Match Me if You Can (25 page)

Portia wobbled ever so slightly on her needle-sharp heels. “Your nephew?”

Bodie reached out to steady her. As he touched her arm, his soft, menacing voice slid over her like inky silk. “Maybe you should put your head between your knees.”

What about the trailer park, and the drunken father? What about the cockroaches and the trashy women?
He’d made it all up. This whole time he’d been playing her.

She couldn’t bear it. She turned and pushed her way through the crowd. Faces flashed by as she dashed into the hallway, out of the restaurant. The night air hung thick and heavy with heat and exhaust. She set off down the street, past the shuttered shops, past a graffiti-splattered wall. The Bucktown restaurant edged the border of less fashionable Humbolt Park, but she kept walking, not caring where she was going, only knowing that she had to keep moving. A CTA bus roared by, and a punk with a pit bull gave her a sly, assessing eye. The city closed around her, hot, suffocating, filled with menace. She stepped off the curb.

“Your car’s the other way,” Bodie said from behind her.

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

He caught her arm and dragged her back up on the curb. “How about apologizing for treating me like nothing more than a piece of meat?”

“Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not turning this back on me. You’re the one who lied. All those stories …The cockroaches, the drunken father. Right from the beginning you lied to me. You aren’t Heath’s bodyguard.”

“He can pretty much take care of himself.”

“This whole time you’ve been laughing at me.”

“Yeah, sort of. When I wasn’t laughing at myself.” He pushed her into the recessed doorway of a shabby flower shop with a dirty window. “I told you what you needed to hear if the two of us were ever going to have a chance.”

“Lies are your idea of how to start a relationship?”

“They’re my idea of how this one needed to start.”

“So this was all premeditated?”

“Now, there you’ve got me.” He rubbed his thumbs over her arms where he’d been holding her, then let her go. “At first I was jerking your chain because you pissed me off. You wanted a stud, and I was more than happy to comply, but it didn’t take me long to start resenting being your dirty little secret.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “You wouldn’t have been a secret if you’d told me the truth.”

“Right. You’d have loved that. I can just imagine how you’d have paraded me in front of your friends, letting everybody know that my mother and Colleen Corbett are sisters. Sooner or later you’d have found out that my father’s family is even more respectable. Old Greenwich. That would have made you real happy, wouldn’t it?”

“You act like I’m some terrible snob.”

“Don’t even try to deny it. I’ve never known anyone as frightened of other people’s opinions as you.”

“That’s not true. I’m my own person. And I won’t tolerate being manipulated.”

“Yeah. Not being in control scares the hell out of you.” He ran his thumb down her cheek. “Sometimes I think you’re the most frightened person I’ve ever known. You’re so afraid you’ll come up short that you’re making yourself sick.”

She shoved his hand away, so furious she could barely speak. “I’m the strongest woman you’ve ever known.”

“You spend so much time trying to prove how superior you are that you’ve forgotten how to live. You obsess over all the wrong things, refuse to let anybody see inside you, and then you can’t figure out why you’re not happy.”

“If I wanted a shrink, I’d hire one.”

“You should have done that a long time ago. I’ve lived in the shadows, too, babe, and I don’t recommend staying there.” He hesitated, and she thought he’d finished, but he went on. “After I had to quit football, I had a big problem with drugs. You name it; I tried it. My family convinced me to go into rehab, but I told everybody the counselors were assholes and left after two days. Six months later Heath found me passed out in a bar. He banged my head into the wall a couple of times, told me he used to admire me but that I’d turned into the sorriest son of a bitch he’d ever seen. Then he offered me a job. He didn’t give me any lectures about staying clean, but I knew that was part of the deal, so I asked him to give me six weeks. I put myself in rehab, and this time I paid attention. Those counselors saved my life.”

“I’m hardly a drug addict.”

“Fear can be an addiction.”

Even as his poisoned dart hit home, she refused to blink. “If you have so little respect for me, why are you still around?”

He slipped a gentle hand into her hair and pushed a curl behind her ear. “Because I’m a sucker for beautiful, wounded creatures.”

Something broke apart inside her.

“And because,” he want on, “when you let down your guard, I see someone who’s brilliant and passionate.” He brushed her cheekbone with his thumb. “But you’re so afraid to lead with your heart that you’re dying inside.”

She felt herself coming apart, and she punished him in the only way she knew how. “What a bunch of crap. You’re still around because you like to fuck me.”

“That, too.” He kissed her forehead. “There’s a hell of a woman hidden away behind all that fear. Why don’t you let her come out and play?”

Because she didn’t know how.

The tightness in her chest made it hard to breathe. “Go to hell.” Pushing past him, she took off down the street, half walking, half running. But he’d already seen her tears, and for that, she would never forgive him.

