Match Me If You Can

Chapter Eighteen

Two weeks passed. Between getting ready for her wine and cheese party and brooding about Heath and Keri Winters, Annabelle lost enough weight to zip up the periwinkle blue mini she hadn't been able to wear all summer. "Go put some clothes on," Mr. Bronicki growled the night of the party when she came downstairs wearing the mini, along with a slinky ivory top.

"You're the hired help," she retorted. "You're not allowed to criticize."

"Showin' yourself off like a hussy… Irene, come out here and look at this."

Mrs. Valerio poked her head in from the kitchen. "You look very nice, Annabelle. Howard, come help me open this olive jar." After she'd started seeing Mr. Bronicki, Mrs. Valerio had dyed her hair Woody Woodpecker red, which matched the crimson sneakers she wore tonight with her Sunday best black dress.

Mr. Bronicki, spiffy in a long-sleeved white shirt, followed her into the kitchen. Annabelle moved to her office, where she'd converted her desk into a serving table with Nana's blue-and-yellow-plaid tablecloth and a gorgeous centerpiece of garden flowers Mrs. McClure had donated. Nana's charming pottery plates from the 1960s held the cheese and fruit. Mr. Bronicki had volunteered to answer the door and pour the wine while Mrs. Valerio kept the platters replenished. By shopping carefully and soliciting help from her seniors, Annabelle had managed to bring the evening together on budget. Even better, she'd picked up two more male clients through her new Web site.

Focusing on business didn't do much to erase the images of Heath in bed with Keri, but she did her best. The news that the WGN anchorwoman and the city's top sports agent were an item had recently hit talk radio, including the morning's top drive-time show, where disc jockeys Eric and Kathy had begun running a Name Their Weird Baby contest.

The doorbell rang. "I hear it," Mr. Bronicki grumbled from the kitchen. "I'm not deaf."

"Remember what I told you about smiling," Annabelle said as he shuffled past.

"Haven't been able to smile since I lost my teeth."

"You're funny as a box of Depends."

"Respect, young lady."

Annabelle had been worried people wouldn't mix, and she'd asked Janine to help. Her friend was the first to arrive, followed by Ernie Marks and Melanie Richter. Within an hour, Annabelle's tiny downstairs rooms were packed. Celeste, the University of Chicago economist, spent a lot of time talking to Shirley Miller's godson Jerry. Ernie Marks, the quiet elementary school principal, and Wendy, the vivacious Roscoe Village architect, seemed to hit it off. Annabelle's two newest clients, discovered through her Web site, clustered around the stylish Melanie. Unfortunately, Melanie seemed more interested in John Nager. In light of Melanie's having once married a man with a fetish for disinfecting doorknobs, Annabelle didn't think John the hypochondriac was her best match. The evening's most interesting development, however, came from an unexpected quarter. To Annabelle's surprise, Ray Fiedler latched onto Janine right away, and Janine didn't do one thing to shake him off. Annabelle had to admit that Ray's new haircut had done wonders for him.

By the time the last of the guests left, she was exhausted but satisfied, especially since everybody wanted to know the date of the next party, and a stack of her brochures had disappeared. All in all, Perfect for You had enjoyed a very successful night.

As Heath and Keri's courtship entered its third week, Anna-belle stopped listening to talk radio. Instead, she followed up on the connections her clients had made at the party, tried to dissuade Melanie from seeing John, and signed another new client. She'd never been busier. She only wished she were happier.

A little before eleven o'clock on a Tuesday night, the doorbell rang. She set aside the book she'd been reading and went downstairs to find Heath standing on her porch, looking rumpled and travel weary. Although they'd spoken on the phone, this was the first time she'd seen him since the night he'd met Keri.

He took in her loose-fitting white cotton tank-no bra- and blue cotton drawstring pajama bottoms printed with pink martini glasses holding tiny green olives. "Were you asleep?"

"Reading. Is something wrong?"

"No." Behind him, a taxi pulled away from the curb. His eyes were red-rimmed, and a hint of stubble clung to his tough guy's jaw, which, sicko that she was, only made him more ruggedly attractive.

