He should have kept his mouth shut about his wife hunt around Kevin, but how could he have known his star client's wife, Molly, would have a friend in the matchmaking business? As soon as Heath sat through the introduction he'd promised, Annabelle Granger and her screwball operation were history.

A little after one in the morning, Dean Robillard finally made his way to Heath's side. Despite the club's dim lighting, the boy still wore his Oakleys, but he'd ditched his sports coat, and his sleeveless white silk T-shirt showed off the Holy Grail of football shoulders-big, strong, and unmarred by arthroscopic surgery. Dean propped one hip on the empty bar stool that opened up next to Heath. As he extended his leg for balance, he revealed a tan leather cap-toe boot Heath had heard one of the women say was from Dolce & Gabbana.

"Okay, Champion, your turn to suck up."

Heath set his elbow on the bar. "My condolences on your loss. McGruder was a good agent."

"He hated your guts."

"I hated his, too, but he was still a good agent, and there aren't a whole lot of us left." He studied the quarterback more closely. "Shit, Robillard, you been bleaching your hair?"

"Highlights. You like 'em?"

"If you were any prettier, I'd want to date you."

Robillard grinned. "You'd have to stand in line."

Both of them knew they weren't talking about dating.

"I like you, Champion," Robillard said, "so I'm going to tell you up front. You're out of the running. I'd be stupid to sign with the agent who's at the top of Phoebe Calebow's shit list."

"The only reason I'm on that list is because Phoebe's cheap." Not entirely true, but this wasn't the time to go into the complexities of his relationship with the owner of the Chicago Stars. "Phoebe doesn't like the fact that I won't roll over and play dead for her like everybody else. "Why don't you ask Kevin if he has any complaints?"

"Yeah, well, Kevin happens to be married to Phoebe's sister and I don't, so the situation isn't exactly the same. The truth is, I already piss Mrs. Calebow off without even trying, and I'm not going to make it worse by hiring you."

Once again, Heath's dysfunctional relationship with Phoebe Calebow was getting in the way of what he wanted. No matter how hard he tried to fix things with her, his early mistakes kept coming back to bite him in the ass. He never let the pressure show and only shrugged. "You gotta do what you gotta do."

"You guys are all bloodsuckers," Dean said bitterly. "You take two, three percent off the top, and for doing what? For pushing a few papers around. Big fucking deal. How many two-a-days have you sweated through?"

"Not as many as you, that's for damn sure. I was too busy getting As in my classes on contract law."

Robillard smiled.

Heath smiled back. "And just so we're straight… When it comes to those big endorsements I've been landing for my clients, I take a hell of a lot more than three percent off the top."

Robillard didn't blink. "The Zagorskis are guaranteeing me Nike. Can you do that?"

"I never guarantee what I don't have in my pocket." He took a sip of beer. "I don't bullshit my clients, at least about anything important. I also don't steal from them, lie to them, or disrespect them behind their backs. There's no agent in the business who works harder than I do. Not a one. And that's all I've got to offer." He rose, pulled out his money clip, and slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. "If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me."


* * *

When Heath got home that night, he pulled the smudged invitation from his dresser drawer. He kept it lying around as a reminder of the gut-wrenching pain he'd felt when he'd first opened it. He'd been twenty-three.

You are cordially invited to attend the marriage of Julie Ames Shelton

and

Heath D. Campione

The Silver Anniversary Celebration of

Victoria and Douglas Pierce Shelton III

and

The Golden Anniversary Celebration of Mildred and Douglas Pierce Shelton II

Valentine's Day

:00 p.m.

The Manor

East Hampton, New York

The wedding planner had sent him the invitation by mistake, not realizing he was the groom, which spoke volumes all by itself. For the first time he'd discovered his marriage to Julie was just one cog of a well-oiled family production. All his securities came crashing in. He'd known it was too good to be true, Julie Shelton falling in love with a guy who was grubbing his way through law school by cleaning out septic tanks.

"I don't see why you're so upset about this," Julie had said when he'd confronted her. "The dates just worked out that way. You should be happy we're keeping up the tradition. Getting married on Valentine's Day is good luck in my family."

