“Too bad. A religious conversion?”

“Nothing that interesting. Coaches are supposed to be role models.”

“How boring.”

“Team owners, too.”

She slipped off the edge of the console, carefully positioning herself so he could take in the inner curves of her breasts showing beneath the gold crisscross lacings. “Oh, dear. Why do I sense a lecture coming on?”

“Maybe because you know you deserve one.”

She wanted to wrap herself in her oldest, thickest chenille bathrobe. Instead, she let her tongue drift over her lips. “Yelling upsets me so please be gentle.”

His eyes darkened with disgust. “Lady, you are something else. I guess I’ve got reason to yell, considering the fact that you’re ruining my football team.”

“Your team? Gosh, Mr. Calebow, I thought it was mine.”

“Right now, honey lamb, it doesn’t seem to be anybody’s.”

He uncoiled so abruptly from the chair that he startled her into backing away. She tried to recover by pretending she’d been about to sit. The stretchy lime green dress slid high as she sank down onto the couch. She languorously crossed her legs, displaying her thin gold ankle bracelet, but he paid no attention. Instead, he began to pace.

“You don’t seem to have the faintest idea how much trouble the team’s in. Your father’s dead, Carl Pogue’s quit, and the acting general manager’s worthless. You’ve got unsigned players, bills that aren’t getting paid, a stadium contract that’s coming up for renewal. As a matter of fact, you’re about the only person left who doesn’t seem to know that the team is collapsing in on itself.”

“I don’t know anything about football, Mr. Calebow. You’re fortunate that I’m leaving all of you alone.” She toyed with the lacing at her breasts, but he didn’t take the bait.

“You can’t just walk away from an NFL team!”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Let me tell you about one of the purest pieces of talent you’ve got—a kid named Bobby Tom Denton. Bert picked him up as a first-round draft choice out of the University of Texas three years ago, and it paid off because Bobby Tom’s on his way to being one of the best.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, Miz Somerville, Bobby Tom’s from Telarosa, Texas, and being forced to live in the state of Illinois for even part of the year challenges his idea of manhood. Your father understood that, so he set out to renegotiate Bobby Tom’s contract before the kid started to think too much about how he’d like to live in Dallas year-round. The negotiations were completed just before Bert died.” He shoved a hand through his shaggy dark blond hair. “Right now you own Bobby Tom Denton, along with a fine offensive tackle named Darnell Pruitt, and a free safety who likes nothing more than to force the bad guys to fumble. Unfortunately, you’re not getting your money’s worth out of any of them because they’re not playing. And do you know why they’re not playing? Because you’re too busy with all those boxer shorts to sign their goddamned contracts!”