Hi guys! So to answer a few or your reviews YES YES YES this is a romitri! But as I said this isn't your normal fanfic as in they don't knowingly fall for each other straight away! It's going to take some time but don't let that get you down it just makes it all the more sweeter when they do and they have some ups and downs and adventures in between. So anyway here is another 6000+ word chapter enjoy!

PS as usual and everyone knows I don't own anything!

Chapter Three

The midnight blue Jaguar crept around the corner of Hoyne onto the narrow Wicker Park street. The woman behind the wheel peered at the house numbers through a pair of rimless Chanel sunglasses with tiny interlocking rhinestone Cs at the hinges. Strictly speaking, they were fashion sunglasses, which meant they barely had enough UV protection for even a cloudy day, but they looked incredible against her pale skin and cloud of dark hair, and Tasha Ozera didn't believe in sacrificing style for function. Not even her approaching birthday—her thirty-seventh to close acquaintances, her forty-second as her mother remembered it—would let her consider trading in her Christian Louboutin stilettos for Easy Spirits. Her ex-husband had said that Tasha's inky hair, winter white complexion, startling blue eyes, and whippet-thin body made her look like Snow White after a few months on the South Beach diet.

She slowed as she found what she was looking for on the tree-lined street. She'd never seen a more likely candidate for a teardown than this tiny frame house, which was painted a fading robin's egg blue with peeling periwinkle trim. A blistered black wrought-iron fence surrounded a patch of yard the size of her bathroom. The place looked like a gardening shed for one of the elegant two-story brick rehabs rising on each side of it. How had it managed to escape the wrecking ball that had already claimed most of Wicker Park's shabbier homes?

Tasha had spotted the Perfect for You folder on Dimitri Belikov's desk when she'd stopped by yesterday, and her formidable competitive instincts had gone into hyperdrive. In the past year, she'd lost two big clients to new agencies, and one husband to a twenty-three-year-old event planner. Failure had a smell to it, and she'd work herself to the bone before she ever let that smell cling to her. A few hours' research had unearthed the information that Perfect for You was simply a new name for Marriages by Myrna, a small-time operation that had been little more than a curiosity. The granddaughter had taken it over after Myrna Hathaway's death. A little more digging had revealed that this same granddaughter had gone to college with Christian's wife, Lissa. Tasha had let herself relax a little. Naturally Dimitri would feel obligated to give the girl a courtesy interview if his client's wife requested it, but he was too demanding to work with an amateur. She'd gone to bed with an easy mind… and had a painfully erotic dream about her prized client. Not that she'd ever consider acting on it. A fling with Belikov would be exciting, but she never let her personal life interfere with business.

Unfortunately, this morning's phone call had reignited her anxiety. Spiridon, the bartender at Probka's, was one of many well-placed service people who received lavish gifts from her in return for useful information, and he'd reported that a matchmaker named Rosemarie had shown up last night with a beautiful woman in tow whom she'd introduced to Dimitri. Tasha had set off for Wicker Park as soon as she could get away. She needed to see how big a threat the woman posed, but this derelict house proved that Perfect for You was a business only in Ms. Mazur's imagination. Belikov was simply making nice to please Christian's wife.

Feeling marginally reassured, she headed south toward the Loop for her monthly dermabrasion. She spent vast amounts of money keeping her complexion unlined and her body reed thin. Age might add to a man's power, but it stole from a woman's, and an hour later, makeup reapplied, complexion glowing, she entered the Power Matches offices on the first floor of a white-painted brick Victorian not far from the Newberry Library.

Inna, her receptionist-secretary looked guilty and quickly got off the phone. More child care problems. How could women ever get ahead when the burden of child care always fell on them? Tasha took in the calm elegance of the open office area with its cool green walls and low, Asian-inspired black couches. Her three assistants were at their desks, which were set apart with stylish parchment screens set in black lacquer frames. Ranging in age from twenty-two to twenty-nine, her assistants scouted the city's trendiest clubs and handled all the initial interviews. Tasha had hired them for their connections, brains, and looks. They were required to wear black on the job: simple, elegant dresses; slacks with classic tops; and well-fitting jackets. She had more latitude, and today she'd chosen pearl gray Ralph Lauren: a summer-weight cardigan, tailored blouse, pencil skirt, and pearls, all set off with lavender stilettos that had a girly bow across the vamp.

