Match Me If You Can

Chapter One

If Annabelle hadn't found a body lying under "Sherman," she wouldn't have been late for her appointment with the Python. But dirty bare feet stuck out from beneath her nana's ancient Crown Victoria. One extremely cautious glance under the car revealed they were attached to a homeless man known only as Mouse, who was famous in her Wicker Park neighborhood for his lack of personal hygiene and fondness for cheap wine. An empty screw-top bottle lay near his chest, which rose and fell with the sounds of his wet snorts. It testified to the importance of her appointment with the Python that she momentarily considered trying to maneuver the car around the body. But her alley parking space was too tight.

She'd allowed plenty of time to get dressed and make the trip downtown for her 11 a.m. appointment. Unfortunately, obstacles kept creeping up, beginning with Mr. Bronicki, who'd caught her at the front door and refused to leave until he'd had his say. Still, this wasn't an emergency yet. All she had to do was get Mouse out from under Sherman.

She gingerly prodded his ankle with her foot, noting as she did that the emergency mixture of Hershey's chocolate syrup and Elmer's glue she'd applied to a scuff mark on the heel of her favorite pair of strappy sandals hadn't entirely camouflaged the damage. "Mouse?"

He didn't stir.

She prodded him more vigorously. "Mouse, wake up. You have to come out of there."

Nothing. Which made it time to revert to more drastic measures. With a grimace, she bent over, gingerly picked up one filthy ankle, and gave it a shake. "Come on, Mouse. Wake up!"

Nada. If it weren't for his slurpy snorts, he might have been dead.

She shook him more vigorously. "This happens to be the most important day of my professional life, and I could use a little cooperation here."

Mouse wasn't interested in cooperation.

She needed more leverage. Gritting her teeth, she carefully slid up the skirt of the buttercup yellow raw silk suit she'd bought yesterday for 60 percent off at a Field's Day sale and crouched by the bumper. "If you don't get out from under there, I'm calling the police."

Mouse snorted.

She dug her heels into the ground and yanked on both filthy ankles. The morning sun beat down on her head. Mouse rolled over just far enough to wedge his shoulder under the chassis. She yanked again. Beneath her jacket, the white sleeveless shell she'd chosen to complement Nana's pearl teardrop earrings had begun to stick to her skin. She tried not to think about what was happening to her hair. This hadn't been the best time to run out of styling gel, and she prayed the ancient can of industrial-strength Aqua Net she'd found under the bathroom sink would tame the bedlam of her red curls, always the curse of her existence but especially so during a humid Chicago summer.

If she didn't get Mouse out in the next five minutes, she was in serious trouble. She made her way around to the driver's-side door. Her knees cracked as she crouched down again and peered into his slack-jawed face. "Mouse, you have to wake up! You can't stay here."

One grimy eyelid flicked open then slid shut again.

"Look at me." She poked his chest. "If you come out from under there, I'll give you five dollars."

His mouth moved and a guttural rumble oozed out, along with a string of saliva. "G'way."

The smell made her eyes water. "Why did you have to pick today to pass out under my car? And why my car? Why not Mr. Bronicki's car?" Mr. Bronicki lived across the alley and spent his retirement coming up with new ways to make Annabelle crazy.

Time was running out, and she was starting to panic. "Do you want to have sex? Because if you come out, we could maybe talk about it."

More drool and another putrid snort. This was hopeless. She jumped up and dashed toward the house.

Ten minutes later, she managed to lure him out with an open can of beer. Not her best moment.

By the time she'd maneuvered Sherman from the alley to the street, she had only twenty-one minutes left to navigate the traffic into the Loop and find a place to park. Dirt streaked her legs, her shirt was crumpled, and she'd broken a fingernail when she'd opened the beer can. The extra five pounds that had accumulated on her small-boned frame since Nana's death no longer seemed like such a big problem.

10:39.

