“I know you had a difficult time of it, and I’m sorry about Mrs. Bronicki passing.”

“Sorry don’t cut the mustard. I didn’t have satisfaction even when she was alive.”

Annabelle couldn’t believe she was arguing with an eighty-year-old about a two-hundred-dollar contract signed when Reagan was president. “You married Mrs. Bronicki of your own free will,” she said as patiently as she could manage.

“Kids like you, they don’t understand about customer satisfaction.”

“That’s not true, Mr. Bronicki.”

“My nephew’s a lawyer. I could sue.”

She started to tell him to go ahead and try, but he was just cranky enough to do it. “Mr. Bronicki, how about this? I promise I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“I want a blonde.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Gotcha.”

“And not too young. None of them twenty-year-olds. I got a granddaughter twenty-two. Wouldn’t look right.”

“You’re thinking…?”

“Thirty’d be good. With a little meat on her bones.”

“Anything else?”

“Catholic.”

“Of course.”

“And nice.” A wistful expression softened the slant of those ferocious eyebrows. “Somebody nice.”

She smiled despite herself. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When she finally managed to close the door behind him, she remembered there was a good reason she’d earned her reputation as the family’s screwup. She had sucker written all over her.

And way too many clients living on Social Security.

Chapter Five

Bodie readjusted the treadmill speed, slowing the pace. “Tell me more about Portia Powers.”

A bead of sweat trickled into the already damp neckband of Heath’s faded Dolphins T-shirt as he set the barbell he’d been lifting back on the rack. “You met Annabelle. Do a one-eighty, and you’ve got Powers.”

“Annabelle’s interesting. Kinda hard to get a bead on her.”

“She’s a flake.” Heath stretched out his arms. “I’d never have hired her if she hadn’t struck it lucky with Gwen Phelps.”

Bodie chuckled. “You still can’t believe you got rejected.”

“I finally meet somebody intriguing, and she’s not interested.”

“Life’s a bitch.” The treadmill slowed to a stop. Bodie climbed off and picked up a towel from the uncarpeted living room floor.

Heath’s Lincoln Park house still smelled like new construction, probably because it was. A sleek wedge of glass and stone, it jutted toward the shady street like the prow of a ship. Through the sweeping V of floor-to-ceiling living room windows, he could see sky, trees, a pair of restored nineteenth-century town houses across the way, and a well-maintained neighborhood park surrounded by an old iron fence. His rooftop deck—which, admittedly, he’d only visited twice—afforded a distant view of the Lincoln Park Lagoon.

Once he found a wife, he’d let her furnish the place. For now, he’d set up a gym in the otherwise empty living room, bought a state-of-the-art sound system, a bed with a Tempur-Pedic mattress, and a big-screen plasma TV for the media room downstairs. All of that, combined with hardwood and tumbled marble floors, custom-built cabinets, limestone bathrooms, and a kitchen outfitted with the latest in European-designed appliances made this the house he’d dreamed about since he was a kid.