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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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." 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 G.o.dd.a.m.ned 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 your employer." employer."

"That's true, ma'am."

"Then, you're fired."

He looked at her for a long moment before he gave a curt nod. "All right." Without another word, he began to walk out of the room.

As quickly as it had come, her anger dissipated and alarm took its place. What had she done? Even a fool could figure out that a person who didn't know anything about running a football team shouldn't go around firing the head coach. This was exactly the sort of impulsive behavior Viktor always warned her about.

She heard his firm footsteps. .h.i.t the marble floor and rushed into the hallway. "Mr. Calebow, I-"

He turned back to her and his drawl oozed like slow poison. "My five minutes are up, ma'am."

"But I-"

"You're the one who set the time limit."

Just as he reached for the k.n.o.b, a key sc.r.a.ped in the lock and the door swung open to reveal Viktor standing on the other side. He wore a fitted black silk T-shirt with camouflage pants, orange leather suspenders, and motorcycle boots. His dark hair streamed sleek and straight over his shoulders, and he held a brown paper sack in his hands. He was beautiful and dear, and she couldn't remember when she had been so glad to see anyone.

In the tick of a few seconds, his eyes seemed to take it all in-her frantic expression, Dan Calebow's stony one. He turned his beautiful smile on them both.

"A party! I brought you rice cakes and cabbage kimchi kimchi, Phoebe, along with chapch'ae chapch'ae and and pulgogi pulgogi for myself. You know how bad the food will be tonight, so I thought we should fortify ourselves first. Do you like Korean food, Coach Calebow?" for myself. You know how bad the food will be tonight, so I thought we should fortify ourselves first. Do you like Korean food, Coach Calebow?"

"I don't believe I've ever eaten any. Now, if you'll excuse-"

Viktor, with more courage than most men, stepped directly in front of Dan. "Please. I really must insist. We have the finest Korean restaurant in New York barely three blocks from here." He extended his arm to shake hands. "Viktor Szabo. I don't believe we met at that awful funeral, but I am a big fan of American football. I'm still learning, however, and I would welcome the chance to ask a few questions of an expert. The blitz, for example ... Phoebe, we must have beer! When American men talk football, they drink beer. Miller time, yes?"

Viktor had gradually worked Dan back a few steps into the apartment, but now the coach planted his feet, obviously having gone as far as he intended. "Thanks for the invitation, Viktor, but I'll have to pa.s.s it up. Miss Somerville just fired me, and I don't seem to be in the mood for company."

Viktor laughed as he plopped the sack of food in Phoebe's arms. "You must learn when to pay attention to Phoebe and when to ignore her. She is what you Americans call-" He hesitated, searching for the proper phrase. "A f.u.c.k-up."

"Viktor!"

He leaned forward and planted a swift kiss on her forehead. "Tell Coach Calebow you didn't mean to fire him."

She batted him away, her pride stung. "I did did mean to fire him." mean to fire him."

Viktor clucked his tongue. "The truth now."

She was going to kill him for this. Holding on to what shreds of dignity she had left, she spoke carefully. "I meant to fire him, but perhaps I shouldn't have done it. I apologize for my short temper, Mr. Calebow, even though you provoked me. Consider yourself rehired."

He turned to stare at her. She tried to return his gaze, but the spicy odors of Korean food were stinging her nostrils and making her eyes tear so she knew she wasn't too impressive.

"The job doesn't hold much appeal for me anymore," he said.

Viktor sighed. "There are still things to discuss, I see, and we will do it over food. One hopelessly stubborn person is all I can deal with at a time, Coach Calebow. Won't you share a meal with us?"

"I don't think so."

"Please. For the greater good of football. And the victorious future of the Chicago Stars."

Dan took his time considering before he gave an abrupt nod. "All right."

Viktor beamed like a proud father, fluffed Phoebe's hair, and nudged her toward the kitchen. "Do your woman's work. We men are hungry."

Phoebe opened her mouth to tell him off, but then clamped it shut. Not only was Viktor her friend, but he was smart about people, and she had to trust him. She sashayed forward, punishing the football coach by putting an extra swing to a pair of hips he'd never get a chance to touch.

As the men entered the navy and white kitchen behind her, Pooh went berserk, but since the dog concentrated her attention on Viktor instead of the coach, Phoebe didn't need to go to the rescue.

Ten minutes later the three of them were sitting on slatted white metal cafe chairs at the matching round bistro table that stood at the end of her kitchen. She served the Korean food on glazed white porcelain plates, each of them painted with a stylized royal blue carp that was the same color as the woven place mats. Only the fact that she had left the beer in bottles so Viktor could get his macho fix ruined the blue and white color scheme.

"Pulgogi is the Korean form of barbecue," Viktor explained, after the men had finished an incomprehensible discussion of the blitz. He picked up another thin strip of sesame-marinated meat with his fork. "Phoebe doesn't like it, but I'm absolutely addicted. What do you think?" is the Korean form of barbecue," Viktor explained, after the men had finished an incomprehensible discussion of the blitz. He picked up another thin strip of sesame-marinated meat with his fork. "Phoebe doesn't like it, but I'm absolutely addicted. What do you think?"

"I doubt it's going to put McDonald's out of business, but it's not too bad."

