It Had to Be You

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  "Two minutes, forty-five seconds! And I'm fining you five hundred dollars for every minute you're not in your room."

  Looking hurt, Bobby Tom got to his feet. "Dang, Coach, what's got you so riled?"

  "You ran three bad patterns on Friday. How 'bout that for starters?"

  Bobby Tom peeled some bills from a wad in his pocket and slapped them on the table. Then he gave Dan a long, shrewd gaze. "I don't think this has anything to do with bad patterns." He tipped the brim of his Stetson toward Phoebe. "See you on the sidelines tomorrow, Miss Somerville."

  "See you, Bobby Tom."

  As he disappeared, Dan barked at her like a drill sergeant. "My room! Now."

  "Uh—I don't think so."

  "When you start playing games with the best wide-out in the AFC, you've stepped clean over the line. Now unless you want our dirty linen aired in public, I suggest you start moving."

  Phoebe reluctantly followed him out of the bar and into the lobby. She knew she should remind him that she was the boss, but as they stepped inside the elevator and began to travel in weighted silence up to the seventh floor, she found that she couldn't work up any steam.

  He'd certainly worked up a full head, however, and the heat from it was burning right through her short, turquoise knit shift. Luckily for her, she didn't care. The two margaritas had left her with a cozy sense of well-being that made her want to puff out her lower lip and tell him not to be such an old fuddy-duddy.

  She hadn't known their suites were so close until he stopped in front of the door across from her own. He unlocked it and gave her a none-too-gentle push inside. Then he shoved his fist, index finger extended, toward the brocade-covered sofa.

  "Sit."

  Although her brain had begun to issue the most alarming warnings, the warm tequila haze enveloping her made it impossible to take them seriously, so she gave him a mock salute as she followed orders.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Don't you get cute with me!" He splayed one big hand on his hip. "You stay away from my players, you hear me? These men are here to win football games; they're not your personal love toys, and I don't ever again want to see anything like I saw tonight!"

  And that was just the beginning. He ranted and raved, turning red in the face just as he did on the sidelines when he was yelling at a ref. Finally, he paused for breath.

  She gave him a lopsided smile and slipped the tip of her index finger into her mouth. "What's the matter, puddin'? Didn't you ever kiss a girl in a bar?"

  He seemed stunned, as if he'd never before been sassed by a woman. God, he was cute. Cute and sexy and hunky and mean. Uhmm. Grrr.… It would take a lot of woman to tame a man like him.

  She uncrossed her legs.

  It would take a bed, too. And the smell of jasmine drifting in through the open window. And the soft nighttime creak of a paddle wheel fan turning in the ceiling of the old plantation house.

  She stood.

  Young Elizabeth could tame him with her smoldering violet eyes, and her white breasts spilling like vanilla pudding over the lacy cups of her slip.

  Yowl! He had come home to her, this moon-howling man. Drunk again. Dissolute. Smelling of whiskey and cheap perfume from a slut named Lulabelle. But he still wasn't sated, this hot-blooded, hot-cocked man. Only one woman could satisfy him.

  Come to me, baby; I'll make you feel so good. I'm all woman, and I know how to tame my man.

  She sauntered toward him, lips wet and parted, a lock of blond hair playing peek-a-boo with her lashes, every pore of her skin feeling his heat and getting ready to scorch him with her own. Why had she ever been afraid of him, a hot, dangerous cat like her? Let him see what kind of woman she was. Let him feel her sizzle.

  "Phoebe?"

  She stopped in front of him and cupped those hard fists hanging at his sides into the soft palms of her own hands. She gazed into his sea-green eyes and realized there was no need to be afraid of his strength when her own power was so much greater than his.

  She arched her back and leaned into him. She was a cat in heat, and she kissed him with her lips parted, slanting her mouth over his, slipping out of one sandal to rub her hot pink toenails along the worn denim that sheathed his calf. As he accepted her tongue, a sense of exhilaration swept through her, fed by the knowledge of her own power. Why had she ever been afraid of sex when this was so easy, so natural?

