“Now,” she said. “We can just forget all about tonight.”
“I don’t know. It’s a lot to forget…even for someone like me.”
She gazed at him more closely, trying to decide if he was putting her on, but she couldn’t read him.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t we talk the situation over next weekend? Let’s say a week from Friday. See how things are coming along by then.”
She hadn’t expected this. “Why don’t we not.”
“I’d do it this weekend, but I gotta be out of town.”
“What do you want?”
He studied her openly. His mouth was finely chiseled, almost delicate, which made the rest of his features seem all the more sinister. “I’ll let you know when I decide.”
“Forget it. I’m not going to allow you to string me along.” She tried to stare him down, but he refused to play. Instead, his mouth quirked in a gangster’s cocky grin.
“Are you sure? If you are, I can always talk to Mr. Champion tonight.”
She gritted her teeth. “Fine. Next Friday.” She slid off the stool and pulled open her purse. “Here’s my card. Don’t try to screw me, or you’ll regret it.”
“Probably.” His eyes slid over her like hot caramel on ice cream. “Still, it might be interesting.”
Something heady and unexpected shot through her. She snapped her purse shut and left the bar to the sound of a wicked chuckle.
The next Power Matches candidate proved to be beautiful but self-centered, and Annabelle led the conversation to showcase her flaws. She needn’t have bothered. Heath had the woman’s number from the start. At the same time, he treated her with the utmost respect, and Annabelle realized that Heath wasn’t quite the egomaniac she’d first thought. He seemed to find the human condition in all its forms interesting. Knowing that made it tough for her to hold on to her dislike. Not that she’d been holding on to it very hard.
“Entertaining,” he said after she left, “but not in a good way. This evening’s been a time sink.”
“Your next match won’t be. I’ve got someone special lined up.” Nana’s senior client base was turning out to be a rich source of referrals. Rachel Gorny, the granddaughter of one of Nana’s oldest friends, didn’t have Barrie’s extravagant beauty, but she was intelligent, accomplished, and strong-minded enough to hold her own against him. She also had the social polish Heath seemed to require. Annabelle had considered introducing them tonight, but she’d wanted to see how he’d react to Barrie first.
She toyed with her swizzle stick to keep herself from studying Heath’s profile and made a mental note to look for a sweet, hunky, not-too-bright guy who’d treat Barrie well.
“You’ll need to do a better job, Annabelle. No more dates like the first one tonight.”
“Agreed. And no more making me sit through your Power Matches introductions, either. As you so wisely pointed out, helping Portia Powers isn’t in my best interests.”
“Then why are you still trying to talk me into seeing Melanie again?”
“Hunger makes me weird.”
“You got rid of the last one in fourteen minutes. Well done. I’m rewarding you by letting you sit in on all the introductions from now on.”
She nearly choked on an ice cube. “What are you talking about?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“By all, you don’t mean—”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He drew out a big gold money clip stuffed with bills, tossed a few on the table, and pulled her from her chair. “Let’s get you fed.”
“But—I’m not—I won’t—” She sputtered her way across the bar, trying to tell him that she had no intention of hanging around with Powers’s candidates and that he’d obviously lost what was left of his mind, but he ignored her to greet the owner, a wiry terrier of a man. They conversed in Italian, which surprised her, although why anything about Heath should surprise her at this point, she had no idea.
They’d barely been seated in the dining room’s prime booth before the waiter took their drink orders and Mama greeted Heath with a breadbasket and antipasto platter. More Italian flew. Annabelle couldn’t resist the yeasty smell of the warm bread, so she tore off a chunk and dredged it through a rosemary-flavored puddle of olive oil.
Like the bar, the dining room had roughly plastered gold walls and heavy purple moldings, but the lighting was brighter here, showcasing the salmon tablecloths and grape-colored napkins. Small earthenware pots at each table held simple arrangements of country flowers and herbs. The restaurant had a homey, comfortable feel, yet still projected an air of elegance.
Heath knew more about wine that she did, and he ordered a cabernet for her, but he drank Sam Adams himself. The antipasto platter overflowed with meats, stuffed mushrooms, sprigs of fried sage, and matchstick skewers of pecorino cheese and plump red cherries. “Eat first,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”
She was more than happy to comply, and he didn’t bother her until the entrées appeared—pale islands of sea scallops floating in a choppy sea of porcini and cremini mushrooms for her, pasta drenched in a spicy pomodoro sauce chunky with sausage and goat cheese for him.
