Match Me If You Can

Chapter Five

Bodie readjusted the treadmill speed, slowing the pace. "Tell me more about Portia Powers." A bead of sweat trickled into the already damp neckband of Heath's faded Dolphins T-shirt as he set the barbell he'd been lifting back on the rack. "You met Annabelle. Do a one-eighty, and you've got Powers."

"Annabelle's interesting. Kinda hard to get a bead on her."

"She's a flake." Heath stretched out his arms. "I'd never have hired her if she hadn't struck it lucky with Gwen Phelps." Bodie chuckled. "You still can't believe you got rejected."

"I finally meet somebody intriguing, and she's not interested."

"Life's a bitch." The treadmill slowed to a stop. Bodie climbed off and picked up a towel from the uncarpeted living room floor.

Heath's Lincoln Park house still smelled like new construction, probably because it was. A sleek wedge of glass and stone, it jutted toward the shady street like the prow of a ship. Through the sweeping V of floor-to-ceiling living room windows, he could see sky, trees, a pair of restored nineteenth-century town houses across the way, and a well-maintained neighborhood park surrounded by an old iron fence. His rooftop deck-which, admittedly, he'd only visited twice- afforded a distant view of the Lincoln Park Lagoon.

Once he found a wife, he'd let her furnish the place. For now, he'd set up a gym in the otherwise empty living room, bought a state-of-the-art sound system, a bed with a Tempur-Pedic mattress, and a big-screen plasma TV for the media room downstairs. All of that, combined with hardwood and tumbled marble floors, custom-built cabinets, limestone bathrooms, and a kitchen outfitted with the latest in European-designed appliances made this the house he'd dreamed about since he was a kid.

He just wished he liked it more. Maybe he should have hired a decorator instead of waiting, but he'd done that with his old place-cost a fortune, too-and he hadn't liked the results. The interior might have been impressive, but he'd felt weird there, like a visitor in somebody else's house. He'd sold everything when he moved here so he could start new, but now he wished he'd held on to enough furniture to keep the place from echoing.

Bodie picked up a water bottle. "Word is, she's a ballbuster."

"Gwen?" Heath stepped on the treadmill.

"Powers. High employee turnover rate."

"Seems like a good businesswoman to me. She also does some volunteer work mentoring other women."

"If she's so good, why aren't you letting her sit through any of her introductions like you made Annabelle do last week?"

"I tried once, but it didn't work. She's pretty wired, a little hard to take in big doses. But she's sent along some decent candidates, and she knows how to get the job done."

"That explains all those second dates you haven't asked anybody out on."

"Sooner or later I will."

Bodie wandered into the kitchen. He had a condo in

Wrigleyville, but sometimes came over here so they could work out together.

Heath turned up the treadmill speed. He and Bodie had been together almost six years now. After his motorcycle injury, Bodie had lost himself in drugs and self-pity, but Heath had admired him as a player, and he'd hired him to be a runner. Good runners tended to be former athletes, men the college players knew by reputation and trusted. Agents used them to bring potential clients to the table. Although Heath hadn't spelled it out, Bodie had known he had to get sober first, and that's what he'd done. Before long, his no-bullshit style had turned him into one of the best.

Bodie had started driving for him accidentally. Heath spent a lot of hours on Chicago's tollways, heading up to Halas Hall, out to Stars headquarters, or making endless trips to and from O'Hare. He hated wasting time stuck in traffic jams, and Bodie liked being behind the wheel, so Bodie'd started taking over when it was convenient for both of them. With Bodie driving, Heath could make phone calls, answer e-mail, and handle paperwork, although, just as frequently, they used their time to strategize, and this was where Bodie earned the six-figure income Heath paid him. Bodie's intimidating appearance hid a highly analytical mind-cool, focused, and unsentimental. He'd become Heath's closest friend, and the only person Heath completely trusted.

Bodie returned from the kitchen with a beer. "Your matchmaker doesn't like you."

"I care."

"I think you amuse her, though."

