Soo I had this already sitting around a figured I may as well post it…

Chapter Two

Adrian Ivashkov entered the club like a frigging movie star, a linen sports coat draped over his shoulders, diamond studs glittering in his earlobes, and a pair of Oakleys shading his emerald green eyes. With his rakish stubble, and brown, just-woke-up hair all shiny and gel-rumpled, he was L.A.'s gift to the city of Chicago. Dimitri grinned, glad for the distraction. The boy had style, and the Windy City had missed him.

"Do you know Adrian?" The blonde trying to drape herself over Dimitri's right arm watched as Ivashkov flashed the crowd his red carpet smile. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the crap music coming from the dance floor of Waterworks, the site of tonight's private party. Although the Sox were playing in Cleveland and the Bulls hadn't drifted back to town yet, the city's other teams were -well represented at the party, mainly players from the Stars and Bears, but also most of the Cubs outfield, a couple of Blackhawks, and a goalie for the Chicago Fire. Added to the mix were a few actors, a rock star, and women, dozens of them, each more beautiful than the next, the sexual plunder of the rich and famous.

"Sure he knows Adrian." The brunette on his other side gave the blonde a condescending look. "Dimitri knows every football player in town, doncha, lover?" As she spoke, she surreptitiously slid her hand around his inner thigh, but Dimitri ignored his hard-on, just as he'd been ignoring all his hard-ons since he'd gone into training for marriage.

Going into training for marriage was hell.

He reminded himself that he'd gotten where he was by sticking to a plan, and being married before he hit thirty-five was the next step. His wife would be the ultimate symbol of his accomplishments, the final proof that he'd left the Beau Vista Trailer Park behind him forever.

"I know him," he said. He didn't add that he hoped to know him a whole lot better.

As Ivashkov moved deeper into the room, the Waterworks crowd parted, making way for the former Southern Cal player who'd been tapped by the Stars to take over as the team's first-string quarterback when Christian Ozera hung up his spikes at the end of the upcoming season. A hint of mystery surrounded Adrian Ivashkov's family background, and the quarterback typically gave vague answers when anyone tried to pry. Dimitri had done a little digging on his own and unearthed some interesting rumors, but he kept them to himself. The Zagorski brothers, slobbering over a pair of brunettes at the other end of the bar, finally became aware of what was happening and shot to attention. Within seconds, they were stumbling over all four of their Prada loafers trying to be the first to get to him.

Dimitri took another sip of beer and left them to it. The Zagorskis' interest in Ivashkov didn't surprise him. The quarterback's agent had died in a rock-climbing incident five days earlier, leaving him without representation, something the Zagorski brothers, and every other agent in the country, hoped to rectify. The Zagorskis ran Z-Group, the only Chicago sports management business that rivaled Dimitri's. He hated their guts, mainly for their ethics, but also because they'd stolen a first-round draft pick from him five years ago when he'd needed it most. He'd retaliated by taking Shane Reyes from them, which hadn't been all that hard to do. The Zagorskis were good at making big promises to their clients but not as good at delivering them.

Dimitri had no illusions about his profession. In the past ten years, the business of being a sports agent had grown more corrupt than a cockfight. In most states licensing was a joke. Any two-bit hustler could print up a business card, call himself a sports agent, and prey on gullible college athletes, especially the guys who'd grown up with nothing. These sleazeballs slipped them money under the table, promised cars and jewelry, hired hookers, and paid "bounties" to anybody who could deliver the signature of a high-profile athlete on a management contract. Some reputable agents had left the business because they didn't believe they could be both honest and competitive, but Dimitri wouldn't be driven away. Despite the sleaze factor, he loved what he did. He loved the adrenaline rush of signing a client, of making the deal. He loved seeing how far he could push the rules. That's what he did best. He pushed the rules… but he didn't break them. And he never cheated a client.

He watched Ivashkov bend his head to hear what the Zagorski boys were saying. Dimitri wasn't worried. Ivashkov might be an L.A. glamour boy, but he wasn't stupid. He knew every agent in the country was after him, and he wouldn't be making any decisions tonight.