Phoebe had been covertly watching Dan for subtle signs of h.o.m.ophobia and was disappointed when he showed none because he wasn't giving her an excuse to throw him out. She studied his face. He certainly wasn't as good-looking as many of Viktor's friends. There was that small b.u.mp at the bridge of his nose, the thin white scar on a chin. But still, she would be lying to herself if she denied that he was an incredibly attractive man. He could even be charming when he tried, and several times she'd had to force herself not to smile at his offbeat sense of humor.

Viktor set down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Now, Dan, perhaps you wish to share with me the reasons for your dispute with my Phoebe. I a.s.sure you, she is the dearest of persons."

"Must be an acquired taste. Like that Korean meat."

Viktor sighed. "Dan, Dan. This won't do, you know. She is quite sensitive. If the two of you are to work together, you must arrive at some sort of truce."

She opened her mouth to tell Viktor it was hopeless, only to feel her friend's hand clamp down hard on her thigh.

"The problem is, Viktor, we're not going to be working together because your your Phoebe won't take any responsibility for Phoebe won't take any responsibility for her her football team." football team."

Viktor patted Phoebe's arm. "It is fortunate, Dan, that she is leaving you alone. She knows nothing of sports."

The air was so thick with the pollution of male patronization that she could barely breathe, but she held her peace.

Dan nudged Pooh off his right foot. The poodle resettled on his left one. "She doesn't need to know anything about sports. She just needs to fire the current general manager, hire somebody with more experience, and sign the papers that are put in front of her." Briefly, he outlined the difficulties the Stars had been having since Bert's death.

Viktor, who had a good head for business and was notoriously tight with a dollar, frowned. "Phoebe, pet, I'm afraid he has a point."

"You know the terms of my father's will. He left me the Stars only so he could teach me a lesson. I'm not playing his game."

"There are some games you can't walk away from, Miz Somerville, without hurting a lot of people."

"I'm not going to lose much sleep over a bunch of grown men crying in their beer because they aren't winning football games."

"Then how about the staff people who are going to lose their jobs? Our ticket sales are way down from last year, and that means layoffs. How about their families, Miz Somerville. Will you lose sleep over them?"

He'd made her feel like a selfish worm. She'd been so wrapped up in her own feelings that she hadn't bothered to consider the effect her decision to turn her back on the Stars might have on others. If only she could find a way to stay true to herself without hurting anyone else. Several seconds ticked by while she considered her options. Finally, she released an indolent sign.

"All right, Mr. Calebow. You've absolutely devastated me. I'm not going to Chicago, but you can have the papers shipped to me here, and I'll sign them."

"I'm afraid that's not going to work, ma'am. In case you forgot, you fired me. If you want me back, you're going to have to meet a few of my conditions."

"What conditions?" She regarded him warily.

He leaned back in his chair like Big Daddy after a seven-course dinner, except Big Daddy was fat and ugly instead of a hard-muscled athlete with a powerful chest and a lethal grin.

"It's like this. I want you in the Stars' business offices by noon on Tuesday to sign those three contracts. Then we'll sit down with Steve Kovak, your director of player personnel, and discuss qualified candidates for the general manager's job. You'll hire one of them by the end of the week, and from then until the team's no longer your responsibility, you'll show up for work like everybody else and sign the papers he puts in front of you."

Only the warning in Viktor's eyes kept her from emptying the last of the pulgogi pulgogi in the football coach's lap. She could feel her father's net drawing tighter around her, and she thought of those weeks she had spent at Montauk walking on the beach and trying to restore peace to her life. But how could she be at peace with herself if innocent people were going to suffer because of her stubborn pride? in the football coach's lap. She could feel her father's net drawing tighter around her, and she thought of those weeks she had spent at Montauk walking on the beach and trying to restore peace to her life. But how could she be at peace with herself if innocent people were going to suffer because of her stubborn pride?

She considered the one hundred thousand dollars. In light of what Dan Calebow had told her, it no longer seemed quite so much like blood money. All she had to do to earn it was endure the next three or four months. When they were over, she'd have a clear conscience and the stake she needed to open her art gallery.

With a sense of inevitability, she gave him a bright, false smile. "You've convinced me, Mr. Calebow. But I'm warning you now. I won't go to any football games."

"That's probably just as well."

Viktor extended his arms and gave them each an approving smile. "There. Do you see how easy life is when stubborn people are willing to compromise?"

Before Phoebe could respond, the telephone began to ring. Although she could have answered it right there, she took advantage of the opportunity to escape and excused herself. Pooh trotted after her as she slipped from the kitchen.

The door closed behind her, and the two men regarded each other for a long moment. Viktor spoke first. "I must have your promise, Coach, that you won't hurt her."

"I promise."

"You spoke a bit too quickly for my taste. I don't quite believe you."

"I'm a man of my word, and I promise that I won't hurt her." He flexed his hands. "When I murder her, I'll do it real quick, so she won't feel a thing."

Viktor sighed. "That's exactly what I was afraid of."

6.

"Here we are, Miss Somerville."

The Buick Park Avenue left the highway for a two-lane service road marked with a blue and white wooden sign that read Stars Drive. Annette Miles, the driver who had picked Phoebe up at O'Hare, had been Bert's secretary for several years. She was in her late forties, overweight, with short, graying hair. Although polite, she wasn't particularly communicative, and there had been little conversation between them.

Phoebe was tired from having gotten up at dawn to catch her early flight and she felt tense about what lay ahead. Trying to relax, she gazed out the pa.s.senger window at the wooded landscape. Stands of oak, walnut, maple, and pine lay on both sides of the service road, and through a gap in the trees to her right, she could glimpse a cyclone fence.

"What's over there?"