Match Me if You Can (32 page)

“Can’t a man take a day off now and then?”

“A Sunday in the middle of the football season? I don’t think so.” She charged past him into the house where she promptly turned off the overhead foyer light. “We need to have a serious conversation.”

“I don’t know why.”

“Business, Heath. We have business to discuss.”

Normally, he’d have thrown her out, but he’d lost his appetite for scotch, and he needed to talk to somebody who wasn’t predisposed to take Annabelle’s side. He moved ahead of her into the living room and—because he wasn’t his damned father and knew something about simple courtesy—turned down the dimmer on the room’s only lamp. “There’s broken glass by the fireplace.”

“I see.” She took in the room’s lack of furnishings but made no comment. “I heard that you proposed to Annabelle Granger last night. But what I don’t know is why the little twit turned you down. Given that she rushed out of the Mayfair Club without you, I’m assuming that’s what happened.”

His sense of being ill-used erupted. “She’s a nutcase, that’s why. Way more trouble than I need in my life. And don’t call her a twit.”

“Apologies,” she drawled.

“It’s not like she had a whole truckload of guys lining up to marry her.”

“I heard her last fiancé had a gender identity problem, so I think it’s safe to say you were a step up.”

“Apparently not.”

Portia didn’t seem to notice her scarf slipping off her head. Beneath it, her hair was a mess, matted on one side, sticking up on the other. Hard to reconcile her lunatic appearance with the fashion plate he remembered. “I tried to tell you she was a loose cannon,” she said. “You should never have done business with her in the first place.” She moved closer, her eyes piercing in their eerie blue craters. “You certainly shouldn’t have fallen in love with her.”

A knife shot through his belly. “I’m not in love with her! Don’t try to stick a label on this.”

She eyed the empty scotch bottle. “You could have fooled me.”

No way was he going to let her do this to him. “What is it with you women? Can’t you leave things alone? The fact is, Annabelle and I get along great. We understand each other, and we have fun together. But that’s not good enough for her. She’s so frickin’ insecure.” He began pacing the room, nursing his sense of being ill-used and searching for an example that would prove his point. “She’s got this thing about her hair.”

Portia finally remembered her own and touched the flattened mess. “With hair like hers, I suppose she can be forgiven a little vanity.”

“She hates it,” he said triumphantly. “I told you she was a nutcase.”

“Yet this is the woman you chose to marry.”

His anger faded. He felt wrung out, and he wanted another drink. “The whole thing sort of sneaked up on me. She’s sweet, smart—really sharp, not just book smart. She’s funny. God, but she makes me laugh. Her friends love her, and that tells you something right there, because they’re incredible women. I don’t know…When I’m with her, I forget about work, and…” He stopped. He’d already said too much.

Portia wandered to the fireplace, her coat gaping to reveal red sweatpants and what looked like a pajama top. Normally, he couldn’t have taken a woman with a Smurf-blue face and an advanced case of bed head too seriously, but this was Portia Powers, and he kept his guard up, which was fortunate, because she hit him again. “But despite all that, you seem to love her.”

He could barely control his turmoil. “Come on, Portia. You and I are two of a kind. We’re both realists.”

“Just because I’m a realist doesn’t mean I don’t believe love exists. Maybe not for everyone, but…” She made a small, awkward gesture that seemed out of character. “Your proposal must have thrown her for a loop. She loves you, of course. I had an inkling of that during our ill-fated meeting. I’m surprised she wasn’t willing to overlook your emotional constipation and take you up on your offer.”

“The fact that I wouldn’t lie to her doesn’t mean it wasn’t a damn good offer. I’d have given her everything she needed.”

“Except love. That’s what she was waiting to hear, right?”

“It’s a word! Action is what counts.”

She nudged the scotch bottle he’d left on the floor with the toe of her shoe. “Has it occurred to you—and I’m merely asking because it’s my job—it is possible Annabelle’s the sane one, and you’re the nutcase?”

“I think you’d better go home.”

“And I think you’re protesting too much. You’ve been introduced to a dazzling array of women, but Annabelle is the only one you’ve wanted to marry. That in itself has to give you pause.”