A sex kitten Dimitri had slept with a couple of times in his pre-training camp days zeroed in on him, hair swaying, nipples puckered like overripe cherries beneath her slinky top. "I'm taking a poll. If you could only have one kind of sex for the rest of your life, what would it be? So far the vote's running three to one in favor of oral."

"How about I just vote for heterosexual."

All three of the women laughed uproariously, as if they'd never heard anything funnier. He was the king of stand-up comics, all right.

The party began to heat up, and a few of the women on the dance floor started running through the jets of water that gave Waterworks its name. Their clothes melted to their bodies, outlining every curve and hollow. He'd loved the club scene when he'd first come to town, the music and booze, the beautiful women and free sex, but by the time he'd hit thirty, he'd grown jaded. Still, making the scene, bullshit or not, was an important part of his business, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been in bed alone at a decent hour.

"Dimitri, my man."

He grinned as Ryan Aylesworth approached. The Chicago Bears rookie was a great-looking kid, tall and muscular with a square jaw and mischievous brown eyes. The two of them executed one of a dozen or so tricky handshakes Dimitri had mastered over the years.

"How's the Python doin' tonight?" Ryan asked.

"No complaints." Dimitri had worked hard to recruit the Ohio State fullback, and when Ryan had gone ninth to the Bears in the first round of last April's draft, it had been one of those perfect moments that made up for all the crap. Ryan was a hard worker, and he came from a great family. Dimitri intended to do everything he could to keep him out of trouble.

He signaled the women that he wanted some privacy, and Ryan looked only momentarily disappointed as they faded away. Like everyone else in the club, he wanted to talk about Ivashkov. "Why aren't you over there kissing Adrian's skinny white ass like everybody else?"

"I do my ass kissing in private."

"Ivashkov's one smart dude. He's gonna take his time findin' a new agent."

"Can't blame him. He's got a great future."

"You want me to put in a word with him?"

"Sure." Dimitri hid a grin. Ivashkov wouldn't give a damn about the recommendation of a rookie. The only person's opinion Adrian Ivashkov might care about would be Christian Ozera's, and even that wasn't certain. Adrian alternated between idolizing Christian and resenting him because Chris had stayed healthy last season, which kept Adrian on the bench for one more year.

"So what's this I been hearing about you givin' up women? All the ladies tonight are talkin' about it. They're feeling neglected, you know what I'm sayin'?"

No use trying to explain to a twenty-two-year-old kid with freshly minted hundred-dollar bills stuffed into every pocket that the chase had gotten old. "I've been busy."

"Too busy for pussy?"

Ryan looked so honestly dumbfounded that Dimitri laughed. And, face it, the kid had a point. Everywhere Dimitri looked, ripe breasts spilled from plunging necklines, and tiny skirts cupped soft, sweet asses. But he wanted more than sex. He wanted the ultimate prize. Someone polished, beautiful, and sweet. He imagined his silver spoon wife, lithe and lovely, the calm in the center of his storm. She'd always have his back, keep his rough edges smoothed down. She'd be the woman who'd finally make him feel as though he'd achieved everything he'd dreamed of. Except playing for the Dallas Cowboys.

He smiled at his boyhood fantasy. That one he'd had to let go of, right along with his teenage plan to nail a different porn star every night. He'd gone to the University of Illinois on a football scholarship and played first team all four years. But as a senior, he'd accepted the fact that he'd never be good enough to be more than a third-stringer for the pros. Even then he'd known he couldn't dedicate his life to being anything but the best, so he'd turned his dreams in another direction. He'd gotten top marks on his LSATs, and an influential U of I alum had pulled the political strings that got him into Harvard. Dimitri had learned to utilize his brains, his street smarts, and his ability to camouflage himself so that he could fit in anywhere: a tenement, a locker room, the deck of a private yacht.

Although he made no secret of his country boy roots— flaunted them when he needed to—he didn't let anybody see how much dirt still clung to those roots. He wore the best clothes, drove the best cars, lived at the best address. He knew wine, even if he seldom drank it; understood the fine arts academically, if not aesthetically; and didn't need a reference book to identify a fish fork.

