Match Me if You Can (27 page)

“…and so we’re giving our two weeks’ notice,” Briana said.

Portia felt the storm’s fury pricking her skin.

The slit of Briana’s black skirt fell open as she crossed her long legs. “We only finalized the details yesterday,” she said, “which is why we couldn’t tell you earlier.”

“We’ll stretch it to three weeks if you really need us.” Kiki leaned forward in her chair, her brow furrowed with concern “We know you haven’t replaced Diana yet, and we don’t want to leave you in a bind.”

Portia repressed a hysterical bubble of laughter. How much worse could things get than to lose her two remaining assistants?

“We’ve been talking about this for six months.” Briana’s bright smile invited Portia to be happy right along with her. “We both love to ski, and Denver’s a great city.”

“A fabulous city,” Kiki said. “There are tons of singles, and with everything we’ve learned from you, we know we’re ready to start our own business.”

Briana tilted her head, her straight blond hair falling over her shoulder. “We can’t thank you enough for showing us the ropes, Portia. I’ll admit, there were times when we resented how tough you were, but now we’re grateful.”

Portia pressed her sweaty palms together. “I’m glad to hear it.”

The two women exchanged glances. Briana gave Kiki an almost imperceptible nod. Kiki fiddled with the top button on her blouse. “Briana and I were wondering—hoping, really—that maybe…Would you mind if we called you every once in a while? I know we’re going to have a million questions starting out.”

They wanted her to mentor them. They were walking out, leaving her with no trained assistants, and they wanted her to help them. “Of course,” Portia said stiffly. “Call me whenever you need to.”

“Thanks so much,” Briana said. “Really. We mean it.”

Portia managed what she hoped was a gracious nod, but her stomach roiled. She didn’t plan what she said next. The words just came out. “I can tell that you’re anxious to get started, and I wouldn’t dream of holding you back. Things have been quiet lately, so there’s really no need for either of you to hang around another two weeks. I’ll manage fine.” She waved her fingers toward the door, shooing them away, as if they were a pair of mischievous schoolgirls. “Go on. Finish up what you need to and take off.”

“Really?” Briana’s eyes turned to saucers. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” Portia said. “Why would I mind?”

They weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and they rushed toward the door. “Thanks, Portia. You’re the best.”

“The best,” Portia whispered to herself when she was finally alone. Another thunderclap rattled the window. She folded her arms on her desk and put her head down. She couldn’t do this anymore.

That night she sat in her darkened living room and stared at nothing. It had been almost six weeks since she’d last seen Bodie, and she ached for him. She felt rootless, adrift, lonely to the very bottom of her soul. Her personal life lay in pieces around her, and Power Matches was falling apart. Not only because of her assistants’ desertion, but also because she’d lost her focus.

She thought of what had happened with Heath. Unlike Portia, Annabelle had seized her opportunity and used it brilliantly.
One introduction each,
he’d said. While Portia had followed her seriously flawed instincts and waited, Annabelle had pounced and introduced him to Delaney Lightfield. It couldn’t have been more ironic. Portia had known the Lightfields for years. She’d watched Delaney grow up. But she’d been so busy falling apart that she’d never once thought of introducing her to Heath.

She glanced at the clock. Not even nine. She couldn’t face another sleepless night. For weeks she’d been resisting taking a sleeping pill, hating the idea of being dependent. But if she didn’t get a decent night’s rest soon, she’d go crazy. Her heart started its panicky flutter. She pressed her hand to her chest. What if she died right here? Who would care? Only Bodie.

She couldn’t bear it any longer, so she tossed on her hot pink trench coat, grabbed her purse, and took the elevator down to the lobby. Even though it was dark, she slipped on her Chanel sunglasses in case she ran into one of her neighbors. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing her like this—without her makeup, a pair of ratty sweatpants peeking out from under a Marc Jacobs trench coat.

