Match Me If You Can

Chapter Ten

Annabelle collected a few more paper plates, even though Phoebe had told her not to bother. She dreaded the idea of being closed up in the car with Heath for the ride home. Phoebe scooped a dab of pink icing from the mangled castle cake and popped it in her mouth. "Dan and I are both looking forward to the retreat at the campground. We love any excuse to go to Wind Lake. Molly definitely lucked out when she married a man with his own resort."

"With training camp coming up, it'll be the last break any of us have for a long time." Molly turned to Annabelle. "I almost forgot. We had a cancellation on one of the cottages. You and Janine can share it, since you're both singles, or would you rather keep your room at the B &B?"

Annabelle thought it over. Although she'd never been to the Wind Lake Campground, she knew it had both a Victorian bed-and-breakfast and a number of small cottages. "I guess I'd-"

"The cottage for sure," Heath said. "Apparently Annabelle hasn't gotten around to mentioning that she ordered me to go with her."

Annabelle turned to stare at him.

Phoebe's finger froze in the cake icing. "You're coming on the retreat?"

Annabelle spotted a small pulse beating at the base of his neck. He loved this. She could expose him with only a few words, but he was an adrenaline junky, and he'd thrown the dice. "I've never been able to turn down a bet," he said. "She thinks I can't go an entire weekend without my cell."

"You can barely make it through dinner," Molly muttered.

"I'll expect an apology from both of you after I've proved exactly how wrong you are."

Molly's and Phoebe's expressions were equally quizzical as they turned to Annabelle. Her wounded pride demanded she punish him. Right now. She deserved her pound of flesh for the cold-blooded way he'd fired her.

An awkward pause fell. He watched her, waited, the pulse at the base of his neck marking the passing seconds.

"He'll fold." She forced a smile. "Everybody knows it but him."

"Interesting." Molly refrained from saying more, although Annabelle knew she wanted to.

Twenty minutes later, she and Heath were heading back toward the city, the silence in the car as thick as the castle cake's pink frosting, but not nearly as sweet. He'd done better than she'd expected with the girls. He'd listened respectfully to Hannah's concerns, and Pippi adored him. Annabelle had been surprised how many times she'd looked over to see him crouched down talking to her.

Heath finally broke the silence. "I'd already made up my mind to rehire you before I heard about the retreat."

"Oh, I believe you," she said, using sarcasm to hide her hurt.

"I mean it."

"Whatever lets you sleep at night."

"Okay, Annabelle. Unload. Get it all out. Everything you've been saving up all afternoon."

"Unloading is the prerogative of equals. Lowly employees like myself pucker their lips and kiss the sweet spot."

"You were out of line, and you know it. This thing with Phoebe never gets any better. I thought I might be able to change that."

"Whatever."

He shot into the left lane. "Do you want me to bow out? I can call Molly in the morning and tell her that something's come up. Is that what you want me to do?"

"Like I have any choice if I want to keep you as a client."

"Okay, let me make it easy for you. Regardless of what you decide, you're rehired. One way or another, our contract still holds."

She let him see she wasn't impressed with his offer. "And I can just imagine how cooperative you'd be if I refused to take you on the retreat."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to be honest. Look me in the eye and admit that you didn't have the slightest intention of rehiring me until you heard about the retreat."

"Yeah, you're right." He didn't look her in the eye, but at least he was being honest. "I wasn't going to forgive you. And you know why? Because I'm a ruthless son of a bitch."

"Fine. You can come with me."

Annabelle spent the next few days feeling pissy. She tried to chalk her mood up to getting her period, but she wasn't as good at self-deception as she used to be. Heath's cold-blooded behavior had left her feeling bruised, betrayed, and just plain mad. One mistake, and he'd written her off. If it weren't for the Wind Lake retreat, she'd never have seen him again. She was totally expendable, another one of his worker bees.

On Tuesday he left a terse voice message. "Portia has someone she wants me to meet at eight-thirty on Thursday evening. Set me up with one of your introductions at eight so we can kill two birds with one stone."

Finally, she put the anger where it belonged, on her own shoulders. He wasn't to blame for those sexual images that wanted to burn themselves into her brain when her guard was down. To him, this was business. She was the one who'd let it become personal, and if she forgot that again, she deserved the consequences.