"This isn't just any Valentine's Day," he retorted. "Golden anniversary, silver anniversary… What would you have done for a husband if I hadn't come along on schedule?"

"But you did, so I don't see the problem."

He'd pleaded with her to change the date, but she'd refused. "If you love me, you'll do this my way," she'd said.

He had loved her, but after a week of sleepless nights, he'd realized she only loved him as a convenience.

The wedding had gone on with one of Julie's childhood friends standing in as the third-generation Valentine's Day groom. It had taken Heath months to recover. Two years later, the couple had divorced, putting a permanent end to Shelton family tradition, but he'd felt no satisfaction.

Julie wasn't the first person he'd given his heart to. As a kid, he'd given it away to everybody, beginning with his drunken father and continuing through the never-ending stream of transient women the old man had brought home. As each woman entered that beat-up trailer, Heath had prayed she'd be the one who'd make up for his mother's death.

When the women didn't work out-and they never did- he'd given his love to the stray dogs that ended up as roadkill on the nearby highway, to the old biddy in the next trailer who screamed at him if his ball landed near her tractor tire garden, to classroom teachers who had children of their own and didn't want another. But it had taken his experience with Julie before he'd finally learned the lesson he never let himself forget. His emotional survival depended on not falling in love.

Someday he hoped that would change. He'd love his kids, that was for damn sure. He'd never let them grow up as he had. As for his wife… That would take a while. But once he was sure she'd stick, he'd give it a try. For now, he intended to treat his search for her like he'd treat any other part of his business, which was why he'd hired the best matchmaker in the city. And why he had to get rid of Annabelle Granger…


* * *

Less than twenty-four hours later, Heath entered Sienna's, his favorite restaurant, to do the job. Annabelle had screwup stamped all over her, and this was a big waste of time he didn't have to spare. As he headed to his regular table in the far corner of the well-lit bar, he called out a greeting in Italian to Carlo, the owner. Heath had learned the language in college instead of from his Italian father, who'd only spoken Drunk. The old man had died from a combination of emphysema and cirrhosis of the liver when Heath was twenty. He had yet to shed a tear.

He made a quick call to Caleb Crenshaw, the Stars' running back, and another to Phil Tyree in New Orleans. The alarm on his watch buzzed just as he finished. Nine o'clock. He looked up, and sure enough, Annabelle Granger was heading toward him. But it was the blond knockout at her side who claimed his attention. Whoa… Where had this one come from? Her short, straight hair fell in a trendy cut to her jaw. She had perfectly balanced features and a long, leggy figure. So, Tinker Bell hadn't been all talk.

His matchmaker was half a head shorter than the woman she'd brought to meet him. Her tangle of reddish gold hair gleamed around her small head. The short white jacket she wore with a lime green sundress was a definite improvement over yesterday's ensemble, but she still looked like a scatterbrained tree fairy. He rose as she performed the introductions.

"Gwen, I'd like you to meet Heath Champion. Heath, this is Gwen Phelps."

Gwen Phelps looked him over with a pair of intelligent brown eyes that tilted attractively down at the corners. "A pleasure," she said in a deep, low voice. "Annabelle's told me all about you."

"I'm glad to hear it. That means we can talk about you, which I can see right away will be a lot more interesting." It was a corny line, and he thought he heard a snort, but when he shot a quick glance at Annabelle, he saw in her expression only eagerness to please.

"Somehow I doubt that." Gwen slipped gracefully into the chair he held out for her. The woman oozed class. Annabelle tugged on the opposite chair, but it caught on the table leg. Concealing his annoyance, he reached over to free it. She was a walking disaster, and he regretted ordering her to sit with them, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. When he'd decided to hire a matchmaker, he'd also promised he'd make the process efficient. He'd already sat through a couple of Power Matches introductions. Even before the drinks had arrived, he'd known neither woman was right for him, but he'd wasted a couple of hours getting rid of them. This one, however, showed definite promise.

Ramon came over from the bar to take their orders. Gwen asked for club soda, Annabelle for something terrifying called a green phantom. She regarded him with the bright, too-eager expression of a dog owner waiting for her prized pooch to perform his tricks. So much for expecting her to lead the conversation. "Are you a native Chicagoan, Gwen?" he asked.