It Had to Be You

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  "Fight me," he whispered. "Fight hard, even though you know it won't do you any good."

  The sound of that familiar accent penetrated her panic, and she realized it was Dan holding her captive! Her mind reeled. It was happening again! She had been attracted to him, flirted with him, and now he was going to rape her! Her paralysis unlocked. She couldn't let this happen to her a second time.

  She began a desperate struggle for her freedom, kicking and trying to jab him with her elbows, but he was strong, so much stronger than she, with iron-hard muscles that had been shaped by years of physical conditioning. He hauled her into the woods as if she weighed no more than a child. She tried to scream, but the pressure of his hand on her mouth was merciless.

  "That's good. You're putting up a good fight, sweetheart. You're making me work for it."

  She bucked in his arms and tried to scream beneath his palm, but he held her fast. She could dimly make out a round wooden structure ahead, and as he dragged her closer, she saw that it was a gazebo.

  "I'm going to give it to you good," he whispered. "Just the way you like it. Give you that hurt you want so bad." He hauled her up the steps through an arched opening in the ivy-covered latticed walls. He wasn't even breathing hard.

  "You're going to be helpless. I can do anything to you I want and you won't be able to stop me."

  He dragged her into the darkness, and terror clawed at her the same way it had in that hot, dark pool shed so long ago. Keeping one hand clamped over her mouth, he shoved the other under her skirt and reached for the waistband of her panties.

  "First I'm gonna rip these off."

  The awful sounds coming from deep in her throat were garbled from the pressure of his palm. She hadn't wanted this. Please, God, don't let this happen to her again. Once again, she heard that horrible whisper at her ear.

  "Maybe I should start here instead. Is that what you want me to do?"

  He released her mouth and grabbed the bodice of her dress in his fist. With one hard jerk, he ripped.

  Two things happened simultaneously. A violent scream erupted from her lips. And the hand cupping her breast froze.

  "Val?"

  He groped her breast. His entire body stiffened. And then he jumped away from her as if she were radioactive.

  She began to sob. The amber glow from a yellow bug light mounted on a post suddenly flooded the interior of the small gazebo, illuminating outdoor furniture, a sisal rug, and the fact that he was staring at her in horror.

  "Phoebe! Jesus… Jesus, Phoebe, I'm sorry, I—I didn't know it was you. I—Val was supposed to…"

  Her teeth were chattering and her whole body had begun to shake. Where he had ripped her dress, the bodice gaped, revealing one of her breasts. She clawed at the material, while she backed away, tears running down her cheeks.

  "Phoebe…" He rushed toward her.

  She leapt back, frantically clutching her torn dress. "Don't touch me!" she sobbed.

  He froze and backed away, holding up his hands. "I'm not going to hurt you. I can explain. It's all a mistake. I didn't know it was you. I—I thought you were my ex-wife. She was meeting me here."

  "Is that supposed to make it better?" Her teeth wouldn't stop chattering, and her chest spasmed as she tried to swallow her sobs.

  He took another step, and once again she backed away. He immediately stopped moving. "You don't understand."

  "You bastard! You perverted bastard!"

  "Dan!"

  Phoebe froze as she heard the sound of a woman's voice.

  "Dan! Where are you?"

  Relief washed through her as she realized they were no longer alone. Then she saw the expression of entreaty in his eyes and watched as he pressed one finger to his lips, commanding her silence.

  "Here!" she shouted. "In here!"

  He dipped his head. "Shit."

  "Dan?" A slim, attractive woman wearing a simple floral cotton dress stepped into the gazebo. "I heard a—"

  She broke off as she saw Phoebe. Her gaze flew to Dan. "What's going on?"

  "What we have here," he said unhappily, "is a case of mistaken identity."

  The woman took in Phoebe's torn dress and mussed hair. Her eyes widened in consternation. "Oh, God."

  As Phoebe's terror began to ease, she realized something was happening here that she didn't understand.

  "It was dark," he told the woman, "and I thought she was you."