"I know what your problem is," Ryan said, mischief in his eyes. "Chicks here don't have enough class for Mister Ivy League. You rich guys like your ladies with big fancy monograms tattooed on their asses."

"Yeah, so they match up with that big, fancy Harvard H I've got tattooed on mine."

Ryan started laughing, and the women drifted back to see what was so funny. A few years ago, Dimitri would have enjoyed their predatory sexuality. From the time he was a kid, women had been attracted to him. When he was thirteen, he'd been worked over by one of his father's girlfriends. Now he knew it had been sexual abuse, but at the time he hadn't understood, and he'd been so panicky and guilt stricken that he'd thrown up for fear of the old man finding out. One more sordid episode in a childhood filled with them.

He'd put most of the remnants of that childhood behind him, and the rest would disappear when he found the right woman. Or when Tasha Ozera found her for him. After spending the past year looking on his own, he'd realized the woman of his dreams wouldn't be hanging out in the clubs and sports bars where he spent his so-called leisure time. Still he'd never have thought of hiring a matchmaker if he hadn't seen a glowing article about Tasha in Chicago magazine and Christian's recomendadtion. Her impressive connections and formidable track record were exactly what he needed.

Rosemarie Hathaway-Mazur, on the other hand, wasn't. As a professional hard-ass, he didn't usually let himself get suckered in, but all that desperate earnestness had gotten to him. He remembered her awful yellow suit, her big brown doe eyes, those flushed round cheeks, and long brown hair. She'd looked as though she'd tumbled out of Santa's bag after a bad sleigh ride.

He should have kept his mouth shut about his wife hunt around Christian, but how could he have known his star client not only had an aunt in the matchmaking business but also his wife, Lissa, would have a friend in the business? As soon as Dimitri sat through the introduction he'd promised, Rose Mazur and her screwball operation were history.

A little after one in the morning, Adrian Ivashkov finally made his way to Dimitri's side. Despite the club's dim lighting, the boy still wore his Oakleys, but he'd ditched his sports coat, and his sleeveless white silk T-shirt showed off the Holy Grail of football shoulders—big, strong, and unmarred by arthroscopic surgery. Adrian propped one hip on the empty bar stool that opened up next to Dimitri. As he extended his leg for balance, he revealed a tan leather cap-toe boot Dimitri had heard one of the women say was from Dolce & Gabbana.

"Okay, Belikov, your turn to suck up."

Dimitri set his elbow on the bar. "My condolences on your loss. McGruder was a good agent."

"He hated your guts."

"I hated his, too, but he was still a good agent, and there aren't a whole lot of us left." He studied the quarterback more closely. "Shit, Ivashkov, you been bleaching your hair?"

"Highlights. You like 'em?"

"If you were any prettier, I'd want to date you."

Ivashkov grinned. "You'd have to stand in line."

Both of them knew they weren't talking about dating.

"I like you, Belikov," Ivashkov said, "so I'm going to tell you up front. You're out of the running. I'd be stupid to sign with the agent who's at the top of Mia Rinaldi's shit list."

"The only reason I'm on that list is because Mia's cheap." Not entirely true, but this wasn't the time to go into the complexities of his relationship with the owner of the Chicago Stars. "Mia doesn't like the fact that I won't roll over and play dead for her like everybody else. "Why don't you ask Christian if he has any complaints?"

"Yeah, well, Chris happens to be married to Mia's sister and I don't, so the situation isn't exactly the same. The truth is, I already piss Ms. Rinaldi off without even trying, and I'm not going to make it worse by hiring you."

Once again, Dimitri's dysfunctional relationship with Mia Rinaldi was getting in the way of what he wanted. No matter how hard he tried to fix things with her, his early mistakes kept coming back to bite him in the ass. He never let the pressure show and only shrugged. "You gotta do what you gotta do."

"You guys are all bloodsuckers," Adrian said bitterly. "You take two, three percent off the top, and for doing what? For pushing a few papers around. Big fucking deal. How many two-a-days have you sweated through?"

"Not as many as you, that's for damn sure. I was too busy getting A's in my classes on contract law."

