Page 19 of First Star I See Tonight (Chicago Stars 8)

Piper awoke at dawn the next morning, her mind still reeling from what had happened. After downing two cups of black coffee, she settled on wearing her khaki skirt, a short-sleeved army-green T-shirt printed with a red scorpion, and her scuffed brown ankle-high booties. Semiprofessional without looking as if she was trying to impress him.

She was ready too early, so she killed time by detouring to Lincoln Square and stopping in at the few places that were open. Not surprisingly, nobody recognized the photo of Howard that Berni had given her. Because he was dead.

As Jen had forecast, it was unseasonably warm for late September, and Piper kept the windows down on her way to Lakeview. At exactly two minutes before ten, she parked in one of the three allotted visitor spaces in the alley behind his residence.

Once part of a Catholic seminary, the brick building had sat empty for years before it was converted into three luxury condos. Graham owned the two-story penthouse, while a local real estate titan and a Hollywood actor with Chicago roots owned the other two units.

She walked along a fern-bordered brick pathway to the front entrance and into a small lobby with a high-tech video security system she’d like to know more about. A computer-generated voice directed her to a private elevator that rose automatically to the penthouse. The door opened, and she stepped out into an expansive living space with brick walls and big industrial windows. The two-story-high ceiling had exposed ductwork painted a flat charcoal. The bamboo floors lay in an oversize chevron pattern, giving the space a sleek edge, and the long bookshelves on one wall held a collection of books she’d bet anything he’d never opened.

Two men with their backs to her sat on a curved oyster-colored couch the size of three normal couches. One of the men—the one she’d come to see—wore a white terry cloth bathrobe, the other, a blue dress shirt and dark pants. He was the man who rose and walked around the end of the couch to shake her hand. “Heath Champion,” he said.

Heath Champion, aka “the Python,” was a Chicago legend and one of the most powerful sports agents in the country. He represented two of the Stars’ great former quarterbacks, Kevin Tucker and Dean Robillard, as well as her own brand-new client. Despite his all-American good looks and courteous manner, she knew a snake when she saw one, and she didn’t intend to drop her guard for a second.

“You must be the incorruptible Ms. Dove,” Champion said.

“Piper.”

Graham didn’t bother to get up, merely jerked his head. “Coffee in the kitchen.”

“I’m good,” she said.

“You’d better be,” he retorted.

Champion gestured toward the cou

ch. “Have a seat.”

She focused on the view through the windows so she didn’t have to look at her employer right away. A shady courtyard three stories below nested inside ivy-covered brick walls where fat yellow mums made bright spots in the shade. The ferns had begun to brown at the tips, and the leaves floating in the basin of the stone fountain announced that fall was approaching.

She forced herself to turn toward the couch. Graham sat sprawled in the center, his crossed ankles propped on a wood-and-glass coffee table shaped like a flying saucer. His white robe had fallen open far enough to reveal bare calves and an angry scar on his right knee. Another smaller scar marred his ankle. How many others did he have? And what was he wearing underneath that robe?

The thrum of female awareness infuriated her. Too much caffeine.

She put down her gray messenger bag. The couch was deep-seated, designed for a large man instead of an average-size female. If she sank back into it, her legs would stick out in front of her like a kindergartner’s, so she perched on the edge.

He took in the scorpion on her T-shirt. “Company logo?”

“Still trying to choose. Either this or a smiley face.”

Graham’s own face was tan against the stark white robe, and the open neck showed a little chest hair. She gave him a few begrudging points for not manscaping, then took them back just because she could.

He smiled, as if he’d read her mind. “What’s your plan for improving my security? I know you have one.”

She wouldn’t let a barely clothed client ruffle her. “Before I reopened the agency, I worked as a reputation manager and digital strategist for a chain of Chicago auto stores.”

“What the hell is a reputation manager?”

“An online watchdog. I monitored business sites and social media platforms for bad press. Pushed down negative search results. Put out Internet fires and fine-tuned the Web site.”

Graham was quick to catch on. “And that’ll be your cover?”

“It’s the simplest. Although that ghoul you call a door manager might recognize me.”

“Doubtful.”

“I need to get going,” Champion said. She caught the glint of a wedding band on his left hand and pictured his wife—an otherworldly buxom centerfold model with two-foot hair extensions and lips inflated like pool toys.

“You and Annabelle ditching the city for a lovers’ getaway?” Graham asked.

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