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"I'm gonna hang this in my office. I've been looking for something special to put up."
As he admired her gift, another set of photographs came into her mind, and some of the pleasure she had been taking in the day faded. As they walked on, she realized she was mutilating the sack that held the glass witch's ball. She wondered if she had the courage, just once, to be honest with a man instead of playing games.
"Dan," she said softly, "I'm still upset about your reaction to the Beau Monde photographs. I'm proud of them."
"So much for our nice afternoon."
"I wish you wouldn't act as though they're pornographic. They're some of Asha Belchoir's best work."
"They're pictures of a naked woman, is what they are."
She felt like a fool for even trying to reason with him. "I can't believe how narrow-minded you are!"
"And I can't believe a die-hard exhibitionist has the gall to criticize me."
"I'm not an exhibitionist!"
"No offense, Phoebe, but you've taken your clothes off for more people than Gypsy Rose Lee ever did."
Her temper flared, and she came to a stop next to a clump of mock orange shrubs. "You redneck jerk! You wouldn't recognize art if it hit you in the head. You have the aesthetic judgment of a—a—"
"Football player?"
"No. A football!"
He whipped off his sunglasses and glared at her. "Just because I happen to think that nice women should keep their clothes on in public doesn't mean I can't appreciate art."
"Last week I was a bimbo and now I'm a nice woman. Maybe you'd better make up your mind."
She saw by his expression that she'd scored a hit, but that wasn't what she wanted. She wasn't interested in putting points on some imaginary Scoreboard; she simply wanted him to understand. Her temper faded, and she slipped her hands into the pockets of her shorts. "It bothers me a lot that you're trying to make those photos into something sordid. They're not."
He looked out toward the river, and his voice lost its belligerent edge. "I can't help it."
She gazed at him, trying to understand the expression on his face. "Why? What does it matter to you?"
"I don't know. It just does."
"Because it reflects on the team?"
"You can't deny that."
"I'm sorry about the timing."
"I know that." He turned to her, and his expression was surprisingly gentle. "The photographs are beautiful, Phoebe. Both of us know that. But they're still not as pretty as you are."
They stood there without moving. She gazed into his eyes and felt as if he were pulling her into an embrace. She could feel herself leaning forward, see that he was doing the same. And then Pooh barked, breaking the mood.
He took her arm and propelled her forward. "Come on. I'm gonna buy you your very own hot dog bun. With a little mustard and pickle relish, you might not notice the best part is missing."
Taking his cue, she fell into step beside him. "Do you have any idea what goes into hot dogs?"
"No, and I don't want to know. Unless—Hey, Pooh, you interested in going into the meat industry?"
"That's not funny. Don't listen to him, Pooh."
He chuckled.
Five minutes later, she was munching on a french fry, while Dan bit into his second hot dog. A wistful note crept into her voice. "There isn't any possibility, is there, that the Stars are going to win the AFC Championship?"
