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She managed a shaky nod. "Okay."

He picked up his shoes, but he didn't leave right away. Instead, he made his way to her desk and gestured toward the magazines stacked on top. "I like to read before I fall asleep. I don't suppose you've got a spare copy of Sports Illustrated lying around?"

" 'Fraid not."

"Of course you don't. Why would you?" His hand shot out. "I'll take this instead?"

And there went her sex toy catalog.

Heath smiled to himself as he set off down the stairs, but his smile had faded by the time he reached Nana's bedroom. What the hell was he doing here? He pulled off his shirt and tossed it on a chair. He hadn't planned on showing up at Annabelle's door, but the past week had been brutal. With the preseason about to begin, he'd flown all over the country, touching base with each of his clients. He'd played big brother, cheerleader, lawyer, and shrink. He'd endured flight delays, car rental mix-ups, bad food, loud music, too much booze, and not enough sleep. Tonight, when he'd gotten into the cab, the image of his empty house looming in front of him had been more than he could handle, and he'd heard himself giving the driver Annabelle's address.

This sense that he was thrashing around threatened his mental toughness. He'd signed with Portia in May, Annabelle early in June. Now it was mid-August, but he was no closer to reaching his goal than when he'd started. As he unzipped his pants, he knew that his frustrating breakup with Keri proved one thing. He couldn't keep going on like this, not with the football season starting, not if he wanted to stay mentally sharp. The time had come to make some changes…

Portia watched the woman's breasts leak into the platter of raw oysters, a steady drip, drip, drip. An ice sculpture of a classical female figure might have made sense in the abstract, but tonight's silent auction and cocktail party benefited a shelter for abused women, and watching a woman melt into the hors d'oeuvres sent the wrong message. The restaurant's air-conditioning couldn't handle either the ice sculpture or the crowd, and Portia was hot even in her strapless dress. She'd bought the short red cocktail number just that afternoon, hoping something new and extravagant would lift her spirits, as if a new dress could fix what was wrong with her. She'd been so optimistic about Heath and Keri, basking in the publicity they'd stirred up. She should have realized they were too much alike, but she'd lost her instincts right along with her passion for manufacturing other people's happy endings.

She felt scattered and depressed, sick of Power Matches, sick of herself and of everything that had once given her so much pride. She moved away from the buffet table and the disappearing woman. She had to pull herself together before the meeting Heath had set up for tomorrow morning. Why had he called it? Probably not to sing her praises. Well, she refused to lose this thing. Bodie said she was obsessed. Just tell Heath to go to hell. She'd tried to explain that failure bred failure, but Bodie had grown up in a trailer park, so some things didn't compute with him.

She'd been trying with little success not to think about Bodie. They'd become creatures of the dark. For the past month, they'd seen each other several times a week, always at her place, always at night, a couple of sex-crazed vampires. Whenever Bodie suggested they go out to dinner or to a movie, she made an excuse. She could no more explain Bodie and his tattoos to her friends than she could explain the bizarre need she sometimes felt to parade him in front of everyone. It had to end. Any day now, she'd break it off.

Toni Duchette appeared at her elbow, fresh blond chunks in her short brown hair, fireplug figure stuffed into a black se-quined number. "Did you bid on anything?"

"The watercolor." Portia gestured toward a rip-off Berthe Morisot on the nearest table. "It's perfect to hang over my dresser."

She remembered the startled expression on Bodie's face the first time he'd seen her extravagantly feminine bedroom. His outrageous masculinity should have looked ridiculous in her billowy white fairy princess bed, but seeing those sinewy muscles outlined against her silky ecru sheets, his shaved head denting her satin pillows, a frill of lace veiling the tattoos that banded his arm, had merely fueled her desire.

As Toni went on about the donations they'd received, Portia automatically scanned the room for interesting prospects, but this was an older crowd, and supporting the women's shelter had never been about business for her. She couldn't imagine anything worse than being under the power of an abusive man, and she'd given the shelter thousands of dollars over the years.

"The committee's done a wonderful job," Toni said, surveying the crowd. "Even Colleen Corbett showed up, and she hardly ever comes to these things anymore." Colleen Corbett was a bastion of old Chicago society, seventy years old, and a former intimate of both Eppie Lederer, otherwise known as Ann Landers, and the late Sis Daley, wife of Boss Daley and mother of the current mayor. Portia had been trying to ingratiate herself with her for years without success.

When Toni finally moved away, Portia decided she'd try again to break through Colleen Corbett's reserve. Tonight, Colleen wore one of her signature Chanel suits, this one peach with beige trim. Her permed and shellacked hairstyle hadn't changed since her photos from the 1960s, except for its color, now a polished steel gray.

"Colleen, it's lovely to see you again." Portia offered her most ingratiating smile. "Portia Powers. We chatted at the Syd-neys' party last spring."

"Yes. Nice to see you." Her voice was faintly nasal, her manner cordial, but Portia could tell she didn't remember. Several beats of silence ticked by, which Colleen didn't try to fill.

"Some interesting auction pieces." Portia resisted the urge to grab a gin and tonic from a passing waiter.

"Yes, very interesting," Colleen replied.

"A little warm in here tonight. The ice sculpture seems to be fighting a losing battle."

"Oh? I hadn't noticed."

This was hopeless. Portia hated looking like a sycophant, and she'd just decided to cut her losses when she noticed a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere. The noise level dropped; a head pivoted here and there. She turned to see what had caused the rustle of interest.

And felt the floor drop out from under her.

Bodie stood just inside the doorway, his massive frame clad in a perfectly cut, pale beige summer suit with a chocolate-colored shirt and subtly patterned necktie. He looked like a very expensive, very deadly, Mafia hit man. She wanted to run into his arms. At the same time, she felt a wild urge to dive under the buffet table. The biggest gossips in the city were here tonight. Just by herself Toni Duchette broadcast to more people than WGN Radio.

Her knees felt weak, the tips of her fingers numb. What was he doing here? Her mind raced then fastened on an image of him standing naked in front of the small console in her living room where she kept her personal mail. He'd moved away as she approached, but he must have seen the stack of invitations she never mentioned to him: the Morrisons' pool party, the new River North gallery opening, tonight's benefit. He would have known exactly why she hadn't invited him to go with her. Now, he intended to make her pay.

The cloying scent of Colleen's Shalimar made her stomach pitch. Bodie's gangster's smile offered no reassurance as he headed straight toward her. A trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts. This wasn't a man who took slights well.

Colleen had her back to him. Portia didn't know how to brace herself for a disaster of this magnitude. He stopped just behind Colleen. If the older woman looked around, she'd have a heart attack. Mockery turned his blue eyes to slate. He raised his arm. And set his hand on Colleen's shoulder.

"Hello, sweetheart."

Portia sucked in her breath. Bodie had just called Colleen Corbett "sweetheart"?