She couldn't risk the construction gridlock on the Kennedy Expressway, so she cut over to Division. In the rearview mirror, another curl sprang free of her hair spray, and perspiration glistened on her forehead. She detoured down Halsted to avoid more road repair. As she maneuvered Sherman's tanklike bulk through the traffic, she scrubbed at her dirty legs with the damp paper towel she'd snatched up in the kitchen. Why couldn't Nana have driven a nice little Honda Civic instead of this bilious green gas-guzzling monster? At five feet three inches, Annabelle had to sit on a cushion to see over the steering wheel. Nana hadn't bothered with a cushion, but then she'd hardly ever driven. After a dozen years of use, Sherman's speedometer didn't quite register thirty-nine thousand miles.

A cab cut her off. She laid on the horn, and a trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts. She glanced at her watch. 10:50. She tried to remember if she'd put on deodorant after her shower. Of course she had. She always put on deodorant. She lifted her arm to make sure, but just as she took a sniff, she hit a pothole and her mouth bumped against the buttercup yellow lapel, leaving behind a smudge of tawny lipstick.

She gave a cry of dismay and reached across the vast front seat for her purse, only to have it slip off the edge and tumble into the Grand Canyon below. The light at Halsted and Chicago turned red. Her hair was sticking to the back of her neck, and more curls were springing up. She tried to do her yoga breathing, but she'd only been to one class, and it wasn't effective. Why, when Annabelle's economic future was at stake, had Mouse picked this day to pass out under her car?

She crawled into the Loop. 10:59. More of Chicago's permanent road construction. She passed the Daley Center. She didn't have time to follow her customary practice of cruising the streets until she found a metered parking space large enough to accommodate Sherman's bulk. Instead she wheeled into the first exorbitantly expensive parking garage she could find, threw Sherman's keys at the attendant, and took off at a trot.

:05. No need to panic. She'd simply explain about Mouse. Surely the Python would understand.

Or not.

A blast of air-conditioning hit her as she entered the lobby of the high-rise office building. 11:08. The elevator was blessedly empty, and she punched the button for the fourteenth floor.

"Don't let him intimidate you," Molly had told her over the phone. "The Python feeds on fear."

Easy for Molly to say. Molly was sitting at home with a hottie football player husband, a great career of her own, and two adorable children.

The doors crept shut. Annabelle caught sight of herself in the mirrored wall and gave a hiss of dismay. Her raw silk suit had turned into a limp mass of buttercup wrinkles, dirt smudged the side of the skirt, and the lipstick smear on the lapel stood out like a light-up Christmas pin. Worst of all, her hair was uncoiling from the Aqua Net curl by curl, with the hair spray weighing it down just enough so that the escaping locks hung lank around her face like bedsprings that had been tossed from a tenement window and left in an alley to rust.

Usually when she got upset about her appearance-which even her own mother described only as "nice"-she reminded herself to be grateful for her good features: a pair of very nice honey-colored eyes, thick lashes, and-give or take a few dozen freckles-a creamy complexion. But no amount of positive thinking could make the image that stared back at her from the elevator mirror anything but horrifying. She scrambled to tuck a few curls behind her ears and smooth her skirt, but the elevator doors opened before she could repair much of the damage.

11:09.

In front of her, she saw a glass wall imprinted with gold letters, champion sports management. She hurried across the carpeted hallway and entered through a door with a curved metal handle. The reception area held a leather couch and matching chairs, framed sports memorabilia, and a big-screen TV muted on a baseball game. The receptionist had short, steel gray hair and a thin-lipped mouth. She took in Annabelle's disheveled appearance over the top of half glasses with blue metal frames. "May I help you?"

"Annabelle Granger. I have an appointment with the Py- with Mr. Champion."

"I'm afraid you're too late, Miss Granger."

"Only ten minutes."

"Ten minutes was all the time Mr. Champion had available in his schedule to see you."

Her suspicions were confirmed. He'd only agreed to see her because Molly had insisted, and he didn't want to upset his top client's wife. She glanced in desperation at the wall clock. "I'm really only nine minutes late. I have one minute left."

"Sorry." The receptionist turned back to her computer and began tapping away.

"One minute," Annabelle pleaded. "That's all I ask."

"There's nothing I can do."