On Thursday evening before she headed to Sienna's for the next round of introductions, she met her newest client at Ear-wax. Ray Fiedler had been referred by a relative of one of Nana's oldest friends, and Annabelle had sent him on his first date the night before with a Loyola faculty member she'd met during her campus cruising. "We had a nice time and everything," Ray said after they'd settled around one of Earwax's wooden tables, which was painted like the wheel of a circus wagon, "but Carole's not really my physical type."

"How do you mean?" Annabelle drew her eyes away from the ominous beginnings of his comb-over. She knew the answer, but she wanted to make him say it.

"She's… I mean, she's a really nice woman. A lot of people don't get my jokes. It's just that I like women who are… more fit."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Carole's a little overweight."

She took a sip of her cappuccino and studied the red-and-gold wooden dragon on the wall rather than the extra twenty pounds that hung around what used to be Ray Fiedler's waistline.

He wasn't stupid. "I know I'm not exactly Mr. Buff myself, but I work out."

Annabelle fought the urge to reach across the table and smack him in the head. Still, this type of challenge was part of what she liked about being a matchmaker. "You usually date thin women, then?"

"They don't have to be beauty queens, but the women I've dated have been pretty nice looking."

Annabelle pretended to look thoughtful. "I'm a little confused. When we first talked, you gave me the impression that you hadn't dated in a long time."

"Well, I haven't, but…"

She let him squirm for a few moments. A kid with multiple piercings passed their table followed by a pair of soccer moms. "So this weight thing is really important to you? More important than personality or intelligence?"

He looked as if she'd asked a trick question. "I just had somebody a little… different in mind."

And don't we all? Annabelle thought. The Fourth of July weekend was coming up, and she had no date, no prospects for a date, and no plans beyond starting her exercise program again and trying not to brood about the Wind Lake book club retreat. Ray fiddled with his spoon, and her annoyance with him faded. He was a decent guy, just clueless.

"Maybe you're not a love match," she said, "but I'll tell you the same thing I told Carole last night when she expressed a few misgivings. You have a common background, and you enjoyed each other's company. I think that justifies another date, regardless of your current lack of physical attraction. If nothing else, you could end up with a friend."

A few beats passed before he got it. "What do you mean misgivings? She doesn't want to see me again?"

"She has a few doubts, just like you do."

His hand flew to his head. "It's because of my hair, isn't it? That's all women care about. They see a guy who's losing his hair, and they don't want to give him the time of day."

"Women are less influenced by a receding hairline or a few extra pounds than men assume. Do you know what's most important to women as far as male physical appearance goes?"

"Height? Hey, I'm almost five-ten."

"Not height. Studies show that good grooming is most important to women. They value cleanliness and neatness more than anything else." She paused. "And good haircuts are very important to women."

"She didn't like my haircut?"

Annabelle gave him a wide smile. "Isn't that cool? A haircut can be fixed so easily. Here's the name of a stylist who gives great men's cuts." She slid the business card across the table. "You've got everything else together, so this will be easy."

It hadn't occurred to him that he might be the one getting rejected, and his competitive instincts came into play. By the time they left the coffee shop, he'd begrudgingly agreed to both the haircut and to meeting Carole again. Annabelle told herself she was getting good at this, and she shouldn't let her mother or her troubles with Heath Champion plant all those seeds of doubt.

She entered Sienna's in a better mood, but things went to hell quickly. Heath hadn't arrived, and the De Paul harpist she'd arranged for him to meet called to say she'd cut her leg and was heading for the emergency room. She'd barely hung up before Heath called. "The plane's late," he said. "I'm on the ground at O'Hare, but we're waiting for a gate to open up."

She told him about the harpist and then, because he sounded tired, suggested he postpone his Power Matches date.

"Tempting, but I'd better not," he said. "Portia's really high on this one. A gate's opening up now, so I shouldn't be too late. Hold the fort till I get there."

"All right."

Annabelle chatted with the bartender until Portia's candidate arrived. Her eyes widened. No wonder Powers had been enthusiastic. She was the most beautiful woman Annabelle had ever seen…

The next morning Annabelle returned from her semiannual morning run to see Portia Powers standing on her porch. They'd never met, but Annabelle recognized her from her Web site photograph. Only as she came closer, however, did she realize this was the same woman she'd seen standing in front of Sienna's the night she'd introduced Heath to Bar-rie. Powers wore a silky black blouse crisscrossed at her small waist, shocking pink slacks, and retro black patent leather heels. Her inky hair was beautifully cut, the kind of hair that moved with the slightest toss of the head, and her skin flawless. As for her body… She obviously only ate on government holidays.