  He was making a soft, hoarse sound in his throat, or maybe it was her. Their mouths were joined, their hands clasped at his sides, and she wouldn't let the fear in. His tongue plundered. She told herself she was woman enough to meet his passion and liquor-relaxed enough to see it through to the end. Then, maybe she would be free.

  "Phoebe…" He whispered her name into the warm, moist opening of her mouth, and he wasn't yelling anymore. His big hands slid up along her hips to her waist; his thumbs rose over her ribs. In a moment he would brush the undersides of her breasts, turning them into warm, living flesh. They were already tingling, waiting.

  "Don't stop," she pleaded against his lips. "No matter what I say, don't stop."

  Stunned, he pulled back from her. "Do you mean it?"

  "Yes."

  Seconds ticked by as her words slowly registered in Dan's brain. Disappointment rushed through him, followed quickly by disgust and then cynicism. Why was he surprised? He should have learned his lesson from Valerie and realized what Phoebe had wanted all along. She was another woman who needed to play submission games. All of her no's last Sunday night had meant yes. She had been manipulating him, and he'd been sucked right in.

  Wearily, he gazed down at her lush curves, the soft sweep of the lashes framing those tilty-up amber eyes, the swollen lips of that wet, suck-me-up mouth. Was it too much to ask for a simple, uncomplicated romp in bed? No mind games. Nothing kinky. Just a few laughs and some good raunchy sex.

  He was suddenly furious. As furious as he'd been when he'd found Bobby Tom drooling over her in the bar. She'd probably been feeling him up under the table. Rubbing against him with those long, bare legs. Brushing her centerfold tits against his arm. Hitting him with a whole load of shit. Don't stop just because I say no, Bobby Tom. I really mean yes.

  Maybe Valerie had warped him, but it seemed as if the women in this country had gotten irredeemably screwed up when it came to sex. They either wanted to be stomping high heels into your chest or having you handcuff them to the bedposts. There didn't seem to be any middle ground.

  He'd been down this path a hundred times, and he could play the tough guy without even thinking about it. After what she'd put him through, a little rough stuff with Phoebe Somerville might be just what he needed to get rid of those images of her that kept popping up in his mind at the worst times. Tonight, he would put an end to it.

  "Whatever you say, baby."

  Phoebe heard the edge of menace in Dan's voice, but she was feeling too good to let it frighten her. He lifted one hand to the back of her neck and plowed into her hair, catching it in his fist and tugging on her roots a bit too hard. With the other, he began to open the small covered buttons at the neck of her dress. The heel of his hand brushed her breasts, and the material fell open.

  He gave a snort when he saw her plain white bra. Doubtless he was accustomed to sexier lingerie, but she'd never felt right in it. Her bare shoulders caught the chill of the air-conditioning as he pushed the bodice of the dress down to her elbows, trapping her arms in the sleeves. He worked the three heavy hooks that secured the wide elasticized strap of the bra in the back.

  "You're big, baby, but you're not Dolly Parton. One of those sexy little underwires from Victoria's Secret would do the job."

  The sneer in his voice penetrated her tequila haze, diffusing some of her feeling of power. She tried to pull her arms from the constriction of her dress, but at that moment, her bra gave, and her breasts tumbled free.

  "Damn." The softly uttered word sounded more like a tribute than a curse.

  Before she knew what had happened, he had pulled h
er wrists behind her back and caught them in one hand. The rough movement thrust her breasts forward and up, and the helplessness she felt in that position produced little flutters of panic in the pit of her stomach. He bent his head. His warm breath touched her skin along with the light abrasion of his whiskers. He flicked one nipple with his tongue. It pebbled. He took it into his mouth and sucked on it.

  Her bones began to feel as if they were buckling. The sensations were so exciting that she forgot about her pinioned arms. He moved to her other breast, licking and then sucking. She sagged against him.

  When his hand slipped under the hem of her short dress and cupped her bare thigh, her panic returned, and she knew she had to get her arms free before she could let him go any farther. His fingers moved upward.

  "Wait," she whispered. She tried to pull away, but his athlete's hands held her fast. "Let me go."