"Do you have anything to eat? Nothing but pretzels on the plane, even in first class." He was already inside. He set down his carry-on suitcase and a laptop. "I planned to call first, but I fell asleep in the cab."

Her emotions were too raw for this. "All I have is leftover spaghetti."

"Sounds great."

As she took in the lines of fatigue in his face, she didn't have the heart to turn him away, and she headed for the kitchen.

"You were right about Keri and me," he said from behind her.

She bumped into the doorjamb. "What?"

He gazed past her toward the refrigerator. "I wouldn't mind a Coke if you have one."

She wanted to grab him by his white shirt collar and shake him until he told her exactly what he meant, but she restrained herself. "Of course I was right about you and Keri. I'm a trained professional."

He loosened the knot on his necktie and unbuttoned his collar. "Refresh my memory. Exactly what kind of training have you had?"

"My nana was a superstar. It's in my blood." She was going to scream if he didn't tell her what had happened. She grabbed a Coke can from the refrigerator and passed it over.

"Keri and I were too much alike." He propped his shoulder against the wall and sipped his Coke. "It took half a dozen phone calls just to schedule lunch."

The gray cloud that had been following her for three weeks swept off to spoil somebody else's life. She withdrew an ancient powder blue Tupperware container from the refrigerator, along with what was left of the lunchtime Whopper she hadn't felt like finishing. "Was the breakup tough?"

"Not exactly. We played phone tag for so long we had to do it by e-mail."

"No broken hearts, then."

His jaw set in a stubborn line. "We should have been great together."

"You know my opinion about that."

"The Fisher-Price theory. How could I forget?"

As she cut up her leftover hamburger and mixed it with the spaghetti, she wondered why he hadn't phoned her with the news instead of showing up in person. She slid the plate into the microwave.

He wandered over to inspect the yellowed diet plan she'd stuck to the refrigerator when she'd moved in. "We didn't sleep together," he said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on a low-carb fish dinner.

She reined in her joy. "Not my business."

"Damned right it's not, but you're nosy."

"Hey, I've been too busy building my empire to obsess over your sex life. Or lack thereof." She resisted the urge to do a little soft shoe as she grabbed a pot holder, pulled out the plate, and set it on the table. "You're not my only client, you know."

He found a fork in the silverware drawer then sat down and studied his plate. "Is that a french fry in my spaghetti?"

"Nouvelle cuisine." She reached into the freezer for the carton of Moose Tracks ice cream she hadn't felt like touching in three weeks.

"So how is business?" he asked.

As she pried off the lid, she told him about her party and her new clients. His smile held genuine pleasure. "Congratulations. Your hard work is paying off."

"It looks like it."

"So how are things with you and lover boy?"

It took her a moment to figure out who he was talking about. She dug into the Moose Tracks. "Better all the time."

"That's funny. I saw him at Waterworks a couple of nights ago in a lip-lock with a Britney Spears wannabe."

She excavated a ribbon of chocolate sauce. "All part of my plan. I don't want him to feel suffocated."

"Trust me. He doesn't."

"You see. It's working."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "This is only one man's opinion, but I think you were better off with Raoul."

She grinned, stuck the lid back on the container, and returned the ice cream to the freezer. While he ate, she washed a saucepan she'd left soaking in the sink and answered more of his questions about the party. Considering how tired he was, she appreciated his interest.

When he finished eating, he brought his plate over. He'd devoured everything, even the french fry. "Thanks. That was the best meal I've had in days."

"Wow, you have been busy."

He retrieved what was left of the Moose Tracks from the freezer. "I'm too tired to go home. Do you have a spare bed where I can crash?"

She banged her shin against the dishwasher door. "Ouch! You want to stay here tonight?"

He looked up from the ice cream carton with a slightly puzzled expression, as if he didn't understand her question. "I haven't slept in two days. Is it a problem? I promise I'm too tired to jump you if that's what you're worried about."

"Of course I'm not worried." She occupied herself pulling the trash can out from under the sink. "I suppose it's okay. But Nana's old bedroom faces the alley, and tomorrow's garbage day."

"I'll survive."

