Match Me If You Can

  Fighting both of them had exhausted her already diminished resources, and Annabelle slumped into the sofa. “Nothing’s simple when it comes to that man.”

  “This time it is,” he said. “I caught a glimpse of him heading for that path that goes around the lake.”

  The same path she’d planned to walk this afternoon.

  “Go after him,” Bodie said, “and when you find him, ask him two questions. When you hear his answers, you’ll know exactly what to do.”

  “Two questions?”

  “That’s right. And I’m going to tell you exactly what they are…”

  Water from the soggy leaves seeped into Annabelle’s sneakers, and her teeth had begun to chatter, more from nerves, she suspected, than the chill. She might be making the worst mistake of her life. She couldn’t see anything special about the questions Bodie had posed, but he’d been adamant. As for Portia…The woman was scary. Annabelle wouldn’t have been surprised to see her pull a handgun from her purse. Portia and Bodie were the weirdest couple she’d ever seen, and yet they seemed to understand each other perfectly. Apparently, Annabelle had a lot more to learn about being a matchmaker. She had to admit Portia was growing on her. How could you hate a woman who was so willing to put herself on the line?

  The path grew steeper as it climbed toward the rocky bluff that jutted over the water. Molly said she and Kevin came here sometimes to dive. Annabelle paused as she rounded the bend to catch her breath. That was when she saw Heath. He stood on the rocky ledge gazing out at the lake, his jacket pushed back, his fingertips stuffed in his back pockets. Even unkempt and disheveled, he was magnificent, an alpha male at the top of every game he played, except the most important one.

  He heard her footsteps and turned his head. Slowly, his hands dropped to his sides. In the distance, she saw a tiny speck in the sky. The balloons drifting away. It didn’t seem like a comforting omen. “I need to ask you two questions,” she said.

  His stance, his shuttered expression, everything about him reminded her of the way the cottages had been closed up for the winter—no hot water, curtains drawn, doors locked. “All right,” he said tonelessly.

  Her heart hammered as she stepped around the NO DIVING sign. “First question. Where’s your cell?”

  “My cell? Why do you care?”

  She wasn’t sure. What difference could it make which pocket he’d stashed it in? Still, Bodie had insisted she ask.

  “Last time I saw it,” Heath said, “Pip had it.”

  “You let her steal another phone?”

  “No, I gave it to her.”

  She swallowed and stared at him. This was getting serious. “You gave her your cell? Why?”

  “Is this the second question?”

  “No. Scratch that. The second question is…Why haven’t you returned Dean’s calls?”

  “I returned one of them, but he didn’t know where you were.”

  “So why did he call you in the first place?”

  “What is this, Annabelle? Frankly, I’m getting tired of everybody acting like the world revolves around Dean Robillard. Just because he’s developed this sudden need for an agent doesn’t mean I have to jump to attention. I’ll get to him when I get to him, and if that’s not good enough, he has IMG’s phone number.”

  Her legs gave out from under her, and she sank down on the nearest rock. “Oh, my God. You really do love me.”

  “I already told you that,” he retorted.

  “You did, didn’t you?” She couldn’t get her breath back.

  Finally, he grew aware that something had changed. “Annabelle?”

  She tried to answer, really she did, but he’d once again turned her world upside down, and her tongue wouldn’t cooperate.

  Hope battled against the wariness in his eyes. His lips barely moved. “You believe me?”

  “Uh-huh.” Her hammering heart created a ripple effect, and she had to clasp her hands to keep them from shaking.

  “You do?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re going to marry me?”

  She nodded again, and that was all he needed. With a low moan, he pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Seconds…hours…she had no idea how long the kiss lasted, but he covered a lot of territory: lips, tongue, and teeth; her cheeks and eyelids; her neck. His hands reached under her sweater for her breasts; she fumbled beneath his jacket to touch his bare chest.

