Match Me If You Can

Chapter Eleven

Only two boxes of thin mint cookies this year, girls," Annabelle said as she pulled the door open. "I'm on a diet."

Heath pushed past her. "Do you ever check your phone messages?"

She gazed down at her bare feet. "Once again, you've caught me looking my best."

He was in hyper mode, and he barely glanced at her, exactly as it should be. "You look beautiful. So there I am, stuck in a Bible study class in Indianapolis, when I hear the news that my matchmaker is sunning herself on the beach with Dean Robillard."

"You took a phone call in the middle of Bible study?"

"I was bored."

"And you were in the class because…? Never mind. Your client wanted you to go." She shut the door.

"Why the hell did Robillard ask you out?"

"He's smitten. It happens all the time. Raoul says I can't help the effect I have on men."

"Uh-huh. Bodie told me Dean wanted to go to the beach, and he needed a decoy."

"Then why did you ask?"

"So I could get Raoul's take on it."

She grinned and padded after him into her reception room. "Your scary henchman knew about this yesterday. Why did he wait until today to tell you?"

"My question exactly. You got anything to eat?"

"Some leftover pad thai, but it's starting to grow hair, so I can't recommend it."

"I'm ordering a pizza. How do you like it?"

Maybe it was because she was practically naked and didn't like his attitude, or maybe she was just an idiot because she settled a hand on her hip, slid her eyes over him, and let the words slide off her tongue. "I like it hot… and… spicy."

His eyelids dropped to the V of her robe. "Exactly what Raoul told me."

She beat a hasty retreat for the stairs. His low chuckle accompanied her all the way to the top.

She took her time changing into her last pair of clean shorts and a vintage blue camie top with a lacy insert that nestled in what passed for her cleavage. Just because she had to be on guard didn't mean she couldn't look good. She dusted bronzing powder over her cheeks, dabbed on lip gloss, then ran a big-tooth comb through her hair, where a few rebellious corkscrews had already begun framing her face like Christmas curling ribbon.

When she got downstairs, Heath was in her office tilted back in her chair, his crossed ankles propped on her desk, and her receiver tucked under his chin. His eyes took in her lacy cleavage, then her bare legs, and he smiled. He was messing with her again, and she didn't let herself make anything out of it.

"I know, Rocco, but she's only got ten fingers. How many diamonds can she wear?" As he listened to the response at the other end of the line, he frowned. "Listen to the people who care about you. I'm not saying she isn't for real, but give it a couple more months, okay? We'll talk next week." He slammed down the phone and dropped his feet to the floor. "Bloodsuckers. They see these guys coming and take them for all they're worth."

"These would be the same guys who stand in hotel lobbies pointing their finger at the bloodsuckers and going you, you, and you? Then ten minutes later they're explaining all the reasons they won't wear a condom."

"Yeah, well, there's definitely that." He picked up the beer he'd swiped from her refrigerator. "But some of these women are unbelievable. The guys might be tough while they're on the field, but once the game's over, it's a different story. Especially the younger ones. Suddenly all these beautiful women are coming on to them and saying they're in love. The next thing you know, the boys are giving out sports cars and diamond rings for one-month anniversary presents. And don't get me started on the bottom feeders who get pregnant so they can squeeze out hush money."

"Again, nothing a condom wouldn't take care of." She picked up a blue plastic watering can and carried it over to Nana's African violets.

"The guys are young. They think they're invincible. I know in Annabelle Land everybody's nice and sweet, but there are more avaricious women in the world than you can imagine."

Annabelle stopped watering to gaze at him. "Did one of those avaricious women find her way into your pockets? Is that why you're so picky?"

"By the time I'd earned enough to be a target, I'd learned how to watch out for myself."

"Just out of curiosity… Have you ever been in love? With a woman," she said hastily, so he didn't start throwing the names of his clients at her.

"I was engaged in law school. It didn't work out."

"Why not?"

"The pain's too fresh for me to revisit," he drawled.

She made a face at him, and he smiled. His cell rang. As he answered, she realized he looked more at home sitting at her desk than she did. How did he manage it? Somehow, he found a way to mark whatever space he occupied. He might as well lift his leg when he walked into a room.