Ivashkov smiled.

Dimitri smiled back. "And just so we're straight… When it comes to those big endorsements I've been landing for my clients, I take a hell of a lot more than three percent off the top."

Ivashkov didn't blink. "The Zagorskis are guaranteeing me Nike. Can you do that?"

"I never guarantee what I don't have in my pocket." He took a sip of beer. "I don't bullshit my clients, at least about anything important. I also don't steal from them, lie to them, or disrespect them behind their backs. There's no agent in the business who works harder than I do. Not a one. And that's all I've got to offer." He rose, pulled out his money clip, and slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. "If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me."

* * *

When Dimitri got home that night, he pulled the smudged invitation from his dresser drawer. He kept it lying around as a reminder of the gut-wrenching pain he'd felt when he'd first opened it. He'd been twenty-three.

You are cordially invited to attend the marriage of Galina Ames Shelton

and

Dimitri A. Belikov

The Silver Anniversary Celebration of

Victoria and Douglas Pierce Shelton III

and

The Golden Anniversary Celebration of Mildred and Douglas Pierce Shelton II

Valentine's Day

2:00 p.m.

The Manor

East Hampton, New York

The wedding planner had sent him the invitation by mistake, not realizing he was the groom, which spoke volumes all by itself. For the first time he'd discovered his marriage to Galina was just one cog of a well-oiled family production. All his securities came crashing in. He'd known it was too good to be true, Galina Shelton falling in love with a guy who was grubbing his way through law school by cleaning out septic tanks.

"I don't see why you're so upset about this," Galina had said when he'd confronted her. "The dates just worked out that way. You should be happy we're keeping up the tradition. Getting married on Valentine's Day is good luck in my family."

"This isn't just any Valentine's Day," he retorted. "Golden anniversary, silver anniversary . . . What would you have done for a husband if I hadn't come along on schedule?"

"But you did, so I don't see the problem."

He'd pleaded with her to change the date, but she'd refused. "If you love me, you'll do this my way," she'd said.

He had loved her, but after a week of sleepless nights, he'd realized she only loved him as a convenience.

The wedding had gone on with one of Galina's childhood friends standing in as the third-generation Valentine's Day groom. It had taken Dimitri months to recover. Two years later, the couple had divorced, putting a permanent end to Shelton family tradition, but he'd felt no satisfaction.

Galina wasn't the first person he'd given his heart to. As a kid, he'd given it away to everybody, beginning with his drunken father and continuing through the never-ending stream of transient women the old man had brought home. As each woman entered that beat-up trailer, Dimitri had prayed she'd be the one who'd make up for his mother's death.

When the women didn't work out—and they never did— he'd given his love to the stray dogs that ended up as roadkill on the nearby highway, to the old biddy in the next trailer who screamed at him if his ball landed near her tractor tire garden, to classroom teachers who had children of their own and didn't want another. But it had taken his experience with Galina before he'd finally learned the lesson he never let himself forget. His emotional survival depended on not falling in love.

Someday he hoped that would change. He'd love his kids, that was for damn sure. He'd never let them grow up as he had. As for his wife… That would take a while. But once he was sure she'd stick, he'd give it a try. For now, he intended to treat his search for her like he'd treat any other part of his business, which was why he'd hired the best matchmaker in the city. And why he had to get rid of Rosemarie Hathaway-Mazur…

* * *

Less than twenty-four hours later, Dimitri entered Probaka, his favorite restaurant, to do the job. Rose had screwup stamped all over her, and this was a big waste of time he didn't have to spare. As he headed to his regular table in the far corner of the well-lit bar, he called out a greeting in Russian to Paval, the owner. Dimitri had learned the language in college instead of from his Russian father, who'd only spoken Drunk. The old man had died from a combination of emphysema and cirrhosis of the liver when Dimitri was twenty. He had yet to shed a tear.

He made a quick call to Caleb Crenshaw, the Stars' running back, and another to Phil Tyree in New Orleans. The alarm on his watch buzzed just as he finished. Nine o'clock. He looked up, and sure enough, Rose Mazur was heading toward him. But it was the blond knockout at her side who claimed his attention. Whoa… Where had this one come from? Her short, straight hair fell in a trendy cut to her jaw. She had perfectly balanced features and a long, leggy figure. So, Rose hadn't been all talk.