B
odie heard the sound of a baseball game coming from his television as he let himself into his Wrigleyville condo. “Make yourself right at home,” he muttered, tossing his keys on the mission-style table that sat in the foyer.

“Thanks,” Heath said from the big sectional sofa in Bodie’s living room. “Sox just gave up a run in the seventh.”

Bodie sank into the armchair across from him. Unlike Heath’s house, Bodie’s was furnished. Bodie liked the clean design of the Arts and Crafts period, and over the years he’d bought some good Stickley pieces and added Craftsman-style built-ins. He kicked off his shoes. “You should either sell your fucking house or live in it.”

“I know.” Heath set down his beer. “You look like shit.”

“A thousand beautiful women in this town, and I’ve got to fall for Portia Powers.”

“You set yourself up for grief that first night when you blackmailed her with that bodyguard bullshit.”

Bodie rubbed his hand over his head. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“If that woman ever realizes how scared you are of her, you’ll really be screwed.”

“She’s such a pain in the ass. I keep telling myself to walk away, but …Hell, I don’t know…It’s like I’ve got X-ray vision, and I can see who she really is underneath all the bullshit.” He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with saying so much, even to his best friend.

Heath understood. “Tell me we’re not sharing our feelings, Mary Lou.”

“Fuck you.”

“Shut up and watch the game.”

Bodie relaxed into the chair. Initially he’d been attracted by Portia’s beauty, then by her sheer gall. She had as much grit and determination as any teammate he’d ever played with, and those were qualities he respected. But when they made love, he saw another woman, one who was insecure, generous, and full of heart, and he couldn’t get past thinking that this softer, unguarded woman was the real Portia Powers. Still, what kind of idiot fell for someone who needed so badly to be fixed?

As a kid, he used to bring home injured animals and try to nurse them back to health. Apparently he was still doing it.

A
nnabelle had trouble finding a parking spot for Sherman, but she was only two minutes late for the meeting Heath had scheduled, which hardly justified the censorious look from his Evil Receptionist. ESPN played on the television screen in the lobby, phones rang in the background, and one of Heath’s interns struggled to change a printer cartridge in the equipment closet. The office door on her left had been closed the first time she was here, but now it stood open, and she saw Bodie with his feet propped on a desk and a telephone pressed to his ear. He waved as she passed. She opened the door to Heath’s office and heard a throaty female voice.

“…and I’m very optimistic about her. She’s incredibly beautiful.” Portia Powers sat in one of two chairs positioned in front of Heath’s desk. His voice mail message hadn’t mentioned this would be a threesome.

Just looking at the Dragon Lady made Annabelle feel dowdy. Summer fashion was supposed to be all about color, but maybe Annabelle had gotten a little carried away with her melon-colored blouse, lemon yellow skirt, and the drop earrings set with tiny lime green stones she’d found at TJ Maxx. At least her hair looked decent. Now that it was longer, she’d been able to use a big barrel curling iron, then finger-comb the results into a casual tousle.

Portia was all cool elegance in pewter silk. Against her dusky hair, the effect was dazzling. Small, petal pink earrings provided a subtle touch of color against her porcelain skin, and a Kate Spade handbag in the same pink shade sat on the floor at her side. She hadn’t made the mistake of going into pink overkill with her shoes, which were stylish black mules.

Or one of them was.

Annabelle stared at her competitor’s feet. At first glance, the shoes looked the same. They both had open toes and low heels, but one was a black mule and the other a navy sling-back. What was that about?

Annabelle drew her eyes away and slipped her sunglasses in her purse. “Sorry I’m late. Sherman didn’t like any of the parking spots I showed him.”

“Sherman is Annabelle’s car,” Heath explained as he rose from behind the desk and gestured to the chair next to Portia’s. “Have a seat. I don’t believe you and Portia have met in person.”

“As a matter of fact we have,” Portia replied smoothly.

Through the long wall of windows behind his desk, Annabelle spotted a sailboat skimming over Lake Michigan in the distance. She wished she were on it.

“We’ve been at this since spring,” Heath said, “and now football season is starting. I think both of you know that I’d hoped to be further along.”

“I understand.” Portia’s smooth confidence belied her mismatched shoes. “We all hoped this would be easier. But you’re an extremely discriminating man, and you deserve an extraordinary woman.”

Suck up,
Annabelle thought. Still, when it came to Heath, Annabelle didn’t exactly deserve high marks for professionalism, and she could do a lot worse than follow Portia’s example.

Portia shifted slightly in her chair, which cast her face into a harsher light. She wasn’t as young as Annabelle had thought when they’d met, and her expertly applied makeup couldn’t camouflage the dark circles under her eyes. Too much nightlife or something more serious?

Heath set his hip on the corner of the desk. “Portia, you found Keri Winters for me, and even though that didn’t work out, you were on the right path. But you’ve sent too many candidates who aren’t in the ballpark.”

