Logan Dupree didn't need more than one eye to tell him that the woman in the navy blue suit was a problem looking for a place to happen. He took a sip of his scotch and racked his brain, trying to put her into a place, into a group of people. And couldn't. Which didn't necessarily mean much. Long stretches of his memory were nothing more than a chemicalinduced blur.

The boat beneath him rocked on the wake of a vessel slowly leaving the yacht club marina. The motion brought him back to the moment and the curly-haired blonde standing on the floating dock. She was shading her eyes from the Florida sun with one hand and studying the stern of his ship. In her other hand she clutched a battered leather bag.

He skimmed her from head to toes. Navy skirt, navy blazer, navy pumps with barely a heel. Run-of-the-mill stockings. A simple white blouse with the first two buttons left open. On a woman who had decent cleavage it would have been sexy. On her… She wasn't a supermodel; that was for sure. Or a model, period. She was too short, too plain. Not his type at all. She looked more like a —

He dragged a slow, deep breath into his lungs and considered her again with narrowed eyes. A reporter? No, reporters almost always had a photographer in tow. A lawyer? Yeah, that was the more likely possibility. She was wearing the uniform. Logan thought back, ticking through the calendar and the parade of women who'd knotted his sheets over the last year. There weren't that many of them; his stock had plummeted the day they'd announced that he'd never again meet the NHL's vision requirements.

But in the years before that there had been a hell of a lot of women. Most of them without names that he could recall on the spur of the moment. Which was about as clearly as he could recall the particulars of their encounters. Safe sex was automatic, though. Even when three sheets to the wind. If this woman was here to threaten him with a paternity suit…

Good luck, lady, he silently challenged as he watched her move farther out on the floating dock. She was halfway between the stern and the gangplank when she managed to get her heel caught in the space between the dock boards. He winced as it brought her up short, smiled as she frowned down at it and then wrenched it free with a little growl. She shoved her foot back into her shoe and immediately started forward again. And without looking around to see if anyone had seen the graceless moment. He took another sip of his drink and decided that he had to give her points for that.

"Good morning," she said brightly as she came to a halt at the base of the gangplank. "I'm looking for a Mr. Logan Dupree. Would that happen to be you?"

She had to know damn good and well who he was. She wouldn't have found him if someone in corporate hadn't pointed her this way. But that realization paled beside another that swept over him in the next second. She had the bluest eyes. Bright blue. With the hair and the "kiss me" mouth… God, put her in a frilly little costume and she'd look like one of those dolls off the Home Shopping Network. "Maybe," he answered. "It depends on who you are and what you want."

She smiled. "May I come aboard?"

He wanted to say no. He really did. Instead, he shrugged, dredged up a smile he hoped passed for polite, set his drink on the table beside him, and levered himself up out of the deck chair. She didn't wait for him to step over to the railing and offer her a hand up the ramp, though. No, she vaulted up the narrow walkway all on her own and without catching her heel and toppling over into the water.

Logan released the breath he'd been holding as she gestured to the other chair on the deck and asked brightly, "May I have a seat?"

He nodded and watched as she lowered herself into it with an easy, confident smile, smoothing the skirt over the curves of her hip and backside as she did. They were really nice curves, he had to admit as she put the bag down between them.

She waited until he'd taken his own seat again before sticking out her hand and saying, "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Catherine Talbott."

The name meant absolutely nothing to him, but he politely shook her hand and replied, "Ma'am," while bracing himself to remember a string of names followed by Attorneys at Law.

"Tom Wolford was my brother."

The fact that he'd guessed her wrong was hammered into oblivion as the past slammed forward, crisp and clear. Tom Wolford, standing in the shadows and exhaust clouds of the Wichita bus station, a vending machine ham sandwich in one hand, a can of pop in the other. The big man lumbering forward to throw a welcoming arm around the shoulders of an already homesick kid and lead him off into the world of minor league hockey. The pair of plaid polyester pants, white belt, white shoes, the hat with the crimped crown and the narrow brim… The half cigar that was never lit but always clamped in the corner of his mouth….

Tom Wolford. Daddy Warbucks. The old days and the first foot in the door. It had been a long time since Logan had looked that far back. Now that looking forward wasn't an option, maybe he could afford the luxury of reminiscing every now and then. It had been, what — almost five years since they'd last spoken? He should call Tom and — Logan blinked and frowned. "Did you say was?"

She nodded ever so slightly and her smile looked tired. "He passed away a little over a month ago. A heart attack."

"Unless he'd changed a lot in the last fourteen years," Logan said as his throat tickled, "it couldn't have been an unexpected one."

Catherine Talbott's smile faded on a sigh and shrug of her slim shoulders. "No, it really wasn't. Still…"

Logan silently swore and kicked himself. "I'm sorry," he offered sincerely. "I can be a real clod sometimes. Tom was a decent man. I owe him a lot and I'm sorry he's gone."

Tucking her hair behind her ears, Catherine Talbott managed a slightly brighter smile. "I was hoping you'd feel that way."

Duh! his brain groaned. The memorial plaque. The endowment of some fund for underprivileged kids'sports. He'd been tapped for such things before. It came with making the pro ranks. He knew the drill from beginning to end. "Oh, yeah?" he drawled, wondering how much she had in mind. "Why?"

"Tom left me the team."

As responses went, it didn't even come close to his expectations. "You own the Wichita Warriors?" he asked, having a hard time getting his brain wrapped around the image of Shirley Temple sitting behind Tom's huge metal desk. "Yes, I do."

The assurance didn't help one bit. "What does Millie think of that?"

"Well… She's…"

The obvious hesitation sent a cold jolt through his veins.

"Millie's not dead, too, is she?"

"No, no," she hurriedly answered. "My sister-in-law is very much alive." She hesitated and took a noticeably deep breath before she added, "But she has dementia. There are good days and there are not so good days."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he offered again, thinking that he was beginning to sound a little too much like a parrot. A socially retarded parrot. He used to be a lot better at this sort of thing.