His matchmaker was half a head shorter than the woman she'd brought to meet him. Her tangle of brown hair gleamed around her small head. The short white jacket she wore with a lime green sundress was a definite improvement over yesterday's ensemble, but she still looked like a scatterbrained tree fairy. He rose as she performed the introductions.

"Gwen, I'd like you to meet Dimitri Belikov. Dimitri, this is Gwen Phelps."

Gwen Phelps looked him over with a pair of intelligent brown eyes that tilted attractively down at the corners. "A pleasure," she said in a deep, low voice. "Rose's told me all about you."

"I'm glad to hear it. That means we can talk about you, which I can see right away will be a lot more interesting." It was a corny line, and he thought he heard a snort, but when he shot a quick glance at Rose, he saw in her expression only eagerness to please.

"Somehow I doubt that." Gwen slipped gracefully into the chair he held out for her. The woman oozed class. Rose tugged on the opposite chair, but it caught on the table leg. Concealing his annoyance, he reached over to free it. She was a walking disaster, and he regretted ordering her to sit with them, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. When he'd decided to hire a matchmaker, he'd also promised he'd make the process efficient. He'd already sat through a couple of Power Matches introductions. Even before the drinks had arrived, he'd known neither woman was right for him, but he'd wasted a couple of hours getting rid of them. This one, however, showed definite promise.

Spiridon came over from the bar to take their orders. Gwen asked for club soda, Rose for something terrifying called a green phantom. She regarded him with the bright, too-eager expression of a dog owner waiting for her prized pooch to perform his tricks. So much for expecting her to lead the conversation. "Are you a native Chicagoan, Gwen?" he asked.

"I grew up in Rockford, but I've been in the city for years. Bucktown."

Bucktown was a near north neighborhood popular with the younger crowd. He'd lived there for a while himself, and they exchanged general Bucktown chat, which was exactly the sort of getting nowhere bullshit he'd wanted to avoid. He shot Miss Matchmaker a look. She wasn't stupid, and she took the hint.

"You'll be interested to know that Gwen's a psychologist. She's one of the country's leading authorities on sex surrogates."

That got his attention. He suppressed every locker room comment that sprang into his head. "An unusual field of study."

"Sex surrogacy is very misunderstood," the beautiful psychologist replied. "When it's properly used, it can be a wonderful therapeutic tool. I've made it my mission to bring it out from the shadows."

She began giving him an overview of her profession. She was good-humored, sharp, and sexy. God, was she sexy. He'd way underestimated Rose Mazur's matchmaking skills. Just as he began to relax into the conversation, however, Rose glanced at her watch and rose. "Time's up," she announced, in a chipper voice that set his teeth on edge.

The sexy psychologist came to her feet with a smile. "It's been lovely meeting you, Dimitri."

"My pleasure." Since he was the one who'd set the time limit, he concealed his irritation. He'd never expected a goof-ball like Rose to produce a stunner like this first time up at bat. Gwen gave Rose a quick hug, smiled at him again, and made her way out of the restaurant. Rose settled back into her chair, took a sip from her green phantom, then dug into her tote, this one turquoise blue with sequined palm trees. Seconds later, he was gazing at a contract identical to the one she'd left on his desk yesterday.

"I guarantee a minimum of two introductions a month." A springy lock of hair fell over her forehead. "I charge't-ten thousand dollars for six months." He didn't miss either the stammer or the high color rising in those chipmunk cheeks. Rose was going for the gusto. "Normally, the fee would include a session with an image consultant, but…" Her gaze took in his haircut, touched up every two weeks at eighty bucks a pop, his black Versace dress shirt, and pale gray Joseph Abboud slacks. "I, uh, think we can dispense with that."