  The woman pressed her fingertips to one temple. "Is she discreet?"

  "Discreet, hell! She's scared to death! Can't you see what I've done to her?"

  The woman's voice grew so cool and businesslike that Phoebe immediately hated her. "Who is she?"

  "Phoebe Somerville," he replied, apparently realizing that Phoebe was in no condition to answer for herself.

  "The Stars' owner?"

  "One and the same." He turned back to Phoebe and, speaking softly, said, "This is Valerie Calebow, Phoebe. My ex-wife. She's also a member of the United States Congress, but, despite that, you can trust her. Valerie is going to explain to you that I wasn't trying to hurt you, and she's going to tell you exactly what you walked into."

  Valerie's forehead puckered in dismay. "Dan, I can hardly—"

  "Do it!" he snapped, his expression murderous. "She's not in any state to listen to me right now."

  She picked her words carefully, her expression stiff. "Miss Somerville, although Dan I are divorced, we have chosen to continue an intimate relationship. We are both rather adventurous lovers, and—"

  "Speak for yourself, Val. I'd have been happy with a double bed and some Johnny Mathis tapes."

  "Are you blaming me for what happened?"

  "No," he sighed. "It was my fault. You both have light hair, and you're about the same height. It was dark."

  "Dan and I had made arrangements to meet here tonight. I had an official function to attend so I was a bit late. Unfortunately, Miss Somerville, he mistook you for me."

  Slowly, Phoebe began to comprehend what had happened, but she could only stare at the woman in bewilderment. "Are you telling me that you wanted him to treat you like that?"

  Valerie refused to meet her eyes. "I'm afraid I have to go. I'm sorry you received such a fright. I only hope you understand how delicate this matter is. As an elected official, it would be extremely awkward for me if anyone were to find out."

  "For chrissake, Val—"

  She spun on him. "Shut up, Dan. This could put an end to my career. I want her assurance that she won't tell anyone."

  "Who would I tell?" Phoebe said helplessly. "No one would believe me anyway."

  "I'm sorry." Valerie gave her an awkward nod and quickly left the gazebo.

  Phoebe didn't want to be alone with him. She was immediately conscious of his oppressive physical size, the muscles straining the too-tight sleeves of his knit shirt. Holding the front of her dress together, she began to move toward the vine-draped opening in the gazebo's latticework.

  "Please sit down," he said quietly. "I promise I won't come near you, but we have to talk."

  "It's all a game to the two of you, isn't it?" she whispered. "That's how you get your kicks."

  "Yes."

  "It wasn't a game to me."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "How could you do something like that?"

  "It's what she likes."

  "But why?"

  "She's a strong woman. Powerful. Sometimes she gets tired of always being in control."

  "She's sick, and so are you!"

  "Don't judge, Phoebe. She's not sick, and until tonight, what went on between the two of us had nothing to do with anyone else."

  She started to shake again. "You were going to—What if you hadn't stopped?"

  "I'd have stopped. The minute I felt your—" He cleared his throat. "Valerie's a little more flat-chested than you."

  Her knees weren't going to hold her any longer, and she collapsed into the nearest chair. He came toward her cautiously, as if he were afraid she w
ould start to scream again.

  "What were you doing here?"

  She took a shaky breath. "Paul showed up at the party not long after you left. I—I brought you the videotape you wanted." She made a helpless gesture as she realized she'd dropped it.

  "But I told Ronald not to send it over tonight."

  "I thought—I wasn't sleepy, and—Never mind, it was a stupid idea."

  "You can say that again."

  "I'm going." By bracing her hands on the arms of the chair, she managed to rise to her feet.

  "You need a few minutes to settle down before you try to drive. I'll tell you what. I didn't get anything to eat at the party and I'm hungry. Let me make us some sandwiches. How about it?"

  There was a boyish eagerness to please in his expression that alleviated some of her residual fear, but he was too large, too strong, and she hadn't recovered from those moments when the past seemed to be repeating itself. "I'd better be going."

  "You're afraid to be alone with me, aren't you?"