"Don't you dare pull another trick like you did last night," Portia said the minute Annabelle's running shoes hit the porch steps. She oozed the brittle sort of beauty that always made Annabelle feel dumpy, but especially this morning in her baggy shorts and a sweaty orange T-shirt that said bill's heating and cooling.

"Good morning to you, too." Annabelle pulled the key from her shorts pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped aside to let Powers enter.

Portia took in the reception area and Annabelle's office with a single disdainful glance. "Do not ever… ever… take it upon yourself to get rid of one of my candidates before Heath has had a chance to meet her."

Annabelle closed the door. "You sent a bad candidate."

Powers pointed one manicured finger in the direction of Annabelle's sweat-beaded forehead. "That was for him to decide, not you."

Annabelle ignored the fingernail pistol. "I'm sure you know how he feels about wasting time."

Portia threw up her hand. "Can you really be this incompetent? Claudia Reeshman is the top model in Chicago. She's beautiful. She's intelligent. There are a million men who'd like a shot at her."

"That may be true, but she seems to have some serious emotional problems." A fairly obvious drug habit topped the list, although Annabelle wouldn't make any accusations she couldn't prove. "She started crying before her first drink arrived."

"Everyone has a bad day now and then." Powers draped a hand on her hip, a feminine pose, but she made it look as aggressive as a karate chop. "I've worked all month trying to talk her into meeting Heath. I finally get her to agree, and what do you do? You decide he's not going to like her, and you send her home."

"Claudia was going through more than a bad day," Annabelle countered. "She's an emotional train wreck."

"I don't care if she was rolling on the floor barking like a dog. What you did was stupid and underhanded."

Annabelle had dealt with strong personalities all her life, and she wasn't going to back down from this one, even with sweat dripping in her eyes and bill's heating and cooling sticking to her chest. "Heath's been clear about what he expects."

"I'd say the sexiest, most sought after woman in Chicago exceeds his expectations."

"He wants more than beauty in a wife."

"Oh, please. When it comes to men like Heath, cup size wins over IQ any time."

They were getting nowhere, so Annabelle did her best to sound professional instead of pissed off. "This whole process would be easier for both of us if we could work together."

Portia looked as if Annabelle had offered her a big bag of fatty junk food. "I have strict qualifications for my trainees, Ms. Granger. You don't fit any of them."

"Now that's just bitchy." Annabelle stalked to the door. "From now on, take your grievances right to Heath."

"Oh, believe me, I will. And I can't wait to hear what he has to say about this one."

What the hell were you thinking?" Heath bellowed into the phone a few hours later, not exactly yelling, but coming close. "I just found out you blew off Claudia Reeshman?"

"And?" Annabelle took a vicious jab at the notepad next to her kitchen phone with a lollipop pen.

"I obviously gave you way too much power."

"When I called you back last night and told you I'd canceled the introduction because she wasn't what you wanted, you thanked me."

"You neglected to mention her name. I've never had a thing for models, but Claudia Reeshman… Jesus, Annabelle…"

"Maybe you'd like to fire me again."

"Will you let it go?"

"How's this going to work?" She took another stab at the notepad. "Do you trust me or not?"

Through the phone, she heard a car horn, followed by a long silence. "I trust you," he finally said.

She almost choked. "Really?"

"Really."

Just like that, she got a lump in her throat the size of the Sears Tower. She cleared it away and tried to sound as though this was exactly what she'd expected him to say. "Good. I hear horns. Are you on the road?"

"I told you I was driving to Indianapolis."

"That's right. It's Friday." For the next two nights, he'd be in Indiana with a client who played for the Colts. He'd originally planned the trip for the following weekend, but he'd rescheduled because of the book club retreat she didn't want to think about. "The way you keep going out of town on weekends makes scheduling these introductions challenging."

"Business comes first. You sure did piss off Powers. She wants your head on a platter."

"Along with a knife and some fat-free sour cream to help wash it down."

"I didn't know Reeshman was still in Chicago. I thought she'd gone to New York for good."

