Authors note. Sooo a few of you have been asking if im going to continue the story and the answer is yes definitely I've just been really really busy but im finally home now and things are settling down for now so I thought I'd give you this. And it's a decent sized chappy too being well over 7500 words!

Chapter Six

That woman doesn't know a damn thing about running a business," Dimitri grumbled as Ivan shot through an I-Pass lane at the York Road toll plaza heading east for the Eisenhower Expressway. "Neither of her numbers are working. We'll have to find her."

"Suits me," Ivan said. "I've got plenty of time before my date tonight."

Dimitri placed a call to his office, got Rose's Wicker Park address, and forty-five minutes later, they drew up in front of a tiny blue-and-lavender gingerbread house stuck between two very expensive-looking town houses. "Looks like Bo Peep's love nest," he said as Ivan pulled to the curb.

"The front door's open, so she's home." Ivan peered toward the house. "I'm going to run up to Earwax and grab some coffee while you fight with her. You want me to bring you back something?"

Dimitri shook his head. Earwax was a funky Milwaukee Avenue coffeehouse that had become a Wicker Park institution. Ivan, with his shaved head and tattoos, fit right in there, but then so did everybody else. Ivan drove off, and Dimitri made his way through an old iron gate leading to a doormat-size lawn containing neatly mowed crabgrass. He heard Rose's voice even before he reached the door.

"I'm doing my best, Mr. Dashkov."

"That last one was too old," a wheezy voice replied.

"She's nearly ten years younger than you are."

"Seventy-one. That's too old."

Stopping at the open door, Dimitri saw Rose standing in the middle of a cheery blue-and-yellow room that seemed to serve as her reception area. She wore a short white T-shirt, a pair of low-slung jeans, and rainbow flip-flops. She'd caught her hair up on top of her head in a messy bun of a little whale spout that made her look like a brunette Pebbles Flintstone, except with a better body.

A bald, elderly man with bushy eyebrows glowered down at her. "I told you I wanted a lady in her thirties."

"Mr. Dashkov, most women in their thirties are looking for a man who's a little closer to their own age."

"That shows what you know. Women like older men. They know that's where the money is."

Dimitri smiled, enjoying himself for the first time all day. As he stepped over the threshold, Rose spotted him. Her brown eyes widened as if a big bad dinosaur had shown up at the door of the Flintstones' cave. "Dimitri? What are you doing here?"

"You don't seem to be answering your phone."

"That's because she's been trying to dodge me," the elderly man interjected.

Rose's whale spout hairdo twitched indignantly. "I wasn't trying to dodge you. Look, Mr. Dashkov, I need to talk with Mr. Belikov. You and I can discuss this some other time."

"Oh, no you don't." Mr. Dashkov crossed his arms over his chest. "You're just trying to weasel out of that contract."

Dimitri made an open-handed, accommodating gesture. "Don't mind me. I'll just stand here and watch."

She shot him an exasperated look. He drew in the corners of his mouth and moved closer to the couch, which improved his view of her clingy white T-shirt. His eyes drifted down a trim pair of legs to her feet and then her toes, which were painted a sparkly grape with white polka dots. Pebbles had her own sense of style.

She returned her attention to her elderly visitor. "I don't weasel," she said hotly. "Mrs. Valerio happens to be a lovely woman, and you two have a lot in common."

"She's too old," the man shot back. "Satisfaction guaranteed, remember? That's what the contract said, and my nephew's a lawyer."

"So you've mentioned before."

"A good one, too. He went to a real good law school."

The steely glint that appeared in Rose's eyes didn't bode well for poor Mr. Dashkov. "As good as Harvard?" she said triumphantly. "Because that's where Mr. Belikov went to school, and"—she zeroed in on him—"he's my lawyer."

Dimitri lifted an eyebrow.

The old man studied him suspiciously, and Rose's cheeks plumped in a kitten-ate-the-cream smile. "Mr. Dashkov, this is Dimitri Belikov, otherwise known as the Python, but don't let that worry you. He hardly ever sends seniors to prison. Dimitri, Mr. Dashkov is one of my grandmother's former clients."

"Uh-huh."

Mr. Dashkov blinked but quickly recovered. "If you're her lawyer, maybe you'd better tell her how a contract works."

Rose bristled all over again. "Mr. Dashkov is under the impression that a contract he signed with my grandmother in 1986 is still valid and that I should honor it."

"It said satisfaction guaranteed," Mr. Dashkov retorted. "And I wasn't satisfied."

"You were married to Mrs. Dashkov for fifteen years!" Rose exclaimed. "I'd say you got your two hundred dollars' worth."

"I told you. She went loony on me. Now I want another one-Dimitri didn't know which was more amusing, Mr. Dashkov's jiggling eyebrows, or the indignant twitching of Pebbles's whale spout. "I'm not running a supermarket!" She spun on Dimitri. "Tell him!"

