Match Me if You Can (7 page)

“Of course he does,” she said dryly. “Athletic, domestic, gorgeous, brilliant, socially connected, and pathologically submissive. It’ll be a snap.”

“You forgot hot.” Heath smiled. “And defeatist thinking is for losers. If you want to be a success in this world, Annabelle, you need a positive attitude. Whatever the client wants, you get it for him. First rule of a successful business.”

“Uh-huh. What about career women?”

“I don’t see how that would work.”

“The kind of potential mate you’re describing isn’t going to be sitting around waiting for her prince to show up. She’s heading a major corporation. In between those Victoria’s Secret modeling gigs.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Attitude, Annabelle. Attitude.”

“Right.”

“A career woman can’t fly across the country with me on two hours’ notice to entertain a client’s wife,” he said.

“Two on, no outs.” Bodie flipped up the volume.

As the men listened to the game, Annabelle contemplated her notes with a sinking heart. How was she going to find a woman who met all these criteria? She couldn’t. But then neither could Portia Powers, because a woman like this didn’t exist.

What if Annabelle took a different path? What if she found the woman Heath Champion really needed instead of the woman he thought he needed? She doodled in the margin of the questionnaire. What made this guy tick besides money and conquest? Who was the real man behind the multiple cell phones? On the surface, he was all polish, but she knew from Molly that he’d grown up with an abusive father. Apparently, he’d started rooting around in the neighbors’ garbage looking for things to sell before he could read, and he’d been working ever since.

“What’s your real name?” Annabelle asked as they got off the East West Tollway at York Road.

“What makes you think Heath Champion isn’t my real name.”

“Too convenient.”

“
Campione.
Italian for
champion.
”

She nodded, but something in the way he avoided looking at her told her there was more to the story.

They headed north toward the prosperous suburb of Elmhurst. Heath consulted his BlackBerry. “I’ll be at Sienna’s tomorrow night at six. Bring on your next candidate.”

She turned her doodle into a stop sign. “Why now?”

“Because I just rearranged my schedule.”

“No, I mean why have you decided now that you want to get married?”

“Because it’s time.”

Before she could ask what that meant, he was back on his cell. “I know you’re nearly capped out, Ron, but I also know you don’t want to lose a great running back. Tell Phoebe she’s going to have to make some adjustments.”

And so, apparently, was Annabelle.

B
odie sent her back to the city in a cab paid for by Heath. By the time she’d retrieved Sherman and driven home, it was after five. She let herself in through the back door and tossed her things down on the kitchen table, a pine drop leaf Nana had bought in the 1980s when she’d gone big on country-style decorating. The appliances were vintage but still serviceable, just like the farm-table chairs with their faded mattress-ticking pillows. Although Annabelle had lived in the house for three months, she’d always think of it as Nana’s, and tossing out the dusty grapevine wreath along with the ruffled cranberry curtain at the kitchen window were about as much as she’d done to update the eating area.

Some of her happiest childhood memories had taken place in this kitchen, especially during the summers when she’d come for a week to visit. She and Nana used to sit at this very table, talking about everything. Her grandmother had never laughed at her daydreams, not even when Annabelle had turned eighteen and announced that she intended to study theater and become a famous actress. Nana dealt only in possibility. It hadn’t occurred to her to point out that Annabelle possessed neither the beauty nor the talent to hit it big on Broadway.

The doorbell rang, and she went to answer it. Years earlier, Nana had converted the living and dining rooms into the reception and office areas for Marriages by Myrna. Like her grandmother, Annabelle lived in the rooms upstairs. Since Nana’s death, Annabelle had repainted and modernized the dining room office space with a computer and a more efficient desk arrangement.

The old front door had a center oval of frosted glass, but the beveled border allowed her to see the distorted figure of Mr. Bronicki. She wished she could pretend she wasn’t home, but he lived across the alley, so he’d seen her pull up in Sherman. Although Wicker Park had lost many of its elderly to gentrification, a few holdouts still lived in the houses where they’d raised their families. Others had moved into a nearby senior living facility, and still others lived on the less expensive fringe streets. Every one of them had known her grandmother.

“Hello, Mr. Bronicki.”

“Annabelle.” He had a lean, wiry build and gray caterpillar eyebrows with a Mephistophelean slant. The hair missing from his head sprouted copiously from his ears, but he was a natty dresser, wearing long-sleeved checked sports shirts and polished oxfords even on the warmest days.

He glared at her from beneath his satanic eyebrows. “You was supposed to call me. I left three messages.”

“You were next on my list,” she lied. “I’ve been out all day.”

“And don’t I know it. Running around like a chicken with your head cut off. Myrna used to stay put so people could find her.” He had the accent of a born-and-bred Chicagoan and the aggression of a man who’d spent his life driving a truck for the gas company. He bulldozed past her into the house. “What are you going to do about my situation?”

“Mr. Bronicki, your agreement was with my grandmother.”

“My agreement was with Marriages by Myrna, ‘Seniors Are My Specialty,’ or have you forgotten your grammie’s slogan?”

How could she forget, when it was plastered over every one of the dozens of yellowed notepads Nana had scattered around the house? “That business no longer exists.”

“Bull pippy.” He made a sharp gesture around the reception area, where Annabelle had exchanged Nana’s wooden geese, silk flower arrangements, and milk-can end tables for a few pieces of Mediterranean-style pottery. Since she couldn’t afford to replace the ruffled chairs and couches, she’d added pillows in a cheery red, cobalt, and yellow Provençal print that complemented the creamy new buttercup paint.

“Addin’ some doodads don’t change a thing,” he said. “This is still a matchmaker business, and me and your grammie had a contract. With a guarantee.”

