Annette gestured toward a chair. “Would you wait here for just a moment?”

“Of course.” Phoebe removed her sunglasses and tucked them in her purse. Barely a minute passed before a man came rushing out of the left hallway.

“Miss Somerville. Welcome.”

She stared at him.

He was adorable, a short, bookish Tom Cruise with a friendly, deferential expression that went a long way toward settling her nervous stomach. Although he was probably close to her own age, he looked so boyish that he seemed like a teenager. She took the hand he offered and gazed into a pair of glorious Cruise-blue eyes that were on the same level as her own.

“I’m sure you must be tired from your flight.” He had the thickest fringe of lashes she had ever seen on a man. “I’m sorry that you haven’t had a chance to rest before being plunged into all this.”

His voice was soft, his manner so sympathetic, that she experienced her first ray of hope since Dan Calebow had blackmailed her. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him.

“Are you certain? I know there are a number of people waiting to see you, but I’ll do my best to put them off if you’d like.”

She wanted to tie a bow around him and put him under her Christmas tree. Her internal radar wasn’t sending out any warning signals telling her to vamp him, something that generally happened when she was around good-looking men. His small stature and friendly manner were keeping her from feeling threatened.

She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “Why don’t you just stick by my side instead? I have a feeling I’m going to need a friendly face.”

“I’ll be happy to.” They exchanged smiles and she had a comforting sense of connection with him, as if they’d known each other for years.

He led her through an archway into a den of offices decorated with commemorative footballs, pennants, and team cups stuffed with pencils. As they passed through, he introduced her to a number of men, most of whom wore blue polo shirts bearing the Stars’ logo and all of whom seemed to have titles: director, manager, assistant.

Unlike his more casually dressed coworkers, her new ally wore a pin-striped charcoal suit, starched white shirt with French cuffs, burgundy rep tie, and polished cordovan wing tips.

“You haven’t told me your name.”

“Gosh.” He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand and grinned, producing a charming set of dimples. “I’ve been so nervous about meeting you I forgot. I’m Ron McDermitt, Miss Somerville.”

“Please, Ron, call me Phoebe.”

“I’d be honored.”

They walked through a busy area of staff desks separated by partitions, then turned the corner into the longer back wing of the building. It was decorated as unimaginatively as the lobby: blue carpet, white walls covered with photographs, and team posters in simple chrome frames.

He glanced at his watch and frowned. “We’re due in Steve Kovak’s office now. He’s the director of player personnel, and he wants to get the contracts signed as soon as possible.”