Match Me if You Can (24 page)

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

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

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

It didn’t budge.

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

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

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

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

“This is”—she pulled a little harder—“my bed.”

“I know. I’m resting.”

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

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

“Okay, but…”

“Go ’way,” he muttered.

“I will. First, though, would you mind—”

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

“I, uh, need one little thing. Then I won’t bother you any—”

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

“My bra back.”

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

“I’m a neat freak. Messy rooms drive me crazy.” She yanked hard and jerked it free.

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

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

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

“Just forget it.”

“One thing I do know…” He nodded toward her hand. “This isn’t about a bra.”

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

“Judge what?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I spend most of my life around football players. You’d be surprised how many weird things I understand.”

“Not this weird.”

“Try me.”

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

He groaned and sank back into her pillows. “Oh, my God. Don’t tell me.”

“It upsets me.” Which was putting it mildly.

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

She stared him down.

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

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

He loved that.

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

She nodded.

“I’m sorry. I spend too much time in locker rooms. I won’t tease you anymore. I promise.”

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

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

She managed a shaky nod. “Okay.”

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

“ ’Fraid not.”

“Of course you don’t. Why would you?” His hand shot out. “I’ll take this instead?”

And there went her sex toy catalog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Colleen, it’s lovely to see you again.” Portia offered her most ingratiating smile. “Portia Powers. We chatted at the Sydneys’ party last spring.”

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

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

“Yes, very interesting,” Colleen replied.

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

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”

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

And felt the floor drop out from under her.

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

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

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

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

“Hello, sweetheart.”

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

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

Portia’s world spun.

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

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

“I laughed.”

“You should have sent flowers like everyone else.”

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

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

Bodie’s gaze drifted to Portia, recalling Colleen to the amenities. “Oh, Paula …This is Bodie Gray.”

“Her name is Portia,” he said. “And we’ve met.”

“Portia?” Her forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Auntie Cee.”

Auntie Cee?

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