She hurried around the corner to the all-night drugstore. As she reached the aisle with the sleeping remedies, she saw them. Piled in a wire bin marked
75% OFF
. Dusty purple boxes of aging yellow marshmallow Easter chicks. The bin sat at the end of the aisle across from the sleep aids. Her mother had bought those chicks every Easter and set them out in her Franklin Mint teddy bear bowl. Portia still remembered the grit of the sugar crystals between her teeth.

“You need some help?”

The clerk was a chubby Hispanic girl who wore too much makeup and wouldn’t be able to comprehend that some things were beyond help. Portia shook her head, and the girl disappeared. She turned her attention to the sleeping pills, but the boxes swam before her eyes. Her gaze drifted back to the bin of chicks. Easter had been five months ago. They’d be rubbery by now.

A patrol car blew past outside, its siren blaring, and Portia wanted to shove her fingers in her ears. Some of the purple Easter chick cartons were dented, and a couple of the cellophane windows had split open. Disgusting. Why didn’t they throw them out?

Overhead, the fluorescent light fixture hummed. The overly made-up clerk was staring at her. With a good night’s sleep, Portia’d feel like her old self again. She had to choose something quickly. But what?

The noise from the fluorescent lights bored through her temples. Her pulse raced. She couldn’t keep standing here. Her feet began to move, and her purse fell low on her arm. Instead of reaching for a sleeping aid, she reached into the bin for the marshmallow chicks. A trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts. She scooped up one box, then another, and another. Outside, a taxi horn blared. Her shoulder bumped a display of cleaning supplies, and a stack of sponges fell to the floor. She stumbled to the register.

Another kid stood behind the counter, this one pimply-faced and chinless. He picked up a box of chicks. “I love these things.”

She fixed her eyes on the rack of tabloids. He ran the box over the scanner. Everyone in her building shopped at this drugstore, and a lot of them walked their dogs at night. What if someone wandered in here and saw her?

The boy held up a box with a torn cellophane window. “This is ripped.”

She flinched. “They’re…for my niece’s kindergarten class.”

“Do you want me to get another one?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“But it’s ripped.”

“I said it’s fine!” She’d shouted, and the kid looked startled. She contorted her mouth into a travesty of a smile. “They’re…making necklaces.”

He looked at her as if she were crazy. Her heart raced faster. He started scanning again. The door opened, and an elderly couple entered the store. No one she knew, but she’d seen them before. He scanned the last box. She thrust a twenty at him, and he scrutinized it like a treasury agent. The chicks lay scattered across the counter for anyone to see, eight purple boxes, six chicks to a box. He handed over her change. She shoved it in her purse, not bothering with her wallet, just throwing it inside.

The phone by the register rang, and he answered it. “Hey, Mark, what’s up? No, I don’t get off till midnight. Sucks.”

She snatched the sack from him and shoved the rest of the boxes inside. One fell to the floor. She left it there.

“Hey, lady, you want your receipt?”

She hurried into the street. It had started to rain again. She clutched the sack to her chest and dodged a fresh-faced young woman who still believed in happily-ever-after. Rain soaked her hair, and by the time she got back home, she was shivering. She dumped the sack on her dining room table. Some of the boxes spilled out.

She shrugged off her trench coat and tried to catch her breath. She should make herself a cup of tea, turn on some music, maybe the television. But she did none of those things. Instead, she sank into the chair at the foot of the table and slowly began lining up the boxes in front of her.

Seven boxes. Six chicks to a box.

Hands trembling, she started peeling off the cellophane and tearing open the flaps. Bits of purple cardboard dropped to the floor. Chicks tumbled out along with a gritty snow of yellow sugar.

Finally all the boxes were opened. She pushed the last remnants of cardboard and cellophane to the carpet. Only the chicks were left. As she gazed at them, she knew Bodie had been right about her. All her life, she’d been driven by fear, so frightened of falling short that she’d forgotten how to live.

She began to eat the chicks, one by one.

