“Like what?”

“Like skydiving. Skiing from a helicopter. Then there’s that dirt-track racing you did right after training camp.”

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“Only because you’re part of the family business, so don’t take it personally. Besides, everybody in Chicago knows what you’ve been up to.”

“The media make a big deal out of nothing.”

“It’s not exactly nothing.” She kicked off her rabbit’s-head slippers and tucked her feet under her. “I don’t get it. You’ve always been the poster boy for pro athletes. You don’t drive drunk or beat up women. You show up early for practice and stay late. No gambling scandals, no grandstanding, not even much trash talk. Then all of a sudden you freak out.”

“I haven’t freaked out.”

“What else can you call it?”

He cocked his head. “They sent you up here to spy on me, didn’t they?”

She laughed, even though it compromised her role as a rich bitch. “I’m the last person any of them would trust with team business. I’m sort of a geek.” She made an X over her heart. “Come on, Kevin. Cross my heart, I won’t say a thing. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I enjoy a little excitement, and I’m not apologizing for it.”

She wanted more, so she continued her exploring mission. “Don’t your lady friends worry about you?”

“If you want to know about my love life, just ask. That way I can have the pleasure of telling you to mind your own business.”

“Why would I want to know about your love life?”

“You tell me.”

She regarded him demurely. “I was just wondering if you find your women in international catalogs? Or maybe on the Web? I know there are groups that specialize in helping lonely American men find foreign women because I’ve seen the pictures. ‘Twenty-one-year-old Russian beauty. Plays classical piano in the nude, writes erotic novels in her spare time, wants to share her dandy with a Yankee doodle.’ ”

Unfortunately, he laughed instead of being offended. “I date American women, too.”

“Not many, I’ll bet.”

“Did anybody ever mention that you’re nosy?”

“I’m a writer. It goes with the profession.” Maybe it was her imagination, but he didn’t look as restless as when he’d sat down, so she decided to keep poking. “Tell me about your family.”

“Not much to tell. I’m a PK.”

Prize kisser? “Pathetic klutz?”

He grinned and crossed his ankles on the edge of the coffee table. “Preacher’s kid. Fourth generation, depending on how you count.”

“Oh, yes. I remember reading that. Fourth generation, huh?”

“My father was a Methodist minister, son of a Methodist minister, who was the grandson of one of the old Methodist circuit riders who carried the gospel into the wilderness.”

“That must be where your daredevil blood comes from. The circuit rider.”

“It sure didn’t come from my father. A great guy, but not exactly what you’d call a risk taker. Pretty much an egghead.” He smiled. “Like you. Except more polite.”