Seeing how tired he was, she really couldn't understand why he hadn't waited until tomorrow and called with the news about Keri. Unless he didn't want to be alone tonight. Maybe his feelings for Keri went deeper than he was letting on. Some of the air leaked out of her happiness bubble.

"I'll carry that out." He stuck the ice cream back in the freezer and took the trash bag she'd just bundled up.

It was all too domestic. The late night, the cozy kitchen, shared chores. She in her pajamas with no bra. The mood-swing roller coaster she'd been riding for weeks took another dip.

When he returned from trash detail, he locked the door behind him and nodded toward the backyard. "That car… Let me guess. Nana's?"

"Sherman's more a personality than a car."

"You actually drive that thing where people can see you?"

"Some of us can't afford a BMW."

He shook his head. "I guess if this matchmaking gig doesn't work out, you could paint it yellow and stick a meter on the dashboard."

"I'm sure you amuse yourself."

He smiled and headed for the front of the house. "How about showing me my bedroom, Tinker Bell?"

This was too weird. She flipped off the light, determined to keep it laid-back. "If you happen to be one of those people who doesn't like mice, pull the sheet over your head. That generally keeps them away."

"I apologize for making fun of your car."

"Apology accepted."

He grabbed his suitcase and climbed the steps to the small, square upstairs hallway, which was cut up with a series of doors.

"You can take Nana's old bedroom," she said. "Bathroom next to it. That's the living room. It was my mother's bedroom when she was a kid. I sleep on the third floor."

He set down his suitcase and went over to stand in the living room doorway. The outdated gray-and-mauve decorating scheme looked hopelessly shabby. A section of yesterday's newspaper had fallen to the sculpted tweed carpet, and the book she'd been reading lay open on the gray sofa. A pickled oak armoire holding a television occupied the space between two rattly double-hung windows, which were topped with poofy valances in faded gray and mauve stripes. In front of the windows, a matching pair of white metal stands with curly legs held more of Nana's African violet collection.

"This is nice," he said. "I like your house."

At first she thought he was kidding, but then she realized he was sincere. "I'll trade you," she said.

He gazed toward the open door in the hallway. "You sleep in the attic?"

"It's where I stayed when I was a kid, and I kind of got used to it."

"Tinker Bell's lair. This I have to see." He headed for the narrow attic stairs.

"I thought you were so tired," she called out.

"Making this the perfect time for me to see your bedroom. I'm harmless."

She didn't believe that for a moment.

The attic with its twin dormers and sloping ceilings had become the repository for all of Nana's discarded antiques: a cherry four-poster bed, an oak bureau, a dressing table with a gilded mirror, even an old dressmaker's mannequin from the days when Nana had kept herself busy by sewing instead of matchmaking. One dormer held a cozy armchair and ottoman, the other a small walnut desk and an ugly, but efficient, window air conditioner. Annabelle had recently added blue-and-white toile curtains to the dormer windows, a matching toile bedspread, and some French prints to complement the miscellaneous landscapes that had drifted up here.

She was glad she'd tidied up earlier, although she wished she hadn't overlooked the pink bra lying on the bed. His eyes wandered to it, then drifted to the mannequin, currently outfitted in an old lace tablecloth and a Cubs hat. "Nana?"

"She was a fan."

"So I see." He gazed up at the sloping ceiling. "All this needs is a couple of skylights, and it'd be perfect."

"Maybe you should concentrate on decorating your own place."

"I guess."

"Honestly, Heath, if I had that gorgeous house and your money, I'd turn it into a showplace."

"What do you mean?"

"Big furniture, stone tables, great lighting, contemporary art on the wall-huge canvases. How can you stand living in such an amazing house and not doing anything with it?"

He looked at her so strangely that she grew uncomfortable and turned away. "Nana's bedroom has a temperamental window shade. I'll go fix it and get you some towels."

She hurried downstairs. The faint scent of Avon's To a Wild Rose still clung to Nana's room. She turned on the small china dresser lamp, put away the extra blanket she'd left at the foot of the bed, and fixed the shade. In the bathroom, she stowed the Tampax box from last week and draped a clean set of towels over the old chrome rod.