Annabelle needed this meeting, and she needed it now. Pivoting on her heels, she rushed toward the paneled door at the far end of the reception area.

"Miss Granger!"

Annabelle dashed into an open hallway with a pair of offices on each side, one of them occupied by two buff young men in dress shirts and neckties. Ignoring them, she headed for an imposing mahogany door set into the center of the back wall and turned the knob.

The Python's office was the color of money: lacquered jade walls, thick moss carpet, and furniture upholstered in varying shades of green accented with bloodred pillows. An assortment of news photos and sports memorabilia hung behind the couch along with a rust-streaked white metal sign with faded black block letters that said beau vista. Appropriate, considering the sweeping wall of windows overlooking Lake Michigan in the distance. The Python himself sat behind a sleek, U-shaped desk, his high-backed chair turned toward the water view. She took in a state-of-the-art desktop computer, a small laptop, a BlackBerry, and a sophisticated black telephone console with enough buttons to land a jumbo jet. An executive headset lay abandoned next to it as the Python spoke directly into the receiver.

"The third-year money is good, but not if they cut you early," he said in a voice that was deeply resonant, crisp, and mid-western. "I know it's a gamble, but if you sign for one year, we can play the free agent market." She glimpsed a strong tanned wrist, a rugged watch, and long tapered fingers curled around the receiver. "Ultimately, it's your decision, Jamal. All I can do is advise you."

The door burst open behind her, and the receptionist flew in, feathers ruffled like an offended parakeet. "I'm sorry, Heath. She got past me."

The Python turned slowly in his chair, and Annabelle felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach.

He was square-jawed and tough, everything about him proclaiming a brash, self-made man-a roughneck who'd flunked charm school the first couple of times around but finally gotten it right on the third pass. His hair was thick and crisp, its rich color a cross between a leather portfolio and a bottle of Bud. He had a straight, confident nose and bold dark eyebrows, one of which was bisected near the end with a thin pale scar. The firm set of his well-molded mouth proclaimed a low tolerance for fools, a passion for hard work that bordered on obsession, and possibly-although this might be her imagination-a determination to own a small chalet near St. Tropez before he was fifty. If it weren't for a vague irregularity to his features, he would have been unbearably gorgeous. Instead, he was merely drop-dead good-looking. What did a man like this need with a matchmaker?

As he spoke into the phone, he turned his eyes on her. They were the exact green of a hundred-dollar bill singed at the edges with displeasure. "This is what you pay me for, Jamal." He took in Annabelle's disheveled appearance and shot the receptionist a hard look. "I'll talk to Ray this afternoon. Take care of that hammy. And tell Audette I'm sending her another case of Krug grande cuvee."

"Your eleven o'clock appointment," the receptionist said as he hung up. "I told her she was too late to see you."

He shoved aside a copy of Pro Football Weekly. His hands were broad, his fingernails clean and neatly clipped. Still, it wasn't hard to imagine them ringed with motor oil. She took in a navy print necktie that probably cost more than her entire outfit and the perfect fit of his pale blue dress shirt, which could only have been custom-made to accommodate the width of his shoulders before tapering toward his waist.

"Apparently, she doesn't listen well." His shirt molded to an impressive chest as he shifted in his chair, making Annabelle uncomfortably aware of a junior high science lesson she vaguely remembered about pythons.

They swallowed their prey whole. Head first.

"Do you want me to call security?" the receptionist asked.

He turned his predator's eyes on her, leaving Annabelle at the receiving end of another of those knockout punches. Despite the effort he'd taken to polish all those rough edges, the bar brawler still showed. "I think I can handle her."

A jolt of sexual awareness shot through her-so inappropriate, so unwelcome, so totally out of place that she bumped into one of the side chairs. She was never at her best around excessively confident men, and the absolute necessity of impressing this particular specimen made her silently curse her clumsiness right along with her rumpled suit and Medusa hair.

