“It’s not like that.” He gritted his teeth. “I do love her. I love her with all my frickin’ heart, but I can’t convince her of that if somebody won’t tell me where the hell she’s gone.”

He hadn’t meant to sound so angry, and Charmaine took offense. “When did you have this miraculous realization?”

“Last night. A blue woman and a bottle of scotch opened my eyes. Now where is she?”

“We’re not going to tell you,” said Krystal.

Janine glared at him. “If she calls, we’ll relay your message. And we’ll also tell her we don’t like your attitude.”

“I’ll relay my own damned message,” he retorted.

“Not even the great Heath Champion can bulldoze his way through this.” Molly’s quiet stubbornness sent a chill up his spine. “Annabelle will contact you in her own way and in her own time. Or maybe not. That’s up to her. I know it goes against your nature, but you’ll have to be patient. She’s calling the shots now.”

“It’s not as though you won’t be busy,” Lady Evil drawled from behind him. “Now that Dean has turned his back on the goodwill of the woman who holds his contract—”

He spun on her. “I don’t give a damn about Dean right now, Phoebe, and here’s a news flash. Some things in life are more important than football.”

Her eyebrows rose ever so slightly. He turned back to the women, ready to strangle the information out of them if he needed to, only to discover he had no anger left. He lifted his hands, shocked to see they were unsteady, but not as unsteady as his voice. “She’s…I—I have to make this right. I can’t stand knowing she’s…That I’ve made her suffer. Please…”

But they had no hearts, and one by one, they looked away.

He walked blindly out of the house. The wind had picked up, and a blast of chilly air cut through his jacket. Mechanically, he reached for his phone, hoping against hope that she’d called, knowing she hadn’t.

The Chiefs were trying to reach him. So were Bodie and Phil Tyree. He set the heels of his hands on the hood of his car and bowed his head. He deserved to suffer. She didn’t.

“Are you sad, Pwince?”

He looked back toward the house to see Pippi standing on the top step of the porch, a monkey under one arm, a bear under the other. He fought a wild urge to pick her up and carry her around for a while, to tuck her under his chin and hold her close, just like one of those stuffed animals. He drew in a little air. “Yeah, Pip. I’m kind of sad.”

“You gonna cry?”

He pushed his response around the lump in his throat. “Naw, guys don’t cry.”

The door behind her opened, and Phoebe emerged, blond, powerful, and merciless. She paid no attention to him. Instead, she crouched at Pippi’s side and adjusted one of her pigtail stubs, speaking softly to her. He reached in his pocket for his keys.