Ah, well. All good things had to come to an end. He went into lawyer mode. "Mr. Dashkov, apparently your contract was with Ms. Mazur's grandmother. And since the original terms seemed to have been fulfilled, I'm afraid you don't have grounds for complaint."

"What do you mean I don't have grounds? I got grounds, all right." Eyebrows hopping, he started hammering Rose with one grievance after another, none of which had anything to do with her. The more he ranted, the more Dimitri's amusement faded. He didn't like anybody but himself browbeating her.

"That's enough," he finally said.

The old guy must have realized Dimitri meant business because he stopped in midsentence. Dimitri moved closer, putting himself between Dashkov and Rose. "If you think you have a case, talk to your nephew. And while you're talking to him, ask him to fill you in on the laws against harassment."

The bushy eyebrows drooped like dying caterpillars, and the old guy's aggression instantly dissolved. "I never harassed nobody."

"That's not what it looks like to me," Dimitri said.

"I didn't mean to harass her." He wilted even more. "I was just trying to make a point."

"You've made it," Dimitri replied. "Now maybe you'd better leave."

His shoulders dipped, his head dropped. "Sorry, Rose." He made his way out the door.

A loose lock of Rose's hair whipped her cheek as she spun on Dimitri. "You didn't have to be so mean!"

"Mean?"

She hurried out on the porch, her flip-flops slapping the wooden boards. "Mr. Dashkov! Mr. Dashkov, stop! If you don't ask Mrs. Valerio out again, you're going to hurt her feelings. I know you don't want to do that."

His reply was subdued. "You're just trying to make me do what you want."

The flip-flops thumped more softly down the steps, and her voice grew wheedling. "Would that be so bad? Pretty please. She's a nice lady, and she likes you so much. Ask her out again. As a favor to me."

There was a long pause.

"All right," he replied with some of his former spunk. "But I'm not asking her out for Saturday night. That's when Iron Chef's on."

"Fair enough."

Rose returned, a satisfied smile on her face. Dimitri regarded her with amusement. "I sure hope I never have to go head to head with you in the wrestling ring."

A furrow formed along the bridge of her small nose. "You were mean. He's lonesome, and arguing with me gives him something to look forward to." She eyed him suspiciously. "What are you doing here?"

"Your phones aren't working."

"Sure they are." Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, jeez…

"Forgot to pay your bill?"

"Just for my cell. I know my other phone's working." She disappeared through the archway. He followed her into her office. Quality art posters filled the long wall behind her computer desk. He recognized a Chagall and one of Jasper Johns's white-on-white American flags.

She lifted the receiver and, when she didn't hear a dial tone, looked mystified. Dimitri picked up the cord dangling next to the ancient black answering machine. "It works better when it's plugged in."

Rose shoved it back in. "I was trying to fix it last night."

"Good job. You've never heard of voice mail?"

"This is cheaper."

"When it comes to keeping in touch with your clients, never cut corners."

"You're right. I know better."

The fact that she didn't try to argue took him aback. Most people went on the defensive when they screwed up.

"I don't make a habit of not paying my bills," she said. "I think what happened with my cell was subconscious. We're not getting along."

"Maybe counseling would help."

"In what universe did I ever think it was a good idea to let my mother find me whenever she wanted?" She sank down in the chair, her expression an entertaining combination of indignation and woe. "Tell me you're not here because you canceled your date with Rachel tonight."

"No. We're on."

"Then what's up?"

"A goodwill mission. I saw Lissa today at Stars headquarters, and she asked me to remind you about tomorrow. One o'clock."

"The party… I almost forgot." She cocked her head, suspicion back in those melted butterscotch eyes. "You drove all the way up here just to remind me about Mia's party?"

"Mia's party? I thought it was Lissa's."

"No."

This was even better. He picked up the small, pink Beanie Baby rabbit she kept on her computer monitor and examined it. "Do you go to a lot of parties at the Calebows?"

"A few," she said slowly. "Why?"

"I was thinking about tagging along." He turned the rabbit bottoms up and checked out its tail. "Or do you already have a date?"

"No, it's not—" She sank back into her desk chair, her eyes widening. "Wow. This is truly pathetic. You're using me to get to Mia. You can't get an invitation to her parties on your own, and now you're using me."

"Pretty much." He returned the rabbit to its perch.

"You're not even embarrassed."

"It's hard to embarrass an agent."

"I don't get it. Mia and Dan invite everybody to their parties."

"She and I are going through a bumpy period, that's all. I need to smooth things out."

"And you think you can do that at a party?"

"I figure she'll be more relaxed in a social situation."

"How long has this bumpy period been going on?"

"About seven years."

"Ouch."

He studied the Jasper Johns poster. "I was overly aggressive when I started out, and I made her look bad. I've apologized, but she can't seem to get past it."