Molly had told her to be aggressive. He's fought his way to the top, one client at a time. Brutal aggression is the only emotion Heath Champion understands. But Annabelle wasn't a naturally aggressive person. Everyone from bank clerks to taxi drivers took advantage of her. Just last week she'd lost a confrontation with the nine-year-old she'd caught egging Sherman. Even her own family-especially her own family-walked all over her.

And she was sick of it. Sick of being condescended to, sick of too many people getting the best of her, sick of feeling like a failure. If she backed down now, where would it end? She met those money green eyes and knew the time had come to tap deep into her Granger gene pool and play hardball.

"There was a dead body under my car." It was almost true. Mouse had been dead weight.

Unfortunately, the Python didn't look impressed, but then he'd probably been responsible for so many dead bodies that he'd grown bored with the whole concept of corpses. She took a deep breath. "All that red tape. It made me late. Otherwise, I would have been punctual. More than punctual. I'm very responsible. And professional." Just like that, she ran out of air. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." She sank into the nearest chair.

"You don't listen well, do you?"

"What?"

He gazed at her for a long moment before dismissing his receptionist. "Hold my calls for five minutes, Sylvia, unless it's Phoebe Calebow." The woman left, and he gave a resigned sigh. "I assume you're Molly's friend." Even his teeth were intimidating: strong, square, and very white.

"College buddies."

He tapped his fingers on the desk. "I don't mean to be rude, but you'll have to make this fast."

Who did he think he was kidding? He thrived on being rude. She imagined him in college dangling some poor computer geek out a dorm window or laughing in the face of a weeping, possibly pregnant, girlfriend. She sat straighter in the chair, trying to project confidence. "I'm Annabelle Granger from Perfect for You."

"The matchmaker." His fingers tapped away.

"I think of myself as a marriage facilitator."

"Do you now?" He drilled her again with those money-hard eyes. "Molly told me your company was called something like Myrna the Matchmaker."

Too late, she remembered that she'd overlooked that particular point in her conversations with Molly. "Marriages by Myrna was started by my grandmother in the seventies. She died three months ago. I've been modernizing since then, and I've also given the company a new name to reflect our philosophy of personalized service for the discriminating executive." Forgive me, Nana, but it had to be done.

"Exactly how large is this company of yours?"

One phone, one computer, Nana's dusty old file cabinet, and herself. "It's a manageable size. I believe the key to flexibility is staying lean." She hurried on. "Although this was my grandmother's company, I'm well qualified to take over." Her qualifications included a B.A. in theater from Northwestern that she'd never officially used, a short-lived stint at a dot-com that went bankrupt, partnership in a failed gift shop, and, more recently, a position at an employment agency that had fallen victim to the economy.

He leaned back in his chair. "I'm going to cut to the chase and save us both time. I'm already under contract with Portia Powers."

Annabelle was prepared for this. Portia Powers, of Power Matches, ran the most exclusive matchmaking firm in Chicago. Powers had built her business around serving the city's top executives, discriminating men too busy to find the trophy wives they desired and rich enough to pay her exorbitant fees. Powers was well connected, aggressive, and reputed to be ruthless, although that opinion came from her competitors and could be based on professional jealousy. Since Annabelle had never met her, she was withholding judgment.

"I know about your contract, but that doesn't mean you can't also use Perfect for You."

He glanced toward the flashing buttons on his phone, a vertical slash of irritation bisecting his forehead. "Why would I bother?"

"Because I'll work harder for you than you can imagine. And because I'll introduce you to a group of women with brains and accomplishments, women who won't bore you after the newness wears off."

He lifted an eyebrow. "You know me that well, do you?"

"Mr. Champion"-Surely that wasn't his real name?-"you're obviously accustomed to being around beautiful women, and I'm certain you've had more opportunities than you can count to marry one of them. But you haven't. That tells me that you want something more multifaceted than simply a beautiful wife."

"And you don't think I can find that through Portia Powers."

She didn't believe in trashing the competition, even though she knew fashion models and socialites were exactly the sort of women Powers would be introducing him to. "I only know what Perfect for You has to offer, and I think you'll be impressed."

"I barely have time to deal with Power Matches, let alone adding anybody else to the mix." He uncoiled from his chair. He was tall, so it took a while.