C
onstruction had clogged Denver’s midday traffic, dampening Heath’s already foul mood. For six weeks, he’d shown Delaney nothing but respect. This was his future wife, after all, and he didn’t want her to think he was only after her for sex. An image of Annabelle naked sprang into his mind. He gritted his teeth and laid on the horn of the rental car. The only reason he kept thinking about Annabelle was because he was worried. No matter how much he nosed around, he couldn’t find out for sure if she and Deanwere sleeping together.

The distinct possibility that Dean was taking advantage of Annabelle made him crazy, but he forced his thoughts back to Delaney where they belonged. During their last couple of dates, she’d started sending strong signals that she was ready for sex, which meant he had to make plans, but that wasn’t as simple as it seemed. For one thing, she had roommates, so he’d have to take her to his house, and how could he do that until he’d moved his workout equipment to the basement? He wanted her to like his house, but he’d already discovered that she didn’t care much for contemporary architecture, so he’d probably have to sell it. A couple of months ago, that would have been fine, but something about seeing it through Annabelle’s eyes had made him start to look at the place differently. He hoped he could talk Delaney into changing her mind.

He flipped the bird at the jerk who’d just cut him off and pondered a bigger problem. He couldn’t shake the old-fashioned notion that he should propose to Delaney before they slept together. She was Delaney Lightfield, not some football groupie. True, they’d only dated for six weeks, but it was obvious to everybody except Bodie that they were perfect for each other, so why wait?

Except how could he propose without a ring?

For a brief moment, he considered asking Annabelle to pick one out, but even he knew he could only delegate so much. Traffic ground to a stop. He’d be late for his eleven o’clock meeting. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The difficulty of trying to propose to Delaney without mentioning the
love
word flashed through his mind, but he’d work that out later. For now, he had to figure out what to do about the ring. She’d have lots of opinions about diamonds, and he suspected his philosophy of “the bigger the better” might not be in line with her upper-crust way of thinking. She’d want something discreet with a perfect cut. Then there was that color crap people talked about. Frankly, one diamond looked pretty much like another to him.

The traffic still wasn’t moving. Heath thought it over. What the hell. He reached for his cell and made the call.

For once, Annabelle answered instead of her voice mail.

He kept it brief, but she was in one of her uncooperative moods, and even with horns blaring around him, she shouted so loud he had to hold the phone away from his ear.

“You want me to do
what
?”

A
nnabelle stormed around the house, slamming cupboard doors and kicking over her office wastebasket. She couldn’t believe she’d let herself fall for such a complete and utter idiot. Heath wanted her to check out engagement rings for Delaney! What a shitty day. And with her family birthday party coming up in a couple of weeks, the future didn’t look any cheerier.

She grabbed her jacket and headed out for a walk. Maybe the sunny October afternoon would brighten her spirits. The truth was, she should be on top of the world. Mr. Bronicki and Mrs. Valerio were moving in together.
“We’d like to get married,”
they’d explained to Annabelle,
“but we can’t afford it, so we’re doing the next best thing.”
Even more exciting, Annabelle might have made her first permanent match. Janine and Ray Fiedler seemed to be falling in love.

She couldn’t have been happier for her friend, and she finally smiled. Once Ray had gotten rid of his comb-over, his attitude had also improved, and he’d turned out to be a decent guy. Janine had been afraid he’d be repulsed by her mastectomy, but he thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Annabelle had other reasons to be happy. Things were looking serious between Ernie Marks, her shy elementary school principal, and Wendy, the bubbly architect. She’d talked Melanie out of her infatuation with John Nager. And thanks to the publicity from Heath’s match with Delaney, her business had been growing like crazy. Finally, she had enough money in the bank to start thinking about buying a new car.

Instead, she thought about Heath and Delaney. How could he be so blind? Despite everything Annabelle had once believed, Delaney wasn’t the right woman for him. She was too contained, too polished. Too perfect.

H
eath had the ring in his pocket, but his tongue kept sticking to the roof of his mouth. This was stupid. He never let pressure get to him, yet here he was with a bad case of flop sweat.