She finished watering the African violets and headed for the kitchen, where she unloaded Nana's cranky dishwasher. The doorbell rang, and a few moments later Heath appeared with the pizza. She gathered up plates and napkins. He retrieved another beer for himself and one for her and carried them over to the table.

As he sat, he gazed at the blue enameled cupboards and Hello Kitty cookie jar. "I like this place. It's homey."

"Tactfully phrased. I know I should update, but I haven't gotten around to it." She could barely afford paint, let alone a major remodeling.

They began to eat, and the silence that settled over them was surprisingly comfortable. She wondered what he was doing for the Fourth tomorrow. He polished off his first slice and took another. "How is it, Annabelle, that you've managed to get close to the two people who are most important to me right now? What is it with you?"

"Natural charm coupled with the fact that I have a life, and you don't." Not much of a life. On Wednesday night, Mr. Bronicki had bullied her into attending the seniors' potluck at the rec center. She'd only agreed after he'd promised to take Mrs. Valerio out again.

Heath swiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "What did Robillard say about me?"

She nibbled on her crust. This, she reminded herself, was the reason he'd suggested their cozy dinner party. "He said you're numero uno on his do-not-call list. Pretty much a direct quote. But you probably already know that."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Nothing. I was too busy drooling. God, he's gorgeous."

He frowned. "Dean Robillard isn't one of those naive kids I was talking about. You watch yourself with him. He goes through women like potato chips."

"Well, baby, he can snack on me anytime he wants."

To her surprise, he took her seriously. "No way you're falling for him."

Now this was interesting. "Can I get back to you on that?"

"Look, Annabelle, Dean's not a bad guy, but when it comes to women, all he cares about is racking up notches."

"Like I don't?"

"God, you're a wiseass."

He'd handed her a golden opportunity to delve a little deeper into the life and times of Heath Champion. "Just out of curiosity, how many notches did you rack up? When you were racking them up, that is. And how long ago was that, by the way?"

"Too many notches. I'm not proud of it, either, so no lectures."

"You really think your notching days are behind you?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't be getting married."

"You're not getting married. You haven't even gone out on a second date."

"Only because I've hired two semi-incompetent matchmakers."

She hadn't told him about Portia's visit, but what could she say? That Portia Powers was a bitch. He probably already knew that. Besides, she had something else she needed to tell him, and she dreaded doing it. "I got a call from Claudia Reeshman this morning. She still wants to meet you."

"No kidding?" He kicked back in his chair, a crooked grin on his face. "Why'd she call you instead of Powers?"

"I guess we sort of connected on Thursday."

"Amazing."

"I thought I'd convinced her you were unworthy, but apparently not." She picked up her pizza, even though she'd lost her appetite. "So I suppose you want me to add her to Wednesday night's agenda?"

"No."

A glob of cheese slid into her lap. "You don't?"

"Didn't you say she wasn't right for me?"

"She's not, but…"

"Then no."

Something warm and sweet unfurled inside her. "Thanks." Embarrassed, she scrubbed at her lap.

"You're welcome."

She took her time wiping off her fingers. "The woman I'm introducing you to on Wednesday isn't as beautiful."

"Not many are. Reeshman's last SI cover was incredible."

"She's a harpist finishing up a master's in music performance. Twenty-eight, an undergraduate degree from Vassar. You were supposed to meet her last Thursday."

"Is she ugly?"

"Of course she's not ugly." She snatched up her plate and carried it to the sink.

Heath didn't say anything for a few minutes. Finally, he picked up his own plate and brought it to her. "On the off chance Dean calls you again, be careful what you say about me."

"What makes you think there's only an off chance?"

He nodded toward the table. "You want another slice?"

"No." She shoved his plate in the dishwasher. "No, I want to hear this. Why are you so sure he won't call?"

"Calm down. I only meant that you've got a few years on him."

"So?" She slammed the dishwasher closed and told herself to shut up, but the words kept coming. "Older women and younger men are all the fashion these days. Don't you read People?"

"Dean only dates party girls."

She knew what he really meant, and a streak of masochism made her push him to say it aloud. "Spit it out. You don't think I'm hot enough for him."

"Stop putting words in my mouth. All I'm saying is that the two of you aren't going to make a love connection."

"True. But we might make a sex connection."