"Amuse her?" Heath lost his rhythm. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Ask her, not me."

"I'm not asking her a damn thing."

"It'll be interesting to see who she comes up with next.

You sure didn't like that brunette Powers introduced you to last week."

"Too much perfume, and she was hard to get rid of." He punched at the display, raising the treadmill's incline. "I guess I should make Powers sit in on the introductions the same way I did with Annabelle, but Powers takes over so much it's tough to get a good read."

"You should make Annabelle sit in on all of them. She doesn't seem to get on your nerves."

"What are you talking about? She sure as hell got on my nerves this afternoon-her and her questionnaire." His cell rang. Bodie tossed it to him. Heath checked the caller ID and hit the button. "Rocco… Exactly the man I want to talk to…"

How rich do you think he is?" Barrie Delshire's long brown hair swung around the perfect oval of her face, unlike Annabelle's hair, which continued to defy the new straightening product she'd obviously paid too much for.

"He's rich enough." Annabelle poked a curl behind her ear.

"That's cool. My last boyfriend still owes me fifty bucks, but he says he'll pay me back."

Barrie wasn't the brightest bulb in the Pottery Barn chandelier, but she was sweet, exquisitely beautiful, and her bustline alone should catch Heath's attention. Barrie didn't want to walk into the restaurant alone, so Annabelle had met up with her at a nearby convenience store. As they drew nearer to Sienna's, a stylish, rail-thin woman with pale skin and inky hair turned from the window where she was perusing the menu to watch them approach. She wore a silky blue halter top that tied behind her neck, white slacks, and backless navy-and-white kitten-heeled slides. She gazed at Annabelle with an odd intensity, then turned her attention back to the menu.

Barrie flicked her hair. "Thanks again for arranging this. I'm so sick of dating losers."

"Heath definitely isn't a loser." Annabelle had been too nervous about tonight to eat, and as they entered the restaurant, the fragrant smells of garlic and fresh-baked bread made her mouth water. Heath sat at the same table he'd occupied when she'd introduced him to Gwen. Tonight, he wore an open-collar knit shirt a shade lighter than his thick, barely rumpled hair. As they got closer, she saw him pocket his BlackBerry.

He rose in an unconscious display of athletic grace-no fumbling with the chair or bumping against the table for this dude. Annabelle made the introductions. He wasn't easy to read, but as she watched him take in Barrie's long hair and amazing breasts, she could tell he was interested.

He held out the chair next to him for her, leaving Annabelle to fend for herself. Barrie gave him an alluring, moist-lipped smile. "You're just as amazing-looking as Annabelle said you were."

Heath shot Annabelle an amused glance. "Did she now?"

Annabelle ordered herself not to flush. She'd been doing her job, and that was all.

The conversation unfolded without much effort on Annabelle's part, other than steering Barrie away from discussing her horoscope. Fortunately, Barrie was a big Stars fan, so they had plenty to talk about, and Heath gave her his full attention. Annabelle wished somebody would listen to her with so much interest. His cell rang. He pulled it out to check the number but didn't answer, which Annabelle took as a positive sign, or maybe a negative one, because she was growing increasingly convinced that Barrie was completely wrong for him.

"Did you play football?" Barrie said with breathless intensity.

"I played college ball, but I wasn't good enough to be more than a benchwarmer for the pros, so I passed."

"You turned down a chance to play for the pros?"

"I don't do anything where I can't be the best."

What about doing something just for fun? Annabelle wondered. Again, she thought of her work-obsessed brothers.

Barrie pushed her shampoo-model hair back over one shoulder. "Where did you go to college?"

"I got my undergraduate degree at the University of Illinois, then grabbed a chance to go to Harvard Law."

"You went to Harvard?" Barrie exclaimed. "Oh my God, I'm so impressed. I always wanted to go to a big West Coast school, but my parents couldn't afford it."

Heath blinked.

Annabelle grabbed her green phantom and calculated how quickly she could set up his next date.

