“Do you really think I’m going to do that?”

To her this was personal, but she had to remember this was a professional crisis for him. Kevin’s passion for the Stars was well known. Phoebe and Dan were his bosses and two of the most powerful people in the NFL.

“As soon as I tell my sister and Dan what I did, you’ll be off the hook. This won’t affect your career at all.”

His eyes narrowed. “You aren’t telling them anything.”

“Of course I am!”

“Keep your mouth shut.”

“Is this your pride talking? You don’t want anyone to know you were a victim? Or are you that afraid of them?”

His lips barely moved. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know the difference between right and wrong! What I did was wrong, and I won’t compound it by bringing you any further into this. I’m going back inside, and—”

He caught her arm and gave her a shake. “Listen up, because I’m jet-lagged and I don’t want to have to say this more than once. I’ve been guilty of a lot of things in my life, but I’ve never left behind an illegitimate kid, and I don’t intend to start now.”

She drew away and clutched herself tighter. “I’m not getting rid of this baby, so don’t even suggest it.”

“I’m not.” His lips tightened into a bitter line. “We’re getting married.”

She was flabbergasted. “I don’t want to get married.”

“That makes two of us, and we won’t stay that way for long.”

“I won’t—”

“Don’t waste your breath. You screwed me over, lady, and now I’m making the calls.”

Normally Kevin enjoyed the dance club, but now he wished he hadn’t come. Even though his confrontation with the Calebow clan had taken place yesterday afternoon, he still wasn’t fit to be around other people.

“Kevin! Over here!”

A girl with glitter on her eyelids and a cellophane dress called to him above the noise. They’d dated for a couple of weeks last summer. Nina? Nita? He no longer remembered or cared.

“Kevin! Hey, buddy, come on over here and let me buy you a drink!”

He pretended he didn’t hear either of them and made his way back through the crowd in the direction he’d just come. This had been a mistake. He couldn’t deal with friends now, let alone fans eager to talk about the championship game he’d lost.

He claimed his coat but didn’t button it, and the cold air of Dearborn Street hit him like a fist. On his drive into the city, the car radio had announced that the mercury had dipped to three below. Winter in Chicago. The valet spotted him and went to get his car, which was parked in a prominent space less than twenty feet away.

In another week he’d be a married man. So much for keeping his personal life separate from his career. He handed the valet a fifty, then slid behind the wheel of his Spider and pulled away.