Before she could tell him that she was already playing as hard as she knew how, he was on his way down her sidewalk. She walked over to the door and shut it behind him. Once again, he'd seen her at her worst: no makeup, phones out of order, and wrangling with Mr. Bronicki. On the positive side, Rachel was going to look really good to him this evening by comparison.

Annabelle wondered if they'd sleep together. The idea depressed her way too much. She headed for the kitchen and poured herself a glass of iced tea, then carried it back to her office, where she called John Nager to check on the lunch date she'd arranged.

"She had a cold, Annabelle. Noticeable congestion."

"John, women come with germs."

"It's a question of degree."

She wondered how Heath would deal with a hypochondri-acal client. "She wants to see you again," she said, "but if you're not interested, I have other clients who will be."

"Well… She's very pretty."

"And germy, like every other woman I've fixed you up with. Can you handle that?"

John eventually decided he'd give it a go. She dragged out the vacuum and made a few desultory swipes at the downstairs, then filled a pitcher to water Nana's African violet collection. As she added a few drops of fertilizer, she contemplated arranging a date between Mrs. Porter and Mr. Clemens. They were both widowers in their seventies, two more of Nana's clients she couldn't quite shake. Mrs. Porter was black and Mr. Clemens white, which might give their families trouble, but Annabelle had sensed a lot of interest when she'd run into them at the grocery store, and they both loved to bowl. She carried the pitcher into her office. Would she ever get rid of these seniors? No matter how many times she explained to them that Marriages by Myrna had closed its doors, they kept on showing up. Even worse, they expected her to continue charging Nana's fees.

When she finished with the African violets, she sat down to pay bills. Thanks to Heath's check, she'd settled the worst of them. Yesterday she'd called Melanie to see if she'd be interested in signing on as a client, which had meant coming clean about her real occupation. Fortunately, Melanie had a sense of humor, and she'd seemed interested. Things were looking up.

The Little Mermaid clock on her desk ticked away. Heath would be picking up Rachel about now. They were going to Tru, where caviar appeared at the table in a miniature glass staircase and dinner for two could easily run four hundred dollars. Not that she'd ever been there herself, but she'd read about it.

She considered visiting a couple of local coffee shops to pass out her business card, but she didn't have enough energy to change clothes. Friday night. No hot date. No prospects for a hot date. The matchmaker needed a matchmaker. She wanted to get married, wanted a family, a job she loved… Was that too much to ask out of life? But how would she ever find a man of her own if she had to keep giving the best ones away? Not that Heath was the best. He was husband material only in his own mind. No, that wasn't entirely fair. Whatever he did, he did well, and he'd give marriage his best effort. Whether or not that would prove good enough remained to be seen. Fortunately, not her problem.

She pulled out a DVD of Waiting for Guffman, then remembered it belonged to Rob and chose Freaky Friday instead. She'd just gotten to the part where Jamie Lee Curtis and her daughter switch bodies when the phone rang.

"Annabelle, it's Rachel."

She hit the Stop button. "How's it going?"

"I'm out of my league."

"What do you mean? Where are you calling from?"

"The ladies' room at Tru. The date's not working. I can't understand it. Heath and I had so much fun together the night you introduced us-you remember-but now everything feels flat."

"I knew he'd do this. He's been on his cell all night, hasn't he?"

"He hasn't taken a single call. In fact, he's been a perfect gentleman. But we're both working too hard to keep the conversation going."

"He's been traveling all week. He might be tired."

"I don't think it's that. It's just- Nothing's happening. I'm really disappointed. I felt sparks that first time. Didn't you?"

"Definitely. Ask him about his work. Or about baseball. He's a Sox fan. Just keep trying."

Rachel said she would, but she didn't seem optimistic, and when Annabelle hung up, she felt deflated… and relieved.

One more reason to be depressed.

Chapter Eight

Moths 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.