Her stepmother Lara had taken two-month-old Molly to visit her mother in Cleveland. Phoebe, eighteen at the time, was home packing for her freshman year at Mount Holyoke. Normally she wouldn't have been invited to the Northwest Illinois State football team party, but Bert was hosting it at the house so she had been included. At that time Bert hadn't yet bought the Stars' franchise, and Northwest football had been his obsession. Reed played on the team, and Bert's generous contributions to the athletic fund had made him a highly influential alumnus.
She had spent the day both anticipating and dreading that night's party. Although much of her baby fat had melted away, she was still self-conscious about her figure and wore baggy, shapeless clothing to conceal her full breasts. Her experiences with Reed and her father had left her leery of men, but at the same time, she couldn't help but daydream that one of the popular jocks would notice her.
She had spent the early hours of the party standing on the fringes trying to look inconspicuous. When Craig Jenkins, who was Reed's best friend, had walked over to ask her to dance, she had barely been able to nod. Dark-haired and handsome, Craig was Northeast's star player and not even in her wildest dreams had she imagined that he would notice her, much less put his arm around her shoulders after the music ended. She had begun to relax. They danced again. She flirted a little bit, laughed at his jokes.
And then it had all turned sour. He'd had too much to drink and tried to feel her breasts. Even when she'd told him to stop, he hadn't listened. He'd grown more aggressive, and she'd run outside in the middle of a thunderstorm to hide in the small metal shed near the pool.
That was where Craig had found her and where, in the thick, hot blackness, he had raped her.
Afterward, she'd made the mistake so many rape victims make. Dazed and bleeding, she had dragged herself to the bathroom, where she'd thrown up and then scrubbed away the signs of his violation in a tub of scalding-hot water.
An hour later, sobbing and barely coherent, she'd cornered Bert in his study, where he'd gone to fetch one of his Cuban cigars. She still remembered his disbelief as he'd run his fingers through his steel gray crew cut and studied her. She stood before him in the baggy gray sweat suit she'd climbed into when she got out of the tub, and she had never felt more vulnerable.
"You want me to believe a boy like Craig Jenkins was so hard up for a woman that he had to rape you?"
"It's true," she whispered, barely able to squeeze the words through her constricted throat.
Cigar smoke had coiled like a soiled ribbon around his head. He drew his shaggy salt-and-pepper eyebrows together. "This is another one of your pathetic attempts to get my sympathy, isn't it? Do you really believe I'm going to ruin mat boy's football career just because you want some attention."
"It's not like that! He raped me!"
Bert had made a sound of disgust and stuck his head out the door to send someone after Craig, who had arrived minutes later accompanied by Reed. Phoebe had begged her father to send Reed away, but he hadn't done it, and her cousin stood at the side of the room sipping from a bottle of beer and listening as she haltingly repeated her story.
Craig had hotly denied Phoebe's accusations, speaking so convincingly that she would have believed him herself if she hadn't known differently. Even without looking at her father, she realized that she had lost, and when he ordered her not ever to repeat the story again, some part of her had died.
She'd run away the next day, trying to flee from what had become her shame. Her college checking account contained enough money for her to get to Paris, the place where she'd met Arturo Flores, and her life had been changed forever.
Her father's flunkies had visited her several times during her years with Arturo to deliver Bert's threats and order her home. She had been disinherited when the first of the nude portraits had gone on display.
She rested her head against the back of the couch and drew Pooh closer. Bert had finally bent her to his will. If she didn't do as he had dictated, she wouldn't receive the one hundred thousand dollars, money that would let her open a small art gallery of her own.
You're my only failure, Phoebe. My only goddamn failure.
Right then, she set her jaw in a stubborn line. Her father, his one hundred thousand dollars, and the Chicago Stars could go to hell. Just because Bert had set up the game didn't mean she had to play. She'd find another way to raise the money to open her gallery. She decided to take Viktor up on his offer to spend some time at his vacation cottage near Montauk. There, next to the ocean, she would finally put the ghosts of her past to rest.
Chapter 3
"There's no other way to look at it, Ice," Tully Archer said, speaking to Dan Calebow out of the side of his mouth as if they were Allied spies meeting in the Grunewald to exchange military secrets. "Whether you like it or not, the blond chicky's in the driver's seat."
"Bert must have had his brains in his ass." Dan scowled at the waiter, who was approaching with another tray of champagne, and the man quickly backed off. Dan hated champagne. Not just the sissy taste, but the way those silly glasses felt in his big battle-scarred hands. Even more than the champagne, he hated the idea of that blond bimbo with the drop-dead body owning his football team.
The two coaches were standing in the spacious observation deck of the Sears Tower, which had been closed to the public for that evening's United Negro College Fund benefit. The floor-to-ceiling sweep of windows reflected banks of flowers grouped around trellis arches, while a woodwind quintet from the Chicago Symphony played Debussy. Members of all the area sports teams were mingling with local media figures, politicians, and several movie stars who were in town. Dan hated any occasion that required a tuxedo, but when it was for a good cause, he forced himself to go along with it.
Beginning with his years as the starting quarterback for the University of Alabama's Crimson Tide, Calebow's exploits both on and off the field had become the stuff of legends. As a pro, he had been a bloodthirsty, hell-raising, in-your-face barbarian. He was a working man's quarterback, not a glamour boy, and even the meanest defensive lineman failed to intimidate him, because in any confrontation Dan Calebow assumed he was either stronger than the other guy or smarter. Either way, he planned to come out the winner.
Off the field he was just as aggressive. At various times he had gotten himself arrested for disturbing the peace, destruction of personal property, and, in the early days of his career, possession of a controlled substance.
Age and maturity had made him wiser about some things but not about others, and he found himself studying the newest congresswoman from Illinois as she stood in a cluster of formally dressed people behind Tully. She wore one of those black evening gowns that looked plain but probably cost more than a new set of Pings. Her light brown hair was pulled to the nape of her neck with a flat velvet bow. She was beautiful and sophisticated. She was also attracting a considerable amount of attention, and he didn't fail to note that he was one of the few people at the gathering she hadn't sought out. Instead, a flashy brunette in a tight silver dress came up to him. Turning her back to Tully, she regarded Dan through eyelashes so thick with mascara he was surprised she could still bat them.
"You look lonely over here, Coach." She licked her lips. "I saw you play against the Cowboys right before you retired. You were a wild man that day."
"I'm just about a wild man every day, honey."