A hot flare of anger shot through her, and she vaulted up from the chair. “I’ve just had a blazing moment of insight, Mr. Calebow. I’ve just realized that Bobby Tom Denton isn’t the only person I own. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it also true that I’m your employer.”

“That’s true, ma’am.”

“Then, you’re fired.”

He looked at her for a long moment before he gave a curt nod. “All right.” Without another word, he began to walk out of the room.

As quickly as it had come, her anger dissipated and alarm took its place. What had she done? Even a fool could figure out that a person who didn’t know anything about running a football team shouldn’t go around firing the head coach. This was exactly the sort of impulsive behavior Viktor always warned her about.

She heard his firm footsteps hit the marble floor and rushed into the hallway. “Mr. Calebow, I—”

He turned back to her and his drawl oozed like slow poison. “My five minutes are up, ma’am.”

“But I—”

“You’re the one who set the time limit.”

Just as he reached for the knob, a key scraped in the lock and the door swung open to reveal Viktor standing on the other side. He wore a fitted black silk T-shirt with camouflage pants, orange leather suspenders, and motorcycle boots. His dark hair streamed sleek and straight over his shoulders, and he held a brown paper sack in his hands. He was beautiful and dear, and she couldn’t remember when she had been so glad to see anyone.

In the tick of a few seconds, his eyes seemed to take it all in—her frantic expression, Dan Calebow’s stony one. He turned his beautiful smile on them both.

“A party! I brought you rice cakes and cabbage kimchi, Phoebe, along with chapch’ae and pulgogi for myself. You know how bad the food will be tonight, so I thought we should fortify ourselves first. Do you like Korean food, Coach Calebow?”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten any. Now, if you’ll excuse—”

Viktor, with more courage than most men, stepped directly in front of Dan. “Please. I really must insist. We have the finest Korean restaurant in New York barely three blocks from here.” He extended his arm to shake hands. “Viktor Szabo. I don’t believe we met at that awful funeral, but I am a big fan of American football. I’m still learning, however, and I would welcome the chance to ask a few questions of an expert. The blitz, for example . . . Phoebe, we must have beer! When American men talk football, they drink beer. Miller time, yes?”

Viktor had gradually worked Dan back a few steps into the apartment, but now the coach planted his feet, obviously having gone as far as he intended. “Thanks for the invitation, Viktor, but I’ll have to pass it up. Miss Somerville just fired me, and I don’t seem to be in the mood for company.”