She'd already noted the wide shoulders. Now she took in the rest of him. He had a lean-muscled athlete's body. If you liked your men swimming in testosterone and your sex life dangerous, he'd be number one on your automatic dial. Not that Annabelle was thinking about her sex life. Or at least she hadn't been until he stood up.

He stepped around the corner of his desk and extended his hand. "Good effort, Annabelle. Thanks for your time."

He wasn't going to give her a chance. He'd never intended to do more than go through the motions so he could pacify Molly. Annabelle thought of the energy she'd expended to get here, the twenty bucks it would cost to bail Sherman out of the parking garage, the effort she'd put into learning everything she could about the thirty-four-year-old overachieving country boy standing before her. She thought of her hopes for this meeting, her dreams of making Perfect for You unique and successful. Years of frustration boiled inside her, fueled by crappy judgment, bad luck, and missed opportunities.

Ignoring his hand, she shot to her feet. He was more than a head taller, and she had to tilt her neck to meet his eyes. "Do you still remember what it was like to be the underdog, Mr. Champion, or was that too long ago? Do you remember when you were so hungry to close a deal that you'd do anything to make it happen? You'd drive across the country without sleep just to meet a Heisman candidate for breakfast? You'd spend hours hanging around the parking lot outside the Bears' practice field, trying to catch the attention of one of the veterans? Or what about the time you hauled yourself out of bed with a raging fever so you could bail another agent's client out of jail?"

"You've done your homework." He cast an impatient eye at the blinking phone buttons, but he didn't throw her out, so she kept going.

"When you started in business, players like Kevin Tucker wouldn't give you the time of day. Do you remember what that was like? Do you remember when reporters weren't calling you for quotes? When you weren't on first-name terms with everybody in the NFL?"

"If I say I remember, will you leave?" He reached for the executive headset that lay next to the telephone console.

She curled her hands into fists, hoping she sounded passionate instead of loony. "All I want is a chance. The same chance you got when Kevin fired his old agent and put his faith in a fast-talking, sports-savvy guy who made his way from an armpit town in southern Illinois to Harvard Law."

He coiled back into his chair, one dark eyebrow angling upward.

"A blue-collar kid who played college football for the scholarship, but counted on his brains to get ahead. A guy with nothing more than big dreams and a strong work ethic to recommend him. A guy who-"

"Stop before you make me cry," he said dryly.

"Just give me a chance. Let me set up one introduction. Just one. If you don't like the woman I choose, I'll never bother you again. Please. I'll do anything."

That caught his attention. He pushed aside the headset, tilted back in his chair, and rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "Anything?"

She didn't flinch from his assessing gaze. "Whatever it takes."

His eyes made a calculated journey from her rumpled russet hair to her mouth, down along her throat to her breasts. "Well… I haven't gotten laid for a while."

Her constricted throat muscles relaxed. The Python was toying with her. "Then why don't we do something about that on a permanent basis?" She grabbed her fake leather tote and whipped out the folder of material she'd finished preparing at five o'clock that morning. "This will tell you a little more about Perfect for You. I've included our mission statement, a timetable, and our fee structure."

Now that he'd had his fun, he was all business. "I'm interested in results, not mission statements."

"And results are what I'll give you."

"We'll see."

She drew an unsteady breath. "Does that mean…"

He picked up the telephone headset and hooked it around his neck, leaving the cord dangling down his shirtfront in a serpentine tail. "You've got one chance. Tomorrow night. Hit me with your best candidate."

"Really?" Her knees went weak. "Yes… Fantastic! But… I need to clarify exactly what you're looking for."

"Let's see how good you are." He flipped up the headset.

"Nine o'clock at Sienna's on Clark Street. Make the introduction but don't plan on leaving. Stay at the table and keep the conversation going. I work hard at what I do. I don't intend to work hard at this, too."

"You want me to stay?"

"Twenty minutes exactly. Then take her away."

"Twenty minutes? Don't you think she'll find that a little… demeaning?"

