“Didn’t anybody tell you spying on people isn’t nice?” he said.

For the past hour, she’d been circling the block, stopping each time she passed the restaurant to pretend to study the menu. If she looked over the top, she could see the table where Heath was sitting, along with Annabelle Granger and the two women Portia had arranged for him to meet tonight. Normally Portia wouldn’t have thought of being present during an initial introduction—only a few clients had ever requested it—except she’d learned he wanted Granger there, and Portia couldn’t tolerate that.

“Who are you?” she said, pretending a bravado she didn’t feel.

“Bodie Gray, Champion’s bodyguard. And he sure will be interested to hear what you’ve been up to tonight.”

The muscles in the small of her back cramped. This was beyond humiliating. “I haven’t been up to a thing.”

“That’s not what it looks like to me.”

“But then you’re hardly an authority on matchmaking, are you?” She regarded him coldly, doing her best to stare him down. “How about minding your own business and letting me mind mine?”

Her assistants would have dived for cover, but he didn’t even blink. “Champion’s business is my business.”

“My, my…Quite the dedicated gofer.”

“Everybody should have one.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the curb.

She gave a hiss of dismay. “What are you doing?” She tried to wrench away, but he didn’t let go.

“I’m going to buy you a beer so Mr. Champion can finish his business in private.”

“It’s my business, too, and I’m not—”

“Yeah, you really are.” He steered her between two parked cars. “But if you make nice, you might be able to convince me to keep my mouth shut.”

She stopped struggling and gazed at Mr. Bodyguard through the corner of her eyes. So…he was willing to sell out his boss. Heath should have known better than to hire a thug, but since he hadn’t, she’d take advantage of his naïveté because she did not want him to find out about this. If he did, he’d see it for exactly what it was, a sign of weakness.

The bar they entered was smoky and sour, with a cracked linoleum floor and a dying philodendron sitting on a dusty shelf between a couple of fly-specked trophies and a faded photograph of Mel Torme.

“Hey, Bodie, how’s it hanging?” the bartender called out.

“No complaints.”

Bodie steered her toward a barstool. On the way, one of her shoes stuck to something on the floor. As she freed it, she wondered how such a seedy establishment could exist so close to Clark Street’s best restaurants.

“Two beers,” Mr. Bodyguard said as she perched gingerly on the stool next to him.

“Club soda,” she interjected. “With a sliver of lime.”

“No limes,” the bartender said, “but I got a can of fruit cocktail in the back room.”

Muscle Man found this hilarious, and a few moments later she was staring at the faint outline of a leftover lipstick imprint on the rim of a beer mug. She pushed it aside. “How did you know who I was?”