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His manner was so businesslike that she wondered if she had imagined the crazy, charged moment that had passed between them such a short time ago. She didn't want him to know how he had unsettled her, so she spoke flippantly. "Don't you have one in that beat-up heap you drive?"
"There are two places I don't believe in keeping phones. One's my car, and the other's my bedroom."
He'd won that round, and she tried to recover with a lazy gesture toward a door on the far side of the house. "The one in the family room is the nearest."
"Thanks, baby cakes."
As he walked away, Ron frowned at her. "You shouldn't let him address you so disrespectfully. A team owner—"
"Exactly how am I supposed to make him stop?" she retorted, turning her frustration onto Ron. "And I don't want to hear about what Al Davis would do or Eddie De—whatever."
"Edward DeBartolo, Jr.," he said patiently. "The owner of the San Francisco 49ers."
"Isn't he the one who gives his players and their wives all those lavish presents?"
"He's the one. Trips to Hawaii. Big, juicy Nieman Marcus gift certificates."
"I hate his guts."
He patted her arm. "It'll all work out, Phoebe. See you in the morning."
As he left her alone, she stared toward the house in the direction Dan had disappeared. Of all the men who had passed through her life, why did it have to be this one who attracted her? How ironic that she found herself so profoundly drawn to what she feared the most: a physically powerful man in superb condition. A man, she reminded herself, made all the more dangerous by his sharp mind and quirky sense of humor.
If only he hadn't left so soon. Ever since she had arrived in Chicago, she had felt as if she had been transported to an exotic land where she didn't know the language or understand the customs, and her encounter with him tonight had only intensified the sensation. She was confused but also filled with a strange sense of anticipation, a sense that—if only he'd stayed—something magical might have happened.
Molly drew up her knees and tucked them under her long blue cotton nightgown. She sat curled in the window seat of the cavernous family room looking out through the glass at what she could see of the party. Peg, the housekeeper, had sent her to bed an hour ago, but the noise had kept her from sleeping. She was also worried about Wednesday, when she would start public high school and all the kids would hate her.
Something cold and wet brushed against her bar
e leg. "Hello, Pooh." As Molly reached down to stroke the dog's soft topknot, Pooh reared up and placed her front paws on the teenager's thigh.
Molly lifted the dog into her lap and bent her head to croon soft baby talk to her. "You're a good girl, aren't you, Pooh. A good, sweet doggy girl. Do you love Molly? Molly loves you, doggy girl."
Dark strands of her hair mingled with Pooh's white fur. As Molly laid her cheek on the powder-puff softness of her topknot, Pooh licked her chin. It had been a long time since anyone had kissed her, and she kept her face where it was so Pooh could do it again.
The door to her right opened. A large man entered, and she quickly set Pooh down. The room was dimly lit, and he didn't see Molly as he walked over to the telephone that sat on a table next to the sofa. Before he could dial, however, Pooh bounced over to greet him.
"Damn. Down, dawg!"
To avoid any social awkwardness, Molly politely cleared her throat and stood. "She won't bite you."
The man replaced the receiver and looked over at her. She saw that he had a nice smile.
"Are you sure about that? She seems pretty fierce to me."
"Her name is Pooh."
"As a. matter of fact, she and I've already met, but I don't think the two of us have been introduced." He came toward her. "I'm Dan Calebow."
"How do you do. I'm Molly Somerville." She extended her hand, and he shook it solemnly.
"Hello, Miz Molly. You must be Phoebe's sister."
"I'm Phoebe's half sister," she stressed. "We had different mothers, and we're not at all alike."
"I can see that. You're up kind of late, aren't you?"
"I couldn't sleep."