  "I don't think so."

  "I mean it."

  "Sure you do."

  "Dan!"

  "Whatever the lady wants." He released her, but only long enough to yank her dress down over her hips. Her bra slipped off, leaving her standing there in one sandal, an ankle bracelet, and a pair of waist-high white cotton panties.

  "You sure don't believe in spending your money on fancy underwear."

  Her confidence dissolved and all the old ghosts were back. She grabbed for her dress to cover herself, but before she could reach it, he had picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. As he dropped her onto the bed, her lone sandal flew.

  He loomed over her, and he was no longer a fantasy figure, but a real man stripping off his denim shirt, revealing an alarmingly well-developed chest with bulging pectorals, mountainous biceps, and veins standing out like ropes on his arms. A thick pelt of hair in the middle of his chest tapered into an arrow-straight line that disappeared along a hard, flat stomach into the waistband of his jeans.

  She knew that he worked out in the weight room every day, and she'd seen him do laps around the field in the evening, but she still wasn't prepared for his powerfully muscled body. All thoughts of young Elizabeth fled from her mind. She felt like an eighteen-year-old virgin instead of a thirty-three-year-old woman who'd had both too many and too few lovers. She had set herself up to play with a pro when she couldn't even handle the amateurs.

  His eyes were on her breasts as he unsnapped his jeans. She grabbed for the edge of the bedspread.

  "Drop it."

  "No, I'm not doing this." She drew the corner of the quilted fabric to her chin at the same time she slid to the opposite side of the bed.

  "Right on schedule." Reaching down, he snared her ankle and sent her sprawling back against the pillows.

  She let out a soft, strangled exclamation. The deadly sense of purpose in those ice green eyes sent fear rushing through her. She remembered his strength when he'd dragged her to the gazebo, and she clutched at the bedspread as her only protection.

  "Please, Dan…" Her voice sounded helpless instead of strong, and she knew she had lost all control.

  "You were the one who wanted fun and games."

  "I didn't. I—"

  "Shut up." He unzipped his jeans. "Now show me those tits again."

  His rough vulgarity galvanized her. She spun away from him toward the opposite side of the bed, thrusting her legs out from under the twisted spread. She was off the bed and running toward the door. Dimly, she heard him grumbling from behind her.

  "I'm getting too old for this."

  She snatched up a damp towel he'd tossed on a chair after his shower and frantically raced into the living room for the door. Just as she yanked it open, he slapped it shut again with the palm of his hand.

  "You're even crazier than Val!" He swung her around by her upper arm. "You don't have any clothes on. Do you want everybody to see you?"

  "I don't care!" she cried, her heart pounding. "I told you to stop."

  "You also told me not to listen, and that's just what I'm doing."

  He whipped her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing, carried her back into the bedroom, and dropped her on the mattress.

  "I'm not hitting you, so if that's what you're after, you'll have to find another stud." He knelt beside her, his big hand shackling her upper arm, and spoke almost indifferently. "How do you want it?"

  She realized it was going to happen again. The liquor had made her let down her guard, and she was helpless.

  That was when she screamed.

  He was on her in a second, covering her mouth with his palm while he clamped her wrists above her head with his free hand. "Jesus," he hissed. "Not so loud." The denim of his jeans chafed her thighs as he glowered down at her, looking more disgusted than angry.

  She went wild when she realized he actually expected her to keep quiet while he did this to her. Tears stung her eyes as she began to buck beneath him, twisting her hips and trying to free her legs. She bit hard into his hand and he released her with an angry exclamation.

  "That's it!" He rolled off her, shaking his hand. "I've tried to be liberated and understanding, but I'm not doing this anymore!"

  She was so startled she quit struggling.

  He shot to his feet. "I'm hard as hell right now, but I'd rather disappear into that bathroom with a copy of Penthouse than keep on playing these caveman games. I don't care that you told me not to stop, because I'm stopping! I'm sick and tired of feeling like some slug who can only get laid if he beats up women." He loomed over her. "If you ask me, you've got enough notches on your bedpost to have a little more sensitivity when it comes to men." Bracing his hands on his hips, he glowered down at her. "From now on, when a woman tells me to stop, I'm stopping, even if she's already told me not to pay any attention when she tells me to stop."

