Free It Had to Be You by Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page A

into Ronald McDermitt, knocking the acting general manager off-balance so that he dropped the book he was carrying. It was what the kid deserved, Dan thought callously, for being born a wimp. Although Ronald was no more than five-foot-eight, he wasn’t bad-looking, but he was too neat, too polite, and too young to run the Chicago Stars.
    In pro teams the GM directed the entire operation, including hiring and firing of coaches, so that, theoretically, Dan worked for Ronald. But Ronald was so intimidated by him that his authority was purely academic.
    The GM picked up his book and looked at him with a wary expression that made Dan crazy. “Sorry, Coach.”
    “I bumped into you, for chrissake.”
    “Yes, well . . .”
    Dan shoved his carry-on bag into Ronald’s arms. “Get somebody to drop this off at my house. I’ll catch a later flight.”
    Ronald looked worried. “Where are you going?”
    “It’s like this, Ronald. I’m going to go do your job for you.”
    “I—I’m sorry, Coach, but I don’t know what you mean by that.”
    “I mean that I’m going to look up our new owner, and then I’m going to acquaint her with a few facts about life in the big bad NFL.”
    Ronald swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Uh, Coach, that might not be a good idea. She doesn’t seem to want to be bothered with team business.”
    “Now that’s just too bad,” Dan drawled as he set off, “because I’m going to bother her real bad.”

 

    5
     

    P ooh got distracted by a Dalmatian as they were crossing Fifth Avenue just above the Metropolitan. Phoebe tugged on the leash.
    “Come on, killer. No time for flirting. Viktor’s waiting for us.”
    “Lucky Viktor,” the Dalmatian’s owner replied with a grin as he approached Phoebe and Pooh from the opposite curb.
    Phoebe regarded him through her Annie Sullivan sunglasses and saw that he was a harmless yuppie type. He took in her clingy, lime green dress, and his eyes quickly found their way to the crisscross lacing at the open bodice. His jaw dropped.
    “Say? Aren’t you Madonna?”
    “Not this week.”
    Phoebe sailed by. Once she reached the opposite curb, she whipped off her sunglasses so no one would make that mistake again. Lord . . . Madonna, for Pete’s sake. One of these days, she really had to start dressing respectably. But her friend Simone, who had designed this dress, was going to be at the party Viktor was taking her to tonight, and Phoebe wanted to encourage her.
    She and Pooh left Fifth Avenue behind for the quieter streets of the upper Eighties. Oversized hoops swung at her ears, gold bangles clattered at both wrists, her chunky-heeled sandals tapped the sidewalk, and men turned to look as she passed by. Her curved hips swayed in a sassy walk that seemed to have a language all its own.
     

    Hot cha cha

    Hot cha cha

    Hot hot

    Cha cha cha cha
     

    It was Saturday evening, and affluent New Yorkers dressed for dinner and the theater were beginning to emerge from the fashionable brick and brownstone town houses that lined the narrow streets. She neared Madison Avenue and the gray granite building that held the co-op she was subleasing at bargain rates from a friend of Viktor’s.
    Three days ago, when she’d returned to the city from Montauk, she’d found dozens of phone messages waiting for her. Most of them were from the Stars’ office, and she ignored them. None were from Molly saying she’d changed her mind about going directly from camp to boarding school. She frowned as she remembered their strained weekly phone calls. No matter what she said, she couldn’t seem to make a dent in her sister’s hostility.
    “Evening, Miss Somerville. Hello, Pooh.”
    “Hi, Tony.” She gave the doorman a dazzling smile as they walked into the apartment building.
    He gulped, then quickly leaned down to pat Pooh’s pom-pom. “I let your guest in just like you said.”
    “Thanks. You’re a prince.” She crossed the lobby, her heels tapping on