He still hadn't come downstairs. She wondered if he'd spotted her old Tippy Tumbles doll propped on the bureau. Even worse, what about the sex toy catalog that she hadn't gotten around to throwing away? She rushed up the stairs.

He lay on her bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, and sound asleep.

His lips were slightly parted, and his ankles, clad in plain black socks, crossed. One hand rested on his chest. The other lay at his side, next to the scrap of pink bra peeking from under his hip. It nested by his fingertips, not quite touching them, but close enough to make her queasy. Call her crazy, but she couldn't stand seeing abandoned lingerie anywhere near him.

A floorboard squeaked as she tiptoed to the bed. Slowly, carefully, she snagged the bra strap and tugged.

It didn't budge.

He expelled a little puff of air. This was nuts. She felt vulnerable enough as it was. She should go away and let him sleep. But she tugged again.

He rolled toward her, onto his side, trapping all but a loop of lacy strap under his hip.

She started to perspire. She knew this was insane, but she couldn't make herself walk away. Another floorboard creaked as she knelt at the side of the bed, the same floorboard that creaked every time she stepped on it, so she should have been more careful. Her heart was pounding. She pressed down on the mattress with one hand and slipped her finger through the loop of strap sticking out from under his hip with the other. She pulled hard.

One heavy eyelid drifted open, and his sleep-rusty voice made her jump. "Either get in here with me or go away."

"This is"-she pulled a little harder-"my bed."

"I know. I'm resting."

He didn't look like he was resting. He looked like he'd settled in for the night. With her underwear. Which refused to budge. "Could I…"

"I'm dead on my feet." His eyes drifted shut. "You can have your bed back in the morning. Promise." His voice faded on a slur.

"Okay,but…"

"Go 'way," he muttered.

"I will. First, though, would you mind-"

He rolled to his back again, which should have freed the bra but didn't. Instead, it wedged between his hip and hand.

"I, uh, need one little thing. Then I won't bother you any-"

His fingers clamped her wrist, and this time when his lids opened, his eyes were completely focused. "What do you want?"

"My bra back."

He lifted his head and glanced to his side, still holding her wrist. "Why?"

"I'm a neat freak. Messy rooms drive me crazy." She yanked hard and jerked it free.

Heath gazed at the bra dangling from her fingers. "Are you going somewhere tonight?"

"No, I-" She'd awakened the sleeping lion for sure, and she wadded the bra in her hands, trying to make it invisible. "Go back to sleep. I'll take Nana's bed."

"I'm awake now." He propped himself on his elbows. "Usually I can see through your latest craziness, but I have to say, this time you've got me stumped."

"Just forget it."

"One thing I do know…" He nodded toward her hand. "This isn't about a bra."

"That's what you think." She scowled at him. "Until you've walked a mile in my shoes, don't judge."

"Judge what?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"I spend most of my life around football players. You'd be surprised how many weird things I understand."

"Not this weird." Try me.

The stubborn set of his mouth told her he wasn't going to let this go, and she had no explanation but the truth. "I can't stand seeing…" She swallowed and licked her lips. "It's hard for me to see… uh… female lingerie too near a man's hand. That is… when the lingerie isn't actually on a female body."

He groaned and sank back into her pillows. "Oh, my God. Don't tell me."

"It upsets me." Which was putting it mildly.

She knew he'd laugh, and he did, a big sound that bounced around the attic's odd angles.

She stared him down.

He threw his feet over the side of the bed. "You're afraid I'm going to start cross-dressing?"

Hearing it spoken aloud made her wince. How had she lived to be thirty-one years old without someone locking her up? "Not afraid exactly. But… The thing is… Why expose yourself to temptation?"

He loved that.

She understood his amusement-she'd be amused herself if she were him-but she couldn't find a smile anywhere. Dispirited, she turned back toward the stairs. His laughter faded, and another floorboard creaked as he came up behind her. He set his hands on her shoulders. "Hey, you really are upset, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry. I spend too much time in locker rooms. I won't tease you anymore. I promise."

