It had to be you | Page 3

just because of his exotic good looks, but because there was something hauntingly
familiar about this gorgeous hunk of a Hungarian. A few of them correctly identified him
as the model who posed, hair undone, oiled muscles bulging, and zipper open, in a
national advertising campaign for men's jeans.

Viktor took the dog from her. "Of course, my darling," he replied in an accent that,
although noticeable, was less pronounced than that of any of the Gabor sisters, who had
lived in the States many decades longer than he had.

"My pet," Phoebe purred, not at Pooh, but at Viktor.

Privately Viktor thought Phoebe was pushing it a bit, but he was Hungarian and inclined
to be pessimistic, so he blew a kiss in her direction and regarded her soulfully while he
settled the poodle in his arms and arranged his posture best to display his perfectly
sculpted body. Occasionally he moved his head so that the light caught the sparkle of
silver beads discreetly woven into the dramatic ponytail that fell a quarter of the way
down his back.

Phoebe extended a slim-fingered hand whose long, peony-pink nails were tipped with
crescents of white toward the portly U.S. Senator who had approached her and regarded
him as if he were a particularly delectable piece of beefcake. "Senator, thank you so
much for coming. I know how busy you must be, and you're a perfect honey."

The senator's plump, gray-haired wife shot Phoebe a suspicious look, but when Phoebe
turned to greet her, the woman was surprised at the warmth and friendliness in her smile.
Later, she would notice that Phoebe Somerville seemed more relaxed with the women
than the men. Curious for such an obvious, sexpot. But then it was a strange family.


Bert Somerville had a history of marrying Las Vegas showgirls. The first of them,
Phoebe's mother, had died years before while trying to give birth to the son Bert craved.
His third wife, Molly's mother, had lost her life in a small plane accident thirteen years
earlier on the way to Aspen, where she was planning to celebrate her divorce. Only Bert's
second wife was still living, and she wouldn't have walked across the street to attend his
funeral, let alone fly in from Reno.

Tully Archer, the venerable defensive coordinator of the Chicago Stars, left Reed's side
and approached Phoebe. With his white hair, grizzled eyebrows, and red-veined nose, he
looked like a beardless Santa Claus.

"Terrible thing, Miss Somerville. Terrible." He cleared his throat with a rhythmic hut-hut.
"Don't believe we've met. Unusual not to have met Bert's daughter, all the years we've
known each other. Bert and I go way back, and I'm going to miss him. Not that the two of
us always agreed on things. He could be damned stubborn. But, still, we go way back."

He continued shaking her hand and rambling on without ever making eye contact with
her. Anyone who didn't follow football might have wondered how someone who seemed
on the verge of senility could possibly coach a professional football team, but those who
had seen him work never made the mistake of underestimating his coaching abilities.

He loved to talk, however, and when he showed no intention of running out of words,
Phoebe interrupted. "And aren't you just a dear to say so, Mr. Archer. An absolute
sugarplum."

Tully Archer had been called many things in his life, but he had never been called a
sugarplum, and the appellation left him temporarily speechless, which might have been
what she intended because she immediately turned away only to see a regiment of
monster men lined up to offer their condolences.

In shoes the size of tramp steamers, they shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
Thousands of pounds of beef on the hoof with thighs like battering rams, they had thick,
monstrous necks rooted in bulging shoulders. Their hands were clasped like grappling
hooks in front of them as if they expected the national anthem to begin playing at any
moment, and their freakish, oversized bodies were stuffed into sky blue team blazers and
gray trousers. Beads of perspiration from the midday heat glimmered on skin that ranged
in color from a glistening blue-black to a suntanned white. Like plantation slaves, the
National Football League's Chicago Stars had come to pay homage to the man who
owned them.

A slit-eyed, neckless man who looked as if he should be leading a riot at a maximum
security prison stepped up. He kept his eyes so firmly fixed on Phoebe's face that it was
obvious he was forcing himself not to let his gaze drift lower to her spectacular breasts.
"I'm Elvis Crenshaw, nose guard. Real sorry about Mr. Somerville."


Phoebe accepted his condolences. The nose guard moved