Your friend sure won't be bringing the cheese dip to the next MENSA potluck," Heath said, after Barrie left the restaurant.

Annabelle resisted the urge to drain her green phantom. "Maybe not, but you've got to admit that she's gorgeous."

"Sweet, too. But I expected better from you, especially after answering all those stupid questions yesterday."

"They weren't stupid. And there's a big difference between what men say they want in a woman and what they really want."

"So this was a test?"

"Sort of. Maybe."

"Don't do it again." He leveled his roughneck's gaze at her. "I'm crystal clear about what I want, and Barrie-while admittedly hot-isn't it."

Annabelle gazed wistfully toward the doorway. "If I could put my brain in her body, the world would be mine for the taking."

"Ease up, Dr. Evil. The next candidate is due in five minutes, and I have a call to make. Keep her entertained till I get back, will you?"

"The next-? I didn't-"

But he'd already disappeared into a back room. She shot up, ready to go after him, only to see a stylishly dressed blonde enter. With her Escada suit and Chanel bag, she had the stamp of Power Matches all over her. Was he serious? Did he really expect her to entertain a competitor's candidate?

The woman glanced around the bar. Despite her designer duds, she seemed unsure of herself, and Annabelle's Good Samaritan instinct reared its namby-pamby head. She fought it for almost thirty seconds, but the woman looked so uncomfortable that she finally gave in and made her way to her side. "Are you looking for Heath Champion?"

"Yes, I am."

"He got called away for a few minutes. He asked me to keep an eye out for you. I'm Annabelle Granger, his…" She hesitated. Saying she was his backup matchmaker was out of the question, and she couldn't stomach saying she was his assistant, so she settled on the next best thing. "I'm Heath's boss."

"Melanie Richter." The woman took in Annabelle's khaki skirt and fitted persimmon jacket-which, next to all the Escada, wasn't too impressive. Still, she didn't seem judgmental, and she had a friendly smile. "Being a woman in such a male-dominated field must be challenging."

"You have no idea."

Melanie followed her back to the table. Since Annabelle wasn't anxious to discuss her career as a sports mogul, she asked Melanie about herself and learned that she was divorced with one child. She had a background in fashion, along with a creepy ex who used to yell at her if she didn't disinfect their doorknobs every day. Heath finally joined them. Annabelle introduced him and began to rise only to have his hand settle hard on her bare thigh.

She didn't know which was more annoying, the jolt of sexual electricity that shot through her or the realization that he expected her to stay, but the pressure on her thigh didn't ease.

Melanie fiddled with her purse, looking uncomfortable again. This wasn't her fault, and Annabelle retrenched.

"Melanie has such an interesting background." In the spirit of fair play, she emphasized Melanie's Junior League charity work and fashion training. Although she mentioned Melanie's son, she said nothing about the creepy ex. She'd barely finished, however, before Heath's cell rang. He glanced at it, apologized with all kinds of sincerity, and excused himself.

Annabelle glared at his back. "My hardest-working employee. Incredibly conscientious."

"I can see that."

Annabelle decided to take advantage of Melanie's fashion expertise by soliciting her opinion about the best jeans for short women with a tendency toward full hips. Melanie replied graciously-medium low rise, boot cut to the ankle. Then she complimented Annabelle on her hair. "The color is so unusual. There's a lot of gold in it. I'd kill for hair like yours."

Annabelle's hair had always attracted a lot of attention, but she took the compliments she received with a grain of salt, suspecting that people were so startled by the mess they felt they had to say something. Heath returned, apologized again, and got down to business with Melanie. He leaned in when she spoke, smiled in all the right places, asked good questions, and seemed genuinely interested in everything she said. Finally, his hand settled on Annabelle's thigh, but this time she didn't let herself get worked up about it. He was signaling that Melanie's time was over.

After she left, he shot a look at his watch. "Terrific woman, but disappointing."

"How can she be terrific and disappointing? She's nice."