"I'm not sure this is the best way to fix your problem with her."

"Look, Rose, do you want to help me or not?"

"It's just that—"

"Right," he said abruptly. "I keep forgetting we have different philosophies about running a business. I like to please my clients, and you don't care. But then maybe you enjoy limiting yourself to senior citizens."

She shot up from her chair, whale spout quivering. "Fine. You want to go to the party with me tomorrow, go ahead."

"Great. I'll pick you up at noon. What's the dress code?"

"I'm so tempted to tell you black tie."

"Casual then." Through the window, he spotted Ivan pulling up to the curb. He propped a hip on the corner of her desk. "Let's not mention to Mia that I asked you to bring me along. Just tell her you think I've been working too hard, and I need a little relaxation before I meet any more of those women you have lined up."

"Mia's not stupid. You don't really think she'll believe that?"

"If you're convincing she will." He straightened and headed for the door. "Successful people create their own reality, Rose. Grab the ball and get in the game."

Before she could tell him that she was already playing as hard as she knew how, he was on his way down her sidewalk. She walked over to the door and shut it behind him. Once again, he'd seen her at her worst: no makeup, phones out of order, and wrangling with Mr. Dashkov. On the positive side, Rachel was going to look really good to him this evening by comparison.

Rose wondered if they'd sleep together. The idea depressed her way too much. She headed for the kitchen and poured herself a glass of iced tea, then carried it back to her office, where she called Aaron Drozdov to check on the lunch date she'd arranged.

"She had a cold, Rose. Noticeable congestion."

"Aaron, women come with germs."

"It's a question of degree."

She wondered how Dimitri would deal with a hypochondriacal client. "She wants to see you again," she said, "but if you're not interested, I have other clients who will be."

"Well… She's very pretty."

"And germy, like every other woman I've fixed you up with. Can you handle that?"

Aaron eventually decided he'd give it a go. She dragged out the vacuum and made a few desultory swipes at the downstairs, then filled a pitcher to water Nana's African violet collection. As she added a few drops of fertilizer, she contemplated arranging a date between Mrs. Porter and Mr. Clemens. They were both widowers in their seventies, two more of Nana's clients she couldn't quite shake. Mrs. Porter was black and Mr. Clemens white, which might give their families trouble, but Rose had sensed a lot of interest when she'd run into them at the grocery store, and they both loved to bowl. She carried the pitcher into her office. Would she ever get rid of these seniors? No matter how many times she explained to them that Marriages by Myrna had closed its doors, they kept on showing up. Even worse, they expected her to continue charging Nana's fees.

When she finished with the African violets, she sat down to pay bills. Thanks to Dimitri's check, she'd settled the worst of them. Yesterday she'd called Melanie to see if she'd be interested in signing on as a client, which had meant coming clean about her real occupation. Fortunately, Melanie had a sense of humor, and she'd seemed interested. Things were looking up.

The Little Mermaid clock on her desk ticked away. Dimitri would be picking up Rachel about now. They were going to Tru, where caviar appeared at the table in a miniature glass staircase and dinner for two could easily run four hundred dollars. Not that she'd ever been there herself, but she'd read about it.

She considered visiting a couple of local coffee shops to pass out her business card, but she didn't have enough energy to change clothes. Friday night. No hot date. No prospects for a hot date. The matchmaker needed a matchmaker. She wanted to get married, wanted a family, a job she loved… Was that too much to ask out of life? But how would she ever find a man of her own if she had to keep giving the best ones away? Not that Dimitri was the best. He was husband material only in his own mind. No, that wasn't entirely fair. Whatever he did, he did well, and he'd give marriage his best effort. Whether or not that would prove good enough remained to be seen. Fortunately, not her problem.

She pulled out a DVD of Waiting for Guffman, then remembered it belonged to Jessie and chose Freaky Friday instead. She'd just gotten to the part where Jamie Lee Curtis and her daughter switch bodies when the phone rang.

"Rose, it's Rachel."

She hit the Stop button. "How's it going?"

"I'm out of my league."

"What do you mean? Where are you calling from?"

"The ladies' room at Tru. The date's not working. I can't understand it. Dimitri and I had so much fun together the night you introduced us—you remember—but now everything feels flat."

"I knew he'd do this. He's been on his cell all night, hasn't he?"

"He hasn't taken a single call. In fact, he's been a perfect gentleman. But we're both working too hard to keep the conversation going."

"He's been traveling all week. He might be tired."

"I don't think it's that. It's just— Nothing's happening. I'm really disappointed. I felt sparks that first time. Didn't you?"

"Definitely. Ask him about his work. Or about baseball. He's a Sox fan. Just keep trying."

Rachel said she would, but she didn't seem optimistic, and when Rose hung up, she felt deflated… and relieved.

One more reason to be depressed.