She'd flung the last remnants of caution to the winds, and a long, lean finger came right at her. "You're not having sex with him. I know these guys, and you don't. I'm trusting you about Claudia Reeshman. You need to trust me about Dean Robillard."

She wouldn't let him off that easily. "You're looking for a wife. Maybe I'm just looking for a little fun."

"If you need fun," he shot back, "I'll give you fun."

She was stunned.

A car raced by in the street outside, its radio blaring. They stared at each other. He looked surprised, too. Or maybe not. Slowly, deliberately, the corner of his mouth curled, and she realized the Python was toying with her again.

"Gotta go, Tinker Bell. I have some work I need to catch up on. Thanks for dinner."

Only after the front door closed behind him did she manage a weak "You're welcome."

"Yes… Yes, all right. Send him up." Portia's hands trembled as she set down the phone. Bodie was in the lobby.

He hadn't called once since their date at the sports bar ten days ago, and now he'd shown up at her condo at nine o'clock on the night of the Fourth of July, expecting her to be waiting for him. She should have told the doorman to send him away, but she hadn't.

She moved automatically toward her bedroom, stepping out of her cotton shift on the way. The Jensons had invited her out on their boat tonight to watch the fireworks, but fireworks depressed her, like most holiday rituals, and she'd declined. It had been a terrible week. First the Claudia Reeshman debacle, then the assistant she'd hired to replace SuSu Kaplan had quit, saying the job was "too stressful." Portia desperately missed the mentoring program. She'd even tried to set up a lunch with Juanita to discuss the situation, but the director was dodging her calls.

She tried to imagine how Bodie would react to the condo she'd bought after her divorce. Because she used her home to host monthly cocktail parties for her most important clients, she'd chosen a spacious unit on the top floor of an excruciatingly expensive prewar limestone just off Lakeshore Drive. She wanted to project old-world elegance, so she'd borrowed from the color palate of the Dutch masters: rich shades of brown, antique gold, muted olive, along with subtle touches of bittersweet. In the living room, a pair of masculine, deep-seated couches and a big leather club chair bordered the tea-stained oriental rug. A similar oriental rug complemented the heavy teak dining room table with its lushly upholstered side chairs. It was important for men to feel comfortable here, so she kept the tables free of bric-a-brac and the liquor cabinet well stocked. Only in her bedroom did she indulge her passion for over-the-top femininity. Her bed was a confection of ivory and ecru satin, with lace pillows and beribboned shams. Chunky silver candleholders sat on delicate chests, and a small crystal froth of a chandelier dangled in the corner near a powder puff reading chair piled with fashion magazines, several literary novels, and a self-help book that purported to help women find their inner happiness.

Maybe Bodie was drunk. Maybe that's why he'd shown up tonight. Still, who knew what motivated a man like him? She pulled on a scoop-necked sundress printed with antique roses and slipped into a pair of rose-colored ankle-strap stilettos embellished with tiny leather butterflies. The buzzer sounded. She forced herself to walk slowly to the door.

He wore a silky long-sleeved taupe shirt and matching trousers in one of those pricey microfabrics that moved against his legs. From the shoulders down, he looked muscular, but respectable, even elegant. But from the shoulders up, all respectability vanished. His sinewy tattooed neck, ice pick blue eyes, and ominous shaved head made him appear even more dangerous than she remembered.

He gazed around the living room without speaking, then walked toward the French doors that led to her small balcony. Each summer she vowed to start a container garden there, but gardening took patience she didn't possess, and she never followed through. A cloud of humidity blew into the climate-controlled interior as he opened one of the doors and stepped outside. She considered for a few moments then wandered over to the wet bar. She ignored the assortment of imported beers he'd prefer, choosing instead a bottle of champagne and two frail tulip goblets. She carried them over to the French doors and flicked on the exterior light before she went outside.

The air was thick and woolly, with high, dark clouds swirling over the roof of the apartment building on the opposite corner. She approached the concrete railing, which had a wide, flat top supported by chubby, urn-shaped balusters. She set the champagne bottle down, along with the delicate glasses.

