“Well, hel-lo, Mr. Calebow,” Phoebe crooned in a voice that sounded to Viktor like a peculiar cross between Bette Midler and Bette Davis, but then he was Hungarian, and what did he know.

Phoebe was Viktor’s best friend in the entire world, and he would have done anything for her, a devotion he was proving by agreeing to act out this macabre charade as her lover. At this moment, however, he wanted nothing more than to whisk her away from harm. She didn’t seem to understand that she was playing with fire by toying with that hot-blooded man. Or maybe she did. When Phoebe felt cornered, she could haul an entire army of defensive weapons into action, and seldom were any of them wisely chosen.

Dan Calebow hadn’t spared Viktor a glance, so it wasn’t difficult for the Hungarian to categorize him as one of those maddening men who was completely close-minded on the subject of an alternative lifestyle. A pity, but an attitude Viktor accepted with his characteristic good nature.

Phoebe might not recognize Dan Calebow, but Viktor followed American football and knew that Calebow had been one of the NFL’s most explosive and controversial quarterbacks until he had retired five years ago to take up coaching. In midseason last fall Bert had fired the Stars’ head coach and hired Dan, who had been working for the rival Chicago Bears’ organization, to fill the position.

Calebow was a big, blond lion of a man who carried himself with the authority of someone who had no patience for self-doubt. A bit taller than Viktor’s own six feet, he was more muscular than most professional quarterbacks. He had a high, broad forehead and a strong nose with a small bump at the bridge. His bottom lip was slightly fuller than his top, and a thin white scar marked the point midway between his mouth and chin. But his most fascinating feature wasn’t either that interesting mouth, his thick tawny hair, or the macho chin scar. Instead, it was a pair of predatory sea-green eyes, which were, at that moment, surveying his poor Phoebe with such intensity that Viktor half expected her skin to begin steaming.

“I’m real sorry about Bert,” Calebow said, his Alabama boyhood still evident in his speech. “We surely are going to miss him.”

“How kind of you to say so, Mr. Calebow.”

A faintly exotic cadence had been added to the husky undertones of Phoebe’s speech, and Viktor realized she had introduced Kathleen Turner to her repertoire of sexy female voices. She didn’t usually shift around so much, so he knew she was rattled. Not that she’d let anyone see it. Phoebe had a reputation as a sexpot to uphold.

Viktor’s attention returned to the Stars’ head coach. He remembered reading that Dan Calebow had been nicknamed “Ice” during his playing days because of his chilling lack of compassion for his opponent. He couldn’t blame Phoebe for being unsettled in his presence. This man was formidable.

“Bert surely did love the game,” Calebow continued, “and he was a good man to work for.”