Moths swarmed in the caged lights over the doors. The bar, located in a former warehouse just off North Avenue, was named Suey, and the sign featured a giant red pig wearing a trucker's cap. "Charming," Tasha drawled.

Ivan gave her a dumb, cocky grin, which went right along with his menacing shaved head, intimidating tattoos, and hit man's muscles. "I knew you'd like it."

"I was being sarcastic."

"Why?"

"Because this is a sports bar."

"You don't like sports bars? That's weird." He held the door open for her.

She rolled her eyes and followed him in. The place was huge and noisy, smelling of stale beer, french fries, and aftershave, all topped off with eau de gym. The bar opened into a bigger room with tables, games, and cinder-block walls displaying the logos of the Chicago teams. She glimpsed an even larger area in the back holding metal lockers and a sand volleyball court surrounded by orange plastic fencing. Blow-up sex dolls, beer signs, and Star Wars light sabers hung from the open rafters. Boys would be boys. Thankfully, not the sort of place her friends would be prone to hang out.

She'd dressed down for the evening, digging out an old pair of magenta cotton slacks, a clingy navy top with a built-in bra, and flat sandals. She'd even traded in her diamond studs for simple silver hoops. She followed Ivan past a rowdy group of twenty-somethings who were ignoring the overhead televisions to do tequila shots at the bar. As the crowd parted, she grew conscious of the women's eyes on Ivan. A few greeted him by name. Muscle-bound men always tended to look sloppy, but his espresso brown polo shirt and chinos couldn't have fit him better, and every woman in the place noticed.

She slipped into his wake, which was large enough to keep people from bumping against her, and let him lead her to a table that afforded a view of a mechanical bull and the volleyball game in the next room. Ordering either wine or a mixed drink struck her as high risk, so she settled on a lite beer, but asked that it be served in the bottle. Easier to guard against roofies.

He kicked back with his own beer and openly studied her. "How old are you?"

"Old enough to know this is the worst date of my life."

"Women like you are hard to figure. Your skin is great, but you've got old eyes."

"Anything else?" she asked coldly.

"I figure forty-three, forty-four."

"I'm thirty-seven," she snapped.

"No, I'm thirty-seven. You're forty-two. I did some research."

"Then why did you ask?"

"I wanted to see if you give yourself away when you lie." Amusement danced in his pale eyes. "Now I know."

She resisted taking the bait. "Is this date over yet?"

"Just getting started. I think we should wait till after we play to eat, don't you?"

"Play?"

He jerked his head toward the volleyball court. "We've got a game in forty minutes."

"Oh, right. And that would be just after I walk out, right?"

"I already signed us up. You have to play."

"Wrongo."

"I should have told you to bring shorts."

"You probably had too many other weighty matters on your mind."

He smiled. "You are one beautiful bitch."

"Thank you."

His smile grew broader, and her skin prickled. Once again, she considered the possibility that he wasn't as dumb as he seemed to be.

"Definitely a ballbuster," he said. "This is my lucky day." She flinched as he reached toward her, but when he touched the base of her throat with the tip of his finger, a tiny shock zipped along her skin. "You and me are going to be great together… as long as I keep that dog collar snapped good and tight around your neck."

Another jolt zapped her nerve endings, and she jerked away. Fortunately, three of the men who'd been hanging out at the bar chose that moment to approach. They were all young and respectful. Ivan introduced her, but they were only interested in him. She learned he'd played pro football, and as the men talked sports, she experienced the unusual, and not unwelcome, feeling of being invisible. She let herself relax a little. When the youngsters drifted away, however, she knew it was time to take control. "Tell me about yourself, Ivan. Where are you from?"

He studied her, almost as if he were making up his mind how much he wanted to reveal. "A dot on the map in southern Illinois."

"Small-town boy."

"You might say. I grew up in a trailer park, the only kid in the place." He took a sip of beer. "My bedroom looked out over a junkyard."

His rough background was written all over him, so she wasn't surprised. "What about your parents?"

"My mother died when I was four, and my father was a good-looking drunk who had a way with the ladies. Believe me, there were a lot of them around while I was growing up."

It was all so sordid that Tasha wished she hadn't asked. She thought of her ex-husband, with his impeccable pedigree, of the dozens of other men she'd dated over the years, some of them self-made, but all polished and well mannered. Yet here she was in a sports bar with a man who looked like he made his living stuffing dead bodies in car trunks. One more sign that her life was veering away from her.

Ivan excused himself, and she checked her cell. A message had come in from Juanita Brooks, the director of the Community Small Business Initiative. Tasha immediately returned it. Volunteering with the CSBI had helped fill the hole left in her life by her divorce. Although she'd never confess it to anyone, she wanted validation—proof that she was the best—and mentoring these new businesswomen was giving her that. She had so much hard-earned wisdom to offer. If only they would listen to her.

