It had to be you

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IT HAD TO BE YOU


By

Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Contents

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5


Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
EPILOGUE


TWO HEARTS COLLIDE

The Windy City isn't quite ready for Phoebe Somerville�the trendy, outrageous and
curvaceous New York knockout who has just inherited the Chicago Stars football team.
And Phoebe is definitely not prepared for the Stars' head coach Dan Calebo�an
Alabama-born former gridiron legend and blond barbarian.

Calebo is everything Phoebe abhors�a sexist, jock taskmaster with a one-track mind.
The beautiful new boss is everything Dan despises�a meddling bimbo who doesn't
know pigskin from a pitcher's mound. So why is he drawn to the shameless sexpot like a
heat-seeking missile? And why does Dan's good ol' boy charm leave cosmopolitan
Phoebe feeling awkward, tongue-tied and frightened to death?

Suddenly there's more than just a championship at stake. Because passion's the name of
this game�and two stubborn people are playing for keeps!

"A DAZZLING VOICE IN

CONTEMPORARY WOMEN'S FICTION"

Linda Barlow, author of Leaves of Fortune

"WATCH SUSAN ELIZABETH PHILLIPS GO PLACES!"

LaVyrle Spencer

ISBN 0-380-77683-9



This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the
intent of either the author or the publisher.

AVON BOOKS, INC.
1350 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10019

Copyright � 1994 by Susan Elizabeth Phillips
Cover art by Paul Stinson
Author photo by Ron Stewart Portraiture
Published by arrangement with the author
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-91031
ISBN: 0-380-77683-9
www.avonbooks.com/romance

AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES,
MARCA REG1STRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

Printed in the U.S.A.


To Steven Axelrod,
who's been around from the beginning with a good head,
a strong shoulder, and a high tolerance for crazy authors.
This one had to be yours.


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the gracious assistance of the Chicago
Bears' organization. A special thanks to Barbara Allen for opening doors and answering
questions. Go Bears!

I am also deeply indebted to the following people and organizations:

The National Football League

The Dallas Cowboys' and Denver Broncos' organizations

The public relations staff at the Pontiac Silverdome and the Houston Astrodome

Linda Barlow, Mary Lynn Baxter, Jayne Ann Krentz, Jimmie Morel, John Roscich, and
Katherine Stone, for brainstorming, answering questions, providing perspective, and, in
general, bailing me out of trouble

The wonderful reference librarians at Nichols Library Claire Zion, for years of guidance
and support


The people at Avon Books, especially my enthusiastic and helpful editor, Lisa Wager.

A special thank you to my husband, Bill Phillips, who, since my writing career began,
has planned golf tournaments, designed computers, and spent the past year managing a
professional football team. This book truly would not have been possible without his
help.

Susan Elizabeth Phillips c/o Avon Books

1350 Avenue of the Americas

New York, New York 10019

Chapter 1

^�

Phoebe Somerville outraged everyone by bringing a French poodle and a Hungarian lover
to her father's funeral. She sat at the gravesite like a fifties movie queen with the small
white poodle perched in her lap and a pair of rhinestone-studded cat's-eye sunglasses
shielding her eyes. It was difficult for the mourners to decide who looked more out of
place�the perfectly clipped poodle sporting a pair of matching peach satin ear bows,
Phoebe's unbelievably handsome Hungarian with his long, beaded ponytail, or Phoebe
herself.

Phoebe's ash blond hair, artfully streaked with platinum, swooped down over one eye like
Marilyn Monroe's in The Seven Year Itch. Her moist, full lips, painted a delicious shade
of peony pink, were slightly parted as she gazed toward the shiny black casket that held
what was left of Bert Somerville. She wore an ivory suit with a silky, quilted jacket, but
the outrageous gold metallic bustier beneath was more appropriate to a rock concert than
a funeral. And the slim skirt, belted with loops of gold chain (one of which sported a
dangling fig leaf) was slit at the side to the middle of her shapely thigh.

This was the first time Phoebe had been back in Chicago since she'd run away when she
was eighteen, so only a few of the mourners present had ever met Bert Somerville's
prodigal daughter. From the stories they'd heard, however, none of them were surprised