“You’re thirty-one,” Doug, the big-shot accountant, had noted on her recent birthday card. “I was making two hundred grand a year when I was thirty-one.”

Her father, the ex-big-shot surgeon, took a different approach. “Birdied number four yesterday. My putting game’s finally come together. And, Annabelle…It’s long past time you found yourself.”

Only Nana Myrna had offered support. “You’ll find yourself when the time is right, sweetheart.”

Annabelle missed Nana Myrna. She’d been a failure, too.

“The accounting field is wide open,” her mother said. “It’s growing by leaps and bounds.”

“So is my business,” Annabelle retorted in a mad act of self-destruction. “I’ve landed a very important client.”

“Who?”

“You know I can’t give you his name.”

“Is he under seventy?”

Annabelle told herself not to take the bait, but there was a reason she’d earned her reputation as the family screwup. “He’s thirty-four, a high-profile multimillionaire.”

“Why on earth has he hired you?”

Annabelle gritted her teeth. “Because I’m the best, that’s why.”

“We’ll see.” Her mother’s voice softened, driving the point of her maternal knife home. “I know I aggravate you, baby, but it’s only because I love you, and I want you to fulfill your potential.”

Annabelle sighed. “I know you do. I love you, too.”

The conversation finally ground to an end. Annabelle stowed her cell, slammed the door, and jabbed the key into the ignition. Maybe if there wasn’t so much truth behind her mother’s words, they wouldn’t sting so badly.

As she backed out of the parking place, she gazed into the rearview mirror and uttered little Jamison’s favorite word. Twice.

Chapter Two

Dean Robillard entered the club like a frigging movie star, a linen sports coat draped over his shoulders, diamond studs glittering in his earlobes, and a pair of Oakleys shading his Malibu blue eyes. With his sun-bronzed skin, rakish stubble, and blond, surfer-boy hair all shiny and gel-rumpled, he was L.A.’s gift to the city of Chicago. Heath grinned, glad for the distraction. The boy had style, and the Windy City had missed him.

“Do you know Dean?” The blonde trying to drape herself over Heath’s right arm watched as Robillard flashed the crowd his red carpet smile. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the crap music coming from the dance floor of Waterworks, the site of tonight’s private party. Although the Sox were playing in Cleveland and the Bulls hadn’t drifted back to town yet, the city’s other teams were well represented at the party, mainly players from the Stars and Bears, but also most of the Cubs outfield, a couple of Blackhawks, and a goalie for the Chicago Fire. Added to the mix were a few actors, a rock star, and women, dozens of them, each more beautiful than the next, the sexual plunder of the rich and famous.

“Sure he knows Dean.” The brunette on his other side gave the blonde a condescending look. “Heath knows every football player in town, doncha, lover?” As she spoke, she surreptitiously slid her hand around his inner thigh, but Heath ignored his hard-on, just as he’d been ignoring all his hard-ons since he’d gone into training for marriage.