"Craig got drunk and told me what really happened that night. He told me he'd raped you."

A small exclamation slipped through her lips. Instead of feeling vindicated, she felt raw and exposed. She didn't want to talk about this with anyone, but especially not with Reed.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry; I'd always thought you were lying. I went to Bert right away, but he didn't want to talk about it. I guess I should have pressed harder, but you know how he was."

She couldn't bring herself to speak. Was he telling the truth? She had no idea whether he was sincere or simply trying to win her trust so he could influence her decisions while she owned the Stars. She didn't want to believe that her father had learned the truth but never acknowledged it. All the old feelings of pain and betrayal engulfed her.

"I feel as if I need to make this up to you somehow, and I want you to know that I'm here for you. As far as I'm concerned, I owe you a debt. If there's anything I can do to make your time here easier-any help I can give you-promise me you'll let me know."

"Thank you, Reed. I'll do that." Her words sounded stiff and unnatural. She was strung so tightly that she felt as if she would fly apart if she didn't get away from him. Despite his display of concern, she could never trust him.

"I think I'd better go in now. I don't want to leave Molly alone for too long."

"Of course."

They walked in tense silence to the house. When they reached the edge of the lawn, he stopped and gazed at her. "As far as I'm concerned, we're in this together, cuz. I mean it. Truly."

Leaning down, he brushed his greedy lips across her cheek and walked away.

Chapter 8

A vein bulged at Dan's temples as he screamed. "Fenster! On thirty-two scat left, the tailback goes left! Otherwise we would have called it thirty-two scat freakin' right!" He slammed the clipboard to the ground.

Someone came up beside him, but he was watching the tailback so intently that several minutes passed before he looked over. When he turned, he didn't instantly recognize the man, and he was about to tell him to get the hell off his practice field before he realized who it was.

"Ronald?"

"Coach."

The kid didn't look like himself; he looked like a South American gigolo. His hair was slicked back, and he wore dark glasses along with a black T-shirt, baggy slacks, and one of those boxy European sport coats with the collar turned up and the sleeves pushed to his elbows.

"Jesus, Ronald, what'd you do to yourself?"

"I'm unemployed. I don't have to dress like a stiff anymore."

Dan spotted a cigarette in the kid's hand. "Since when do you smoke?"

"On and off. I just never thought it was a good idea to do it around the men." He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and gestured toward the field with his head. "You're going with the new tailback sweep."

"If Fenster can learn his left from his right."

"Bucker looks good."

Dan was still distracted by the changes in Ronald, not only the difference in his appearance, but his unusual composure. "He's coming along."

"So did Phoebe pick the new GM yet?" Ronald asked.

"Hell, no."

"That's what I figured."

Dan made a snort of disgust. Phoebe'd had a list of candidates since the day she'd arrived more than a week ago, but instead of making a choice, she'd told him she wanted Ronald back. He'd reminded her they had an agreement and told her she'd damn well better live up to it or she could find herself another head coach. When she realized he meant it, she'd stopped arguing. But they had lost their final preseason game last weekend, and with their season opener against the Broncos this Sunday, she still hadn't interviewed a single candidate.

Instead of working, she sat at the desk in Ronald's old office and read fashion magazines. She wouldn't use Bert's office because she said she didn't like the decor. When anybody gave her even the simplest form to sign, the bridge of her nose would pucker and she'd say she'd get to it later, but she never did. Monday, when he'd barged in on her because she'd somehow managed to hold up everybody's paychecks, she'd been painting her goddamn fingernails! He'd gotten mad then, but he'd barely begun to yell before her lip had started to tremble and she'd said he couldn't talk to her like that because she had PMS.

Sometime this week Phoebe had shot right past Valerie in her ability to make him crazy. NFL team owners were supposed to inspire a combination of respect, awe, and fear in their employees. Even seasoned head coaches tread warily around a man like Al Davis, the strong-willed owner of the Raiders. Dan knew he would never be able to hold his head up again if anybody ever found out that the owner of his team couldn't stand any yelling because she had PMS!

She was, without a doubt, the most worthless, spineless, silliest excuse for a human being he'd ever met in his life.

At first he'd wondered if she might not be smarter than she let on, but now he knew she was dumber than she'd let on, a world-class bimbo who was ruining his football team.

If only she didn't have that drop-dead body. It was hard to ignore, even for someone like him, who'd seen just about everything a woman had to offer before he'd turned twenty-one. He knew the public thought life was one big orgy for professional football players, and they were pretty much right. Even now, when sex was fraught with danger, women lined up in hotel lobbies and stadium parking lots calling out to the players, flashing phone numbers written on their bare midriffs, sometimes flashing more.

He remembered his early playing days, when he'd picked up one, sometimes even two of them, and indulged in long, lost nights of Cutty and sex. He'd done things the rest of the male population had only dreamed about, but as the novelty had worn off, he'd begun to find something pathetic about those encounters. By the time he'd reached thirty, he'd replaced the football groupies with women who had more going for them than a hot body, and sex had once again been fun. Then he'd met Valerie and begun his current downward spiral. But that spiral was about to shift direction now that Sharon Anderson was in his life.

On Tuesday afternoon he'd managed to stop by the nursery school again to watch her with the kids and take her out for coffee after they'd left. She had some stains on her clothes that made him want to hug her: grape juice, paste, a streak of playground dirt. She was quiet and sweet, exactly what he wanted in a woman, which made his physical response to Phoebe Somerville even more aggravating. That female belonged in leather boots and a garter belt, as far away as possible from a bunch of innocent children.

