oths swarmed in the caged lights over the doors. The bar, located in a former warehouse just off North Avenue, was named Suey, and the sign featured a giant red pig wearing a trucker's cap. "Charming," Portia drawled.

Bodie gave her a dumb, cocky grin, which went right along with his menacing shaved head, intimidating tattoos, and hit man's muscles. "I knew you'd like it."

"I was being sarcastic."

"Why?"

"Because this is a sports bar."

"You don't like sports bars? That's weird." He held the door open for her.

She rolled her eyes and followed him in. The place was huge and noisy, smelling of stale beer, french fries, and aftershave, all topped off with eau de gym. The bar opened into a bigger room with tables, games, and cinder-block walls displaying the logos of the Chicago teams. She glimpsed an even larger area in the back holding metal lockers and a sand volleyball court surrounded by orange plastic fencing. Blow-up sex dolls, beer signs, and Star

Wars light sabers hung from the open rafters. Boys would be boys. Thankfully, not the sort of place her friends would be prone to hang out.

She'd dressed down for the evening, digging out an old pair of magenta cotton slacks, a clingy navy top with a built-in bra, and flat sandals. She'd even traded in her diamond studs for simple silver hoops. She followed Bodie past a rowdy group of twenty-somethings who were ignoring the overhead televisions to do tequila shots at the bar. As the crowd parted, she grew conscious of the women's eyes on Bodie. A few greeted him by name. Muscle-bound men always tended to look sloppy, but his espresso brown polo shirt and chinos couldn't have fit him better, and every woman in the place noticed.

She slipped into his wake, which was large enough to keep people from bumping against her, and let him lead her to a table that afforded a view of a mechanical bull and the volleyball game in the next room. Ordering either wine or a mixed drink struck her as high risk, so she settled on a lite beer, but asked that it be served in the bottle. Easier to guard against roofies.

He kicked back with his own beer and openly studied her. "How old are you?"

"Old enough to know this is the worst date of my life."

"Women like you are hard to figure. Your skin is great, but you've got old eyes."

"Anything else?" she asked coldly.

"I figure forty-three, forty-four."

"I'm thirty-seven," she snapped.

"No, I'm thirty-seven. You're forty-two. I did some research."

"Then why did you ask?"

"I wanted to see if you give yourself away when you lie." Amusement danced in his pale eyes. "Now I know."

She resisted taking the bait. "Is this date over yet?"

"Just getting started. I think we should wait till after we play to eat, don't you?"

"Play?"

He jerked his head toward the volleyball court. "We've got a game in forty minutes."

"Oh, right. And that would be just after I walk out, right?"

"I already signed us up. You have to play."

"Wrongo."

"I should have told you to bring shorts."

"You probably had too many other weighty matters on your mind."

He smiled. "You are one beautiful bitch."

"Thank you."

His smile grew broader, and her skin prickled. Once again, she considered the possibility that he wasn't as dumb as he seemed to be.

"Definitely a ballbuster," he said. "This is my lucky day." She flinched as he reached toward her, but when he touched the base of her throat with the tip of his finger, a tiny shock zipped along her skin. "You and me are going to be great together… as long as I keep that dog collar snapped good and tight around your neck."

Another jolt zapped her nerve endings, and she jerked away. Fortunately, three of the men who'd been hanging out at the bar chose that moment to approach. They were all young and respectful. Bodie introduced her, but they were only interested in him. She learned he'd played pro football, and as the men talked sports, she experienced the unusual, and not unwelcome, feeling of being invisible. She let herself relax a little. When the youngsters drifted away, however, she knew it was time to take control. "Tell me about yourself, Bodie. Where are you from?"

He studied her, almost as if he were making up his mind how much he wanted to reveal. "A dot on the map in southern Illinois."

"Small-town boy."

"You might say. I grew up in a trailer park, the only kid in the place." He took a sip of beer. "My bedroom looked out over a junkyard."

His rough background was written all over him, so she wasn't surprised. "What about your parents?"