“You signed that contract in 1989,” she pointed out, not for the first time.

“I paid her two hundred dollars. In
cash.
”

“Since you and Mrs. Bronicki were together for almost fifteen years, I’d say you got your money’s worth.”

He whipped a dog-eared paper from his pants pocket and waved it at her. “‘Satisfaction guaranteed.’ That’s what this contract says. And I’m not satisfied. She went loony on me.”

“I know you had a difficult time of it, and I’m sorry about Mrs. Bronicki passing.”

“Sorry don’t cut the mustard. I didn’t have satisfaction even when she was alive.”

Annabelle couldn’t believe she was arguing with an eighty-year-old about a two-hundred-dollar contract signed when Reagan was president. “You married Mrs. Bronicki of your own free will,” she said as patiently as she could manage.

“Kids like you, they don’t understand about customer satisfaction.”

“That’s not true, Mr. Bronicki.”

“My nephew’s a lawyer. I could sue.”

She started to tell him to go ahead and try, but he was just cranky enough to do it. “Mr. Bronicki, how about this? I promise I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“I want a blonde.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Gotcha.”

“And not too young. None of them twenty-year-olds. I got a granddaughter twenty-two. Wouldn’t look right.”

“You’re thinking…?”

“Thirty’d be good. With a little meat on her bones.”

“Anything else?”

“Catholic.”

“Of course.”

“And nice.” A wistful expression softened the slant of those ferocious eyebrows. “Somebody nice.”

She smiled despite herself. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When she finally managed to close the door behind him, she remembered there was a good reason she’d earned her reputation as the family’s screwup. She had
sucker
written all over her.

And way too many clients living on Social Security.

B
odie readjusted the treadmill speed, slowing the pace. “Tell me more about Portia Powers.”

A bead of sweat trickled into the already damp neckband of Heath’s faded Dolphins T-shirt as he set the barbell he’d been lifting back on the rack. “You met Annabelle. Do a one-eighty, and you’ve got Powers.”

“Annabelle’s interesting. Kinda hard to get a bead on her.”

“She’s a flake.” Heath stretched out his arms. “I’d never have hired her if she hadn’t struck it lucky with Gwen Phelps.”

Bodie chuckled. “You still can’t believe you got rejected.”

“I finally meet somebody intriguing, and she’s not interested.”

“Life’s a bitch.” The treadmill slowed to a stop. Bodie climbed off and picked up a towel from the uncarpeted living room floor.

Heath’s Lincoln Park house still smelled like new construction, probably because it was. A sleek wedge of glass and stone, it jutted toward the shady street like the prow of a ship. Through the sweeping
V
of floor-to-ceiling living room windows, he could see sky, trees, a pair of restored nineteenth-century town houses across the way, and a well-maintained neighborhood park surrounded by an old iron fence. His rooftop deck—which, admittedly, he’d only visited twice—afforded a distant view of the Lincoln Park Lagoon.

Once he found a wife, he’d let her furnish the place. For now, he’d set up a gym in the otherwise empty living room, bought a state-of-the-art sound system, a bed with a Tempur-Pedic mattress, and a big-screen plasma TV for the media room downstairs. All of that, combined with hardwood and tumbled marble floors, custom-built cabinets, limestone bathrooms, and a kitchen outfitted with the latest in European-designed appliances made this the house he’d dreamed about since he was a kid.

He just wished he liked it more. Maybe he should have hired a decorator instead of waiting, but he’d done that with his old place—cost a fortune, too—and he hadn’t liked the results. The interior might have been impressive, but he’d felt weird there, like a visitor in somebody else’s house. He’d sold everything when he moved here so he could start new, but now he wished he’d held on to enough furniture to keep the place from echoing.

Bodie picked up a water bottle. “Word is, she’s a ballbuster.”

“Gwen?” Heath stepped on the treadmill.

“Powers. High employee turnover rate.”

“Seems like a good businesswoman to me. She also does some volunteer work mentoring other women.”

“If she’s so good, why aren’t you letting her sit through any of her introductions like you made Annabelle do last week?”

“I tried once, but it didn’t work. She’s pretty wired, a little hard to take in big doses. But she’s sent along some decent candidates, and she knows how to get the job done.”

“That explains all those second dates you haven’t asked anybody out on.”

“Sooner or later I will.”

Bodie wandered into the kitchen. He had a condo in Wrigleyville, but sometimes came over here so they could work out together.

Heath turned up the treadmill speed. He and Bodie had been together almost six years now. After his motorcycle injury, Bodie had lost himself in drugs and self-pity, but Heath had admired him as a player, and he’d hired him to be a runner. Good runners tended to be former athletes, men the college players knew by reputation and trusted. Agents used them to bring potential clients to the table. Although Heath hadn’t spelled it out, Bodie had known he had to get sober first, and that’s what he’d done. Before long, his no-bullshit style had turned him into one of the best.

Bodie had started driving for him accidentally. Heath spent a lot of hours on Chicago’s tollways, heading up to Halas Hall, out to Stars headquarters, or making endless trips to and from O’Hare. He hated wasting time stuck in traffic jams, and Bodie liked being behind the wheel, so Bodie’d started taking over when it was convenient for both of them. With Bodie driving, Heath could make phone calls, answer e-mail, and handle paperwork, although, just as frequently, they used their time to strategize, and this was where Bodie earned the six-figure income Heath paid him. Bodie’s intimidating appearance hid a highly analytical mind—cool, focused, and unsentimental. He’d become Heath’s closest friend, and the only person Heath completely trusted.

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…”

H
ow 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.

Y
our 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 glanced 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.”