"Very nice. I enjoyed talking with her. But we had no chemistry, and I don't want to marry her."

"Chemistry takes more than twenty minutes to develop. She's smart, and she's a heck of a lot more courteous than you and your cell deserve. She also has that class thing going you say you want. Give her another chance."

"Just a suggestion. I'll bet you could get further in your business by pushing your own candidates instead of somebody else's."

"I know, but I like her." She frowned at him. "Although I couldn't help but notice that she seemed to blame me for breaking up the evening, which is so unfair."

"You'll also go further if you at least pretend to suck up to me."

"Here's what's sad. I have been sucking up."

That country boy mouth crooked at the corner. "The best you can do, huh?"

"I know. Depressing, isn't it."

His amusement turned to suspicion. "What did Melanie mean when she said you should give me a raise?"

"No idea." Her stomach rumbled. "I don't suppose you'd consider feeding me?"

"We don't have time. The next one will be here in ten minutes. I'll buy you another drink instead."

"The next one?"

He pulled out his BlackBerry in a blatant attempt to ignore her, but she wasn't having it. "Portia Powers can babysit her own introductions. I'm not doing it."

"Yet only six days ago, you were in my office on your knees telling me you'd do anything to land me as a client."

"I was young and stupid."

"Here's the difference between us… The reason I'm running a multimillion-dollar business and you're not. I give my clients what they want. You give your clients grief."

"Not all of them. Just you. Okay, and sometimes Mr. Bron-icki, but you can't imagine what I'm up against there."

"Let me give you an example of what I'm talking about."

"I'd settle for a breadstick."

"Last week I was on the phone with a client who plays for the Bills. He just bought his first house, and he mentioned that he liked my taste and wished I could help him pick out some furniture. Now I'm his agent, not his interior decorator. Hell, I don't know jack about decorating; I haven't even furnished my own place. But the guy broke up with his girlfriend, he's lonely, and two hours later, I was on a plane to Buffalo. I didn't blow him off. I didn't send a lackey. I went myself. And do you know why?"

"A newly discovered passion for country French?"

He arched an eyebrow. "No. Because I want my clients to understand I'm. always there for them. When they sign a contract with me, they sign with someone who cares about every aspect of their lives. Not just when times are good, but when things get rough, too."

"What if you don't like them?" She'd intended the question as a small dig-implying she didn't like him-but he took her seriously, which was just as well. This weird compulsion to put him in his place had to stop. Her future depended on making him happy, not alienating him.

"I'd never sign a client I didn't like," he said.

"You like them all? Every single one of those demanding, egotistical, overpaid, self-indulgent jocks? I don't believe you."

"I love them like they're my brothers," he replied, with unflinching sincerity.

"You are such a bullshitter."

"Am I?" He gave her an inscrutable smile then rose to his feet as Portia Powers's second socialite of the evening made her appearance.

Don't you have it memorized yet?" Portia jumped at the sound of a deep and very threatening male voice. She spun around from her spot on the sidewalk in front of Sienna's window and took in the man who'd come up next to her. It was only a little after ten, and people still strolled the side-walk, but she felt as though she'd been sucked into a dark alley at midnight. He was a goon, huge and menacing, with a shaved head and a serial killer's translucent blue eyes. An intimidating display of tribal tattoos decorated the ropy muscles visible beneath the sleeves of his tightly fitted black T-shirt, and his thick, muscular neck belonged to a man who'd done hard time.

"Didn't anybody tell you spying on people isn't nice?" he said.

For the past hour, she'd been circling the block, stopping each time she passed the restaurant to pretend to study the menu. If she looked over the top, she could see the table where Heath was sitting, along with Annabelle Granger and the two women Portia had arranged for him to meet tonight. Normally Portia wouldn't have thought of being present during an initial introduction-only a few clients had ever requested it-except she'd learned he wanted Granger there, and Portia couldn't tolerate that.

"Who are you?" she said, pretending a bravado she didn't feel.

"Bodie Gray, Champion's bodyguard. And he sure will be interested to hear what you've been up to tonight."