"My mother died when I was four, and my father was a good-looking drunk who had a way with the ladies. Believe me, there were a lot of them around while I was growing up."

It was all so sordid that Portia wished she hadn't asked. She thought of her ex-husband, with his impeccable pedigree, of the dozens of other men she'd dated over the years, some of them self-made, but all polished and well mannered. Yet here she was in a sports bar with a man who looked like he made his living stuffing dead bodies in car trunks. One more sign that her life was veering away from her.

Bodie excused himself, and she checked her cell. A message had come in from Juanita Brooks, the director of the Community Small Business Initiative. Portia immediately returned it. Volunteering with the CSBI had helped fill the hole left in her life by her divorce. Although she'd never confess it to anyone, she wanted validation—proof that she was the best—and mentoring these new businesswomen was giving her that. She had so much hard-earned wisdom to offer. If only they would listen to her.

"Portia, I've spoken with Mary Churso," Juanita said. "I know you were excited about advising her, but… she's asked to be assigned to someone else."

"Someone else? But that's not possible. I've spent so much time with her. I've worked so hard. How could she do that?"

"I think she was a little intimidated," Juanita said. "Just like the others." She hesitated for a moment. "I appreciate your commitment, Portia. Truly I do. But most of the women who come to us need to be nurtured a bit more gently." Portia listened incredulously as Juanita explained that she had no one else currently in mind for her to work with, but that she'd let her know if someone "special" came along. Then she hung up.

Portia couldn't believe it. She felt as if a giant fist had squeezed all the air from her lungs. How could Juanita steal this from her? She fought off her panic with anger. The woman was a terrible administrator. The absolute worst. She'd effectively fired Portia for expecting the best from these women instead of patronizing them.

Just then Bodie reappeared. He was exactly the distraction she needed, and she shoved her cell in her purse to watch him approach. A white T-shirt molded to his chest, and black athletic shorts displayed the powerful musculature of his legs, one of which had a long, puckered scar. She was shocked to feel her senses quickening.

"Showtime." He pulled her to her feet.

Juanita had unhinged her so much that she'd forgotten about the game. "I'm not doing this."

"Sure you are." He ignored her protests as he steered her toward the volleyball court. "Hey, guys, this is Portia. She's a volleyball pro from the West Coast."

"Hey, Portia."

All but two of the players were male. One of the women wore shorts and looked like she meant business. The other was dressed in street clothes and also seemed to have been dragged into the game. Portia hated doing things she wasn't good at. She hadn't played volleyball since her freshman year in college, and the only part of her game that had ever amounted to anything was her serve.

Bodie slipped his fingers around the back of her neck and squeezed just firmly enough to remind her of his dog collar remark. "Kick off those sandals and show us what you've got."

He didn't believe she'd do it. This was a test, and he expected her to fail. Well, she wouldn't fail. Not again. Not after what had just happened with Juanita. She kicked off her sandals and stepped into the sand. He inclined his head—a mark of respect?—and turned away to address another player.

The ball didn't come close to her until several minutes into the game when it shot right at her chest. She couldn't get under it, and she pushed it into the net. As it came out, Bodie dove for it, sending up a spray of sand and somehow managing to get it up and over. He was an amazing athlete, intensely physical, quick, and intimidating. He was also a team player, setting up shots for the others instead of hogging the ball. Portia played hard, but other than scoring a point on a serve, she was a liability. Still, with Bodie taking up the slack next to her, their team won both games, and as she celebrated with them, she felt an odd exhilaration. She wanted Juanita Brooks—everybody at the Community Small Business Initiative—to see her now.

She cleaned up as well as she could in the restroom, but only a shower would remove the grit that had made its way into her hair and between her toes. She returned to the table just as Bodie reappeared in his street clothes. The bar didn't have showers, so he shouldn't have smelled so good, of agreeable male exertion, piney soap, and clean clothes. As he took his seat, the sleeve of his knit shirt rode up on his biceps, revealing more of the intricate tribal tattoo that encircled it. He grinned. "You sucked."

No one else was getting the best of her tonight. "Now you've gone and hurt my feelings," she cooed.