"Tasha, I've spoken with Mary Churso," Juanita said. "I know you were excited about advising her, but… she's asked to be assigned to someone else."

"Someone else? But that's not possible. I've spent so much time with her. I've worked so hard. How could she do that?"

"I think she was a little intimidated," Juanita said. "Just like the others." She hesitated for a moment. "I appreciate your commitment, Tasha. Truly I do. But most of the women who come to us need to be nurtured a bit more gently." Tasha listened incredulously as Juanita explained that she had no one else currently in mind for her to work with, but that she'd let her know if someone "special" came along. Then she hung up.

Tasha couldn't believe it. She felt as if a giant fist had squeezed all the air from her lungs. How could Juanita steal this from her? She fought off her panic with anger. The woman was a terrible administrator. The absolute worst. She'd effectively fired Tasha for expecting the best from these women instead of patronizing them.

Just then Ivan reappeared. He was exactly the distraction she needed, and she shoved her cell in her purse to watch him approach. A white T-shirt molded to his chest, and black athletic shorts displayed the powerful musculature of his legs, one of which had a long, puckered scar. She was shocked to feel her senses quickening.

"Showtime." He pulled her to her feet.

Juanita had unhinged her so much that she'd forgotten about the game. "I'm not doing this."

"Sure you are." He ignored her protests as he steered her toward the volleyball court. "Hey, guys, this is Tasha. She's a volleyball pro from the West Coast."

"Hey, Tasha."

All but two of the players were male. One of the women wore shorts and looked like she meant business. The other was dressed in street clothes and also seemed to have been dragged into the game. Tasha hated doing things she wasn't good at. She hadn't played volleyball since her freshman year in college, and the only part of her game that had ever amounted to anything was her serve.

Ivan slipped his fingers around the back of her neck and squeezed just firmly enough to remind her of his dog collar remark. "Kick off those sandals and show us what you've got."

He didn't believe she'd do it. This was a test, and he expected her to fail. Well, she wouldn't fail. Not again. Not after what had just happened with Juanita. She kicked off her sandals and stepped into the sand. He inclined his head—a mark of respect?—and turned away to address another player.

The ball didn't come close to her until several minutes into the game when it shot right at her chest. She couldn't get under it, and she pushed it into the net. As it came out, Ivan dove for it, sending up a spray of sand and somehow managing to get it up and over. He was an amazing athlete, intensely physical, quick, and intimidating. He was also a team player, setting up shots for the others instead of hogging the ball. Tasha played hard, but other than scoring a point on a serve, she was a liability. Still, with Ivan taking up the slack next to her, their team won both games, and as she celebrated with them, she felt an odd exhilaration. She wanted Juanita Brooks—everybody at the Community Small Business Initiative—to see her now.

She cleaned up as well as she could in the restroom, but only a shower would remove the grit that had made its way into her hair and between her toes. She returned to the table just as Ivan reappeared in his street clothes. The bar didn't have showers, so he shouldn't have smelled so good, of agreeable male exertion, piney soap, and clean clothes. As he took his seat, the sleeve of his knit shirt rode up on his biceps, revealing more of the intricate tribal tattoo that encircled it. He grinned. "You sucked."

No one else was getting the best of her tonight. "Now you've gone and hurt my feelings," she cooed.

"God, I can't wait to get you into bed."

Another of those unnerving shocks skittered through her. She snatched up the beer he'd ordered for her and took a sip, but it was too warm to cool her off. "You're assuming a lot."

"Not so much." He leaned in. "How else can you make sure I'll keep my mouth shut around Dimitri? It's the damnedest thing, but I can't seem to forget that little spying episode."

"You're blackmailing me with sex?"

"Why not?" He settled back in his chair with a crooked grin. "It'll give you a good excuse to do what you want to anyway."

If another man had delivered a line like that, she would have laughed in his face, but the pit of her stomach dipped. She had the oddest feeling Ivan knew something about her that other people didn't understand, maybe something she'd missed herself. "You're delusional."

He rubbed his knuckles. "There's nothing I love more than sexually dominating a strong woman."

Her fingers tightened around the bottle, not because she felt threatened—he was enjoying himself too much—but because his words aroused her. "Maybe you should talk to a shrink."

"And spoil all our fun? I don't think so."

No one ever played sexual games with her. She crossed her legs and gave him a withering smile. "You deluded little man."

He leaned forward and whispered against her earlobe. "One of these nights I'm going to make you pay for that." And then he bit.

She nearly groaned, not with pain—he wasn't hurting her— but with an unsettling excitement. Fortunately, one of the men from the volleyball game came up to the table, so Ivan backed off, giving her a chance to regain her balance.

Their food arrived shortly afterward. Ivan had ordered without consulting her, then had the nerve to chastise her for not eating. "You don't really bite into anything. You just lick. No wonder you're scrawny."