This afternoon he’d sent his secretary to pick up the ring he’d chosen as soon as he’d gotten back from Denver two weeks ago. He and Delaney had just finished a five-hundred-dollar dinner at Charlie Trotter’s. The lighting was muted, the music soft, the atmosphere perfect. All he had to do was take her hand and say the magic words.
Would you do me the honor of being my wife?

He’d decided to dodge the whole “I love you” thing by keeping it specific. He’d tell her he loved her intelligence; he loved the way she looked. He definitely loved playing golf with her. Most of all, he loved her polish, the sense that she’d finish him. If she pressed him on the love thing, he could always tell her he was fairly sure he
would
love her at some time in the future, after they’d been married for a while and he was certain she’d stick, but somehow he didn’t think she’d see his reassurance in the same positive light he did, so best to deflect.

He wondered if she’d get teary-eyed when he gave her the ring. Probably not. She wasn’t too emotional, which was another positive. Afterward, they’d go back to his place and celebrate their engagement in bed. He’d make sure he took it slow. He sure as hell wouldn’t rush her like he’d rushed Annabelle.

Damn, that had been fun.

Fun, but not serious. Making love with Annabelle had been exciting, crazy, definitely hot, but it hadn’t been important. The only reason he thought about it so often was because he couldn’t repeat the experience, so it had taken on the lure of the forbidden.

He fingered the robin’s egg blue jewelry box in his pocket. He didn’t much care for the ring he’d chosen. It was only a little over a carat because Delaney didn’t like anything ostentatious. But he liked a little ostentation, especially when it came to the ring he’d be putting on his future wife’s finger. Still, he wasn’t the one who’d have to wear the puny son of a bitch, so he’d keep his opinions to himself.

Okay…Time to get to work here. Steer a careful path around the love discussion, give her the fucking ring, and propose. Then take her back to his place and seal the deal.

His cell vibrated in his pocket, right next to the ring box. Annabelle had given him strict orders not to take calls when he was with Delaney, but wouldn’t she have to get used to this if they were going to get married? “Champion.” He shot his future wife an apologetic look.

Annabelle’s voice hissed through the receiver like a leaky radiator. “Get over here right now.”

“I’m kind of in the middle.”

“I don’t care if you’re in Antarctica. Get your sorry ass over here.”

He heard a male voice in the background. Make that male voices. He sat straighter in his chair. “Are you okay?”

“Does it sound like I’m okay?”

“It sounds like you’re pissed.”

But she’d already hung up.

Half an hour later, he and Delaney were rushing up the sidewalk toward Annabelle’s front porch. “It’s not like her to get hysterical,” Delaney said for the second time. “Something must really be wrong.”

He’d already explained that Annabelle had been more enraged than hysterical, but the concept of rage seemed foreign to Delaney, which didn’t bode well for the times when he had to watch the Sox lose another close one.

“It sounds like some kind of party.” She pressed the bell, but nobody was going to hear anything over the hip-hop music blaring from inside, and he reached in front of her to push the door open.

As they stepped inside, he saw Sean Palmer and half a dozen of his Bears teammates draped around Annabelle’s reception room, which wasn’t alarming in itself, but through the door leading to the kitchen, he spotted another batch of players, all of them Chicago Stars. Annabelle’s office seemed to be neutral territory with five or six players not exactly mingling, but scoping one another out from opposite corners while Annabelle stood in the middle of the archway. Heath could see why she might be nervous. Neither team had forgotten last year’s controversial call that had given the Stars a narrow and highly disputed victory over their rivals. He couldn’t help wondering what part of her brain had been on vacation when she’d let all of these guys in at the same time.

“Hey, everybody, Jerry Maguire’s here.”

Heath responded to Sean Palmer’s greeting with a wave. Delaney moved a little closer to his side.

“How come you ain’t got no cable, Annabelle?” Eddie Skinner protested over the top of the music. “You got cable upstairs?”

“No,” Annabelle retorted, pushing her way into the reception room. “And get your big-ass shoes off my sofa cushions this minute.” She did a one-eighty, her finger pointed like a gun at Tremaine Russell, the best running back the Bears had seen in a decade. “Use a freakin’ coaster under your glass, Tremaine!”