"God, I can't wait to get you into bed."

Another of those unnerving shocks skittered through her. She snatched up the beer he'd ordered for her and took a sip, but it was too warm to cool her off. "You're assuming a lot."

"Not so much." He leaned in. "How else can you make sure I'll keep my mouth shut around Heath? It's the damnedest thing, but I can't seem to forget that little spying episode."

"You're blackmailing me with sex?"

"Why not?" He settled back in his chair with a crooked grin. "It'll give you a good excuse to do what you want to anyway."

If another man had delivered a line like that, she would have laughed in his face, but the pit of her stomach dipped. She had the oddest feeling Bodie knew something about her that other people didn't understand, maybe something she'd missed herself. "You're delusional."

He rubbed his knuckles. "There's nothing I love more than sexually dominating a strong woman."

Her fingers tightened around the bottle, not because she felt threatened—he was enjoying himself too much—but because his words aroused her. "Maybe you should talk to a shrink."

"And spoil all our fun? I don't think so."

No one ever played sexual games with her. She crossed her legs and gave him a withering smile. "You deluded little man."

He leaned forward and whispered against her earlobe. "One of these nights I'm going to make you pay for that." And then he bit.

She nearly groaned, not with pain—he wasn't hurting her— but with an unsettling excitement. Fortunately, one of the men from the volleyball game came up to the table, so Bodie backed off, giving her a chance to regain her balance.

Their food arrived shortly afterward. Bodie had ordered without consulting her, then had the nerve to chastise her for not eating. "You don't really bite into anything. You just lick. No wonder you're scrawny."

"You silver-tongued devil."

"As long as your mouth's open…" He slipped in a french fry. She savored the shock of the grease and the salt but turned away when he offered another. More volleyball players stopped by the table. As Bodie chatted with them, she automatically surveyed the women in the bar. Several were quite beautiful, and she itched to give them her card, but she couldn't motivate herself to get up. Bodie's presence had sucked the oxygen out of the room, leaving the air too thin for her to breathe.

By the time they left the sports bar and entered the lobby of her building, she'd grown almost giddy with desire. She mentally rehearsed how she'd handle him. He knew exactly the effect he was having on her, so of course he expected her to invite him up. She wouldn't, but he'd get in the elevator anyway, and she'd respond with cool amusement. Perfect.

But Bodie Gray had one more surprise up his sleeve. "Good night, slugger." With nothing more than a kiss on the forehead, he walked away.

Saturday morning Annabelle got up early and headed for Roscoe Village, a former haven for drug dealers that had been gentrified in the 1990s. Now it was a pretty urban neighborhood with refurbished houses and charming shops that projected a small-town feel. She was meeting the daughter of one of Nana's former neighbors in her storefront architectural office on Roscoe Street. She'd heard the woman was exceptionally pretty, and she wanted to meet her in person to see if she'd be a match for Heath.

As it turned out, the woman was lovely but nearly as hyperactive as he was, a surefire recipe for disaster. Annabelle considered her a good prospect for a match though, and she decided to keep her eyes open.

A hunger pang reminded her that she hadn't taken time for breakfast. Since Heath wasn't picking her up until noon, she made her way across the street to Victory's Banner, a cheery, pocket-size vegetarian cafe operated by the followers of one of the Indian spiritual masters. Instead of a musty, incense-scented interior, Victory's Banner had powder blue walls, sunny yellow banquettes, and chalk white tables that matched the tieback curtains at the windows. She took an empty table and began to order one of her favorites, homemade French toast with peach butter and real maple syrup, only to be distracted by a platter of golden-brown Belgian waffles passing by. She finally settled on apple pecan pancakes.

As she took her first sip of coffee, the door to the restroom at the back opened and a familiar figure emerged. Annabelle's heart sank. The woman would have been tall even without her high-heeled woven slides. She was broad shouldered and well dressed in crisp white slacks and a short-sleeved coral blouse that complemented her shoulder-length light brown hair. Her makeup was "well applied with subtle eye shadow that emphasized her familiar dark eyes.