"You silver-tongued devil."

"As long as your mouth's open…" He slipped in a french fry. She savored the shock of the grease and the salt but turned away when he offered another. More volleyball players stopped by the table. As Ivan chatted with them, she automatically surveyed the women in the bar. Several were quite beautiful, and she itched to give them her card, but she couldn't motivate herself to get up. Ivan's presence had sucked the oxygen out of the room, leaving the air too thin for her to breathe.

By the time they left the sports bar and entered the lobby of her building, she'd grown almost giddy with desire. She mentally rehearsed how she'd handle him. He knew exactly the effect he was having on her, so of course he expected her to invite him up. She wouldn't, but he'd get in the elevator anyway, and she'd respond with cool amusement. Perfect.

But Ivan Zeklos had one more surprise up his sleeve. "Good night, slugger." With nothing more than a kiss on the forehead, he walked away.

Saturday morning Rose got up early and headed for Roscoe Village, a former haven for drug dealers that had been gentrified in the 1990s. Now it was a pretty urban neighborhood with refurbished houses and charming shops that projected a small-town feel. She was meeting the daughter of one of Nana's former neighbors in her storefront architectural office on Roscoe Street. She'd heard the woman was exceptionally pretty, and she wanted to meet her in person to see if she'd be a match for Dimitri.

As it turned out, the woman was lovely but nearly as hyperactive as he was, a surefire recipe for disaster. Rose considered her a good prospect for a match though, and she decided to keep her eyes open.

A hunger pang reminded her that she hadn't taken time for breakfast. Since Dimitri wasn't picking her up until noon, she made her way across the street to Victory's Banner, a cheery, pocket-size vegetarian cafe operated by the followers of one of the Indian spiritual masters. Instead of a musty, incense-scented interior, Victory's Banner had powder blue walls, sunny yellow banquettes, and chalk white tables that matched the tieback curtains at the windows. She took an empty table and began to order one of her favorites, homemade French toast with peach butter and real maple syrup, only to be distracted by a platter of golden-brown Belgian waffles passing by. She finally settled on apple pecan pancakes.

As she took her first sip of coffee, the door to the restroom at the back opened and a familiar figure emerged. Rose's heart sank. The woman would have been tall even without her high-heeled woven slides. She was broad shouldered and well dressed in crisp white slacks and a short-sleeved coral blouse that complemented her shoulder-length light brown hair. Her makeup was "well applied with subtle eye shadow that emphasized her familiar dark eyes.

The cafe was too small to hide in, and Jessica spotted Rose right away. She clutched her straw purse more tightly. Her big, broad hands had long, toffee-painted nails and a trio of gold bracelets encircling one wrist. It had been nearly six months since Rose had last seen her. Jessica's face was thinner, her hips rounder. She approached the table, and Rose experienced an all-too-familiar barrage of emotions: anger and betrayal, compassion and repulsion… a painful tenderness.

Jessica shifted her purse from one hand to the other and spoke in her low, melodious voice. "I just finished breakfast, but… Would you mind some company?"

Yes, I'd mind, Rose wanted to say, but she'd only feel guilty afterward, so she tilted her head in the general direction of the opposite chair. Jessica tucked her purse in her lap and ordered an iced chai, then began fiddling with a bracelet. "I hear through the grapevine that you landed a big client."

"Grapevine Lissa."

Jessica gave her a wry smile. "You don't call, you don't write. Lissa's my only source of information. She's been a good friend."

Unlike Rose, who hadn't. She concentrated on her coffee. Jessica finally broke the awkward silence. "So how's Hurricane Janine these days?"

"Her usual interfering self. She wants me to get an accounting degree."

"She worries about you."

Rose set her cup down too hard, and coffee sloshed over the brim. "I can't imagine why."

"Don't try to blame all your troubles with Janine on me. She's always driven you crazy."

"Yes, well, our situation sure didn't help."

"No, it didn't," Jessica said.

Rose had waited nearly a week after her world had crashed to call her mother, hoping by then she could manage her announcement without crying.

"Jessie and I've called off our engagement, Mom."

She still remembered Janine's screech. "What are you talking about?"

"We're not getting married."

"But the wedding's only two months away. And we love Jessie. Everybody does. He's the only man you've dated who has a head on his shoulders. You complement each other perfectly."

"Turns out too perfectly. Get ready to laugh." Her voice had caught on a snag. "Turns out Jessie is a woman trapped in a man's body."

"Rose, have you been drinking? "

Rose had explained it to her mother just as Jessie had explained it to her—how he'd felt wrong in his body for as long as he could remember; the nervous breakdown he'd suffered the year before they'd met but never quite gotten around to mentioning; his belief that loving her would cure him; and his final realization that he couldn't keep on living if he had to do it as a man.

Janine had started to cry and Rose had cried right along with her.