“I looked at the situation logically, that’s all.”

“Oh, yes, you’re the master of logic, all right.” She stepped around the broken glass. “Come on, Heath. Cut the crap. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me the truth about that wall you’ve built around yourself.”

“What is this? Shrink time?”

“Why not? God knows, your secrets are safe with me. It’s not like I have an army of intimate friends waiting to tear them out of me.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to hear about my childhood traumas. Let’s just say that, right around the time I turned fifteen, I figured out my survival depended on making sure I didn’t keep throwing my heart at people. I backslid once, and I paid the price. Do you know what? It’s turned out to be a saner way to live. I recommend it.” He advanced on her. “I also resent like hell your implication that I’m some kind of cold-blooded monster, because I’m not.”

“Is that what you’re hearing? You do have all the classic symptoms.”

“Of what?”

“A man in love, of course.”

He flinched.

“Look at yourself.” Her voice softened, and he thought he heard a note of genuine sympathy. “This isn’t about a deal gone bad. This is about your heart breaking.”

He heard a roaring inside his head.

She walked to the window. Her words drifted back to him muffled, as if she were having a hard time getting them out. “I think…I think this is the way love feels to people like you and me. Threatening and dangerous. We have to be in control, and love takes that away. People like us…We can’t tolerate vulnerability. But despite our best efforts, sooner or later love seems to catch up with us. And then…” She drew a jagged breath. “And then we fall apart.”

He felt like he’d been sucker punched.

Slowly she turned back to him, her head high, silvery tracks running down her bright blue cheeks. “I’m claiming my introduction.”

He heard what she was saying, but the words made no sense.

“You promised Annabelle and me one last introduction. Annabelle used hers up with Delaney Lightfield. Now it’s my turn.”

“You want to introduce me to someone? Now? After you’ve just told me I’m in love with Annabelle?”

“We have a deal.” She swiped at her nose with the sleeve of her trench coat. “You’re the one who outlined the terms, and I have a lovely young woman who’s just what you need. She’s high-spirited and intelligent. She’s also impulsive and a little temperamental, which will keep you interested. Attractive, of course, like all Power Matches candidates. She has this amazing red hair…”

He wasn’t usually so slow on the uptake, and he finally understood. “You want to introduce me to Annabelle?”

“Not
want
. I
will,
” she said fiercely. “We have a deal. Your contract doesn’t run out until midnight Tuesday.”

“But—”

“You can’t go any further by yourself. It’s time for a professional to take over.” Just like that, she ran out of steam, and a fresh tear rolled down her cheek. “Annabelle has …She has the breadth of character you lack. She’s the woman who’ll …keep you human. She won’t put up with anything less.” Her chest rose as she drew a long, unsteady breath. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to find her first. I made inquiries. She’s not home.”

The news jolted him. He wanted her tucked safely away in her grandmother’s house. Waiting for him.

The pink seam of Portia’s lips tightened below her damp blue cheeks. “Listen to me, Heath. As soon as you find her, call me. Don’t try to handle this yourself. You need help. Do you understand me? This is
my
introduction.”

Right now, the only thing he understood was the depth of his own foolishness. He loved Annabelle. Of course he loved her. This explained all these feelings he’d been too frightened to label.

He needed to be alone to think this through. Portia seemed to understand, because she tugged her trench coat closed and left the room. He felt like he’d been hit in the head with a fly ball. He sagged down in the chair and buried his head in his hands.

Portia’s heels clicked on the marble floor in the foyer. He heard her open the front door, and then, unexpectedly, Bodie’s voice.

“Fuck!”

P
ortia fell into Bodie’s arms. Just fell. He wasn’t expecting it, and he stumbled backward. She went with him, wrapped her arms around him, and wouldn’t let him go. Not ever again. This man was solid as a rock.

“Portia?” He gripped her shoulders and pushed her a few inches away so he could study her face.

She gazed up into his horrified eyes. “Everything you said about me was right.”

“I know that, but…” He ran his thumb over her papery blue cheek. “Did you lose a bet or something?”

She rested her head against his chest. “It’s been a really bad couple of months. Could you just hold me?”

