"Tully told me Jim climbs the house every year," Dan said. "Apparently, the party wouldn't be the same without it."

"Couldn't he just put a lamp shade on his head like everybody else?"

"He prides himself on originality."

A burly defensive lineman lay down on the concrete at the side of the pool and began to bench press a shrieking young woman. Dan pointed his beer can toward them. "Now there's where your real trouble's gonna start."

She stood so she could get a better view and then wished she hadn't. "I hope he doesn't hurt her."

"That wouldn't matter so much as the fact she's not his wife."

At that moment a tiny fireball with a shining mane of Diana Ross hair charged from the rear of the patio toward Webster Greer, a 294-pound All-Pro defensive tackle.

Dan chuckled. "Watch and learn, Phoebe."

The spitfire screeched to a stop on a pair of stiletto heels. "Webster Greer, you put that girl down right this minute or your ass is gonna be grass!"

"Aw, honey-" He dropped the redhead onto a chaise lounge.

"Don't you 'honey' me," the spitfire shrieked. "You want to find yourself sleeping in that bowling alley you built for yourself in our basement, that's just fine with me, 'cause you sure as hell won't be sleeping with me."

"Aw, honey-"

"And don't you come crying on my shoulder after I haul your ass to divorce court and take you for every penny you got."

"Krystal, honey, I was just foolin' around."

"Foolin' around! I'll show you foolin' around!" Drawing back her arm, she punched die tackle in the stomach with all her might.

He frowned. "Now, honey, why'd you have to go and do that? Last time you hit me, you hurt your hand."

Sure enough, Krystal was cradling her hand, but that didn't stop her sassy mouth. "Don't you worry about my hand. You worry about your ass! And whether or not I'm ever gonna let you see your kids again!"

"Come on, honey. Let's go put some ice on it."

"Go put some ice on your dick!"

With a dramatic flip of her hair, she stalked away from him and headed directly toward Phoebe and Dan. Phoebe wasn't certain she wanted a confrontation with this pint-sized termagant, but Dan didn't look all that unhappy about it.

As the woman came to a stop in front of him, he wrapped her injured hand around his beer can. "It's still cold, Krys. Maybe it'll keep the swelling down."

"Thanks."

"You've got to stop hitting him, honey. One of these days you're going to break your hand."

"He's got to stop making me mad," she retorted.

"That female's probably been after him all night. You know Webster's the last man on the team who'd fool around with another woman."

"That's 'cause I understand how to keep him in line."

Her tone was so smug that Phoebe couldn't hold back a bubble of laughter. Instead of being offended, Krystal smiled back at her.

"Don't ever let a man know he's got the upper hand if you want a happy marriage."

"I'll remember that."

Dan shook his head, then turned to Phoebe. "The scary thing is, Webster and Krystal have one of the best marriages on the team."

"I guess I'd better go settle him down before he picks a fight with somebody." Krystal rolled the beer can in her injured hand. "Mind if I take this along as an ice pack?"

"Help yourself."

She smiled at Phoebe and then rose on tiptoe to plant a kiss on the corner of Dan's jaw. "Thanks, pal. Stop by the house sometime and I'll fry you up a hamburger."

"I'll do that."

As Krystal returned to her husband, Dan lowered himself to the bench. Phoebe sat next to him, keeping as much space between them as she could manage.

"Have you known Krystal for long?"

"Webster and I were teammates right before I retired, and all of us got to be pretty good friends. Neither of them liked much about my ex-wife except her politics, and Krystal used to show up at my door with milk and cookies when I was going through my divorce. We haven't been able to see a lot of each other socially since I joined the Stars."

"Why is that?"

"I'm Webster's coach now."

"Does that make a difference?"

"Rosters have to be cut, players traded. There has to be some distance."

"A strange way to conduct friendships."

"That's just the way it is. Everybody understands."

Although the others were in sight, the bench was tucked far enough into the shadows of the japonica bushes that she had begun to feel as if they were alone, and she was so aware of him that her skin prickled. She welcomed the distraction of a female squeal, and, looking through a break in the hedges, saw a woman whip off the top of her bikini. The accompanying hoots and squeals were so loud she hoped they didn't awaken Molly and frighten her.

"The party's getting a little wild."

"Not really. Everybody's on their good behavior because the chaperons are here."

"What chaperons?"

"You and me. The boys aren't going to let their hair down with the owner and head coach hanging around, especially since we lost today. I remember a few parties during my playing days that lasted right through till Tuesday."

"You sound nostalgic."

"I had some fun."

"Getting tossed in swimming pools and judging wet T-shirt contests?"

"Don't tell me you've got something against wet T-shirt contests. That's the closest most football players ever come to a cultural event."

She laughed. But then her laughter faded as she saw the way he was looking at her. Through the lenses of his glasses, his sea-green eyes were enigmatic, yet something seemed to crackle between them, an electricity that shouldn't have been there. She was thrilled, frightened. Dipping her head, she took a quick sip of wine.

He spoke softly. "For somebody who flirts with everything in pants, you sure are nervous with me."

"I am not!"

"You're a liar, darlin'. I make you nervous as hell."

Despite the wine, her mouth felt dry. She forced her lips into a fox's smile. "Only in your dreams, lover." Leaning close enough to inhale his after-shave, she said huskily, "I devour men like you for breakfast and still eat a five-course lunch."

He gave a snort of laughter. "Damn, Phoebe, I wish we liked each other better, 'cause if we did, we could have ourselves a real good time."

She smiled, then tried to say something sexy and flippant only to discover that she couldn't think of a thing. In her mind the springs on the brass bed had begun to creak, only this time she was lying on it instead of young Elizabeth. She was the one in the lacy slip with the strap falling off her shoulder. She imagined herself watching him as he stood beneath the paddle wheel fan with his shirt unbuttoned.

"Damn." The curse was soft, hoarsely uttered, not part of the dream but slipping through the lips of the real man.

As he gazed into her eyes, her body felt as if it were shedding years of musty cobwebs to become moist and dewy. The sensation was so strange, she wanted to run from it, but at the same time, she wanted to stay here forever. She was overwhelmed by the temptation to lean forward and touch his lips with her own. And why not? He thought she was a champion man-killer. He didn't have any way of knowing how out of character such a gesture from her would be. Just this once, why didn't she take a chance?

"There you are, Phoebe."

Both their heads snapped around as Ron emerged through a break in the hedges. She took a quick, unsteady breath.

Since Ron had been rehired, he and Dan had kept their distance, and so far there had been no explosions. She hoped that wasn't about to change.

Ron nodded at Dan, then spoke to Phoebe. "I'm going to head home soon. The cleanup will be taken care of."

Dan glanced at his watch and stood. "I've got to go, too. Did Paul show up with those films for me yet?"

"I haven't seen him."

"Damn. He's got videotape I wanted to take a look at before I went to bed."

Ron smiled at Phoebe. "Dan's notorious for surviving on four hours of sleep a night. He's a real workhorse."

Phoebe's encounter with Dan had shaken her because she felt as if she'd exposed too much of herself. Standing, she ran her fingers through her hair. "It's nice to know I'm getting my money's worth."

"Do you want me to have him bring the tape over to your house as soon as he gets here?" Ron asked.

"No. Don't bother. But tell him to have it on my desk by seven tomorrow morning. I want to take a look at it before I meet with my staff." He turned to Phoebe. "I need to make a call. Is there a phone inside I can use?"

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."