  She barely remembered how they made it back to the empty cottage, only that her heart was singing and she couldn’t move fast enough to keep up with him. Finally, he swept her into his arms and carried her. She threw back her head and laughed at the sky.

  They undressed, their urgency making them awkward as they kicked away muddy shoes and wet jeans, hopped awkwardly to shake off clammy socks, bumped into furniture, into each other. She was shivering with cold by the time he pulled back the covers and drew her with him into the chilly bed. He offered the heat of his body to make the goose bumps disappear, rubbed her arms and the small of her back, suckled the warmth back into her puckered nipples. Eventually, his fevered fingers found the tight folds between her legs and opened them into summer-warmed petals plump with welcoming dew. He claimed every inch of her body with his touch. She gasped as he entered her.

  “I love you so much, my sweet, sweet Annabelle,” he whispered, everything he felt in his heart spilling into his words.

  She laughed with the joy of his invasion and gazed into his eyes. “And I love you.”

  He groaned, kissed her again, and tilted her hips to take all of him. They abandoned themselves, not in beautifully choreographed lovemaking, but in a messy mating of spunk and juice, of sweet filth, luscious obscenities, of deep and total trust, as pure and sacred as altar vows.

  Long afterward, with only cold water to wash themselves, they cursed and laughed and splashed each other, which led them back to bed. They made love for the rest of the afternoon.

  As evening fell, a loud knock at the door intruded, followed by Portia’s voice. “Room service!”

  Heath took his time but eventually wrapped a towel around his hips and went to investigate. He returned with a brown paper grocery bag filled with food. Ravenous, they fed themselves and each other, gorging on roast beef sandwiches, juicy Michigan apples, and a gluey pumpkin pie that tasted like heaven. They washed it all down with lukewarm beer and then, groggy and sated, dozed in each other’s arms.

  It was dark when Annabelle awakened. Wrapping herself in a quilt, she went into the living room and retrieved her phone. Within seconds, she’d reached Dean’s voice mail.

  “I know Heath went a little nuts on you, pal, and I apologize for him. The man’s in love, so he can’t help himself.” She smiled. “I promise he’ll call first thing tomorrow and set everything straight, so don’t you dare talk to IMG before then. I mean it, Dean, if you sign with anybody but Heath, I will never speak to you again. Plus, I’ll tell everybody in Chicago that you sleep with a giant poster of yourself right next to your bed. Which you probably do.”

  She grinned, hung up, and retrieved a tattered pad of yellow lined paper from the drawer, along with a gnawed pencil stub. When she got back to the bedroom, she turned on a lamp and propped herself against the footboard with the quilt wrapped tightly around her. Her feet were freezing, so she slid them under the covers and up against Heath’s warm thigh.

  He yelped and heaved himself into the pillows. “You will definitely pay for that.”

  “Here’s hoping.” She propped the notepad on her quilt-draped knee and drank in the sight of him. He looked like a wicked pirate against the snowy pillowcases. Tan skin, disheveled dark hair, and the marauder’s stubble that had chafed various sensitive parts of her body. “Okay, lover, it’s time to deal.”

  He pushed himself higher onto the pillows and gazed at the notepad. “Do we really have to?”

  “Are you nuts? You think I’m marrying the Python without an ironclad prenup?”

  He fumbled under the cove
rs for her cold foot. “Apparently not.”

  “First…” As he chafed the warmth back into her toes, she wrote on the pad. “There will be no cell phones, BlackBerries, minifaxes, or other as-yet-to-be-invented electronic devices at our dinner table ever.”

  He rubbed her toes. “What about if we’re eating in a restaurant?”

  “Especially if we’re eating in a restaurant.”

  “Exempt fast food, and you’ve got a deal.”

  She thought it over. “Agreed.”

  “Now it’s my turn.” He draped her calf on top of his thigh. “Selected electronic devices, excluding the aforementioned, will not only be allowed in the bedroom, but will be encouraged. And I get to choose what they are.”