Heath stood back and grinned. She looked like a harried Cub Scout den mother, hands on hips, red hair flying, eyes shooting firecrackers.

Tremaine snatched up his glass and wiped the end table with the sleeve of his designer sweater. “Sorry, Annabelle.”

Annabelle caught Heath’s grin and marched forward, pinning her wrath on him. “This is all your fault. You have at least four clients here, none of whom I knew personally a year ago. If it weren’t for you, I’d be just another fan watching them destroy each other from a safe distance.”

Her hissy fit was getting everybody’s attention, and someone turned the music down so they could all listen in. She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “They’ve drunk everything in the house, including a pitcher of African violet plant food I’d just mixed up and was stupid enough to leave on the counter.”

Tremaine punched Eddie in the shoulder. “I told you it tasted weird.”

Eddie shrugged. “Tasted okay to me.”

“They’ve also ordered hundreds of dollars’ worth of Chinese food, which I do not intend to see all over this rug, so everybody is going to…
eat in the kitchen
.”

“And pizza.” Jason Kent, a Stars second stringer, called out from someplace near the refrigerator. “Don’t forget we ordered pizzas, too.”

“When did my house turn into a hangout for every grossly overpaid, terminally pampered professional football player in northern Illinois?”

“We like it here,” Jason said. “It reminds us of home.”

“Plus, no women around.” Leandro Collins, the Bears’ first-string tight end emerged from the office munching on a bag of chips. “There’s times when you need a rest from the ladies.”

Annabelle shot out her arm and smacked him in the side of the head. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to.”

Leandro had a short fuse, and he’d been known to take out a ref here and there when he didn’t like a call, but the tight end merely rubbed the side of his head and grimaced. “Just like my mama.”

“Mine, too,” Tremaine said with happy nod.

Annabelle spun on Heath. “Their
mother
! I’m thirty-one years old, and I remind them of their mothers.”

“You act like my mother,” Sean pointed out, unwisely as it transpired, because he got a swat in the head next.

Heath exchanged sympathetic looks with the boys, then gave Annabelle his full attention, speaking softly and patiently. “Tell me how this happened, sweetheart.”

Annabelle threw up her hands. “I have no idea. In the summer it was just Dean dropping in. Then he brought Jason and Dewitt with him. Then Arté asked me to keep my eye on Sean, so I invited him over—just once, mind you—and he showed up with Leandro and Matt. A Star here, a Bear there …One thing led to another. And now I have a potentially deadly riot on my hands, right in the middle of my living room.”

“I told you not to worry about that,” Jason said. “This is neutral territory.”

“Yeah, right.” Her nostrils flared. “Neutral territory until somebody gets mad, and then you guys’ll be all, ‘We’re sorry, Annabelle, but you seem to be missing your front windows and
half the second floor
.’”

“Only person’s been mad since we got here is you,” Sean muttered.

Annabelle’s expression turned so hilariously murderous that Eddie snorted beer—or maybe African violet fertilizer—right out through his nose, which cracked everybody up.

Annabelle lunged for Heath, grabbing his shirtfront in her fists, pulling herself up on her toes, and hissing at him through clenched teeth. “They’re going to get drunk, and then one of these idiots is going to plow his Mercedes into a car full of nuns. And I’ll be liable. This is Illinois. We have host laws in this state.”

For the first time Heath was disappointed in her. “Didn’t you get their keys?”

“Of course I got their keys. Do you think I’m nuts? But—”

The front door blew open, and Mr. Hot Shit Robillard waltzed in all decked out in Oakleys, diamonds, and cowboy boots. He gave a two-finger wave like the fucking king of England.

“Oh, shit. Kill me now.” Annabelle’s grip on his shirt tightened. “Somebody’s going to take him out tonight. I can feel it. He’ll end up with a broken arm or crippled, and then I’ll have to deal with Phoebe.”