Annabelle suspected Claudia didn't want to be that far from her drug dealer.

"Do me a favor," he said. "If Powers sets up a date for me with anybody else who's posed for SI's swimsuit edition, at least tell me her name before you get rid of her."

"All right."

"And thanks for agreeing to help me out tomorrow."

She drew a daisy on her notepad. "What's not to like about spending the day running around town with your credit card and no spending limit?"

"Plus Bodie and Sean Palmer's mother. Don't forget that part. If Mrs. Palmer wasn't so afraid of him, Bodie could have done this by himself."

"She's not the only one who's afraid of him. You're sure we'll be safe?"

"As long as you don't mention politics, Taco Bell, or the color red."

"Thanks for the warning."

"And don't let him get too close to anybody wearing a hat."

"I'm going now."

As she hung up, she realized she was smiling, which wasn't a good idea at all. Pythons could strike at will, and they seldom gave any warning.

Sean Palmer's mother, Arte, had salt-and-pepper dreadlocks, a tall, full-figured body, and a hearty laugh. Annabelle liked her immediately. With Bodie as their travel guide, they saw the sights, beginning with an early morning architectural boat tour followed by a sweep through the Impressionists collection at the Art Institute. Although Bodie handled all the arrangements, he stayed in the background. He was a strange guy, full of intriguing contradictions that made Annabelle want to know more about him.

After a late lunch, they headed for Millennium Park, the glorious new lakefront park Chicagoans believed finally put them ahead of San Francisco as America's most beautiful city. Annabelle had visited the park many times, and she enjoyed showing off the terraced gardens, the fifty-foot-high Crown Fountain with its changing video images, and the shiny, mirrorlike Cloud Gate sculpture affectionately known as The Bean.

As they walked through the futuristic music pavilion, where the bandshell's curling stainless-steel ribbons blended so exquisitely with the skyscrapers behind it, their conversation returned to Arte's son, who'd soon be playing fullback for the Bears. "Sean had agents all over him," his mother said. "It was a happy day for me when he signed with Heath. I stopped worrying so much about people taking advantage of him. I know Heath's going to look out for him."

"He definitely cares about his clients," Annabelle said.

The July sunlight flirted with the waves on the lake as the two women followed Bodie over the snaking steel pedestrian bridge that meandered above the traffic on Columbus Drive. When they reached the other side, they wandered toward the jogging trail. As they stopped to admire the view, a biker called out to Bodie, then pulled up beside him.

Annabelle and Arte fell still, both of them gazing at the man's skintight black biker shorts. "Time to praise God for the glory of his creation," Arte said.

"Amen."

They moved closer, checking out the biker's sweat-slicked calves and the blue-and-white mesh T-shirt clinging to his perfectly developed chest. He was in his mid-to-late twenties, and he wore a high-tech red helmet that hid the top of his damp blond hair, but not his Adonis profile.

"I need a plunge in the lake to cool off," Annabelle whispered.

"If I were twenty years younger…"

Bodie gestured toward them. "Ladies, I've got somebody for you to meet."

"Come to mama," Arte murmured, which made Annabelle giggle.

Just before they reached the men, Annabelle recognized the biker. "Wow. I know who that is."

"Mrs. Palmer, Annabelle," Bodie said. "This is the famous Dean Robillard, the Stars' next great quarterback."

Although Annabelle had never met Kevin's backup in person, she'd seen him play, and she knew him by reputation. Arte shook his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Dean. You tell your friends to take it easy on my boy Sean this season."

Dean gave her his ladykiller smile. And didn't he know exactly the effect he had on women? Annabelle thought.

"We'll do just that for you, ma'am." Oozing sex appeal like an oil slick, he turned his charm on her. His openly assessing eyes slid down her body with a confidence that said he could have her-or any woman he wanted-whenever and however he liked. Oh, no, you can't, you naughty, sexy little boy.

"Annabelle is it?"

"I'd better check my driver's license to make sure," she said. "I'm all out of breath here."

Bodie choked, then laughed.

Apparently Robillard wasn't used to women calling his visual bluffs because he looked momentarily taken aback. Then he ratcheted up the old charm-o-meter. "Maybe it's the heat."

"Oh, it's hot all right." Normally, gorgeous men intimidated her, but he was so full of himself she was merely amused.