Portia didn’t make the mistake of getting defensive. “You’re right. I should have eliminated more of them, but every woman I’ve chosen has been so special, and I hate second-guessing my most discriminating clients. I’ll be more careful from now on.”

The Dragon Lady was good. Annabelle had to give her that.

Heath turned his attention to Annabelle. No one could have imagined that he’d fallen asleep in her attic bedroom two nights ago, or that once, in a pretty cottage by the side of a Michigan lake, they’d made love. “Annabelle, you’ve done a better job screening, and you’ve introduced me to a lot of also-rans, but you haven’t produced a single winner.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say a word, he cut her off. “Gwen doesn’t count.”

Unlike Portia, Annabelle thrived on being defensive. “Gwen was almost perfect.”

“As long as we overlook her husband and that inconvenient pregnancy.”

Portia sat straighter in her chair. Annabelle crossed her hands primly in her lap. “You have to admit she was exactly what you’re looking for.”

“Yeah, bigamy’s my life’s dream, all right.”

“You cornered me,” she replied. “And, let’s be honest. Once she got to know you, she’d have dumped you. You’re way too high maintenance.”

Portia’s eyes had widened like butterfly wings. She studied Annabelle more closely. Then she got a little twitchy. She uncrossed the legs she’d crossed, crossed them again. Her top foot—the one in the navy sling-back—began tapping away. “I’m sure Annabelle has learned by now to be more careful with her background checks.”

Annabelle pretended surprise. “I was supposed to check Heath’s background?”

“Not Heath’s background,” Portia retorted. “The women!”

Heath fought a smile. “Annabelle is baiting you. I’ve learned it’s best to ignore her.”

Now Portia looked genuinely rattled. Annabelle almost felt sorry for her as she watched the navy sling-back move faster and faster.

Heath, in the meantime, made a sprint for the goal line. “Here’s the way it’s going to be, ladies. I made a mistake by not signing contracts with a shorter term, but it’s a mistake I’m correcting right now. You each have one shot left. That’s it.”

The sling-back froze. “When you say one shot…”

“One introduction each,” Heath said firmly.

Portia twisted in her chair, knocking the Kate Spade handbag over with her heel. “That’s not realistic.”

“Work with it.”

“Are you sure you really want to get married?” Annabelle said. “Because, if you do, maybe you should think about the possibility—more than a possibility, in my judgment, but I’m trying to be diplomatic …Have you thought about the possibility that you’re the one who’s sabotaging this process, not us?”

Portia shot her a warning look. “
Sabotage
is a strong word. I’m sure what Annabelle means to say is that—”

“What Annabelle means to say”—she rose from her chair—“is that we introduced you to some terrific women, but you only gave one of them a chance. The
wrong
one—again, only my opinion. We’re not magicians, Heath. We have to work with flesh-and-blood human beings, not some fantasy woman you’ve conjured in your mind.”

Portia plastered a phony smile on her face and rushed to save the sinking ship. “I hear what you’re saying, Heath. You’re not satisfied with the service you’ve been getting from Power Matches. You want us to vet the candidates more carefully, and that’s certainly a reasonable request. I can’t speak for Miss Granger, but I promise that I’ll proceed more conservatively from now on.”

“Very conservatively,” he said. “You have one introduction. The same goes for you, Annabelle. After that, I’m calling it quits.”

Portia’s plastic smile melted at the edges. “But your contract runs into October. It’s only mid-August.”

“Save your breath,” Annabelle said. “Heath wants an excuse to fire us. He doesn’t believe in failure, and if he fires us, he can transfer the blame.”

“Fire us?” Portia looked sick.

“It’ll be a new experience for you,” Annabelle said glumly. “Fortunately for me, I’ve had practice.”

Portia pulled herself back together. “I know this has been frustrating, but it’s frustrating for everyone who goes through the process. You deserve results, and you’ll get them, but only with a little patience.”

“I’ve been patient for months,” he said. “That’s long enough.”

Annabelle looked into his proud stubborn face and couldn’t keep silent. “Are you going to take ownership for any part of the problem?”

He met her gaze dead-on. “Absolutely. That’s what I’m doing right now. I told you I was looking for someone extraordinary, and if I’d thought it would be easy to find her, I’d have done it myself.” He rose from the corner of the desk. “Take as long as you need to come up with your last introduction. And believe me, nobody hopes that one of you gets it right more than I do.”

He made his way to the door, then stood back to let them out, his head outlined against the sign for the Beau Vista Trailer Park hanging on the wall behind him.

Annabelle retrieved her purse and gave him her most dignified nod, but she was fuming as she left his office, definitely in no mood to share an elevator with Portia, so she moved quickly through the lobby to the elevator bank.

As it turned out, she had no need to rush.

