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."