Match Me If You Can

  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 gl
anced 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 baby sit 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. Bronicki, 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 un-flinching 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 sidewalk, 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 naïveté 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 st
uck 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.