"Not if she's the right woman." He gave her his country boy's smile. "And do you know why, Miss Granger? Because the right woman will be too damned sweet to take offense. Now get the hell out of here while you're ahead."

She did.

By the time she slipped into the McDonald's restroom, Annabelle had stopped shaking. She changed into capris, a tank, and sandals. Today's experience had justified her lifelong phobia of snakes. But other women wouldn't see Heath Champion like that. He was rich, successful, and gorgeous, which made him a dream match, assuming he didn't scare his dates to death, which was a distinct possibility. All she needed to do was find the right woman.

She pulled her wild hair back from her face with a pair of barrettes. She'd always worn her hair short to keep it under control, but her curly pixie had made her look more like a college freshman than a serious professional, so she was biting the bullet and letting it grow out. Not for the first time did she wish she had a spare five hundred dollars to have it professionally straightened, but she couldn't even pay her utility bill.

She stowed Nana's pearl earrings in an empty Altoids box and took a swig of lukewarm water from one of the bottles she'd dug out of Sherman's backseat. She kept the car well stocked: snacks and water bottles; a change of clothes; Tampax and toiletries; her new brochures and business cards; workout gear in case the mood struck her, which it hardly ever did; and, just recently, a box of condoms in the event one of her new clients developed a sudden, desperate need, although she couldn't see men like Ernie Marks or John Nager being that impulsive. Ernie was an elementary school principal, good with kids, but nervous with grown women, and John the hypochondriac wouldn't have sex without running his partner through the Mayo Clinic.

One thing was certain. She'd never have to pass out emergency condoms to Heath Champion. A man like that always came prepared.

She wrinkled her nose. Time to rise above her dislike. So what if he was overbearing and dictatorial, not to mention too rich and too successful for his own good? He was the key to her economic future. If she wanted Perfect for You to be successful as a specialized, high-end matchmaking service, she had to find him a wife. Once that happened, the word would spread, and Perfect for You would become the hottest service in Chicago. Which it definitely wasn't now, because inheriting her grandmother's business had also meant inheriting her remaining clients. Although Annabelle was doing her best to honor Nana's memory, it was time to move forward.

She squirted soap on her hands and considered her place in the business world. Matchmaking services came in mind-boggling varieties, and the rise of inexpensive online dating services had forced a lot of brick-and-mortar companies like hers to shut down while others scrambled to find a niche. They offered speed dates, lunch dates, and adventure outings. Some staged singles dinner parties, others served only graduates of prestigious universities or members of specific religious denominations. A lucky few, like Power Matches, were holding their own as "millionaire services," accepting only male clients and charging them staggering fees for introductions to beautiful women.

Annabelle intended to set Perfect for You apart from all of them. She wanted to make her name the first one that upscale Chicago singles, male and female, thought of when they were ready for a committed relationship and realized that old-fashioned personalized service was the best way to get it. She already had a few clients-Ernie and John her most recent- but not nearly enough to turn a profit. And until she'd established her credentials, she couldn't charge higher fees. Finding a match for Heath Champion would make those select clients and bigger fees possible. Except why hadn't he been able to find a wife on his own?

She'd have to speculate on that later because it was time to get to work. She'd intended to spend the afternoon patrolling Loop-area coffeehouses, fertile ground for finding both prospective clients and possible matches for the ones she had, but that was before she'd known how quickly she needed to come up with a candidate who'd knock Heath Champion off his feet.

Heat shimmered from the asphalt as she made her way across the parking lot to her car. The air smelled of fried food and exhaust. Chicago had declared its first Ozone Action Day of the summer, and it was barely June. She tossed the hopelessly wrinkled yellow suit in a trash bin so she never had to look at it again.

As she climbed inside the stifling car, her cell rang. She propped the door open to get some air. "This is Annabelle."

"Annabelle, I have wonderful news."

She sighed and dropped her forehead against the hot steering wheel. Just when she'd thought the worst of her day was behind her. "Hi, Mom."

"Your father talked to Doug an hour ago. Your brother is officially a vice president. They announced it this morning."