There were no clients in the office, so she made the dreaded announcement. "It's that day of the week, everybody. Chop, chop. Let's get the agony over with."

Iris Kane groaned. "I'm getting my period."

"You were getting your period last week," Tasha replied. "No excuses." Only her controller and the computer guru who ran the Power Matches Web site were exempt from this weekly ritual, since they didn't deal directly with clients. Besides, they were men, and didn't that just say it all?

Tasha walked toward her private office. "You, too, Inna."

"I'm the receptionist," Inna protested. "I don't have to be in the clubs at night."

Tasha ignored her. They all wanted the prestige of working for Power Matches, but nobody wanted the hard work and the discipline that went along with it. Discipline turns the dream into reality. How many times had she said those words to the women she mentored at the Community Small Business Initiative? And how many times had they chosen to ignore her?

Mirabel Conta had a chipper smile on her face, and Marcella didn't seem too worried, but if Iris kept frowning that way she'd need Botox before she hit thirty. Inside Tasha's office, half a dozen curry-colored ceramic pieces provided the only decorative accessories in a space dominated by glass, straight lines, and hard surfaces. Her personal preferences ran toward softer, more feminine interiors, but she believed a woman's office should project authority. Men could surround themselves with all the bowling trophies and family photos they wanted, but female executives didn't have that luxury.

As she made her way into her private bathroom, she heard the rustle of shoes and jackets being removed, the chink of discarded belts and bracelets. She slid the glass-and-chrome precision scale from beneath the pedestal sink with the pointed toe of her lavender Christian Louboutins, then picked it up and carried it out to the black marble office floor. By the time she extracted the chart she needed from her desk, Iris had stripped down to a navy bra and panty set.

"Who's brave enough to go first?"

"I will." Marcella Badica, a willowy Scandinavian beauty, mounted the scale.

"One hundred and twenty." Tasha noted the weight on her chart. "You've picked up a pound since last month, but with your height, that's not a problem. Your manicure, though…" She gestured toward the chipped mocha polish on Marcella's index finger. "Honestly, Marcella, how many times do I have to tell you? Appearances are everything. Get it fixed. Inna, you're next."

Inna's extra pounds were a foregone conclusion, but she had fabulous skin, a marvelous touch with makeup, and a way of putting clients at ease. Besides, the reception desk was high enough to cover the worst of her chub. "If you ever want to get another husband…"

"I know, I know," Inna said. "One of these days I'll get serious."

Mirabel, always a team player, took the heat off her. "My turn," she chirped. Flipping her silky black hair over one shoulder, she stepped on the scale.

"One hundred and two pounds," Tasha noted. "Excellent."

"It's a lot easier when you're Asian," Iris said sullenly. "Asian women are small-boned. I'm Jewish."

As she reminded them at every weigh-in. But Iris had a degree from Brown and connections to some of the wealthiest families on the North Shore. With her great hair—incredible caramel highlights—and her infallible eye for fashion, she radiated a Jennifer Aniston kind of sex appeal. Unfortunately, she didn't have Aniston's body. Tasha gestured toward the scale. "Let's put you out of your misery."

Iris balked. "I want to go on record. I find this demeaning and insulting."

"Possibly. But it's also for your own good, so up you go."

She reluctantly climbed on. Tasha noted the number with a sigh. "One hundred and twenty-seven pounds." Unlike Inna, Iris had no desk to hide behind. She was out in the clubs representing Power Matches. "Everybody else, back to work. Iris, we have to talk."

Iris hooked a lock of that gleaming hair behind her ear and looked sullen. Mirabel shot her a sympathetic glance then filed out with the others. Iris picked up her black Banana Republic sheath and held it in front of her. "This is discriminatory and illegal."

"My lawyer disagrees, and the employment contract you signed is clear. We talked about this before I hired you, remember? Personal appearance is paramount in this business, and I put my money where my standards are. No one offers the bonuses and benefits that I do. In my mind that means I deserve to be a little demanding."

"But I'm the best associate you have. I want to be judged by my work, not by how much I weigh."

"Then grow a penis." Iris still didn't understand that Tasha had their best interests at heart. "Did you even try?"

"Yes, but—"

"How tall are you?" Tasha knew the answer, but she wanted Iris to come to terms with this herself.

"Five feet four."