“I could do that.” He pulled her close, and they stood like that for a while, surrounded by a pool of light from the copper porch fixtures. “A paintball game gone bad?” he finally asked.

She gripped him tighter. “An acid treatment. It burned so bad. I thought maybe I could …peel away the old me.”

He rubbed the back of her neck. “Let’s sit over there so you can tell me all about it.”

She snuggled closer. “Okay. But don’t let me go.”

“I won’t.” True to his word, he kept his arm around her as he drew her across the street to the tiny neighborhood park with its single green iron bench. Even before they reached it, she began to talk, and as the dry leaves blew over their shoes, she told him everything: about the marshmallow chicks, about her acid peel, about Heath and Annabelle. She told him about getting fired as a mentor and about her fear.

“I’m scared all the time, Bodie. All the time.”

He stroked her matted hair. “I know, babe. I know.”

“I love you. Do you know that, too?”

“That I didn’t know.” He kissed the top of her head. “But I’m glad to hear it.”

The tail of her scarf blew across her cheek. “Do you love me?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She smiled. “Will you marry me?”

“Let me see if I can make it through the next few months without killing you first.”

“Okay.” She cuddled closer. “You might have noticed I’m not the most nurturing person.”

“In your own odd way, you are.” He pushed her scarf aside. “I still can’t believe you had the guts to come out looking like this.”

“I had a job to do.”

“I love a woman who’s willing to take one for the team.”

She heard only awe in his voice, and it made her love him even more. “I have to make this match, Bodie.”

“Haven’t you learned enough yet about the perils of ruthless ambition?”

“It’s not exactly what you’re thinking. The best part of me wants to do this for Heath. But I want to go out on a high note, too. One last match—this match—and then I’m selling my business.”

“Really?”

“I need a new challenge.”

“Lord, help us.”

“I mean it, Bodie. I want to run free. Be wild. I want to go where my passion leads me. I want to work hard at something that only the strongest woman in the world can do.”

“Okay, now I’m scared.”

“I want to eat. Really eat. And to be kinder and more generous. Real generosity, without expecting anything in return. I want to have great skin when I’m eighty. And I don’t ever again want to care what anybody thinks. Except you.”

“Oh, God, I’m so turned on right now I’m going to explode.” Abruptly, he pulled her from the bench. “Let’s go back to my place. Now.”

“Only if you promise not to tell me any of those bag-over-the-head sex jokes.”

“I’ll cut an airhole in it.”

She smiled. “You know I have no sense of humor.”

“We’ll work on it.” And then he kissed her, blue lips and all.

E
ven before he hit the shower on Monday morning, Heath started working the phones. He was hung over, nauseated, scared, and exuberant. Portia’s shock therapy had made him face what his subconscious had known for a long time but his fear had kept him from acknowledging, that he loved Annabelle with all his heart. Everything Portia said had struck home. Fear had been his enemy, not love. If he hadn’t been so busy measuring his character with a crooked ruler, he might have understood what was missing from inside him. He’d taken pride in his work ethic and his intellectual dexterity, in his incisiveness and his high tolerance for risk, but he’d failed to acknowledge that his crapped-up childhood had left him an emotional coward. As a result, he’d been living half a life. Maybe having Annabelle at his side would finally let him relax into becoming the man he’d never quite had the courage to be. But before that could happen, he had to find her.

She wasn’t answering either her home phone or her cell, and he soon discovered her friends wouldn’t talk to him either. After a quick shower, he got hold of Kate. First she reamed his ass, then she acknowledged that Annabelle had called on Sunday morning to say she was okay, but she hadn’t been willing to tell her mother where she was.

“I’m personally blaming you for this,” Kate said. “Annabelle is extremely sensitive. You should have realized that.”

“Yes, ma’am. And as soon as I find her, I promise I’ll set this right.”

That softened her up enough to divulge that the Granger brothers were gunning for him, so he’d better watch himself. He loved those guys.

He set off for Wicker Park. Messages were coming in fast and furiously from his office, but he ignored them. For the first time in his career, he hadn’t contacted a single client to talk about yesterday’s game. He didn’t intend to either, not until he’d found Annabelle.