Ronald propped his foot up on the bench and stared out at the practice field. "Phoebe keeps asking me to tell her who the best candidate for the GM job is."

Dan gave him a sharp gaze. "You've seen her?"

"We-uh-spend a lot of time together."

"Why?"

Ronald shrugged. "She trusts me."

Dan never gave anything away, and he concealed his uneasiness. Was Phoebe responsible for the changes in Ronald? "I guess I didn't realize that the two of you were friends."

"Not exactly friends." Ronald took a drag on his cigarette. "Women are funny about me. I guess Phoebe's no exception."

"What do you mean funny?"

"It's the Cruise thing. Most men don't notice, but women think I look like Tom Cruise."

Dan gave a snort of disgust. First Bobby Tom decided he looked like a movie star and now Ronald. But then, as he studied Ron more closely, he couldn't deny there was a vague resemblance.

"Yeah, I guess you do at that. I never noticed."

"It makes women feel as if they can trust me. Among other things." He took a deep drag on his cigarette. "It plays hell with your love life, I'll tell you that."

Dan's instincts for danger were as well developed as a battle-hardened soldier's, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

"How do you mean?" he said carefully.

"Women can be quite demanding."

"I suppose I never thought of you as that much of a hound with the ladies."

"I do all right." He threw down his cigarette and ground it out beneath his shoe. "I've got to go. Good luck with Phoebe. She's a real wildcat, and you're going to have your work cut out for you."

Dan had heard enough. Lashing out his arm, he caught Ronald by the shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet. "Cut out the cute stuff. What the hell's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You and Phoebe."

"She's an unusual lady."

"What have you told her about the candidates for the GM job?"

Despite the grip Dan had on him, Ronald's gaze was steady and disconcertingly confident. "I'll tell you what I haven't told her. I haven't told her Andy Carruthers is the best man for the job."

"You know he is."

"Not if he can't handle Phoebe."

Dan slowly released him, and his voice was dangerously quiet. "Exactly what are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying I've got your butt in a sling, Dan, because right now the only person she trusts who knows a damned thing about football is me. And I got fired."

"You deserved to be fired! You weren't doing your job."

"I got her to sign those contracts the first day, didn't I? From what I hear, nobody else has been able to do that much."

"You had time after Bert died to prove yourself, and you blew it. Nothing got done."

"I didn't have the authority to act because Phoebe wasn't returning my phone calls." He lit a fresh cigarette and had the nerve to smile. "But I'll guarantee she returns them now."

Dan's temper ignited, and he grabbed a fistful of Ronald's fancy European lapels. "You son of a bitch. You're sleeping with her, aren't you?"

He had to give the kid credit. His complexion went a little pale, but he held his ground. "That's none of your business."

"No more games. What are you after?"

"You're not stupid, Dan. Figure it out for yourself."

"You're not getting your job back."

"Then you're in big trouble because Phoebe won't do anything unless I tell her to."

Dan clenched his teeth. "I ought to beat the shit out of you."

Ronald swallowed hard. "I don't think she'd like that. She's crazy about my face."

Dan thought furiously, but he could only come to one conclusion. Ronald had him pinned behind the line of scrimmage and nobody was open. It went against his grain to fall on the ball, but he didn't seem to have a choice. Gradually, he let go of the kid's shirt. "All right, you've got your job back for now. But you'd better control her or I'll have your ass hanging inside out from the yard markers. Do you understand me?"

Ronald flicked his cigarette away and then lifted the collar of his sport coat with his thumbs. "I'll think about it."

Dumbfounded, Dan watched him walk away.

By the time Ronald reached his car, he had sweated right through his jacket. Dan! He'd called the coach Dan and he was still alive. Oh, God. Oh, Lord.

Between the cigarettes and a rapid heartbeat, he'd begun to hyperventilate. At the same time, he'd never felt better in his life. Settling into the driver's seat, he grabbed the phone. After he fumbled with the buttons for a few moments, Phoebe came on the line.

He gasped for breath and pushed the videotape of Risky Business she had given him out from beneath his hip.

"We did it, Phoebe."

"You're kidding!" He could envision her wide, generous smile.

"I did exactly what you said." He gasped. "And it worked. Except now I think I'm having a heart attack."

"Take some deep breaths; I don't want to lose you now." She laughed. "I can't believe it."

"Neither can I." He was beginning to feel better. "Let me change my clothes and wash this grease out of my hair. Then I'll be in."

"It won't be a minute too soon. We've got a ton of work here, and I don't have the faintest idea what to do with any of it." There was a short pause. "Uh-oh. I've got to go. I hear an ominous set of footsteps coming my way."

Quickly hanging up, she grabbed her makeup mirror with a shaking hand and lifted her pinky to her eyebrow just as Dan exploded into her office. She caught a glimpse of her secretary's startled face behind him before he slammed the door.

Her office window faced the practice fields, so she should have been used to his aggression by now. She'd seen him throw clipboards and charge onto the field when he didn't like someone's performance. She'd watched him hurl his unprotected body at a player in full equipment to demonstrate some mysterious football move. And once, when she'd been in the office late and all the players had left, she'd watched him do laps around the track wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and a pair of gray athletic shorts that had revealed a set of powerfully muscled legs.