"Five feet four and one hundred twenty-seven pounds." She leaned against the hard glass ridge of her desktop. "I'm four inches taller. Let's see how much I weigh." Ignoring the resentment in Iris' eyes, she slipped off her shoes and sweater, dropped the pearls on her desk, and stepped on the scale. "One hundred and twenty-two. I'm up a bit. Oh, well. No carbs for me tonight." She stepped back into her shoes. "Do you see how easy it is? If I don't like what I see on the scale, I cut back."

Iris collapsed on the couch, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm not you."

Women who cried on the job reinforced every negative stereotype about females and the workplace, but Iris hadn't developed the hard shell of experience, and Tasha knelt at her side, trying to make her understand. "You're a terrific worker, Iris, and you have a great future. Don't let obesity stand in your way. Studies show that overweight women receive fewer job promotions and make less money. It's one more way the business world is stacked against us. But at least our weight is something we can control."

Iris regarded her mulishly. "One twenty-seven isn't obese."

"No, but it's not perfect, is it? And perfection is what we all need to strive for. Now go into my bathroom and take a few minutes to pull yourself together. Then get back to work."

"No!" Red-faced, Iris leaped to her feet. "No! I do a good job for you, and I don't have to put up with this. I'm quitting."

"Now, Iris—"

"I hate working for you! Nobody can ever live up to your expectations. Well, I don't care anymore. You might be rich and successful, but you don't have a life. Everybody knows that, and I feel sorry for you."

The words stung, but Tasha didn't flinch. "I have a very good life," she said coolly. "And I won't apologize for demanding excellence. Obviously, you're not prepared to give it, so clear out your desk." She walked to the door and held it open.

Iris was crying and furious, but she didn't have the nerve to say more. Clutching her dress in front of her, she rushed from the office. Tasha closed the door carefully, making sure it didn't slam, then leaned back and shut her eyes. Iris' angry words had struck home. By the age of forty-two, Tasha had expected to have everything she wanted, but despite all the money she'd made and the accolades she'd received, the pride of accomplishment eluded her. She had dozens of friends, but no soul-deep friendships, and she had a failed marriage. How could that have happened when she'd waited so long and chosen so carefully?

Isaiah had been her perfect match—a power match— urbane, wealthy, and successful. They'd been one of Chicago's A-list couples, invited to all the best parties, chairing an important benefit. The marriage should have worked, but it had barely lasted a year. Tasha would never forget what he'd said when he'd left. "I'm exhausted, Tasha… I'm too worried about having my dick cut off to get a good night's sleep."

Too bad she hadn't done just that because, three weeks later, he'd moved in with a bubble-headed twenty-three-year-old event planner who had breast implants and a giggle.

Tasha splashed half a bottle of Pellegrino into one of the Villeroy & Boch goblets Inna kept by her desk. Maybe someday Iris would understand what a mistake she'd made by not taking advantage of Tasha's willingness to mentor her. Or maybe not. Tasha wasn't exactly drowning in thank-you notes from either former employees or the women she tried to mentor.

Dimitri Belikov's file lay on her desk, and she sat down to study it. But as she gazed at the folder, she saw the gold teapot wallpaper in the kitchen of the Terre Haute house where she'd grown up. Her working-class parents had been content with their lives—the discount store clothes, the imitation wood end tables, the mass-produced oil paintings bought in a famous artists' sale at the Holiday Inn. But Tasha had always craved more. She'd used her allowance to buy magazines like Vogue and Town & Country. She'd posted photographs of beautiful houses and elegant furniture on her bedroom bulletin board. In junior high school, she'd terrified her parents with the crying jags she'd thrown if she didn't get an A on a test. Throughout her childhood, she'd ignored the fact that she'd inherited her father's eyes and coloring and pretended she was a victim of one of those freakish hospital mix-ups.

Straightening in her chair, she took another sip of Pelle-grino and turned her attention back to where it belonged, finding Dimitri Belikov the perfect wife. She might have lost two prominent clients and an equally prominent husband, but she wouldn't fail again. Nothing and no one would keep her from making this match.

The deep male voice rumbled its displeasure into the phone. "I've got a call coming in. You have thirty seconds."

"Not enough time," Rose replied. "We need to sit down together so I can get a more specific idea of what you're looking for." She didn't waste her breath asking him to complete the questionnaire she'd spent so many hours perfecting. The only way she'd get the information she needed was to pull it out of him.

