AllFreeNovel
Share Us
There was a long pause.
"I'll do that. Of course. Good speaking with you, too."
His face was gray as he slammed the phone to the cradle. "The son of a bitch wants the Stars. He told me he's promised Phoebe a pink marble skybox. The bastard actually had the gall to laugh."
Silence fell over the room.
Ron cleared his throat. "Do you want me to get the names of the men she spoke with in Orlando and Baltimore?"
"Don't bother," he snapped. Dan could almost see the wheels tur
ning in Keane's well-oiled mind. "Dan, I remember you admiring that antique George Low Wizard putter of mine. It's yours if you get Phoebe out of here."
"I'm always happy to help out a friend," Dan said slowly.
"And you." Keane jabbed his finger at Ron. "You're not going anywhere until we put together a new contract."
Ron took his time selecting a cigar from the humidor that had arrived at the table along with the brandy. He rolled it between his fingers like a miniature Daddy Warbucks. "It'll have to be an attractive offer, Jason. Very attractive. I rather like Orlando myself."
"It'll be plenty attractive, you slimy son of a bitch!"
"Then let's deal." Ron smiled as he slipped the cigar into the corner of his mouth. "And Keane—Don't forget who's holding Trump."
Chapter 20
« ^ »
"Are you sure you've told me everything that happened after I left?" Since the Ferrari's heater was going full blast, Phoebe's teeth weren't chattering from cold, but from an overdose of adrenaline.
"As close as I can remember."
She still couldn't quite comprehend the amazing fact that right now, Ron and Jason Keane were in the process of renegotiating their stadium contract. She thought about her father and experienced an unfamiliar sensation of peace as she realized she'd never had anything to prove to him, only to herself.
The Ferrari bounced on a bump in the road and she suddenly became conscious of their rural surroundings. "I thought you were taking me home."
"I am. My home."
"Why?"
"Because the last time I stopped by your house, Miz Molly was there along with three of her girlfriends. I don't think I ever realized what high-pitched voices four teenage girls have." He glanced over at her. "It occurs to me that you and I need some privacy so we can talk a few things over."
Phoebe couldn't think of anything they had to talk about that wouldn't wait until the next day. After what had happened last week in the weight room, she wasn't up to any more rejection, and she knew she shouldn't be alone with him. Since he was already driving down the lane that led to his house, however, it was a bit late to ask him to turn back.
"First we're going to talk," he said. "Then we're going to burn that dress of yours."
He was scowling, so she doubted that his remark was intended to be sexual, but as the Ferrari sped beneath the bare trees whose skeletal branches were silhouetted against the night sky, she realized her palms were damp. "It's Versace."
"Beg your pardon?"
"My dress. Versace. The designer. Or at least it's a Versace rip-off. I have this friend in Manhattan who can rip off any designer."
"What's wrong with your voice? It sounds funny."
"My teeth are chattering." The low-slung car bounced on a rut.
"I've got the heater on. It's warm."
"I'm not cold. I guess it's a delayed reaction. I was a little nervous this evening."
