She looked down at the body that made up the lie of who she was. If her outside matched her inside, she would be flat-chested, scrawny, brittle from lack of moisture. What good were curvy hips and full breasts if she couldn’t let a man caress them, if they would never bring a baby into the world or nurture its new life?

She didn’t want to be this way anymore. She wanted to go back to those moments before her fear had taken over, when Dan’s kiss had sent fresh new blood pulsing through her body. She wanted to go back to those moments when she had felt young again and infinitely female.

She heard a knock and the door of her office opened. “Now, Phoebe, don’t get upset.” Ron crossed the carpet toward her, a stack of newspapers in his hands.

“An ominous beginning.”

“Well, as to that . . . I suppose it depends on your outlook.” He spread the newspapers in front of her.

“Oh, no.”

Color photographs of Phoebe in her hot pink carwash dress and rhinestone sunglasses glittered on the pages of the assorted papers he spread in front of her. In one of the photographs, she had her knuckles pressed to her mouth. In another, her hand was resting on her waist and her breasts were outthrust so that she looked like a World War II pinup. Most of them, however, showed her kissing Bobby Tom Denton.

“That headline is my particular favorite.” Ron pointed toward one of the papers.

STARS’ OWNER COMPLETES FORWARD PASS

“Although this one has a certain poetic quality.”

BOBBY BUSSES BOMBSHELL BOSS

Phoebe groaned. “They’ve made me look like a fool.”

“That’s one way to interpret it. On the other hand—”

“It’s good for ticket sales.” She no longer had any trouble reading his mind.

He took a seat across from her. “Phoebe, I’m not certain you understand how dismal our financial picture is right now. This sort of publicity is going to fill seats, and we need to do everything possible to generate revenue immediately. With that brutal stadium contract we have—”

“You keep mentioning our stadium contract. Maybe you’d better fill me in.”

“I suppose I should start at the beginning.” He looked thoughtful. “You’re aware that the days of the purely family-owned football team have just about disappeared?”

“How many are left?”

“Only two. The Pittsburgh Steelers, owned by the Rooney family, and the Phoenix Cardinals, owned by the Bidwells. Football has simply gotten too expensive for single-family ownership. Tim Mara sold off his half of the Giants in the late eighties, the McCaskeys got rid of a piece of the Bears, and, of course, Bert sold off fifteen percent of the Stars to some of his cronies.”

“Those are the men who keep leaving me the phone messages I’m not returning?”