P
ortia slowed her steps as she watched Annabelle disappear. Bodie’s office lay just ahead on her right. When she’d walked past it earlier, she’d forced herself not to look in, but she’d known he was there. She could feel him through her skin. Even during that horrible meeting with Heath when she’d most needed to keep her wits, she’d felt him.

All last night she’d lain awake reliving the horrible things he’d said to her. Maybe she could have forgiven the lies he’d told her about his upbringing, but she could never forgive the rest. Who did he think he was to psychoanalyze her? The only thing wrong with her was him. Maybe she’d been a little depressed before she met him, but it hadn’t been significant. Last night he’d made her feel like a failure, and she wouldn’t let anyone do that to her.

Her hands were trembling as she stopped inside his office door. He was on the phone, his massive frame tilted back in his chair. As he spotted her, his face broke into a smile, and he dropped his feet to the floor.

“Let me call you back, Jimmie …Yeah, sounds good. We’ll get together.” He set the phone aside and rose. “Hey, babe…Are you still talking to me?”

His silly, hopeful grin made her falter. Instead of looking dangerous, he looked like a kid who’d spotted a new bike sitting on his front porch. She turned away to compose herself and came face-to-face with a wall of memorabilia. She took in a pair of framed magazine covers, some team pictures from his playing days, newspaper clippings. But it was a black-and-white photo that caught her attention. The photographer had captured Bodie with his helmet tilted back on his head, chin strap dangling, a scrap of turf caught in the corner of his face mask. His eyes shone with triumph, and his radiant grin owned the world. She bit her lip and made herself turn back to confront him. “I’m breaking it off, Bodie.”

He came around the side of the desk, his smile fading. “Don’t do this, sweetheart.”

“You couldn’t have been more wrong about me.” She forced herself to say the words that would keep her safe. “I love my life. I have money and a beautiful home, a successful business. I have friends—good, dear friends.” Her voice caught. “I love my life. Every part of it. Except the part that involves you.”

“Don’t, babe.” He reached toward her with one of his gentle, meat hook hands, not touching her, a gesture of entreaty. “You’re a fighter,” he said softly. “Have the guts to fight for us.”

She steeled herself against the pain. “It was a fling, Bodie. An amusement. Now it’s over.”

Her lips had begun to tremble, just like a child’s, and she didn’t wait for him to respond. She turned away…left his office…rode numbly down to the street in the elevator. Two pretty young things passed her as she stepped outside. One of them pointed toward her feet, and the other laughed.

Portia brushed past them, blinking back tears, suffocating. A red double-decker tour bus crawled by, the guide quoting Carl Sandburg in a booming, overly dramatic voice that felt like fingernails scraping the chalkboard of her skin.

“Stormy, husky brawling…City of the big shoulders: They tell me you are wicked, and I believe them…”

Portia swiped at her eyes and picked up her step. She had work to do. Work would fix everything.

S
herman’s air-conditioning was on the fritz, and Annabelle’s appearance had degenerated into a mass of curls and wrinkles by the time she got home from the meeting with Heath, but she didn’t go inside right away. Instead, she stayed in the car with the windows rolled down and braced herself for the next step. He was only giving her one more introduction. That meant she couldn’t put it off any longer. Even so, it took all her willpower to pull her cell from her purse and make the call.

“Delaney, hi. It’s Annabelle. Yes, I know. It’s been ages…”

W
e’re poor as church mice,” Delaney Lightfield told Heath the night of their first official date, a mere three days after they’d been introduced. “But we still maintain appearances. And thanks to Uncle Eldred’s influence, I have a great sales job at the Lyric Opera.”

She relayed this information with a charming, self-deprecating laugh that made Heath smile. At twenty-nine, Delaney reminded him of a blond, more athletic Audrey Hepburn. She wore a sleeveless navy cotton sweater dress with a strand of pearls that had belonged to her great-grandmother. She’d grown up in Lake Forest and graduated from Smith. She was an expert skier and a competent tennis player. She golfed, rode horseback, and spoke four languages. Although several decades of outdated business practices had depleted the Lightfield railroad fortune and forced the sale of the family’s summer house in Bar Harbor, Maine, she liked the challenge of making it on her own. She loved to cook and confessed that she sometimes wished she’d gone to culinary school. The woman of his dreams had finally appeared.

As the evening progressed, he switched from beer to wine, reminded himself to watch his language, and made it a point to mention the new Fauvist exhibit at the Art Institute. After dinner, he drove her back to the apartment she shared with two roommates and gave her a gentleman’s kiss on the cheek. As he drove away, the faint scent of French lavender lingered in the car. He grabbed his cell to phone Annabelle, but he was too revved to go home. He wanted to talk to her in person. Singing along with the radio in his off-key baritone, he headed for Wicker Park.