The cafe was too small to hide in, and Rosemary Kimble spotted Annabelle right away. She clutched her straw purse more tightly. Her big, broad hands had long, toffee-painted nails and a trio of gold bracelets encircling one wrist. It had been nearly six months since Annabelle had last seen her. Rosemary's face was thinner, her hips rounder. She approached the table, and Annabelle experienced an all-too-familiar barrage of emotions: anger and betrayal, compassion and repulsion… a painful tenderness.

Rosemary shifted her purse from one hand to the other and spoke in her low, melodious voice. "I just finished breakfast, but… Would you mind some company?"

Yes, I'd mind, Annabelle wanted to say, but she'd only feel guilty afterward, so she tilted her head in the general direction of the opposite chair. Rosemary tucked her purse in her lap and ordered an iced chai, then began fiddling with a bracelet. "I hear through the grapevine that you landed a big client."

"Grapevine Molly."

Rosemary gave her a wry smile. "You don't call, you don't write. Molly's my only source of information. She's been a good friend."

Unlike Annabelle, who hadn't. She concentrated on her coffee. Rosemary finally broke the awkward silence. "So how's Hurricane Kate these days?"

"Her usual interfering self. She wants me to get an accounting degree."

"She worries about you."

Annabelle set her cup down too hard, and coffee sloshed over the brim. "I can't imagine why."

"Don't try to blame all your troubles with Kate on me. She's always driven you crazy."

"Yes, well, our situation sure didn't help."

"No, it didn't," Rosemary said.

Annabelle had waited nearly a week after her world had crashed to call her mother, hoping by then she could manage her announcement without crying.

"Rob and I've called off our engagement, Mom."

She still remembered Kate's screech. "What are you talking about?"

"We're not getting married."

"But the wedding's only two months away. And we love Rob. Everybody does. He's the only man you've dated who has a head on his shoulders.You complement each other perfectly."

"Turns out too perfectly. Get ready to laugh." Her voice had caught on a snag. "Turns out Rob is a woman trapped in a man's body."

"Annabelle, have you been drinking? "

Annabelle had explained it to her mother just as Rob had explained it to her—how he'd felt wrong in his body for as long as he could remember; the nervous breakdown he'd suffered the year before they'd met but never quite gotten around to mentioning; his belief that loving her would cure him; and his final realization that he couldn't keep on living if he had to do it as a man.

Kate had started to cry and Annabelle had cried right along with her.

She'd felt so stupid for not suspecting the truth, but Rob had been a decent lover, and they'd had an okay sex life. He was nice looking, funny, and sensitive, but she hadn't considered him effeminate. She never caught him trying on her clothes or using her makeup, and until that awful night when he'd started to cry and told her he couldn't go on any longer trying to be someone he wasn't, she'd assumed he was the love of her life.

Looking back, there'd been hints: his moodiness, frequent references to an unhappy childhood, odd questions about Annabelle's experiences growing up as a girl. She'd been flattered by the attention he'd paid to her opinions, and she'd told her friends how lucky she was to have a fiance who was so interested in her as a person. Never once had she suspected he was gathering information, weighing her experiences against his own so he could make his final decision. After he'd broken the devastating news, he'd told her he still loved her as much as ever. She'd cried and asked him exactly what he expected her to do about that?

Her broken dreams had been painful enough, but she'd also had to face the humiliation of telling her friends and relatives.

"You remember my ex-fiance Rob. Funniest thing …"

Try as she might, she couldn't get past what she'd come to think of as the "ick factor." She'd made love with a man who wanted to be a woman. She found no comfort in his explanation that gender identity and sexuality were two different issues. He'd known this monster hung over them when they'd fallen in love, but he hadn't said a word about it until the afternoon she'd had her bridal gown fitted. That evening, he'd taken his first dose of estrogen and begun his transition from Rob into Rosemary.

Nearly two years had passed since then, and Annabelle still hadn't overcome her sense of betrayal. At the same time, she couldn't pretend not to care. "How's the job?" Rosemary was the longtime marketing director at Molly's publishing company, Birdcage Press. She and Molly had worked closely together to grow the market for Molly's award-winning Daphne the Bunny children's books.