  "I'm just tired, that's all."

  "You're scared."

  "I was completely helpless. You're a strong man. You can't imagine what it's like."

  "No, I can't. But it's over now. I won't hurt you. You know that, don't you?"

  She nodded slowly. She did know it, but it was still hard for her to relax.

  He smiled at her. "I know why you want to rush home. You're going to wake up your little sister so you can start slapping her around again."

  Mystified, she stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

  "Miz Molly and I had an interesting conversation tonight. But I'm not going to tell you about it unless you let me fix you something to eat."

  She saw the spark of challenge in his eyes. He was the coach now, testing her mettle, just as he tested his men. She knew he wasn't going to hurt her. If she ran away this time, would she ever stop?

  "All right. Just for a bit."

  The unfamiliar path was difficult to maneuver in the dark. She stumbled once, but he didn't take her arm to help her, and she wondered if he knew that she would have fallen apart if he had touched her in the dark.

  As they walked, he tried to put her at ease by telling her about the farmhouse. "I bought this place last year and had it renovated. There's an orchard and a stable where I can keep a couple of horses if I want. I've got trees on this place that are a hundred years old."

  They reached the front porch. He bent down to retrieve the videotape she'd dropped, then opened the front door and flipped on a light before he let her in. She saw a staircase off to the left and an archway to the right that led to the side wing of the house. She followed him through it into a spacious open area that was rustic and welcoming.

  The exposed stone on the longest wall glowed buttery in the light of the lamps he turned on. The room encompassed a comfortable two-story living area and a cozy, old-fashioned kitchen with a snug loft tucked above it under the eaves. The scrubbed pine floor held an assortment of furniture including a couch in a hunter green plaid with red and yellow accents, soft, oversized chairs, and an old pine cupboard. A wooden bench bearing decades of nicks and scars from tools served as a coffee table and held an old checkerboard sitting next to a pile of books. Chunky wooden candlesticks, stoneware crocks, and several antique metal banks rested on the mantel above the big stone fireplace. She had expected him to be surrounded by marble statues of naked women, not live in this comfortable rural haven that seemed so much a part of the Illinois prairie.

  He handed her a soft blue chambray shirt. "You might want to put this on. There's a bathroom off the kitchen."

  She realized she was still clutching the front of her dress. Taking the shirt from him, she excused herself and went into the bathroom. As she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, she saw that her eyes were large and vulnerable, windows into all her secrets. She straightened her hair with her fingers and rubbed at the mascara smudges with a tissue. Only when she felt calm did she leave the bathroom.

  The shirt he had given her hung to mid-thigh, and she rolled up the sleeves as she came into the kitchen where he was pulling a loaf of whole wheat bread and a package of sandwich meat from the refrigerator.

  "How about roast beef?"

  "I'm not much of a beef eater."

  "I've got some salami here, or turkey breast."

  "Plain cheese would be fine."

  "Grilled cheese? I'm real good at that."

  He was so eager to please, she couldn't help smiling. "All right."

  "Do you want wine or a beer? I've also got some iced tea."

  "Iced tea, please." She took a seat at an old butternut drop leaf table.

  He poured both of them a glass and then began fixing the sandwiches. A copy of Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time lay open on the table. She used it as an opportunity to restore some semblance of normality between them. "Pretty heavy reading for a jock."

  "If I sound out all the words, it's not too bad."

  She smiled.

  He tossed the sandwiches into an iron skillet. "It's an interesting book. Gives you a lot to think about: quarks, gravity waves, black holes. I always liked science when I was in school."

  "I think I'll wait for the movie." Taking a sip of iced tea, she pushed the book aside. "Tell me what happened with Molly."

  He braced his hip against the edge of the stove. "That kid's a crackerjack. I met her inside when I was making my phone call. She told me some pretty hair-raising things about you."

  "Like what?"

  "Like the fact that you're keeping her a prisoner in the house. You tear up her mail, put her on bread and water when you're mad at her. And you're slapping her around."