  Bewildered, she stared at him.

  "Maybe I'd like to get strong-armed for a change!" he exclaimed. "Maybe I'd like to be so irresistibly sexy that I got tied to the bed for once! Would that be too much to ask?"

  Understanding came slowly. She remembered what she had whispered to him, how she had told him not to stop no matter what she said. She remembered his twisted relationship with Valerie, and as it all came back to her, her relief was so sharp a bubble of hysteria rose in her throat.

  He sank down on the corner of the bed, propped his forearms on his splayed knees, and gazed glumly out toward the living room. "Maybe it's divine justice. When I was in my twenties, I took part in so much kinky stuff with all those groupies that now I can't seem to manage something simple and uncomplicated."

  She drew the spread to her chin. "Dan—uli—Could I say something?"

  "Not if it involves whips and dog collars." He paused. "Or more than two people."

  The bubble rose higher in throat. She gave a choked sound. "It doesn't."

  "All right, then."

  She spoke to his back, picking her words carefully. "I didn't mean what you thought I meant. When I told you not to stop no matter what I said, I was talking about kissing. You're really an—uh—an excellent kisser." She took a deep breath, pressing on even though she knew she was making a muddle of it. "I get—Well, I have a couple of hang-ups. Not hang-ups, really; hang-ups is too strong a word. More like—like an allergy. Anyway, sometimes when I'm kissing a man, I have this sort of reaction."

  She knew she was babbling from the way he turned his head to stare at her. His chest distracted her. Cast in bronze and sitting in the front window at her old gallery, it would have made them a fortune.

  She swallowed hard. "I was just trying to tell you that if I had it—this reaction—you could sort of…"

  "Ignore it?"

  "Right. But the other—When we weren't kissing. When you were touching me." The bubble dissolved. "When I said stop, I meant stop."

  His eyes darkened with regret. "Phoebe…"

  "If I ever say stop to you, I mean stop. Always." She drew a deep breath. "No questions. No second-guessing. I'm not your ex-wife, and sexual violence isn't a game I play. With me, stop means stop."
>
  "I understand, and I'm sorry."

  She knew she would burst into tears if she had to listen to another basket load of regrets from him that would only make her feel even more inept.

  "About this kissing allergy." He rubbed his chin, and she thought she detected amusement in his eyes. "What if the two of us decide to kiss each other again. And you have this allergic reaction, and you say stop. Am I supposed to stop then?"

  She looked down at the bedspread. "Even then, I guess. I'm not going to send out any more mixed signals."

  Reaching forward, he brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. "Promise?"

  "Promise."

  She had intended to get up and put on her clothes, but now as he touched her so gently, she couldn't move. She felt his warmth as he came closer and knew he was going to kiss her again. She was no longer afraid. Instead, the slow heat of desire rekindled inside her—not a raging fire, but a small, cozy flame.

  "You don't like my underwear," she whispered against his mouth.

  "No." He nibbled at her bottom lip. "But I like what's inside it a whole lot." His fingertips trailed along the bumps of her spine as his mouth settled over hers.

  The kiss was both gentle and passionate, full of sizzle and sweetness. At that moment she wanted to make love with him more than she'd ever wanted anything. His tongue invaded her mouth. Her hands slipped to his arms, but then she wished she hadn't touched him there because she didn't want to be reminded of his strength, only his gentleness. How did she know he would stay gentle?

  "Dan?"

  "Uhmm."

  "I know you said you didn't want any—you know—any kinky stuff."

  She could feel him stiffen, and she almost lost courage as he drew away. Sinking back against the pillows that bunched at the headboard, the spread still clutched to her chest, she spoke in a rush. "This isn't all that kinky. Really, it's not."

  "Maybe I'd better be the judge of that. And I'm warning you—I'm getting more conservative every day."

  Her courage left her. "Forget it."

  "We've gone this far; you might as well get it off your chest."