The muscles in the small of her back cramped. This was beyond humiliating. "I haven't been up to a thing."

"That's not what it looks like to me."

"But then you're hardly an authority on matchmaking, are you?" She regarded him coldly, doing her best to stare him down. "How about minding your own business and letting me mind mine?"

Her assistants would have dived for cover, but he didn't even blink. "Champion's business is my business."

"My, my… Quite the dedicated gofer."

"Everybody should have one." He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the curb.

She gave a hiss of dismay. "What are you doing?" She tried to wrench away, but he didn't let go.

"I'm going to buy you a beer so Mr. Champion can finish his business in private."

"It's my business, too, and I'm not-"

"Yeah, you really are." He steered her between two parked cars. "But if you make nice, you might be able to convince me to keep my mouth shut."

She stopped struggling and gazed at Mr. Bodyguard through the corner of her eyes. So… he was willing to sell out his boss. Heath should have known better than to hire a thug, but since he hadn't, she'd take advantage of his naivete because she did not want him to find out about this. If he did, he'd see it for exactly what it was, a sign of weakness.

The bar they entered was smoky and sour, with a cracked linoleum floor and a dying philodendron sitting on a dusty shelf between a couple of fly-specked trophies and a faded photograph of Mel Torme.

"Hey, Bodie, how's it hanging?" the bartender called out.

"No complaints."

Bodie steered her toward a barstool. On the way, one of her shoes stuck to something on the floor. As she freed it, she wondered how such a seedy establishment could exist so close to Clark Street's best restaurants.

"Two beers," Mr. Bodyguard said as she perched gingerly on the stool next to him.

"Club soda," she interjected. "With a sliver of lime."

"No limes," the bartender said, "but I got a can of fruit cocktail in the back room."

Muscle Man found this hilarious, and a few moments later she was staring at the faint outline of a leftover lipstick imprint on the rim of a beer mug. She pushed it aside. "How did you know who I was?"

"You match Champion's description."

She didn't ask how Heath had described her. She tried not to ask any question where she wasn't certain of the answer, and something had gone seriously haywire in her relationship with Heath the moment Annabelle Granger had entered the picture.

"I won't apologize for doing my job," she said. "Heath is paying me a lot of money to help him, but I can't do that properly if he cuts me out."

"So it's okay if I tell him about the spying?"

"What you call spying, I call earning my paycheck," she said carefully.

"I doubt he'll see it that way."

She doubted it, too, but she wouldn't let him intimidate her. "Tell me what you want."

She watched as he thought it over. Reading people was an important part of her business, but her clients were wealthy and well educated, so how could she tell what was going on behind those ice pick blue eyes? She hated uncertainty. "Well?"

"I'm thinking."

She opened her purse, extracted two fifty-dollar bills, and set them in front of him. "Maybe this will help that difficult process along."

He looked down at the money, shrugged, and shifted his weight to stuff the bills in his pocket. His hips were much narrower than his shoulders, she noticed, his thighs long boned and solid.

"Now," she said. "We can just forget all about tonight."

"I don't know. It's a lot to forget… even for someone like me."

She gazed at him more closely, trying to decide if he was putting her on, but she couldn't read him.

"I'll tell you what," he said. "Why don't we talk the situation over next weekend? Let's say a week from Friday. See how things are coming along by then."

She hadn't expected this. "Why don't we not."

"I'd do it this weekend, but I gotta be out of town."

"What do you want?"

He studied her openly. His mouth was finely chiseled, almost delicate, which made the rest of his features seem all the more sinister. "I'll let you know when I decide."

"Forget it. I'm not going to allow you to string me along." She tried to stare him down, but he refused to play. Instead, his mouth quirked in a gangster's cocky grin.

"Are you sure? If you are, I can always talk to Mr. Champion tonight."

She gritted her teeth. "Fine. Next Friday." She slid off the stool and pulled open her purse. "Here's my card. Don't try to screw me, or you'll regret it."