  “If you don’t forget about that catalog…”

  He gestured toward the notepad. “Write it down.”

  “Fine.” She wrote it down.

  The blanket fell to the middle of his chest, momentarily distracting her as he spoke again. “Disagreements over money are the biggest cause of divorce.”

  She waved her hand. “Absolutely no problem. Your money is our money. My money is my money.” She wrote away.

  “I should make you negotiate with Phoebe.”

  She gestured toward his very fine chest with her pencil. “On the off chance I find out after we’re married that your declaration of abiding love and devotion has been an elaborate con job perpetrated by you, Bodie, and Scary Spice…”

  He massaged her arch. “I definitely wouldn’t lose too much sleep over that.”

  “Just in case. You will give me all your worldly goods, shave your head, and leave the country.”

  “Deal.”

  “Plus, you have to hand over your Sox tickets so I can burn them in front of your eyes.”

  “Only if I get something in exchange.”

  “What?”

  “Unlimited sex. How I want it, when I want it, where I want it. The backseat of your shiny new car, on top of my desk…”

  “Definite deal.”

  “And kids.”

  Just like that, she choked up. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  Her show of emotion left him unmoved as his eyes narrowed and he dived in for the kill. “We take at least six trips a year to see your family.”

  She slammed down the notepad. “That is so not going to happen.”

  “Five trips, and I’ll beat up your brothers.”

  “One.”

  He dropped her foot. “Damn it, Annabelle, I’ll compromise at four trips until the baby’s born, then we see them every other month, and that’s not negotiable.” He grabbed the notepad and pencil and began to write.

  “Fine,” she retorted. “I’ll go to a spa while all of you sit around and complain about the limitations of the sixty-hour workweek.”

  He laughed. “You are so full of it. You know you can’t wait to dangle our firstborn in front of Candace’s nose.”

  “Well, there’s that.” She paused, took back the notepad, but she couldn’t see a word she’d written. As much as she hated letting reality intrude, it was time to get serious. “Heath, how do you plan to be a father to these children we want while you’re working that sixty-hour week?” She spoke carefully, wanting to get this right. “With Perfect for You, my hours are flexible, but…I know how much you love what you do, and I’d never want you to give it up. On the other hand, I won’t raise a family by myself.”

  “You won’t have to,” he said smugly. “I have a plan.”

  “Care to share?”

  He reached for her arm, pulled her down next to him, and told her what he had in mind.

  “I like your plan.” She grinned and curled into his chest. “Bodie deserves to be a full partner.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  They were both so pleased they started kissing again, which led to a lovely—and very successful—testing of her powers as a dominatrix. As a result, it took a while to get back to their negotiations. They covered sleepwear (none), TV remote control (shared), children’s names (no motor vehicles), and baseball (irreconcilable differences). When they finished, Heath remembered there was one question he’d forgotten to ask.

  Gazing into her eyes, he drew her fingers to his lips. “I love you, Annabelle Granger. Will you marry me?”

  “Harley Davidson Campione, you have got yourself a wife.”

  “The best deal I’ve ever made,” he replied with a smile.

  Epilogue

  Pippi lifted the tape recorder to her lips and shouted. “Testing! Testing! Testing!”

  “It works,” Heath exclaimed from the couch on the other side of his media room. “Do you think you could be a little quieter?”

  “My name is Victoria Phoebe Tucker…,” she whispered. And then back to her normal volume. “I am five years old, and I live at the Plaza Hotel.” She sneaked a look at Heath, but he’d watched the Eloise movie with her, and all he did was smile. “This is Prince’s tape recorder that he says I have to give back.”

  “Darned right, you do.” She was supposed to be watching the Sox game with him while the book club met upstairs, but she’d gotten bored.