"Ohmygod! That's great!"

Annabelle exuded enthusiasm, bubbled over with bliss, radiated relish, but her mother's ESP kicked in anyway. "Of course it's great," she snapped. "Honestly, Annabelle, I don't know why you have to be so begrudging. Doug has worked hard to get where he is. No one handed him a thing."

Except adoring parents, a first-rate college education, and a generous postgraduation cash gift to tide him over.

Exactly the same things Annabelle had been given.

"Only thirty-five," Kate Granger went on, "and vice president of one of the most important accounting firms in Southern California."

"He's amazing." Annabelle lifted her forehead from the burning hot steering wheel before it branded her with the mark of Cain.

"Candace is giving a pool party next weekend to celebrate Doug's promotion. They're expecting Johnny Depp."

Somehow Annabelle couldn't imagine Johnny Depp showing up at one of her sister-in-law's pool parties, but she wasn't stupid enough to express her skepticism. "Wow! That's impressive."

"Candace is trying to decide between a South Pacific theme or going with the western thing."

"She entertains so well, I'm sure whatever she decides will be perfect."

Kate Granger's psychic abilities were worthy of her own 800 line. "Annabelle, you have to try harder to get over your hostility toward Candace. Nothing is more important than family. Doug adores her. We all do. And she's a wonderful mother."

Beads of perspiration were forming at her hairline. "How's Jamison's potty training coming along?" Not Jimmy, Jamie, Jim, or any variation thereof. Just Jamison.

"He's so bright. It's only a matter of time. I'll admit I was skeptical about all those learning tapes, but here he is, only three, and what an amazing vocabulary."

"Is he still saying asshole?"

"That's not funny."

In the old days, when her mother had a sense of humor, it would have been funny, but, at sixty-two, Kate Granger wasn't taking well to retirement. Even though she and Annabelle's father had bought a spectacular oceanside home in Naples, Florida, Kate missed St. Louis. Restless and bored, she'd turned all the energy she'd once directed toward a successful banking career onto her three grown children. Especially Annabelle, her only failure.

"How's Dad?" Annabelle said, hoping to postpone the inevitable.

"How do you think he is? He plays eighteen holes in the morning and watches the Golf Channel all afternoon. He hasn't opened a medical journal in months. You'd think after forty years as a surgeon, he'd be a little curious, but the only time he shows any interest in medicine is when he's talking to your brother."

On to chapter 2 in the amazing saga of The Granger Wonder Twins, this chapter featuring the dazzling life of that prominent St. Louis heart surgeon, Dr. Adam Granger. Annabelle reached for her water bottle, wishing she'd had the foresight to fill it with a nice peach-flavored vodka. "There's a lot of traffic, Mom. I don't think I can stay on my cell much longer."

"Your father's so proud of Adam. He just had another article published in the Journal of Thoracic and Cardiovascular Surgery. Yesterday, when we met the Andersons for Caribbean Night at the club, I had to kick him under the table to get him to shut up about it. The Andersons' children are a terrible disappointment."

Just like Annabelle.

Her mother swooped in for the kill. "Did you get the applications I sent?"

Since Kate had sent the applications FedEx and undoubtedly tracked their arrival on her computer, the question was rhetorical. Annabelle's head started to pound. "Mother…"

"You can't keep drifting like this-jobs, relationships-I won't even mention that awful business with Rob. We should have cut you off financially in college when you insisted on majoring in theater. And hasn't that been a gold mine of job opportunities? You're thirty-one. And you're a Granger. It's long past time you settled down and applied yourself."

Annabelle had told herself she wouldn't rise to the bait regardless of the provocation, but between Mouse, Heath Champion, the mention of Rob, and a fear that her mother was right, she broke. "Applying myself in the Granger family only means two things, right? Medicine or finance?"

"Don't start. You know exactly what I mean. That awful matchmaking business hasn't turned a profit in years. Mother only opened it so she could nib into other people's lives. You're not getting any younger, Annabelle, and I won't stand by and watch you waste more of your life when you could be going back to school and preparing for the future."