"Probably." His eyes slid over her like hot caramel on ice cream. "Still, it might be interesting."

Something heady and unexpected shot through her. She snapped her purse shut and left the bar to the sound of a wicked chuckle.

The next Power Matches candidate proved to be beautiful but self-centered, and Annabelle led the conversation to showcase her flaws. She needn't have bothered. Heath had the woman's number from the start. At the same time, he treated her with the utmost respect, and Annabelle realized that Heath wasn't quite the egomaniac she'd first thought. He seemed to find the human condition in all its forms interesting. Knowing that made it tough for her to hold on to her dislike. Not that she'd been holding on to it very hard.

"Entertaining," he said after she left, "but not in a good way. This evening's been a time sink."

"Your next match won't be. I've got someone special lined up." Nana's senior client base was turning out to be a rich source of referrals. Rachel Gorny, the granddaughter of one of Nana's oldest friends, didn't have Barrie's extravagant beauty, but she was intelligent, accomplished, and strong-minded enough to hold her own against him. She also had the social polish Heath seemed to require. Annabelle had considered introducing them tonight, but she'd wanted to see how he'd react to Barrie first.

She toyed with her swizzle stick to keep herself from studying Heath's profile and made a mental note to look for a sweet, hunky, not-too-bright guy who'd treat Barrie well.

"You'll need to do a better job, Annabelle. No more dates like the first one tonight."

"Agreed. And no more making me sit through your Power Matches introductions, either. As you so wisely pointed out, helping Portia Powers isn't in my best interests."

"Then why are you still trying to talk me into seeing Melanie again?"

"Hunger makes me weird."

"You got rid of the last one in fourteen minutes. Well done. I'm rewarding you by letting you sit in on all the introductions from now on."

She nearly choked on an ice cube. "What are you talking about?"

"Exactly what I said."

"By all, you don't mean-"

"As a matter of fact, I do." He drew out a big gold money clip stuffed with bills, tossed a few on the table, and pulled her from her chair. "Let's get you fed."

"But- I'm not- I won't-" She sputtered her way across the bar, trying to tell him that she had no intention of hanging around with Powers's candidates and that he'd obviously lost what was left of his mind, but he ignored her to greet the owner, a wiry terrier of a man. They conversed in Italian, which surprised her, although why anything about Heath should surprise her at this point, she had no idea.

They'd barely been seated in the dining room's prime booth before the waiter took their drink orders and Mama greeted Heath with a breadbasket and antipasto platter. More Italian flew. Annabelle couldn't resist the yeasty smell of the warm bread, so she tore off a chunk and dredged it through a rosemary-flavored puddle of olive oil.

Like the bar, the dining room had roughly plastered gold walls and heavy purple moldings, but the lighting was brighter here, showcasing the salmon tablecloths and grape-colored napkins. Small earthenware pots at each table held simple arrangements of country flowers and herbs. The restaurant had a homey, comfortable feel, yet still projected an air of elegance.

Heath knew more about wine that she did, and he ordered a cabernet for her, but he drank Sam Adams himself. The antipasto platter overflowed with meats, stuffed mushrooms, sprigs of fried sage, and matchstick skewers of pecorino cheese and plump red cherries. "Eat first," he said. "Then we'll talk."

She was more than happy to comply, and he didn't bother her until the entrees appeared-pale islands of sea scallops floating in a choppy sea of porcini and cremini mushrooms for her, pasta drenched in a spicy pomodoro sauce chunky with sausage and goat cheese for him.

He took a few bites, sipped his beer, then turned the same razor-sharp focus on her he'd directed at his dates all evening. "I want you around for all the introductions from now on, doing exactly what you did tonight."

"If you ruin the best meal I've eaten in forever, I'll never forgive you."

"You're intuitive, and you kept the conversations going. Despite your opinion about Melanie, you seem to know what's working for me and what's not. I'd be stupid not to make use of that, and I'm definitely not stupid."