  “Prince is still mad ’bout all the phones I took when I was only three,” she said into the tape recorder. “But I was just a baby, and Mommy found most of them and gave them back.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “Because I can’t remember where I put them!” she exclaimed, shooting him her miniquarterback’s glare. “I told you that about a million times.” Dismissing him, she returned her attention to what she was doing. “These are the things I love. I love Mommy and Daddy and Danny and Aunt Phoebe and Uncle Dan and all my cousins and Prince when he doesn’t talk about phones and Belle and everybody in the book club except Portia, because she wouldn’t let me be a flower girl when she married Bodie because they went to Vegas in a envelope.”

  Heath laughed. “They eloped.”

  “They eloped,” she repeated. “And Belle didn’t want Portia in the book club, but Aunt Phoebe en-sisted because she said Portia needed…” She couldn’t remember, and she looked over at Heath.

  “Noncompetitive female friendships,” he said with a smile. “And, as usual, Aunt Phoebe was right. Which is why I, in my brilliance, convinced Aunt Phoebe to become Portia’s mentor.”

  Pippi nodded and kept chatting. “Prince likes Portia. Portia used to be a matchmaker, but now she works for him, and Prince say she’s the best dam’ sports agent he’s ever seed, and, because of her, their new ladies’ sports dibision is getting bigger all the time.”

  “She’s the third best sports agent,” he said. “After Bodie and me. And don’t say damn.”

  She sank deeper into the big recliner, crossing her ankles just like him. “Prince paid a lot of money to Portia for Belle’s wedding present. Mommy said it was a dumb present, but Belle said Prince couldn’t have gived her anything she liked more, and now Portia gives Belle advice on how to be a matchmaker.” She scrunched her forehead. “What was that thing you gived Belle for her wedding present?”

  “Portia’s database from her old business.”

  “You should have gave her a puppy.”

  Heath laughed, then scowled at the television. “Don’t swing at everything, you idiot!”

  “I don’t love the Sox,” Pippi said emphatically. “But I love Dr. Adam and Delaney because they let me be a flower girl in their wedding, and Belle’s mommy cried and said Belle is the best matchmaker in the world. And I love Rosemary ’cause she tells me stories and does makeup. Rosemary’s in the book club now. Belle told Aunt Phoebe that if Portia got to be in the book club then Rosemary did, too, ’cause Rosemary needed friends just as much as Portia, and then Belle said she was too happy to hold on to old biddiness.”

  “Bitterness.”

  “Here’s what I don’t love.” She shot another dark look at Heath. “I don’t love Trevor Granger Champion. Who is a big poopy diaper.”

  “Here we go again.” Heath shifted the b
undle in his arms to his shoulder.

  She set down the tape recorder, crawled out of the recliner, and climbed on the couch next to him, where she peered with displeasure at the sleeping baby. “Trevor told me he hates it when you carry him around all the time. He says he wants you to put…him…down!”

  Since Trevor was only six months old, Heath doubted his language skills were that advanced, but he muted the volume and turned his attention to the jealous five-year-old. “I thought we talked about this.”

  She leaned against him. “Talk to me again.”

  He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders. Pip wasn’t content unless she had every male in the free world at her beck and call, which she pretty much did. “Trev is just a baby. He’s boring. He can’t play with me like you do.”

  “And he’s a big crybaby.”

  Heath felt a paternal need to defend his son’s masculinity. “Only when he’s hungry.”

  Pippi lifted her head. “I hear them moving around upstairs. I think it’s time for dessert.”

  “You sure you don’t want to watch the rest of the game with me?”

  “Get real.” It was her newest expression, and she used it whenever her parents weren’t around.

  Heath kissed Trevor Granger Champion on his fuzzy head and followed her upstairs.

  Annabelle had put her stamp on his house right from the beginning. As he stepped into the living room, he took in the big, cozy furniture, the warm rugs and fresh flowers. A splashy abstract painting they’d bought in a Seattle gallery one rainy afternoon occupied the spot over the fireplace. Afterward, they’d celebrated the purchase with an afternoon of lovemaking they both believed had given them their son.