"Let's put it this way," he retorted. "My future wife's idea of a good time is sitting in Soldier Field in January with the -wind blowing in off the lake at thirty knots. She can feed half a dozen college athletes a spaghetti dinner with no warning and play eighteen holes of golf from the men's tees without embarrassing herself. She's sexy as hell, knows how to dress, and thinks fart jokes are funny. Anything else?"

"It's just so darned hard to find women who've had lobot-omies these days. Still, if that's what you want…"

A muffled snort. Whether it was displeasure or laughter, she couldn't tell. "Would tomorrow morning be convenient?" she asked, chirpy as one of the cheerleaders he'd undoubtedly dated by the gross in his college playing days.

"No."

"Then name the time and place."

She heard a combined sigh of resignation and exasperation. "I have to see a client in Elmhurst in an hour. You can ride out there with me. Meet me in front of my office at two. And if you're not on time, I'm leaving without you."

"I'll be there."

She hung up and grinned at the woman sitting across the green metal bistro table from her. "Bingo."

Gwen Phelps Bingham set down her iced tea glass. "You talked him into filling out the questionnaire?"

"Sort of," Rose replied. "I'll have to interview him in his car, but it's better than nothing. I can't go any further until I get a more specific idea of what he wants."

"Boobs and blond hair. Be sure and give him my best." Gwen smiled and gazed toward the collection of weedy day-lilies that formed a border between her yard and the alley behind her Wrigleyville duplex. "I've got to admit, he's quite a hottie… if you like your men rough and tumble, but oh so rich and successful."

"I heard that." Gwen's husband, Ian, poked his head through the open patio door. "Rose, that big fruit basket doesn't even come close to making up for what you put me through last week."

"How about the year of free babysitting I promised?"

Gwen patted her nearly flat tummy. "You've got to admit, Ian, it was worth it just for that."

He wandered outside. "I'm not admitting anything. I've seen pictures of that guy, and he's still got hair."

Ian was more sensitive about his thinning hair than he should be, and Gwen regarded him affectionately. "I married you for your brain, not your hair."

"Dimitri Belikov graduated at the top of his law class." Rose said, just to make trouble. "So he's definitely got a brain, too. Which is why he was so captivated by our Gwennie."

Ian refused to bite. "Not to mention the minor fact that you told him she was a sex surrogate."

"Wrong. I told him she was an authority on sex surrogates. And I read her master's thesis, so I know it's true."

"Funny you neglected to mention she's now an elementary school psychologist."

"Considering everything else I neglected to mention, it seemed a minor point."

Rose had met Gwen and Ian right after college when they'd lived in the same apartment building. Despite his thinning hair, Ian was a great-looking guy, and Gwen adored him. If they weren't so much in love, Rose would never have considered asking to borrow Gwen for the evening, but Dimitri had backed her into a corner, and she'd been desperate. Although she had several women in mind for him to meet, she hadn't been certain any of them would score the knockout punch she needed to ensure that he'd sign her contract. Then she'd thought of Gwen, a woman who'd been born with that mysterious gene that made men whimper just from looking at her.

Ian was still feeling put-upon. "The guy's rich, successful, and good-looking."

"So are you," Gwen said loyally, "except for being rich, but we'll get there someday."

Ian's home-based software company had finally begun to show a profit, which was why they were about to move into their first house. Rose experienced one of those pangs of envy that hit her every other minute when she was with them. She wanted a relationship like this. Once she'd thought she had it with Jessie, which proved the folly of believing in following her heart.

She rose, patted Gwen's stomach, and gave Ian an extra hug. Not only had he lent her his wife, but he was also designing

Rose's Web site. Rose knew she needed a presence on the Web, but she didn't intend to turn Perfect for You into an Internet dating service. Nana had been vehement on the subject. "Three-quarters of the people who sign up for those things are already married, sex deviants, or in prison." Nana had exaggerated. Rose knew couples who'd found love online, but she also didn't believe any computer in the world could beat the personal touch.

She freshened up her makeup in Gwen's bathroom, checked her short khaki skirt and mint green blouse for stains, and set off downtown. She reached Dimitri's office building a few minutes early, so she ducked into the Starbucks across the street and ordered an overpriced mocha Frappuccino. As she came back outside, she saw him emerge with a cell phone pressed to his ear. He wore aviators, a light gray polo shirt, and slacks. An expensive-looking sports coat dangled over one shoulder from his thumb. Men like him should be required by law to carry a heart defibrillator.

