SHANNON POWELL IS LOOKING FOR LOVE—IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES Or at least that's what my chauffeur, Clint Dawson, says I'm doing. Personally, I don't think I'm looking for love at all—I merely said I wanted love letters to read in my old age. The fact that I said it to a tabloid reporter—and that I'm worth millions—shouldn't pose any particular problem, right? But suddenly I've been flooded with responses, including one from a man who calls himself Cyrano. He's everything I've ever dreamed of. In fact, he's starting to sound like—well, Clint, my self-appointed bodyguard. Could perfection have been under my nose all this time?