Match Me if You Can (35 page)

“Five trips, and I’ll beat up your brothers.”

“One.”

He dropped her foot. “Damn it, Annabelle, I’ll compromise at four trips until the baby’s born, then we see them every other month, and that’s not negotiable.” He grabbed the notepad and pencil and began to write.

“Fine,” she retorted. “I’ll go to a spa while all of you sit around and complain about the limitations of the sixty-hour workweek.”

He laughed. “You are so full of it. You know you can’t wait to dangle our firstborn in front of Candace’s nose.”

“Well, there’s that.” She paused, took back the notepad, but she couldn’t see a word she’d written. As much as she hated letting reality intrude, it was time to get serious. “Heath, how do you plan to be a father to these children we want while you’re working that sixty-hour week?” She spoke carefully, wanting to get this right. “With Perfect for You, my hours are flexible, but…I know how much you love what you do, and I’d never want you to give it up. On the other hand, I won’t raise a family by myself.”

“You won’t have to,” he said smugly. “I have a plan.”

“Care to share?”

He reached for her arm, pulled her down next to him, and told her what he had in mind.

“I like your plan.” She grinned and curled into his chest. “Bodie deserves to be a full partner.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

They were both so pleased they started kissing again, which led to a lovely—and very successful—testing of her powers as a dominatrix. As a result, it took a while to get back to their negotiations. They covered sleepwear (none), TV remote control (shared), children’s names (no motor vehicles), and baseball (irreconcilable differences). When they finished, Heath remembered there was one question he’d forgotten to ask.

Gazing into her eyes, he drew her fingers to his lips. “I love you, Annabelle Granger. Will you marry me?”

“Harley Davidson Campione, you have got yourself a wife.”

“The best deal I’ve ever made,” he replied with a smile.

P
ippi lifted the tape recorder to her lips and shouted. “Testing! Testing! Testing!”

“It works,” Heath exclaimed from the couch on the other side of his media room. “Do you think you could be a little quieter?”

“My name is Victoria Phoebe Tucker…,” she whispered. And then back to her normal volume. “I am five years old, and I live at the Plaza Hotel.” She sneaked a look at Heath, but he’d watched the
Eloise
movie with her, and all he did was smile. “This is Prince’s tape recorder that he says I
have to give back
.”

“Darned right, you do.” She was supposed to be watching the Sox game with him while the book club met upstairs, but she’d gotten bored.

“Prince is still mad ’bout all the phones I took when I was
only three,
” she said into the tape recorder. “But I was just a baby, and Mommy found most of them and gave them back.”

“Not all of them.”

“Because I can’t remember where I put them!” she exclaimed, shooting him her miniquarterback’s glare. “I told you that about a million times.” Dismissing him, she returned her attention to what she was doing. “These are the things I love. I love Mommy and Daddy and Danny and Aunt Phoebe and Uncle Dan and all my cousins and Prince when he doesn’t talk about phones and Belle and everybody in the book club except Portia, because she wouldn’t let me be a flower girl when she married Bodie because they went to Vegas in a envelope.”

Heath laughed. “They
eloped
.”

“They eloped,” she repeated. “And Belle didn’t want Portia in the book club, but Aunt Phoebe
en-
sisted because she said Portia needed…” She couldn’t remember, and she looked over at Heath.

“Noncompetitive female friendships,” he said with a smile. “And, as usual, Aunt Phoebe was right. Which is why I, in my brilliance, convinced Aunt Phoebe to become Portia’s mentor.”

Pippi nodded and kept chatting. “Prince likes Portia. Portia used to be a matchmaker, but now she works for him, and Prince say she’s the best dam’ sports agent he’s ever seed, and, because of her, their new ladies’ sports dibision is getting bigger all the time.”

“She’s the third best sports agent,” he said. “After Bodie and me. And don’t say
damn
.”

She sank deeper into the big recliner, crossing her ankles just like him. “Prince paid a lot of money to Portia for Belle’s wedding present. Mommy said it was a dumb present, but Belle said Prince couldn’t have gived her anything she liked more, and now Portia gives Belle advice on how to be a matchmaker.” She scrunched her forehead. “What was that thing you gived Belle for her wedding present?”

“Portia’s database from her old business.”

“You should have gave her a puppy.”

Heath laughed, then scowled at the television. “Don’t swing at everything, you idiot!”

“I
don’t
love the Sox,” Pippi said emphatically. “But I love Dr. Adam and Delaney because
they
let me be a flower girl in their wedding, and Belle’s mommy cried and said Belle is the best matchmaker in the world. And I love Rosemary ’cause she tells me stories and does makeup. Rosemary’s in the book club now. Belle told Aunt Phoebe that if Portia got to be in the book club then Rosemary did, too, ’cause Rosemary needed friends just as much as Portia, and then Belle said she was too happy to hold on to old biddiness.”

“Bitterness.”

“Here’s what I don’t love.” She shot another dark look at Heath. “I don’t love Trevor Granger Champion. Who is a big poopy diaper.”

“Here we go again.” Heath shifted the bundle in his arms to his shoulder.

She set down the tape recorder, crawled out of the recliner, and climbed on the couch next to him, where she peered with displeasure at the sleeping baby. “Trevor told me he hates it when you carry him around all the time. He says he wants you to put…him…down!”

Since Trevor was only six months old, Heath doubted his language skills were that advanced, but he muted the volume and turned his attention to the jealous five-year-old. “I thought we talked about this.”