She'd felt so stupid for not suspecting the truth, but Jessie had been a decent lover, and they'd had an okay sex life. He was nice looking, funny, and sensitive, but she hadn't considered him effeminate. She never caught him trying on her clothes or using her makeup, and until that awful night when he'd started to cry and told her he couldn't go on any longer trying to be someone he wasn't, she'd assumed he was the love of her life.

Looking back, there'd been hints: his moodiness, frequent references to an unhappy childhood, odd questions about Rose's experiences growing up as a girl. She'd been flattered by the attention he'd paid to her opinions, and she'd told her friends how lucky she was to have a fiancé who was so interested in her as a person. Never once had she suspected he was gathering information, weighing her experiences against his own so he could make his final decision. After he'd broken the devastating news, he'd told her he still loved her as much as ever. She'd cried and asked him exactly what he expected her to do about that?

Her broken dreams had been painful enough, but she'd also had to face the humiliation of telling her friends and relatives.

"You remember my ex-fiancé Jessie. Funniest thing …"

Try as she might, she couldn't get past what she'd come to think of as the "ick factor." She'd made love with a man who wanted to be a woman. She found no comfort in his explanation that gender identity and sexuality were two different issues. He'd known this monster hung over them when they'd fallen in love, but he hadn't said a word about it until the afternoon she'd had her bridal gown fitted. That evening, he'd taken his first dose of estrogen and begun his transition from Jessie into Jessica.

Nearly two years had passed since then, and Rose still hadn't overcome her sense of betrayal. At the same time, she couldn't pretend not to care. "How's the job?" Jessica was the longtime marketing director at Lissa's publishing company, Birdcage Press. She and Lissa had worked closely together to grow the market for Lissa's award-winning Daphne the Bunny children's books.

"People are finally getting used to me."

"I'm sure it wasn't easy." For a while Rose had wanted it to be hard, wanted her old lover to suffer, but she didn't feel that way now. Now she simply wanted to forget.

The woman who'd once been her fiancé gazed at her across the table. "I just wish that…"

"Don't say it."

"You were my best friend, Rose. I want that back."

The old bitterness resurfaced. "I know you do, but you can't have it."

"Would it help if I told you I'm not sexually attracted to you anymore? Apparently the hormones have done a job on me. For the first time in my life, I've started to look at men. Very strange."

"Tell me about it."

Jessica laughed, and Rose managed a smile in return, but as much as she wished Jessica well, she couldn't be her confidante. Their relationship had robbed her of too much. Not only had she lost trust in her ability to judge people, but she'd also lost her sexual confidence. What kind of loser could be in an intimate relationship for so long without suspecting that something was seriously askew?

Her pancakes arrived. Jessica rose and regarded her sadly. "I'll let you eat in peace. It's been good seeing you."

The most Rose could manage in return was a quiet "Good luck."

Do you get invited to many of Mia and Dan's parties?" Dimitri asked a few hours later as he steered his BMW into the long, wooded drive that led to the Rinaldi/Calebow home. A hawk circled in the afternoon sun above the old orchard to their right, where the apples were just beginning to turn red. "A few," she replied. "But, then, Mia likes me."

"Go ahead and laugh, but it's not funny to me. I've lost some great clients because of this."

"I'd be lying if I didn't tell you it's nice having you at my mercy for a change."

"Don't enjoy it too much. I'm trusting you not to screw this up."

She was afraid she already had. She should have been up front with him about today's affair, but she always got pigheaded when workaholics started ordering her around, another legacy from her childhood.

The tires clattered on a narrow wooden bridge. They rounded a bend, and an old stone farmhouse came into sight. Build in the 1880s, the Calebow property was a rustic gem in an area of affluent suburban sprawl. Dan had bought the house in his bachelor days, and as their family had grown, he and Mia had added wings, raised the roof, and expanded the grounds. The end result was a charming ramble of a house perfect for a family with four growing children.

Dimitri parked in the drive next to Lissa's SUV, which had Tigger sunshades suction-cupped to the glass. He shifted his weight and tucked his keys in the hip pocket of his khaki slacks. He wore them with a designer polo and another of his TAG Heuer watches, this one with a brown crocodile strap. Rose felt a little underdressed in gray knit drawstring shorts, aqua tank top, and J. Crew flip-flops.

She saw the exact moment when he spotted the multitude of pink balloons tied to the spindled railing that surrounded the old-fashioned front porch.

He turned to her slowly, a python uncoiling for the strike. "Exactly what kind of party is this?"

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and tried to look adorable. "Uh, funny you should ask…"

His grim green eyes belatedly reminded Rose that he had no sense of humor when it came to business. Not that she'd exactly forgotten it.

"No bullshit, Rose. Tell me right now what's going on."

