something, but she wasn't going to inquire further. His intrusion into her apartment had shaken her, and she wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible. "Mr. Calebow, as much as I adore having uninvited company scare the wits out of me, I'm afraid I don't have time to talk right now."
"This won't take long."
She could see that she wasn't going to budge him until he'd had his say, so she did her best to assume an air of studied boredom. "Five minutes then, but I'll have to get rid of my critter first." She made her way to the kitchen to deposit Pooh. The poodle looked pitiable as Phoebe shut the door on her.
When she returned to her unwelcome visitor, he was standing in the middle of the room taking in the owner's trendy decorating scheme. Frail, twig-shaped metal chairs were juxtaposed with oversized couches upholstered in charcoal gray canvas. The lacquered walls and slate floor emphasized the room's cool, stark lines. Her own more comfortable, and considerably less expensive, furniture was in storage-everything except the large painting that hung on the room's single unbroken wall.
The languorous nude was the first painting Arturo had done of her, and even though it was quite valuable, she would never part with it. She lay on a simple wood-framed bed in Arturo's cottage, her blond hair spilling over the pillow as she gazed out of the canvas. The sun dappled her bare skin from the light that shone through a single window set high in the white stucco wall.
She hadn't hung the painting in the apartment's most public room out of vanity, but because the natural light from the large windows displayed it best. This portrait had been more realistically executed than his later depictions of her, and looking at the figure's soft curves and gentle shadings gave her a sense of peace. A spot of coral emphasized the slope of her breast, a brilliant patch of lemon illuminated the swell of her hip, and delicate lavender shadows were woven like silk threads through the paleness of her pubic hair. She seldom thought of the figure in the painting as herself, but as someone far better, a woman whose sexuality hadn't been stolen from her.
Dan stood with his back to her, openly studying the painting in a way that reminded her exactly whose body was on display. As he turned to face her, she braced herself for a smarmy remark.
"Real pretty." He walked over to one of the twig chairs. "Will this thing hold me?"
"If it breaks, I'll send you a bill."
As he sat, she saw that he had finally been distracted by the curves Simone's clingy dress so blatantly displayed, and she gave a mental sigh of relief. This, at least, was familiar territory,
She smiled as she uncrossed her arms and let him look his fill. Years ago she had discovered that she could control her relationships with heterosexual men far better by playing the sexy siren than the blushing ingenue. Being the sexual aggressor put her subtly in charge. She was the one who defined the rules of the game instead of the man, and when she sent her suitor on his way, he assumed it was because he didn't measure up to all the other men in her life. None of them ever figured out there was something wrong with her.
She added a dash of Kathleen Turner to her naturally husky voice. "What's on your mind, Mr. Calebow? Other than the obvious."
"The obvious?"
"Football, of course," she replied innocently. "I can't imagine that a man like you thinks about anything else. I know my father didn't."
"Now you might be surprised what a man like me thinks about."
His hot-summer-night drawl licked her body, setting off all her internal alarm bells. She immediately hitched her hip onto the corner of a small brushed-nickel console, sending her tight skirt even higher on her thighs. Letting her sandal dangle from her toe, she uttered her lie in a silky voice. "Sorry, Mr. Calebow, but I already have more jockstraps hanging from my bedpost than I know what to do with."
"Do you now?"
She dipped her head and gazed at him through the platinum lock of hair that brushed the corner of her eye, a pose she'd perfected years ago. "Athletes are's-o-o-o exhausting. I've moved on to the sort of men who wear boxer shorts."
"Wall Street?"
"Congress."
He laughed. "You're making me sorry I put my wild and woolly days behind me."
"Too bad. A religious conversion?"
"Nothing that interesting. Coaches are supposed to be role models."
"How boring."
"Team owners, too."
She slipped off the edge of the console, carefully positioning herself so he could take in the inner curves of her breasts showing beneath the gold crisscross lacings. "Oh, dear. Why do I sense a lecture coming on?"
"Maybe because you know you deserve one."
She wanted to wrap herself in her oldest, thickest chenille bathrobe. Instead, she let her tongue drift over her lips. "Yelling upsets me so please be gentle."
His eyes darkened with disgust. "Lady, you are something else. I guess I've got reason to yell, considering the fact that you're ruining my football team."
"Your team? Gosh, Mr. Calebow, I thought it was mine."
"Right now, honey lamb, it doesn't seem to be anybody's."
He uncoiled so abruptly from the chair that he startled her into backing away. She tried to recover by pretending she'd been about to sit. The stretchy lime green dress slid high as she sank down onto the couch. She languorously crossed her legs, displaying her thin gold ankle bracelet, but he paid no attention. Instead, he began to pace.
"You don't seem to have the faintest idea how much trouble the team's in. Your father's dead, Carl Pogue's quit, and the acting general manager's worthless. You've got unsigned players, bills that aren't getting paid, a stadium contract that's coming up for renewal. As a matter of fact, you're about the only person left who doesn't seem to know that the team is collapsing in on itself."
"I don't know anything about football, Mr. Calebow. You're fortunate that I'm leaving all of you alone." She toyed with the lacing at her breasts, but he didn't take the bait.
"You can't just walk away from an NFL team!"
"I don't see why not."
"Let me tell you about one of the purest pieces of talent you've got-a kid named Bobby Tom Denton. Bert picked him up as a first-round draft choice out of the University of Texas three years ago, and it paid off because Bobby Tom's on his way to being one of the best."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because, Miz Somerville, Bobby Tom's from Telarosa, Texas, and being forced to live in the state of Illinois for even part of the year challenges his idea of manhood. Your father understood that, so he set out to renegotiate Bobby Tom's contract before the kid started to think too much about how he'd like to live in Dallas year-round. The negotiations were completed just before Bert died." He shoved a hand through his shaggy dark blond hair. "Right now you own Bobby Tom Denton, along with a fine offensive tackle named Darnell Pruitt, and a free safety who likes nothing more than to force the bad guys to fumble. Unfortunately, you're not getting your money's worth out of any of them because they're not playing. And do you know why they're not playing? Because you're too busy with all those boxer shorts to sign their goddamned contracts!"
A hot flare of anger shot through her, and she vaulted up from the chair. "I've just had a blazing moment of insight, Mr. Calebow. I've just realized that Bobby Tom Denton isn't the only person I own. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't it also true that I'm your employer."
"That's true, ma'am."
"Then, you're fired."