She leaned against him. “Talk to me again.”

He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders. Pip wasn’t content unless she had every male in the free world at her beck and call, which she pretty much did. “Trev is just a baby. He’s boring. He can’t play with me like you do.”

“And he’s a big crybaby.”

Heath felt a paternal need to defend his son’s masculinity. “Only when he’s hungry.”

Pippi lifted her head. “I hear them moving around upstairs. I think it’s time for dessert.”

“You sure you don’t want to watch the rest of the game with me?”

“Get real.” It was her newest expression, and she used it whenever her parents weren’t around.

Heath kissed Trevor Granger Champion on his fuzzy head and followed her upstairs.

Annabelle had put her stamp on his house right from the beginning. As he stepped into the living room, he took in the big, cozy furniture, the warm rugs and fresh flowers. A splashy abstract painting they’d bought in a Seattle gallery one rainy afternoon occupied the spot over the fireplace. Afterward, they’d celebrated the purchase with an afternoon of lovemaking they both believed had given them their son.

Beneath the painting, Portia and Phoebe stood with their heads together, probably plotting world domination. Molly bent down to listen to Pippi. The others had congregated around Rosemary. As Annabelle grew aware of his presence, she separated herself from the group and came toward him, that private smile he loved claiming her face. He took in Pip and the book club, then his beautiful red-haired wife. This was what he’d been searching for all his life. Women who’d stick.

“Any chance you can get your coven out of here in the next tenminutes?” he asked in a low voice as she reached his side.

She touched her son’s cheek, and the baby instinctively turned toward her hand. “I doubt it. They haven’t had dessert.”

“Set it on the porch.”

“Behave.”

“That’s what you’re saying now,” he whispered, “but you’ll be singing a different tune later.”

She laughed, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, then the baby’s head. Across the room, Phoebe Calebow caught his eye, and they exchanged a look of perfect understanding. Next week they’d be battling over Dean’s new contract, but for now, peace reigned.

While Pip helped Annabelle serve dessert, he carried the baby upstairs to his expanded home office. He let the baby sleep in his lap while he made a few phone calls. With Bodie as a full partner, Heath’s workload had lightened considerably. Instead of operating the biggest sports agency in the city, they were focusing on being the best, and they’d become highly selective in choosing their clients. Still, they could only control so much, and under Portia’s direction, the new women’s division had been growing by leaps and bounds, although she, too, had set limits. It had been a couple of years since he’d seen that pinched, frantic look on her face. Amazing what a good marriage and twenty extra pounds could do for a woman’s disposition.

Perfect for You was also thriving. To the relief of Annabelle’s seniors, Kate had given her daughter the Wicker Park house as a wedding gift. Acting on Portia’s advice, Annabelle had hired both a secretary and an assistant. Ignoring Portia’s advice, she continued to cater to a hodgepodge of clients. That was how she liked it.

Finally, he heard the book club beginning to depart. Trev was getting hungry, and the noise awakened him. As soon as the coast was clear, Heath carried him downstairs.

Annabelle stood by the wedge of windows, the afternoon sunlight pouring over her like liquid amber. As she heard him approach, she smiled as though she’d been waiting for this moment all day, which she probably had. He gave her the baby, then sat contentedly to watch his son feed. He and Annabelle talked a little. Not much. Upstairs, he heard his fax chime, and a few minutes later, his cell vibrated. He slipped his hand into his pocket and flicked it off.

Eventually, they bundled up their son, and the three of them went for a walk. A man and his family. A fine Chicago afternoon. The Sox on their way to a pennant.

“Why are you smiling?” his wife asked, with a smile of her own.

“Because you’re perfect.”

“No, I’m not,” she laughed. “But I’m perfect for you.”

The Python couldn’t have agreed more.

F
ortunately, I have a very talented family. My heartfelt thanks to every member for cheering me on, as well as sharing personal expertise. Dana, I don’t know what I would have done without you. Thanks, Zach and Ty, for picking up the phone, even when you knew I was on the other end of the line with another question. Gloria, your special powers meant more to me than you’ll ever know. Lyd, what are sisters for? And, Bill, once again you not only steer me through but give me a title as well.

Thanks to Bud Stanner at IMG for talking to me about the business of being a sports agent. A big thank-you to the professional matchmakers who spoke with me. (And also that very nice lady running the nude dancing business, although surely all those girls couldn’t be working just to put themselves through college.)

Thanks to my good buddies Jennifer Crusie, Kristin Hannah, Alison Hart, Jayne Ann Krentz, Cathie Linz, Lindsay Longford, Dawn Struxness, Suzette Vann, Margaret Watson, everybody at Writerspace, and all the “Seppies” on the SEP Bulletin Board ( join us at www.susanelizabethphillips.com).

Barbara Jepson and Sharon Mitchell, my able assistants, how could I write without you?

I’ve run out of ways to thank my longtime editor, Carrie Feron; my agent, Steven Axelrod; and everyone at William Morrow and Avon Books for their enthusiasm, friendship, and hard work. I’m one lucky lady.

A resident of the Chicago suburbs, SUSAN ELIZABETH PHILLIPS is a wife and mother of two grown sons. Visit her on the Web at www.susanelizabethphillips.com. To receive notice of author events and new books by Susan Elizabeth Phillips, sign up at www.authortracker.com.

Jacket design by Honi Werner