"People are finally getting used to me."

"I'm sure it wasn't easy." For a while Annabelle had wanted it to be hard, wanted her old lover to suffer, but she didn't feel that way now. Now she simply wanted to forget.

The woman who'd once been her fiance gazed at her across the table. "I just wish that…"

"Don't say it."

"You were my best friend, Annabelle. I want that back."

The old bitterness resurfaced. "I know you do, but you can't have it."

"Would it help if I told you I'm not sexually attracted to you anymore? Apparently the hormones have done a job on me. For the first time in my life, I've started to look at men. Very strange."

"Tell me about it."

Rosemary laughed, and Annabelle managed a smile in return, but as much as she wished Rosemary well, she couldn't be her confidante. Their relationship had robbed her of too much. Not only had she lost trust in her ability to judge people, but she'd also lost her sexual confidence. What kind of loser could be in an intimate relationship for so long without suspecting that something was seriously askew?

Her pancakes arrived. Rosemary rose and regarded her sadly. "I'll let you eat in peace. It's been good seeing you."

The most Annabelle could manage in return was a quiet "Good luck."

Do you get invited to many of Phoebe and Dan's parties?" Heath asked a few hours later as he steered his BMW into the long, wooded drive that led to the Calebow home. A hawk circled in the afternoon sun above the old orchard to their right, where the apples were just beginning to turn red. "A few," she replied. "But, then, Phoebe likes me."

"Go ahead and laugh, but it's not funny to me. I've lost some great clients because of this."

"I'd be lying if I didn't tell you it's nice having you at my mercy for a change."

"Don't enjoy it too much. I'm trusting you not to screw this up."

She was afraid she already had. She should have been up front with him about today's affair, but she always got pigheaded when workaholics started ordering her around, another legacy from her childhood.

The tires clattered on a narrow wooden bridge. They rounded a bend, and an old stone farmhouse came into sight. Build in the 1880s, the Calebow property was a rustic gem in an area of affluent suburban sprawl. Dan had bought the house in his bachelor days, and as their family had grown, he and Phoebe had added wings, raised the roof, and expanded the grounds. The end result was a charming ramble of a house perfect for a family with four growing children.

Heath parked in the drive next to Molly's SUV, which had Tigger sunshades suction-cupped to the glass. He shifted his weight and tucked his keys in the hip pocket of his khaki slacks. He wore them with a designer polo and another of his TAG Heuer watches, this one with a brown crocodile strap. Annabelle felt a little underdressed in gray knit drawstring shorts, aqua tank top, and J. Crew flip-flops.

She saw the exact moment when he spotted the multitude of pink balloons tied to the spindled railing that surrounded the old-fashioned front porch.

He turned to her slowly, a python uncoiling for the strike. "Exactly what kind of party is this?"

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and tried to look adorable. "Uh, funny you should ask…"

His grim green eyes belatedly reminded Annabelle that he had no sense of humor when it came to business. Not that she'd exactly forgotten it.

"No bullshit, Annabelle. Tell me right now what's going on."

He'd trample her if she tried to stage a retreat, so she attempted a chipper sort of savoir faire. "Relax and enjoy yourself. It'll be fun." She didn't sound convincing, but before he could crush the life out of her, Molly appeared on the front porch with Pippi at her side. Both of them sported glittery pink tiaras, Pippi's accessorized with a strawberry pink princess gown, Molly's with bright yellow capris and a Daphne the Bunny T-shirt. Heath's already grim expression grew even more forbidding.

Molly looked startled, then laughed as she spotted Heath. He shot Annabelle a life-threatening glare, plastered a smile on his face for Molly, and stepped out of the car. Annabelle grabbed her tote and followed. Unfortunately, the knot that had begun to form in her stomach came right along with her.

"Heath? I don't believe it," Molly said. "I couldn't even talk Kevin into helping out today."

"Is that so?" he replied slowly. "Annabelle invited me."