He laughed, this time genuinely, and she found herself liking him in spite of his cockiness. "I do admire a feisty red-haired woman," he said.

She slipped her sunglasses lower on her nose and gazed at him over the top. "I'll just bet, Mr. Robillard, that you admire women in general."

"And they admire you right back." Arte chuckled.

Dean turned to Bodie. "Where did you find these two?"

"Cook County Jail."

Arte snorted. "You behave yourself, Bodie."

Dean returned his attention to Annabelle. "Something about your name rings a bell. Wait a minute. Aren't you Heath's matchmaker?"

"How did you know about that?"

"Word gets around." A Rollerblader whizzed by, brunette hair flying. He took his time enjoying the view. "I never met a matchmaker," he finally said. "Maybe I should hire you?"

"You do know my business doesn't have anything to do with lighting campfires, right?"

He folded his arms over his chest. "Hey, everybody wants to meet somebody special."

She smiled. "Not when they're having so much fun meeting all those un-specials."

Dean turned to Bodie. "I don't think she likes me."

"She likes you," Bodie said, "but she thinks you're immature."

"I'm sure you'll grow out of it," Annabelle said.

Bodie slapped him on the back. "I know it doesn't happen very often, but it looks like Annabelle's immune to your movie star face."

"Then somebody better get her to the eye doctor," Arte muttered, which made them all laugh.

Dean wheeled his bike off the path and leaned it against a tree while the four of them chatted. Dean asked Arte about Sean, and they talked about the Bears for a while. Then Bodie brought up Dean's search for an agent. "I hear you've been meeting with Jack Riley at IMG."

"I'm meeting with a lot of people," Dean replied.

"You should at least hear what Heath has to say. He's a smart guy."

"Heath Champion is number one on my do-not-call list. I've got enough ways of making Phoebe unhappy." Dean turned to Annabelle. "How'd you like to come to the beach with me tomorrow?"

She hadn't seen this coming, and she was stunned. Also suspicious. "Why?"

"Can I be honest?"

"I don't know. Can you?"

"I need protection."

"From overtanning?"

"Nope." He flashed his glamour boy smile. "I love the beach, but so many people recognize me that it's hard to chill. Usually, if I'm with a woman, people give me a little more space."

"And I'm the only woman you can find to go with you? I doubt that."

His eyes twinkled. "Don't take this the wrong way, but it'll be more relaxing if I invite somebody I'm not planning to sleep with."

Annabelle burst out laughing.

"Poor Dean needs a friend, not a lover." Bodie chuckled.

"You're invited, too, Mrs. Palmer," Dean said politely.

"Honey, not even a hottie like you could get me out in public wearing a bathing suit."

"What do you think, Annabelle?" Dean cocked his head toward the lakefront. "We'll go to the Oak Street Beach. I'll bring a cooler. We can hang out, swim, listen to music. It'll be fun. You can lower your standards for a couple of hours, can't you?"

Her life had gotten so weird since she'd met Heath Champion. Chicago's hottest young jock had just asked her to spend Sunday afternoon lying on the beach with him when, only two days ago, she'd been feeling sorry for herself because she didn't have any plans for the Fourth of July weekend. "As long as you promise not to ogle younger women while I'm with you."

"I'd never do that!" he declared, apparently forgetting the brunette Rollerblader.

"Just so we're clear."

And he didn't.

He didn't talk on his cell, either, or whip out a BlackBerry. It was a hot, cloudless day, and he even provided a beach umbrella to protect her redhead's skin. They lay on towels listening to music, talking when they felt like it, and gazing out at the water when they didn't. She wore her two-piece white suit, which was cut high enough at the thigh to make her legs look longer, but not so high that she needed a Brazilian wax. Some of his fans interrupted, but not too many. Still, everyone seemed to want a piece of Dean Robillard. Maybe that was why she sensed an odd sort of loneliness beneath his oversize ego. He dodged questions about his family, and she didn't press him.

She had four voice mails waiting when she got home, all from Heath, demanding she call him right away. Instead, she took a shower. She was toweling her hair dry when she heard the doorbell ring. She fastened her yellow terry robe at the waist and headed downstairs, running one hand through her mop as she padded to the door.

A tall hunk of a man gazed back at her through the wavy glass. The Python was paying his second house call.