Damn right they could. Dimitri had crap taste when it came to clothes, but image was everything in his profession, and just because he didn't give a damn what he wore didn't mean his clients felt the same way. A very gay, very discriminating wardrobe consultant purchased everything Dimitri wore, and he'd forbidden Dimitri to match up any shirts, pants, or ties that weren't already coordinated on the charts hanging in his closet.

"Ten thousand is steep for someone with no track record," he said.

"Like you, I believe in charging what I'm worth." Her eyes hung up on his mouth.

He suppressed a smile. Rose needed to practice her poker face. "I've already paid through the nose for my contract with Tasha Ozera."

The small cupid's bow at the center of her top lip grew a little pale, but she had game. "And how many women has she introduced you to like Gwen?"

She had him there, and this time he didn't hide his smile. Instead, he picked up the contract and started to read. The ten thousand dollars was a bluff, nothing more than wishful thinking on her part. Still, there was Gwen Phelps. He scanned the two pages. He could lowball her, but how far did he want to go? The art of the deal required that everybody come out feeling like a winner. Otherwise, resentment got in the way of performance.

He pulled out his Mont Blanc and began making modifications, scratching through a clause here and there, amending another, adding one of his own. Finally, he slid the papers back to her. "Five thousand up front. I only fork over the balance if you've found the right woman."

The flecks of gold in her brown eyes flashed like the glitter embedded in a kid's yo-yo. "That's unacceptable. You're practically asking me to work for free."

"Five thousand dollars isn't exactly chicken feed. You have no track record with someone like me."

"And yet I brought you Gwen."

"How do I know she's not all you've got? There's a big difference between talking a good game and playing one." He flicked his thumb toward the contract. "The ball's yours."

She snatched up the pages and glowered as she scanned the changes he'd made, but finally she signed, as he'd known she would. He did the same, then kicked back in his chair and studied her. "Hand over Gwen Phelps's phone number. I'll set up the next date myself."

She tugged on her bottom lip, revealing small, white teeth.

"I have to check with her first. It's an agreement I make with all the women I introduce."

"Sensible. But I'm not too worried."

As she reached for her cell, he glanced at his watch. He was tired. He'd spent the day in Cleveland, and he still needed to make a quick stop at Waterworks to see if he could pick up any new scuttlebutt on Adrian Ivashkov. Tomorrow he was scheduled from breakfast straight through until midnight. Friday, he had an early morning flight to Phoenix and, the following week, trips to Tampa and Baltimore. If he had a wife, his overnight case would be packed when he needed it, and he'd be able to find something other than beer in the refrigerator after a late-night flight. He'd also have somebody to talk over his day with, a chance to let down his guard without worrying about the country twang that crept into his speech when he was tired, or inadvertently dropping an elbow on the table while he was eating a sandwich, or any of the other crap he always had to be aware of. Most of all, he'd have somebody who'd stick.

"Gwen, it's Rose. Thanks again for agreeing to meet Dimitri on such short notice." She shot him a pointed look. Rosemarie was chastising him. "He's asked for your phone number. I happen to know he's planning a dinner date at"—another pointed look tossed his way—"Charlie Trotter's."

He wanted to laugh, but he deadpanned her so she didn't get too full of herself.

She paused, listened, and nodded. He pulled out his cell and paged through the list of calls that had come in while he was talking to Gwen. It wasn't quite nine o'clock in Denver. He still had time to check in with Jamal to see how his hamstring was coming along.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I'll pass it on. Thanks." She flipped her cell closed, slipped it into her tote, then gazed at him across the table. "Gwen liked you. But only as a friend."

For one of the few times in his life, he was struck speechless.

"I was afraid that might happen," she said briskly. "The twenty-minute time frame didn't exactly give you a chance to put your best foot forward."

He stared at her, not quite able to believe what he was hearing.

"Gwen asked me to pass on her best wishes. She thinks you're very good-looking, and she's sure you won't have any trouble finding someone more suitable."

Gwen Phelps had rejected him?

"We might…" Rose said thoughtfully, "… need to start looking a little lower on the female totem pole."

I know I know Who the hell is Gwen?! Well I didn't feel comfortable putting anyone from VA in that role so I made someone up. Anyway thanks for the positive reviews and hopefully ill update shortly!