His sympathy was worse than his teasing, but she turned into his chest all the same. He stroked her hair, and she told herself to back away, but she felt as though she belonged exactly where she was. And then she grew aware of the powerful erection pressing against her body.

So did he. He quickly stepped back, abruptly releasing her. "I'd better go downstairs so you can have your bedroom back," he said.

She managed a shaky nod. "Okay."

He picked up his shoes, but he didn't leave right away. Instead, he made his way to her desk and gestured toward the magazines stacked on top. "I like to read before I fall asleep. I don't suppose you've got a spare copy of Sports Illustrated lying around?"

" 'Fraid not."

"Of course you don't. Why would you?" His hand shot out. "I'll take this instead?"

And there went her sex toy catalog.

Heath smiled to himself as he set off down the stairs, but his smile had faded by the time he reached Nana's bedroom. What the hell was he doing here? He pulled off his shirt and tossed it on a chair. He hadn't planned on showing up at Annabelle's door, but the past week had been brutal. With the preseason about to begin, he'd flown all over the country, touching base with each of his clients. He'd played big brother, cheerleader, lawyer, and shrink. He'd endured flight delays, car rental mix-ups, bad food, loud music, too much booze, and not enough sleep. Tonight, when he'd gotten into the cab, the image of his empty house looming in front of him had been more than he could handle, and he'd heard himself giving the driver Annabelle's address.

This sense that he was thrashing around threatened his mental toughness. He'd signed with Portia in May, Annabelle early in June. Now it was mid-August, but he was no closer to reaching his goal than when he'd started. As he unzipped his pants, he knew that his frustrating breakup with Keri proved one thing. He couldn't keep going on like this, not with the football season starting, not if he wanted to stay mentally sharp. The time had come to make some changes…

Portia watched the woman's breasts leak into the platter of raw oysters, a steady drip, drip, drip. An ice sculpture of a classical female figure might have made sense in the abstract, but tonight's silent auction and cocktail party benefited a shelter for abused women, and watching a woman melt into the hors d'oeuvres sent the wrong message. The restaurant's air-conditioning couldn't handle either the ice sculpture or the crowd, and Portia was hot even in her strapless dress. She'd bought the short red cocktail number just that afternoon, hoping something new and extravagant would lift her spirits, as if a new dress could fix what was wrong with her. She'd been so optimistic about Heath and Keri, basking in the publicity they'd stirred up. She should have realized they were too much alike, but she'd lost her instincts right along with her passion for manufacturing other people's happy endings.

She felt scattered and depressed, sick of Power Matches, sick of herself and of everything that had once given her so much pride. She moved away from the buffet table and the disappearing woman. She had to pull herself together before the meeting Heath had set up for tomorrow morning. Why had he called it? Probably not to sing her praises. Well, she refused to lose this thing. Bodie said she was obsessed. Just tell Heath to go to hell. She'd tried to explain that failure bred failure, but Bodie had grown up in a trailer park, so some things didn't compute with him.

She'd been trying with little success not to think about Bodie. They'd become creatures of the dark. For the past month, they'd seen each other several times a week, always at her place, always at night, a couple of sex-crazed vampires. Whenever Bodie suggested they go out to dinner or to a movie, she made an excuse. She could no more explain Bodie and his tattoos to her friends than she could explain the bizarre need she sometimes felt to parade him in front of everyone. It had to end. Any day now, she'd break it off.

Toni Duchette appeared at her elbow, fresh blond chunks in her short brown hair, fireplug figure stuffed into a black se-quined number. "Did you bid on anything?"

"The watercolor." Portia gestured toward a rip-off Berthe Morisot on the nearest table. "It's perfect to hang over my dresser."

She remembered the startled expression on Bodie's face the first time he'd seen her extravagantly feminine bedroom. His outrageous masculinity should have looked ridiculous in her billowy white fairy princess bed, but seeing those sinewy muscles outlined against her silky ecru sheets, his shaved head denting her satin pillows, a frill of lace veiling the tattoos that banded his arm, had merely fueled her desire.