"I don't want-"

"You've always been good with numbers. You'd make a wonderful accountant. And I've told you we'll pay your tuition."

"I don't want to be an accountant! And I don't need my parents supporting me."

"Living in Nana's house doesn't count, then?"

It was a knockout punch. Annabelle's cheeks burned. Her mother had inherited Nana's Wicker Park house. Annabelle was living in it, ostensibly to keep it from being vandalized, but really because Kate didn't want Annabelle staying in some "dangerous urban neighborhood." Annabelle lashed back. "Fine! Do you want me to move out? Is that what you want?"

Oh, God, she sounded like she was fifteen again. Why did she always let Kate do this to her? Before she could retrench, her mother went on, speaking in the same overly patient maternal voice she'd used when Annabelle was eight and had announced that she'd run away from home if her brothers didn't stop calling her Spud.

"What I want you to do is go back to school and get your accounting degree. You know Doug will help you get a job."

"I'm not going to be an accountant!"

"Then what are you going to be, Annabelle? Tell me. Do you think I enjoy nagging? If you could just once explain it to me…"

"I want to run my own business," Annabelle said, sounding whiny even to herself.

"You tried that, remember? The gift shop? Then there was that awful dot-com. Doug and I both warned you. Then that tacky employment agency. You can't stick with anything."

"That's not fair! The employment agency folded."

"So did the gift shop and the dot-com. Did you ever think it's more than coincidental that whatever business you attach yourself to goes bottom up? It's because you deal in daydreams not in reality. Like that whole fantasy you had about being an actress."

Annabelle sank lower in her seat. She'd been a decent actress, taking solid supporting roles in a couple of university productions and directing some studio plays. But by her junior year, she'd realized theater wasn't her passion, just an escape into a world where she didn't have to be Doug and Adam Granger's incompetent little sister.

"And look what happened with Rob," Kate went on. "Of all the- Well, never mind about that. The point is, you've bought into this New Age nonsense that all you have to do is want something badly enough, and you can get it. But life doesn't work that way. It takes more than desire. Successful people are pragmatic. They make plans that are rooted in reality."

"I don't want to be an accountant!"

A long, disapproving silence followed this outburst. Annabelle knew exactly what her mother was thinking. That Annabelle was being Annabelle again, high-strung, overly dramatic, and impractical, the family's lone failure. But no one could upset her like her mother.

Except her father.

And her brothers.

"Stop screwing around with your life, Spud, and settle on something practical," Adam, the big-shot doctor, had written in his last e-mail, which he'd thoughtfully copied to the rest of the family plus two aunts and three cousins.

"You're thirty-one," Doug, the big-shot accountant, had noted on her recent birthday card. "I was making two hundred grand a year when I was thirty-one."

Her father, the ex-big-shot surgeon, took a different approach. "Birdied number four yesterday. My putting game's finally come together. And, Annabelle… It's long past time you found yourself."

Only Nana Myrna had offered support. "You'll find yourself when the time is right, sweetheart."

Annabelle missed Nana Myrna. She'd been a failure, too.

"The accounting field is wide open," her mother said. "It's growing by leaps and bounds."

"So is my business," Annabelle retorted in a mad act of self-destruction. "I've landed a very important client."

"Who?"

"You know I can't give you his name."

"Is he under seventy?"

Annabelle told herself not to take the bait, but there was a reason she'd earned her reputation as the family screwup. "He's thirty-four, a high-profile multimillionaire."

"Why on earth has he hired you?"

Annabelle gritted her teeth. "Because I'm the best, that's why."

"We'll see." Her mother's voice softened, driving the point of her maternal knife home. "I know I aggravate you, baby, but it's only because I love you, and I want you to fulfill your potential."

Annabelle sighed. "I know you do. I love you, too."

The conversation finally ground to an end. Annabelle stowed her cell, slammed the door, and jabbed the key into the ignition. Maybe if there wasn't so much truth behind her mother's words, they wouldn't sting so badly.

As she backed out of the parking place, she gazed into the rearview mirror and uttered little Jamison's favorite word. Twice.