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f standing up to him that he admired. Somehow she managed to hold her ground around him without being a bitch about it, in contrast to Valerie, who tore into him just for the pleasure of the kill.
His relationship with Phoebe had become important to him, and as long as he didn't give in to the powerful, but inconvenient, physical attraction between them, he didn't see what the harm was in enjoying each other as friends. Not that keeping his hands off her would be easy. It was a good thing he'd been sitting down most of the time he was with her tonight because watching her sashay around in those fancy tights with that sweater that barely made it over her rear had kept him in a constant state of arousal.
He grinned as he pulled away from the curb. If the Russians had been smart, they'd have taken Phoebe's radioactive body into account before they'd signed off on that nuclear proliferation agreement with the United States.
Which was all the more reason he needed to marry Sharon. He knew from painful experience that long-term relationships weren't built on lust. They were built on mutual values, and that was what he and Sharon had in common.
So by the time the plane had landed, he had made up his mind. When Phoebe left town at the end of the year, he would pop the question to Sharon, but for the present, he was going to enjoy being with both women. As long as he kept his pants zipped, he wouldn't have a bit of trouble living with himself, and the fact that never again making love with Phoebe depressed the hell out of him was all the more reason to keep their relationship platonic. No matter what, he wasn't going to repeat the mistakes of his first marriage.
His thoughts were interrupted by a glimpse of a gray van parked on a narrow side street not three blocks from Phoebe's condo. Cursing, he shifted the Ferrari into reverse. The tires squealed as the car fishtailed. He shifted again. The powerful motor responded instantly and the car shot down the side street, reaching the van just as the driver began to pull forward. Dan spun the wheel so the van was trapped between the Ferrari and the parked car behind it.
He flung himself out of his car. In four long strides he had whipped open the driver's door and dragged the man out by the front of his jacket. "Why are you following me, you sorry son of a bitch?"
The man was heavy and he stumbled, barely righting himself before he fell. He drew back his arm to take a swing, but Dan slammed him against the side of the van. "Tell me!"
"Let me go, you bastard!"
"Not until—" He broke off as he realized there was something familiar about this man. Overweight, florid complexion, big nose, grizzled hair. At that moment he recognized him.
"Hardesty?"
"Yeah," he sneered. "So what's it to you, cocksucker?"
Dan wanted to slam his fist into the older man's gut, but he remembered Ray Senior's grief at the funeral and restrained himself. Instead, he eased the pressure he was keeping on his chest, although he didn't let him go.
"You've been following me for weeks. What's this all about?"
"It's a free country. I can drive wherever I want."
"The law has a different view. What you're doing is called stalking."
"So what? You got a guilty conscience about me tailing you?"
"Why should I have a guilty conscience?"
"Because you killed my son, you bastard! Ray Junior died because of you. If you hadn't cut him from the Stars, he'd be alive now."
Dan felt as if he'd been punched. He'd never quite buried his guilt, and he immediately released the man. "I didn't have a choice, Mr. Hardesty. We kept him on the squad as long as we could."
But he could see by the crazed expression in Hardesty's eyes that he was past reason. "You need him, you bastard! It was only luck that you won the Giants game without him. The Stars can't win for long without my boy. Without Ray Junior, you're a bunch of losers!"
Dan felt a wave of pity. Ray had been an only child, and his death must have pushed his father over the edge. "Ray was a great player," he said, trying to calm him.
"You're goddamn right he was. Because of him, I used to be able to walk anyplace in this town with my head high. Everybody knew who I was. Everybody wanted to talk to me. But now nobody knows my name, and it's all because of you. If you hadn't cut my son, people would still treat me with respect."
Bubbles of saliva had gathered at the corners of Hardesty's mouth, and Dan's pity faded. Hardesty didn't miss his son; he missed living in Ray's reflected limelight. His own father had been dead for fifteen years, but as he looked into Hardesty's small, mean eyes, he felt as if he were once again standing in front of Harry Calebow.
Harry had also used his son to pump up his own consequence. In high school Dan had squirmed under Harry's constant public bragging, all the more ironic since he never received anything but criticism in private. He remembered his sophomore year of high school when Harry had hit him with a bottle because he'd fumbled in the final thirty seconds of a game against Talladega.
He stepped back before he punished this man for something that had been another's fault. "Stay away from me, Hardesty. If I see that van of yours tailing me again, you're going to regret it."
"Big man," Hardesty sneered as Dan walked away. "Big fucking man! Let's see how big you are when your team loses again this week. Let's see how big you are when you finish in the bucket for this season. The Stars are nothing without my boy! They're nothin'!"
Dan slammed the car door against Hardesty's malice. As he drove away, it occurred to him that this might be why he wanted so much to be a father. Maybe he needed to prove to himself that he could do the job right.
Chapter 19
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