Molly gave her a thumbs-up. "Cool."

Annabelle forced a smile.

Heath walked toward Molly, projecting an air of amusement Annabelle knew he didn't feel. "Annabelle neglected, however, to tell me exactly what she was inviting me to."

"Oops." Molly's eyes sparkled.

"I would have if you'd asked." Annabelle's words sounded lame even to herself, and he ignored her.

Molly leaned down to her daughter. "Pippi, tell Mr. Heath about our party."

The three-year-old's tiara wobbled as she jumped and gave an ear-splitting shriek. "Princess party!"

"Ya don't say," Heath drawled. Slowly, he turned to face Annabelle. She pretended to examine the climbing rose next to the front porch.

"It was Julie and Tess's idea," Molly said. "Annabelle volunteered to help out."

Annabelle thought about explaining that Julie and Tess were the Calebows' oldest children, fifteen-year-old twins, then realized Heath wouldn't need an explanation. He'd have made it his business to know all about Dan and Phoebe's four children: the twins, twelve-year-old Hannah, and nine-year-old Andrew. He probably knew their favorite foods and when they'd had their last dental checkups.

"The twins are volunteering at a summer day care center that serves low-income families," Molly went on. "They work with the four- and five-year-old girls, supervising activities to jump-start them in math and science. They wanted to throw a party just for fun."

"Princess party!" Pippi shrieked again, hopping up and down.

"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here," Molly said. "Tess and Julie woke up with fevers this morning, so we've been a little frantic. Hannah's going to help, but she gets emotionally involved, so she's not entirely reliable. I tried to call Kevin and beg him to reconsider, but he and Dan have taken the boys somewhere and they're not picking up. Wait till they hear who saved them."

"My pleasure." Heath projected such sincerity that Annabelle would have believed him if she hadn't known better. No wonder he was so good at what he did.

They heard the sound of an engine and saw a yellow minibus approaching. Molly turned to the door. "Hannah, the girls are here!"

Seconds later, twelve-year-old Hannah Calebow emerged. Thin and awkward, she resembled her Aunt Molly more than her mother, Phoebe. Her light brown hair, expressive eyes and slightly asymmetrical features bore the promise of something more interesting than conventional prettiness when she grew older, although at this point it was hard to tell exactly what. "Hi, Annabelle," she said as she came forward.

Annabelle returned the greeting, and Molly introduced Heath as the minibus stopped in front of the house. "Annabelle, why don't you and Heath help Phoebe in the backyard while Hannah and I get the girls unloaded?"

"Maybe you should be a little careful around Mom," Hannah said in a soft, anxious-to-please voice. "She's in a bad mood because Andrew got into the cake this morning."

"It just keeps getting better and better," Heath muttered. And then he headed for the flagstone path that led around the side of the house. He walked so quickly that Annabelle had to trot to catch up with him.

"I guess I should apologize," she said. "I'm afraid I might have let my—"

"Not one word," he said on a single ominous note. "You screwed me over, and we don't have a thing to say to each other."

She hurried to his side. "I wasn't trying to screw you over. I thought—"

"Save your breath. You wanted me to look stupid."

She hoped that wasn't true but suspected it might be. Not stupid, exactly. Just not so together. "You're totally overreacting."

That was when the Python struck.

"You're fired."

She stumbled on one of the flagstones. There was no emotion in his voice, no expression of regret for good times and shared laughs, only a stony declaration.

"You can't mean that."

"Oh, I mean it, all right."

"It's a kids' party! It's no big deal."

He walked away without another word.

She stood chilled and silent in the shadow of an old elm. She'd done it again. Once more, she'd let her impulsiveness lead her into disaster. She knew him well enough by now to understand how much he hated being put at a disadvantage. How could she have believed he'd find this amusing? Maybe she hadn't. Maybe the person she'd really intended to sabotage was herself.

Her mother was right. It couldn't be entirely coincidental that everything Annabelle attached herself to failed. Did she believe she didn't deserve success? Was that why all her ventures ended in disaster?

She leaned against the trunk of the elm and tried not to cry.