He headed toward the curb, where a shiny black Cadillac Escalade with darkened windows sat with its motor idling. As he reached for the passenger-door handle, he didn't even glance around for her, and she realized he'd forgotten she existed. The story of her life.

"Wait!" She made a dash across the street, dodging a taxi and a red Subaru. Horns blared, brakes squealed, and Belikov looked up. He flipped his cell shut as she finally stepped up on the curb.

"I haven't seen anybody run a pattern like that since Bobby Tom Denton retired from the Stars."

"You were going to leave without me."

"I didn't see you."

"You didn't look!"

"Things on my mind." At least he held the back door of the rapmobile open for her, then climbed in at her side. The driver moved up the passenger seat for more legroom before he turned to check her out.

The driver was big and terrifyingly buff. Tattoos decorated a massive set of arms and the wrist he'd draped over the steering wheel. With his shaved head, wise-guy eyes, and crooked smile, he had a Bruce Willis's evil twin thing going that was sexy in a very scary sort of way. "Where we off to?" he asked.

"Elmhurst," Dimitri said. "Crenshaw wants me to see his new house."

As a Stars fan, Rose recognized the name of the team's running back.

"The Sox are up two-one," the driver said. "You want to listen in the back?"

"Yeah, but unfortunately I have some business I promised to take care of. Rosemarie, this is Ivan Zeklos, the best linebacker who never played for Kansas City."

"Second-round draft pick out of Arizona State," Ivan said as he pulled the SUV into the traffic. "Played two years for the Steelers. My right leg was crushed in a motorcycle accident the day I got traded to the Chiefs."

"That must have been terrible."

"You win some, you lose some, right, boss?"

"He calls me that to piss me off."

Ivan studied her in the rearview mirror. "So you're the matchmaker?"

"Marriage facilitator." Dimitri swiped her mocha Frappuccino.

"Hey!"

He took a drag on the straw, and Ivan chuckled. "Marriage facilitator, huh? You got your work cut out for you with the boss, Rosie. He has a long history of lovin' and leavin'." He made a left on LaSalle. "But here's what's ironic… The last woman he was interested in—some pooh-bah in the mayor's office—dumped him. How's that for a laugh?"

Dimitri yawned and stretched his legs. Despite his pricey wardrobe, she could easily imagine him in jeans, a ratty T-shirt, and scuffed-up work boots.

Ivan turned onto Congress. "She dumped him because of the way he screwed around on her."

Rose's stomach sank. "He was unfaithful?"

"Big-time." Ivan made a lane change. "He kept humpin' his cell phone."

Dimitri took another swig of the Frappuccino. "He's bitter because I'm successful, and he's screwed up for life."

No response from the front seat. What sort of weird relationship was this?

A cell rang. Not the same cell Dimitri had been talking on a few minutes earlier. This one came from the pocket of his sports coat. Apparently, he was ambi-phonorous.

"Belikov."

Rose took advantage of the distraction to reclaim her Frappuccino. As she closed her lips around the straw, she had the depressing thought that this would probably be as close as she'd get to swapping spit with a multimillionaire hunk.

"The restaurant business is littered with the dead bodies of great athletes, Rafe. It's your money, so I can only advise you, but…"

The downside of being a matchmaker meant that she might never have another date. When she met attractive single men, she had to turn them into clients, and she couldn't let her personal life complicate that. Not a problem in this particular case… She gazed at Dimitri. Just being near so much unbridled macho made her want to break out in hives. He even smelled sexy, like expensive sheets, good soap, and musky pheromones. The Frappuccino sliding down her throat didn't do much to cool her hot thoughts, and she faced the sad truth that she was sex starved. Two miserable years since she'd broken her engagement to Jessie… Way too long to sleep alone.

The opening bars of the William Tell Overture intruded. Dimitri had the gall to frown as she retrieved her phone. "Hello."

"Rosemarie, it's your mother."

She sank back into the seat, cursing herself for not remembering to turn the thing off.

Dimitri took advantage of her distraction to reclaim the Frappuccino while he continued his own conversation. "… it's all a matter of setting financial priorities. Once your family's secure, you can afford to take a flyer on a restaurant."

"I tracked the application through FedEx," Janine said, "so I know you got it. Have you filled it out yet?"

"Interesting question," Rose chirped. "Let me call you back later so we can discuss it."

"Let's discuss it now."