  "What!" Phoebe nearly knocked over her iced tea.

  "She told me it doesn't hurt."

  Phoebe was flabbergasted. "Why would she say something like that?"

  "She doesn't seem to like you too much."

  "I know. She's like a fussy maiden aunt. She disapproves of the way I dress; she doesn't think my jokes are funny. She doesn't even like Pooh."

  "That might be good judgment on her part."

  She glared at him.

  He smiled. "As a matter of fact, your dog was cuddled around her ankles most of the time we talked. They seemed to be old friends."

  "I don't think so."

  "Well, I might be wrong."

  "She honestly told you I slap her?"

  "Yes, ma'am. She said you weren't evil, just twisted. I believe she compared you with somebody named Rebecca. The first Mrs. de Winter."

  "Rebecca?" Understanding dawned, and she shook her head. "All that talk about Dostoyevski and the little stinker is reading Daphne du Maurier." For a moment she was thoughtful. "How do you know she wasn't telling you the truth? Adults slap children all the time."

  "Phoebe, when you were standing on the sidelines at the game, you looked like you were going to faint whenever anybody took a hard hit. Besides, you just don't have the killer instinct." He turned to flip the sandwiches. "For example—correct me if I'm wrong here—but I'm guessing it's more than a fickle appetite that made you turn down Viktor's barbecue that day we ate in your kitchen, not to mention that good sandwich meat I've got in my refrigerator."

  This man definitely saw too much. "All those nitrates aren't healthy."

  "Uh-huh. Come on, sweetheart, you can tell Papa Dan your ugly little secret. You're a vegetarian, aren't you."

  "Lots of people don't eat meat," she said defensively.

  "Yeah, but most of them are on their soapbox about it. You don't say a thing."

  "It's nobody's business. I simply happen to like unclogged arteries, that's all."

  "Now, Phoebe, you're wiggling around the truth again. I have a feeling your eating habits don't have anything to do with your arteries."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Tell me the truth now."

  "All right! I like animals. It's not a crime! Even when I was a child I couldn't stand th
e idea of eating one of them."

  "Why are you so secretive about it?"

  "I don't mean to be secretive. It's just—I'm not philosophically pure. I won't wear fur, but I have a closet full of leather shoes and belts, and I hate all those hair-splitting discussions people try to push you into. Some of my reticence is habit, I guess. The housemother at my old boarding school used to make it rough on me."

  "How was that?"

  "We once had a showdown over a pork chop when I was eleven years old. I ended up sitting at the dinner table most of the night."

  "Thinking about Piglet, I bet."

  "How did you know?"

  "It's pretty obvious you're a big A.A. Milne fan, honey." His eyes were warm with amusement. "Go on. What happened?"

  "The housemother eventually called Bert. He yelled at me, but I couldn't eat it. After that, the other girls came to my rescue. They took turns sneaking my meat onto their plates."

  "That doesn't entirely explain why you're so secretive about it now."

  "Most people think vegetarianism is a little kooky, and my kook quotient is high enough as it is."

  "I don't think I ever met anybody other than football players who invests so much energy in pretending to be tough."

  "I am tough."

  "Sure you are."

  His grin annoyed her. "Just because I wasn't strong enough to fight you off tonight doesn't mean I'm not tough."

  He immediately looked so stricken that she wished she'd held her tongue.

  "I'm really sorry about that. I've never hurt a woman in my life. Well, except for Valerie, but that was—"

  "I don't want to hear it."

  He turned off the heat under the skillet and walked over to the table. "I've explained what happened, and I've apologized every way I know how. Will you accept my honest apology, or is this going to be lurking around every time we're together?"

  His eyes were so full of concern she had a nearly uncontrollable urge to slip into his arms and ask him if he would just hold her for a few minutes. "I accept your apology."

  "An honest acceptance or one of those female things where a woman tells a man she forgives him for something, but then spends all her spare time thinking up ways to make him feel guilty?"

  "Does Valerie do that?"

  "Honey, every woman I've been close to has done that."