Wind whistled off the lake, and the cloudy October morning held a chill. He pulled into the alley behind Annabelle’s house and found the sporty new silver Audi TT Roadster he’d ordered for her birthday, but not her Crown Vic. Mr. Bronicki spotted him right away and came over to see what Heath was up to, but other than passing on the information that Annabelle had driven off like a crazy person Saturday night, he had nothing more to add. He did, however, want to know about the Audi, and when he learned it was a birthday gift, he told Heath he’d better not be expecting any “relations” with her in exchange for the fancy wheels.

“Just because her grammie’s not around don’t mean people aren’t watching out for her.”

“Tell me about it,” Heath muttered.

“What’s that you say?”

“I said, I’m in love with her.” He liked the way the words sounded, and he said them again. “I love Annabelle, and I plan to marry her.” If he could find her. And if she’d still have him.

Mr. Bronicki scowled. “Just make sure she don’t raise her rates. A lot of people are on a fixed income, you know.”

“I’ll do my best.”

After Mr. Bronicki had parked the Audi in his garage for safekeeping, Heath circled the house and pounded on the front door, but it was closed up tighter than a drum. He pulled out his phone and decided to try Gwen again, but got her husband instead. “No, Annabelle didn’t spend the night here,” Ian said. “Dude, you’d better watch your back. She talked to somebody in the book club yesterday, and the women are pissed. Here’s a word of advice, chump. Most women aren’t too anxious to marry a guy who’s not in love with them, no matter how much hair he’s got.”

“I
am
in love with her!”

“Tell her, not me.”

“I’m trying to, damn it. And I can’t tell you how comforting it is to know that everybody in the city is in on my private business.”

“You brought it on yourself. The price of stupidity.”

Heath hung up and tried to think, but until he could get somebody to talk to him, he was screwed. As he stood on Annabelle’s porch, he flicked through his messages. None of them were from her. Why the hell couldn’t everybody leave him alone? He rubbed his jaw and realized he’d forgotten to shave for the second day in a row, and with the way he was dressed, he’d be lucky if he didn’t get arrested for vagrancy, but he’d pulled on the first things he grabbed: designer navy slacks, a ripped black-and-orange Bengals T-shirt, and a paint-smeared red Cardinals windbreaker Bodie had picked up somewhere and left in his closet.

Finally, he got hold of Kevin. “It’s Heath. Have you—”

“All I’m saying is this…For a supposedly bright guy, you’re—”

“I know, I know. Did Annabelle spend the night at your house?”

“No, and I don’t think she was with any of the other women either.”

Heath sank down on Annabelle’s front step. “You’ve got to find out where she went.”

“You think they’d tell me? The girls have a big
NO BOYS

ALLOWED
sign plastered all over their little pink clubhouse.”

“You’re my best shot. Come on, Kev.”

“All I know is that the book club is meeting at one o’clock today. Phoebe takes Mondays off during the season, and it’s at her house. Molly’s been making leis, so they’ve got some kind of Hawaiian theme going.”

Annabelle loved the book club. Of course, she’d be there. She’d run to those women for comfort and support as fast as those small feet would carry her. They’d give her what she wasn’t getting from him.

“One more thing,” Kevin said. “Robillard’s been calling everybody trying to get hold of you.”

“He can wait.”

“Did I hear you right?” Kevin said. “This is Dean Robillard we’re talking about. Apparently, after months of screwing around, he’s developed an urgent need for an agent.”

“I’ll get to him later.” Heath headed for the street and his car.

“Would that be about the same time you get around to congratulating me on yesterday’s game, arguably the best of my career?”

“Yeah, congratulations. You’re the best. I’ve got to go.”

“Okay, slimeball, I don’t know who you are or what you’re up to, but put my agent back on the phone right now.”

Heath hung up. And then it hit him. He’d seen Dean’s number on his phone log, but he’d been ignoring the calls. What if Annabelle hadn’t spent the last two nights with one of her girlfriends? What if she’d gone running to her pet quarterback?

Dean picked up his phone on the second ring. “Daffy Dan’s Porno Palace.”

“Is Annabelle with you?”