He still hadn't spoken. On the street ten stories below, a car pulled out of a parking space and turned the corner. A group of stragglers headed toward the lake to view the city's fireworks display, which would be starting any minute. Bodie uncorked the bottle and poured. The fragile glasses didn't look nearly as ridiculous in his big hands as she'd hoped they would. The silence between them lengthened. She wished she'd spoken when he'd first come in, because now it felt like a competition to see who could hold out the longest.

A car horn blared, and the muscles in her shoulders knotted with tension. She slipped one of her feet onto the bottom rail. The concrete baluster scraped her bare ankle bone. He set his glass on the rail next to the bottle and turned toward her. She didn't mean to look up, but she couldn't help herself. Dark clouds swirled behind his head in a devil's halo. He was going to kiss her, she could feel it. But he didn't. Instead, he took the tulip glass from her fingers and set it next to his. Then he lifted his arm and ran his thumb across her lips with just enough pressure to smear her lipstick onto her cheek.

The tiny hairs at the back of her neck prickled. She told herself to move away, but she couldn't. Instead, he was the one who moved… over to the French doors, where he reached inside and flicked off the light, plunging the balcony into darkness. A thrill of panic shot through her. Her heart began to pound. She turned away and curled her damp palms around the railing. She felt him come up behind her, and she trembled as his big hands settled around her hips. The heat of his palms penetrated the silky rose-garden fabric of her dress. Beneath, she wore only a pair of silk tap pants in palest cream. Her skin quivered, and heat licked at her insides. He traced the narrow band at the top of the tap pants through her dress, the exploration more erotic than if he'd touched bare flesh.

A diadem of strobes erupted in the sky, crystal white spheres of noise and light exploding over the lake to announce the beginning of the fireworks display. His breath fell hot on her damp neck, and his teeth settled around the tendon that marked the place where her neck and shoulder joined. He restrained her that way-not hurting, but holding her still like an animal. His hands slipped under the hem of her skirt.

She didn't try to get away, didn't move. He kneaded her bottom through her tap pants. He ran his thumbs down the crack, then up, then down again, taking his time. A light flicked on in the window across the street, and golden palms opened like umbrellas in the sky. She caught her breath as his thumbs slid between her thighs.

Just when her legs felt as though they were giving out, he eased his mouth from her neck and glazed his tongue over the place where he'd held her prisoner. He knelt behind her. She stayed where she was, gripping the rail, staring out as orange and silver serpents uncoiled against the clouds. He touched her calves, then slid his hands up beneath her skirt to skim her outer thighs, then her tap pants. He hooked his thumbs over the waistband and drew them down to her ankles. He lifted one foot and pulled the panties over her shoe. They pooled around her opposite ankle where he left them. He rose.

A forest of blue and green willows dripped from the sky. She felt his hand against the center of her back. He pressed, but it took her a moment to understand what he wanted her to do. Slowly, he bent her over the rail. Below, a taxi slid along the street. He pushed her floaty skirt up to her waist. From the front, the fabric covered her modestly so that anyone glancing out an opposite window would only see a woman leaning over the balcony rail with a man standing behind her. But from the back, she was fully exposed to him.

Now when he traced her, no silky barrier lay between her flesh and the pads of his thumb. He opened her like the segments of an orange. Played in the juice. Her breath came shallow and fast. She moaned. He stepped back. She heard a rustle as he dealt with his clothes, dealt with a condom that told her he'd planned this from the beginning. And then he dealt with her.

She caught her breath against the thrilling indignity of his fingers. Comets shot into the sky then raced to their death in the water. She gripped the rail tighter and gasped as he spread her with his thumbs, toyed, then thrust deep inside her. He drove from behind, gripping her hips, holding her where he wanted her to be, where she wanted to be. He stroked… stretching her, filling her. She soared with the comets… bloomed with the willows… exploded with the rockets. And in the end, she tumbled to the earth in a shower of sparks.

Afterward, he smoothed her skirt back in place then disappeared into her bathroom with its antique vanity, Italian mirror, and Colefax & Fowler wallpaper. When he came out, he looked cool and unruffled. She wanted to weep. Instead, she gave him her iciest glare, strode to the door, and yanked it open.

The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. He made his way to her side and traced the lipstick smear on her cheek with his finger. She refused to flinch. With another smile, he stepped into the hallway and walked toward the ornate brass elevator. Before he got there, he turned back and spoke for the first time.

"Are we clear now?"