He'd trample her if she tried to stage a retreat, so she attempted a chipper sort of savoir faire. "Relax and enjoy yourself. It'll be fun." She didn't sound convincing, but before he could crush the life out of her, Lissa appeared on the front porch with Pippi at her side. Both of them sported glittery pink tiaras, Pippi's accessorized with a strawberry pink princess gown, Lissa's with bright yellow capris and a Daphne the Bunny T-shirt. Dimitri's already grim expression grew even more forbidding.

Lissa looked startled, then laughed as she spotted Dimitri. He shot Rose a life-threatening glare, plastered a smile on his face for Lissa, and stepped out of the car. Rose grabbed her tote and followed. Unfortunately, the knot that had begun to form in her stomach came right along with her.

"Dimitri? I don't believe it," Lissa said. "I couldn't even talk Chris into helping out today."

"Is that so?" he replied slowly. "Rose invited me."

Lissa gave her a thumbs-up. "Cool."

Rose forced a smile.

Dimitri walked toward Lissa, projecting an air of amusement Rose knew he didn't feel. "Rose neglected, however, to tell me exactly what she was inviting me to."

"Oops." Lissa's eyes sparkled.

"I would have if you'd asked." Rose's words sounded lame even to herself, and he ignored her.

Lissa leaned down to her daughter. "Pippi, tell Mr. Dimitri about our party."

The three-year-old's tiara wobbled as she jumped and gave an ear-splitting shriek. "Princess party!"

"Ya don't say," Dimitri drawled. Slowly, he turned to face Rose. She pretended to examine the climbing rose next to the front porch.

"It was Julie and Tess's idea," Lissa said. "Rose volunteered to help out."

Rose thought about explaining that Julie and Tess were the Calebows' oldest children, fifteen-year-old twins, then realized Dimitri wouldn't need an explanation. He'd have made it his business to know all about Dan and Mia's four children: the twins, twelve-year-old Hannah, and nine-year-old Andrew. He probably knew their favorite foods and when they'd had their last dental checkups.

"The twins are volunteering at a summer day care center that serves low-income families," Lissa went on. "They work with the four- and five-year-old girls, supervising activities to jump-start them in math and science. They wanted to throw a party just for fun."

"Princess party!" Pippi shrieked again, hopping up and down.

"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here," Lissa said. "Tess and Julie woke up with fevers this morning, so we've been a little frantic. Hannah's going to help, but she gets emotionally involved, so she's not entirely reliable. I tried to call Chris and beg him to reconsider, but he and Dan have taken the boys somewhere and they're not picking up. Wait till they hear who saved them."

"My pleasure." Dimitri projected such sincerity that Rose would have believed him if she hadn't known better. No wonder he was so good at what he did.

They heard the sound of an engine and saw a yellow minibus approaching. Lissa turned to the door. "Hannah, the girls are here!"

Seconds later, twelve-year-old Hannah Calebow emerged. Thin and awkward, she resembled her Aunt Lissa more than her mother, Mia. Her light brown hair, expressive eyes and slightly asymmetrical features bore the promise of something more interesting than conventional prettiness when she grew older, although at this point it was hard to tell exactly what. "Hi, Rose," she said as she came forward.

Rose returned the greeting, and Lissa introduced Dimitri as the minibus stopped in front of the house. "Rose, why don't you and Dimitri help Mia in the backyard while Hannah and I get the girls unloaded?"

"Maybe you should be a little careful around Mom," Hannah said in a soft, anxious-to-please voice. "She's in a bad mood because Andrew got into the cake this morning."

"It just keeps getting better and better," Dimitri muttered. And then he headed for the flagstone path that led around the side of the house. He walked so quickly that Rose had to trot to catch up with him.

"I guess I should apologize," she said. "I'm afraid I might have let my—"

"Not one word," he said on a single ominous note. "You screwed me over, and we don't have a thing to say to each other."

She hurried to his side. "I wasn't trying to screw you over. I thought—"

"Save your breath. You wanted me to look stupid."

She hoped that wasn't true but suspected it might be. Not stupid, exactly. Just not so together. "You're totally overreacting."

That was when the Python struck.

"You're fired."

She stumbled on one of the flagstones. There was no emotion in his voice, no expression of regret for good times and shared laughs, only a stony declaration.

"You can't mean that."

"Oh, I mean it, all right."

"It's a kids' party! It's no big deal."

He walked away without another word.

She stood chilled and silent in the shadow of an old elm. She'd done it again. Once more, she'd let her impulsiveness lead her into disaster. She knew him well enough by now to understand how much he hated being put at a disadvantage. How could she have believed he'd find this amusing? Maybe she hadn't. Maybe the person she'd really intended to sabotage was herself.

Her mother was right. It couldn't be entirely coincidental that everything Rose attached herself to failed. Did she believe she didn't deserve success? Was that why all her ventures ended in disaster?

She leaned against the trunk of the elm and tried not to cry.

AN/ PS Sorry.