She loaded up her fork with a scoop of golden, garlicky polenta. "Remind me how it's to my advantage to help Portia Powers make this match because I've forgotten that part."

He picked up his knife. "We're cutting a new deal." With one efficient motion, he split a chunk of sausage in half. "That ten thousand dollars you wanted to charge me was nothing more than a fishing expedition, and we both know it."

"It wasn't a-"

"I paid you five thousand instead and promised the balance only if you made the match. As it turns out, this is your lucky day because I've decided to write you the full check, whether the match comes from you or from Portia. As long as I have a wife and you've been part of the process, you'll get your money." He toasted her with his beer mug. "Congratulations."

She put down her fork. "Why would you do that?"

"Because it's efficient."

"Not as efficient as having Powers handle her own introductions. You're paying her a fortune to do exactly that."

"I'd rather have you."

Her pulse kicked. "Why?"

He gave her the melty smile he must have been practicing since the cradle, one that made her feel as though she was the only woman in the world. "Because you're easier to bully. Do we have a deal or not?"

"You don't want a matchmaker. You want a lackey."

"Semantics. My hours are erratic, and my schedule changes without warning. It'll be your job to cope with all that. You'll soothe ruffled feathers when I need to cancel at the last minute. You'll keep my dates company when I'm going to be late, entertain them if I have to take a call. If things are going well, you'll disappear. If not, you'll make the woman disappear. I told you before. I work hard at my job. I don't want to have to work hard at this, too."

"Basically, you expect me to find your bride, court her, and hand her over at the altar. Or do I have to come on the honeymoon, too?"

"Definitely not." He gave her a lazy smile. "I can take care of that all by myself."

Something sizzled in the air between them, something that felt heady and seductive, at least in her sex-starved imagination. She took a sip of water and absorbed the dismaying realization that she was attracted to him, even though she wanted to hit him in the head with that beer bottle. Well, so what? He was a natural charmer, and she was only human. This wouldn't be a problem unless she let it be.

She took her time thinking it over. Although she hated the idea of being at his beck and call, this arrangement would give her more control, as well as potentially doubling her money. Power Matches only signed contracts with men, but Perfect for You signed both men and women, so she might be able to pick up some great female clients out of Heath's rejects. Melanie, for example, could be a match for Shirley Miller's godson, Jerry. He was nice looking, moderately successful, and they had children about the same age. Just because Jerry wasn't currently a client didn't mean Annabelle couldn't land him as one.

"Portia Powers will never agree to this," she said.

"She won't have a choice."

Just like I don't, Annabelle thought. But that wasn't entirely true. She had a choice, all right. Unfortunately, making it would be self-defeating. "You should cancel your contract with her and let me take care of everything."

"She has access to women you don't," he replied. "Odds are, she'll find the one I end up choosing."

"Tonight being a sterling example of her good judgment?"

"Tonight being a sterling example of yours?"

He had her there. She toyed with a mushroom. "You understand, don't you, that it's in my best interest to sabotage her candidates. As much as I need the money, I need to build the reputation of Perfect for You even more."

"I stand warned, Mata Hari."

"You're not taking me seriously."

He cocked an eyebrow. "You told me to see Melanie again."

"Only because my blood glucose was out of whack. Now that I've eaten it's clear to me that she's way too decent for you."

"Give it a rest, Annabelle." He offered up his snake's smile. "You're one of those people who was cursed with personal integrity. And I'm one of those people who's smart enough to take advantage of it."

There wasn't much she could say to that, so she returned her attention to the scallops.

It had been a long time since Heath had enjoyed watching a woman eat, but Annabelle knew how to appreciate a good meal. A blissful expression came over her face as she slipped another mushroom into her mouth. The tip of her tongue picked up a dab of leftover sauce at the bow of her lip. His eyes drifted along her throat to her collarbone and down to those small, guinea-fowl breasts…

"What?" Her fork hung in midair, and tiny frown lines creased her forehead.