“Heathcliff? Damn, man, you really screwed her over.”

“I know that, but how do you know it?”

“Phoebe’s secretary.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Annabelle who told you? Has she been with you?”

“I haven’t seen her or talked to her, but if I do, I’m going to strongly suggest she tell you to—”

“I love her!” Heath hadn’t meant to shout, but he couldn’t stop himself, and the woman who’d just emerged from the house across the street scurried back inside. “I love her,” he repeated in a voice that was only marginally quieter, “and I need to tell her that. But I have to find her first.”

“I doubt she’ll call me. Not unless that pregnancy test—”

“I’m warning you, Robillard, if I find out you know where she went, and you aren’t telling me, I’ll break every goddamn bone in that million-dollar shoulder of yours.”

“The boy’s talkin’ smack, and it’s not even lunchtime. You are so whipped. Now here’s the thing, Heathcliff, the reason I’ve been calling you. A couple of high rollers at Pepsico contacted me, and—”

Heath hung up on God’s gift to the NFL, hit the button to unlock his car, and set off for the Loop and Birdcage Press. The book club meeting wasn’t scheduled until one, which gave him time to cover an extra base.

“I spoke with Molly this morning.” Annabelle’s former fiancé surveyed Heath’s unshaven jaw and mismatched outfit from behind her desk in the marketing department of Molly’s publishing company. “I hurt Annabelle more than enough. Did you have to dump on her, too?”

Rosemary wasn’t the most attractive woman Heath had ever seen, but she was well dressed and dignified. Way too dignified. Completely the wrong person for Annabelle. What the hell had she been thinking? “I didn’t set out to dump on her.”

“I’m sure you thought you were doing her a huge favor when you proposed,” Rosemary drawled. Then she proceeded to blister Heath with a way too insightful lecture on male insensitivity, exactly what he didn’t need to hear right now. He escaped as quickly as he could.

As he made his way back to his car, he saw that half a dozen more calls had come in, none of them from the person he wanted to talk to. He tore the parking ticket off his windshield and headed for the Ike. By the time he reached the expressway, his stomach was a mass of knots. He told himself she’d come home sooner or later, that this wasn’t an emergency. But nothing could still his sense of urgency. She was in pain because of him—suffering from his stupidity—and that was intolerable.

He hit a traffic backup on the East West Tollway and didn’t reach the Calebow house until one-fifteen. He scanned the cars lining the driveway for an ugly green Crown Victoria, but Annabelle’s car was MIA. Maybe she’d ridden with somebody else. But as he rang the bell, he couldn’t shake off a sense of foreboding.

The door swung open, and he gazed down at Pippi Tucker. Stumpy blond pigtails stuck out on each side of her head, and she held a menagerie of stuffed animals against her flat chest. “Pwince! I didn’t go to preschool today ’cause my school got busted water pies.”

“Is that right? Is, uh, Annabelle here?”

“I been playing with Hannah’s stuffed animals. Hannah’s at school. She don’t have busted water pies. Can I see your phone?”

“Pip?” Phoebe appeared in the hallway. She wore black slacks and a purple turtleneck draped with a blue and yellow paper lei. She took in Heath’s unkempt appearance through a pair of rimless half glasses. “I hope the police caught whoever mugged you.”

Pippi hopped up and down. “Pwince is here!”

“I see.” Phoebe set her hand on the child’s shoulder without taking her eyes off Heath. “Did you come all the way out here to gloat? I wish I were a big enough person to congratulate you on your new client, but I’m not.”

He wedged past her into the foyer. “Is Annabelle here?”

She pulled off her glasses. “Go ahead. Tell me all the ways you plan to bankrupt me.”

“I don’t see her car.”

Her cat’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve talked to Dean, right?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t know where Annabelle was.” Grilling Phoebe was a waste of time, and he headed for the living room, which was spacious and rustic, with exposed beams and a loft. The book club had gathered in a nook beneath it, all of them except Annabelle. Even casually dressed and draped in paper leis, they were an intimidating bunch of women, and as he crossed the room, he felt their eyes on him like hypodermics. “Where is she? And don’t tell me you don’t know.”