"You're a prince, Raoul. And thanks for last night. You were the best." She disconnected, then turned off her phone. There'd be hell to pay, but she'd worry about that later.

Dimitri ended his own call and regarded her through those chocolate brown, country boy's eyes. "If you're going to program your cell to play music, at least make it original."

"Thanks for the advice." She gestured toward the Frappuccino. "Luckily for you, there's only a slight chance I have diphtheria. Let me tell you, those skin lesions are a bitch."

The corner of his mouth kicked up. "Put the drink on my bill."

"You don't have a bill." She thought of the parking garage where she'd once again been forced to leave Sherman since she hadn't known how long they'd be gone. "Although I'm starting one today." She retrieved the questionnaire from her tropical print Target tote.

He eyed the papers with distaste. "I told you what I'm looking for."

"I know. Soldier Field, fart jokes, yada yada. But I need a little more than that. For example, what age group are you thinking of? And please don't say nineteen, blond, and busty."

"He's been there and done that, right, boss?" Ivan chimed in from the front seat. "For the last ten years."

Dimitri ignored him. "I've outgrown my interest in nineteen-year-olds. Let's say twenty-two to thirty. Nothing older. I want kids, but not for a while."

Which made Rose, at thirty-one, feel ancient. "What if she's divorced and already has children?"

"I haven't thought about it."

"Have you considered religious preference?"

"No fruitcakes. Other than that, I'm open-minded."

Rose made a note. "Would you date a woman who doesn't have a college degree?"

"Sure. What I don't want is a woman without a personality."

"If you had to describe your physical type in three words, what words would you choose?"

"Thin, toned, and hot," Ivan said from the front seat. "He's doesn't like a whole lot of booty."

Rose shifted her own booty deeper into the seat.

Dimitri ran his thumb over the metal band of his watch, a TAG Heuer, she noticed, similar to the one her brother Eddie had bought for himself when he'd been named St. Louis's top heart surgeon. "Gwen Phelps isn't in the phone book."

"Yes, I know. What are your turnoffs?"

"I'm going to find her."

"Why would you want to?" Rose said a little too hastily. "She's not interested."

"You really don't think I can be put off that easily, do you?"

She made a business of clicking her pen and perusing the questionnaire. "Your turnoffs?"

"Flakes. Gigglers. Too much perfume. Cubs fans."

Her head shot up. "I love the Cubbies."

"Surprise, surprise."

She decided to let that one pass.

"You never dated a redhead," Ivan offered.

Dimitri eyed the back of Ivan's neck where a Maori warrior's tattoo curled into his shirt collar. "Maybe I should let my faithful manservant answer the rest of your questions, since he seems to have all the answers."

"I'm saving her time," Ivan replied. "She brings you a redhead, you'll give her grief. Look for women with class, Rosie. That's most important. The sophisticated types who went to boarding schools and speak French. She has to be the real thing because he can spot a phony a mile away. And he likes them athletic."

"Of course he does," she said dryly. "Athletic, domestic, gorgeous, brilliant, socially connected, and pathologically submissive. It'll be a snap."

"You forgot hot." Dimitri smiled. "And defeatist thinking is for losers. If you want to be a success in this world, Rose, you need a positive attitude. Whatever the client wants, you get it for him. First rule of a successful business."

"Uh-huh. What about career women?"

"I don't see how that would work."

"The kind of potential mate you're describing isn't going to be sitting around waiting for her prince to show up. She's heading a major corporation. In between those Victoria's Secret modeling gigs."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Attitude, Rose. Attitude."

"Right."

"A career woman can't fly across the country with me on two hours' notice to entertain a client's wife," he said.

"Two on, no outs." Ivan flipped up the volume.

As the men listened to the game, Rose contemplated her notes with a sinking heart. How was she going to find a woman who met all these criteria? She couldn't. But then neither could Tasha Ozera, because a woman like this didn't exist.

What if Rose took a different path? What if she found the woman Dimitri Belikov really needed instead of the woman he thought he needed? She doodled in the margin of the questionnaire. What made this guy tick besides money and conquest? Who was the real man behind the multiple cell phones? On the surface, he was all polish, but she knew from Lissa that he'd grown up with an abusive father. Apparently, he'd started rooting around in the neighbors' garbage looking for things to sell before he could read, and he'd been working ever since.