He quickly rearranged his expression. "I was wondering about your next candidate. Do you really have one lined up?"

She smiled and propped an elbow on the table. "Yes. And she's special. Sharp, attractive, fun to be with."

"At the risk of incurring your wrath, there are thousands of women who meet that description. I'm looking for someone extraordinary."

Her honey-colored eyes announced an amber alert. "Extraordinary women tend to fall in love with men who put them first. Which pretty much rules out a guy who excuses himself in the middle of a conversation to take a phone call like you did tonight."

"It was an emergency."

"With you, I suspect they all are. No offense."

He ran his thumb around the rim of his mug. "I don't usually feel the need to defend myself, but I'm going to make an exception now, and you can apologize when I'm done."

"We'll see."

"A player I recruited a couple of years ago wrapped his Maserati around a telephone pole tonight. That was his mother on the phone. He's not even my client-he signed with another agent-but I got to know his folks a little. Nice people. He's in intensive care…" He nudged his plate back from the edge of the table with his thumb. "She called to let me know they don't expect him to last until morning." He gazed at her. "You tell me which was most important. Making small talk or comforting that mother?"

She stared at him. Then she laughed. "You just made that up."

He was seldom taken by surprise, but Annabelle Granger had done it. He gave her his iciest glare. "Interesting that you find someone's tragedy so amusing."

Her eyes crinkled at the corners, golden flecks dancing in the irises. "You totally made it up."

He tried to stare her down-he was superb at stare-downs- but she looked so pleased with herself that he lost it and laughed.

She regarded him smugly. "I have two brothers who are also overachieving workaholics, so I'm intimately acquainted with the tricks performed by men of your ilk."

"I have an ilk?"

"A definite ilk."

"It finally becomes clear…" He propped his elbow on the table, rubbed the corner of his mouth, and studied her over the back of his hand. "Poor, pathetic Annabelle. All the inappropriate put-downs you've subjected me to, the snide comments… A simple case of transfer. The result of growing up overshadowed by those magnificent brothers. Was it very painful to feel so neglected? Do the scars still ache when it rains?"

She snorted, a surprisingly loud sound coming from such a small woman. "I prayed to be neglected. Ballet, piano, horseback riding. Fencing, for Pete's sake. Who makes their kid take fencing lessons? Girl Scouts, orchestra, tutors if I slipped below a B, monetary incentives to join every club with a special bonus if I ran for office. And yet somehow I survived, although the torture continues."

She'd just described his dream childhood. Fragments of memory swept over him. His father's drunken voice… Pull your head out of that goddamned book and go buy me some cigarettes. Cockroaches scrambling under the refrigerator, leaky pipes dripping rusty water on the linoleum. The scent of Lysol-a good memory-when one of the old man's girlfriends tried to clean up the place, and then the inevitable bang of that warped metal door when she'd storm out.

Annabelle chased her remaining scallop to the edge of the plate and looked up at him. "I really think you'll like Rachel."

"I like Gwen."

"That's because she refused you. The two of you had no chemistry."

"You're so wrong. There was definite chemistry."

"I don't get why you need a wife right now. You have Bodie, you have assistants, and you can hire a housekeeper to handle all those impromptu dinner parties. As for having kids… It's hard to raise them with a cell phone super glued to your ear."

It was long past time to put Tinker Bell in her place. He settled back in his chair and let his eyes drift to her breasts. "You left out sex."

She took a few seconds too long to respond. "You can hire that, too."

"Honey," he drawled, "I've never had to pay for sex in my life."

She flushed, and he thought he finally had her where he wanted her, only to watch that small nose shoot into the air. "Which merely points out how desperate some women can be."

"Speaking personally?"

"Raoul's opinion. My lover. He's very insightful."

He grinned, and right then it occurred to him that he hadn't enjoyed himself so much with a woman in a very long time. If Annabelle Granger were a few inches taller, a hell of a lot more sophisticated, better organized, less bossy, and more inclined to worship at his feet, she'd have made a perfect wife.