As Toni went on about the donations they'd received, Portia automatically scanned the room for interesting prospects, but this was an older crowd, and supporting the women's shelter had never been about business for her. She couldn't imagine anything worse than being under the power of an abusive man, and she'd given the shelter thousands of dollars over the years.

"The committee's done a wonderful job," Toni said, surveying the crowd. "Even Colleen Corbett showed up, and she hardly ever comes to these things anymore." Colleen Corbett was a bastion of old Chicago society, seventy years old, and a former intimate of both Eppie Lederer, otherwise known as Ann Landers, and the late Sis Daley, wife of Boss Daley and mother of the current mayor. Portia had been trying to ingratiate herself with her for years without success.

When Toni finally moved away, Portia decided she'd try again to break through Colleen Corbett's reserve. Tonight, Colleen wore one of her signature Chanel suits, this one peach with beige trim. Her permed and shellacked hairstyle hadn't changed since her photos from the 1960s, except for its color, now a polished steel gray.

"Colleen, it's lovely to see you again." Portia offered her most ingratiating smile. "Portia Powers. We chatted at the Syd-neys' party last spring."

"Yes. Nice to see you." Her voice was faintly nasal, her manner cordial, but Portia could tell she didn't remember. Several beats of silence ticked by, which Colleen didn't try to fill.

"Some interesting auction pieces." Portia resisted the urge to grab a gin and tonic from a passing waiter.

"Yes, very interesting," Colleen replied.

"A little warm in here tonight. The ice sculpture seems to be fighting a losing battle."

"Oh? I hadn't noticed."

This was hopeless. Portia hated looking like a sycophant, and she'd just decided to cut her losses when she noticed a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere. The noise level dropped; a head pivoted here and there. She turned to see what had caused the rustle of interest.

And felt the floor drop out from under her.

Bodie stood just inside the doorway, his massive frame clad in a perfectly cut, pale beige summer suit with a chocolate-colored shirt and subtly patterned necktie. He looked like a very expensive, very deadly, Mafia hit man. She wanted to run into his arms. At the same time, she felt a wild urge to dive under the buffet table. The biggest gossips in the city were here tonight. Just by herself Toni Duchette broadcast to more people than WGN Radio.

Her knees felt weak, the tips of her fingers numb. What was he doing here? Her mind raced then fastened on an image of him standing naked in front of the small console in her living room where she kept her personal mail. He'd moved away as she approached, but he must have seen the stack of invitations she never mentioned to him: the Morrisons' pool party, the new River North gallery opening, tonight's benefit. He would have known exactly why she hadn't invited him to go with her. Now, he intended to make her pay.

The cloying scent of Colleen's Shalimar made her stomach pitch. Bodie's gangster's smile offered no reassurance as he headed straight toward her. A trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts. This wasn't a man who took slights well.

Colleen had her back to him. Portia didn't know how to brace herself for a disaster of this magnitude. He stopped just behind Colleen. If the older woman looked around, she'd have a heart attack. Mockery turned his blue eyes to slate. He raised his arm. And set his hand on Colleen's shoulder.

"Hello, sweetheart."

Portia sucked in her breath. Bodie had just called Colleen Corbett "sweetheart"?

The older woman tilted her head. "Bodie? What on earth are you doing here?"

Portia's world spun.

"I heard they were handing out free drinks," he said. And then he pressed a kiss to Colleen's papery cheek.

Colleen slipped her hand into his big paw and said peevishly, "I got that dreadful birthday card you sent me, and it wasn't one bit funny."

"I laughed."

"You should have sent flowers like everyone else."

"You liked that card a hell of a lot more than a bunch of roses. Admit it."

Colleen pursed her lips. "I admit nothing. Unlike your mother, I refuse to encourage your behavior."

Bodie's gaze drifted to Portia, recalling Colleen to the amenities. "Oh, Paula… This is Bodie Gray."

"Her name is Portia," he said. "And we've met."

"Portia?" Her forehead wrinkled. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Auntie Cee."

Auntie Cee?

"Portia? How Shakespearian." Colleen patted Bodie's arm and smiled at her. "My nephew is relatively harmless, despite his terrifying appearance."

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.

Bodie 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.