They headed north toward the prosperous suburb of Elmhurst. Dimitri consulted his BlackBerry. "I'll be at Probka's tomorrow night at six. Bring on your next candidate."

She turned her doodle into a stop sign. "Why now?"

"Because I just rearranged my schedule."

"No, I mean why have you decided now that you want to get married?"

"Because it's time."

Before she could ask what that meant, he was back on his cell. "I know you're nearly capped out, Ron, but I also know you don't want to lose a great running back. Tell Mia she's going to have to make some adjustments."

And so, apparently, was Rose.

Ivan sent her back to the city in a cab paid for by Dimitri. By the time she'd retrieved Sherman and driven home, it was after five. She let herself in through the back door and tossed her things down on the kitchen table, a pine drop leaf Nana had bought in the 1980s when she'd gone big on country-style decorating. The appliances were vintage but still serviceable, just like the farm-table chairs with their faded mattress-ticking pillows. Although Rose had lived in the house for three months, she'd always think of it as Nana's, and tossing out the dusty grapevine wreath along with the ruffled cranberry curtain at the kitchen window were about as much as she'd done to update the eating area.

Some of her happiest childhood memories had taken place in this kitchen, especially during the summers when she'd come for a week to visit. She and Nana used to sit at this very table, talking about everything. Her grandmother had never laughed at her daydreams, not even when Rose had turned eighteen and announced that she intended to study theater and become a famous actress. Nana dealt only in possibility. It hadn't occurred to her to point out that Rose possessed not the fine talent to hit it big on Broadway.

The doorbell rang, and she went to answer it. Years earlier, Nana had converted the living and dining rooms into the reception and office areas for Marriages by Myrna. Like her grandmother, Rose lived in the rooms upstairs. Since Nana's death, Rose had repainted and modernized the dining room office space with a computer and a more efficient desk arrangement.

The old front door had a center oval of frosted glass, but the beveled border allowed her to see the distorted figure of Mr. Dashkov. She wished she could pretend she wasn't home, but he lived across the alley, so he'd seen her pull up in Sherman. Although Wicker Park had lost many of its elderly to gentrification, a few holdouts still lived in the houses where they'd raised their families. Others had moved into a nearby senior living facility, and still others lived on the less expensive fringe streets. Every one of them had known her grandmother.

"Hello, Mr. Dashkov."

"Rosemarie." He had a lean, wiry build and gray caterpillar eyebrows with a Mephistophelean slant. The hair missing from his head sprouted copiously from his ears, but he was a natty dresser, wearing long-sleeved checked sports shirts and polished oxfords even on the warmest days.

He glared at her from beneath his satanic eyebrows. "You was supposed to call me. I left three messages."

"You were next on my list," she lied. "I've been out all day."

"And don't I know it. Running around like a chicken with your head cut off. Myrna used to stay put so people could find her." He had the accent of a born-and-bred Chicagoan and the aggression of a man who'd spent his life driving a truck for the gas company. He bulldozed past her into the house. "What are you going to do about my situation?"

"Mr. Dashkov, your agreement was with my grandmother."

"My agreement was with Marriages by Myrna, 'Seniors Are My Specialty,' or have you forgotten your grammie's slogan?"

How could she forget, when it was plastered over every one of the dozens of yellowed notepads Nana had scattered around the house? "That business no longer exists."

"Bull pippy." He made a sharp gesture around the reception area, where Rose had exchanged Nana's wooden geese, silk flower arrangements, and milk-can end tables for a few pieces of Mediterranean-style pottery. Since she couldn't afford to replace the ruffled chairs and couches, she'd added pillows in a cheery red, cobalt, and yellow Provencal print that complemented the creamy new buttercup paint.

"Addin' some doodads don't change a thing," he said. "This is still a matchmaker business, and me and your grammie had a contract. With a guarantee."

"You signed that contract in 1989," she pointed out, not for the first time.

"I paid her two hundred dollars. In cash."

"Since you and Mrs. Dashkov were together for almost fifteen years, I'd say you got your money's worth."

He whipped a dog-eared paper from his pants pocket and waved it at her. " 'Satisfaction guaranteed.' That's what this contract says. And I'm not satisfied. She 'went loony on me."

"I know you had a difficult time of it, and I'm sorry about Mrs. Dashkov's passing."

"Sorry don't cut the mustard. I didn't have satisfaction even when she was alive."

Rose 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. Dashkov 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. Dashkov."

"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. Dashkov, 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.