He took a few bites, sipped his beer, then turned the same razor-sharp focus on her he’d directed at his dates all evening. “I want you around for all the introductions from now on, doing exactly what you did tonight.”
“If you ruin the best meal I’ve eaten in forever, I’ll never forgive you.”
“You’re intuitive, and you kept the conversations going. Despite your opinion about Melanie, you seem to know what’s working for me and what’s not. I’d be stupid not to make use of that, and I’m definitely not stupid.”
She loaded up her fork with a scoop of golden, garlicky polenta. “Remind me how it’s to my advantage to help Portia Powers make this match because I’ve forgotten that part.”
He picked up his knife. “We’re cutting a new deal.” With one efficient motion, he split a chunk of sausage in half. “That ten thousand dollars you wanted to charge me was nothing more than a fishing expedition, and we both know it.”
“It wasn’t a—”
“I paid you five thousand instead and promised the balance only if you made the match. As it turns out, this is your lucky day because I’ve decided to write you the full check, whether the match comes from you or from Portia. As long as I have a wife and you’ve been part of the process, you’ll get your money.” He toasted her with his beer mug. “Congratulations.”
She put down her fork. “Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s efficient.”
“Not as efficient as having Powers handle her own introductions. You’re paying her a fortune to do exactly that.”
“I’d rather have you.”
Her pulse kicked. “Why?”
He gave her the melty smile he must have been practicing since the cradle, one that made her feel as though she was the only woman in the world. “Because you’re easier to bully. Do we have a deal or not?”
“You don’t want a matchmaker. You want a lackey.”
“Semantics. My hours are erratic, and my schedule changes without warning. It’ll be your job to cope with all that. You’ll soothe ruffled feathers when I need to cancel at the last minute. You’ll keep my dates company when I’m going to be late, entertain them if I have to take a call. If things are going well, you’ll disappear. If not, you’ll make the woman disappear. I told you before. I work hard at my job. I don’t want to have to work hard at this, too.”
“Basically, you expect me to find your bride, court her, and hand her over at the altar. Or do I have to come on the honeymoon, too?”
“Definitely not.” He gave her a lazy smile. “I can take care of that all by myself.”
Something sizzled in the air between them, something that felt heady and seductive, at least in her sex-starved imagination. She took a sip of water and absorbed the dismaying realization that she was attracted to
him, even though she wanted to hit him in the head with that beer bottle. Well, so what? He was a natural charmer, and she was only human. This wouldn’t be a problem unless she let it be.
She took her time thinking it over. Although she hated the idea of being at his beck and call, this arrangement would give her more control, as well as potentially doubling her money. Power Matches only signed contracts with men, but Perfect for You signed both men and women, so she might be able to pick up some great female clients out of Heath’s rejects. Melanie, for example, could be a match for Shirley Miller’s godson, Jerry. He was nice looking, moderately successful, and they had children about the same age. Just because Jerry wasn’t currently a client didn’t mean Annabelle couldn’t land him as one.
“Portia Powers will never agree to this,” she said.
“She won’t have a choice.”
Just like I don’t, Annabelle thought. But that wasn’t entirely true. She had a choice, all right. Unfortunately, making it would be self-defeating. “You should cancel your contract with her and let me take care of everything.”
“She has access to women you don’t,” he replied. “Odds are, she’ll find the one I end up choosing.”
“Tonight being a sterling example of her good judgment?”
“Tonight being a sterling example of yours?”
He had her there. She toyed with a mushroom. “You understand, don’t you, that it’s in my best interest to sabotage her candidates. As much as I need the money, I need to build the reputation of Perfect for You even more.”
“I stand warned, Mata Hari.”
“You’re not taking me seriously.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You told me to see Melanie again.”
“Only because my blood glucose was out of whack. Now that I’ve eaten it’s clear to me that she’s way too decent for you.”
“Give it a rest, Annabelle.” He offered up his snake’s smile. “You’re one of those people who was cursed with personal integrity. And I’m one of those people who’s smart enough to take advantage of it.”
There wasn’t much she could say to that, so she returned her attention to the scallops.
It had been a long time since Heath had enjoyed watching a woman eat, but Annabelle knew how to appreciate a good meal. A blissful expression came over her face as she slipped another mushroom into her mouth. The tip of her tongue picked up a dab of leftover sauce at the bow of her lip. His eyes drifted along her throat to her collarbone and down to those small, guinea-fowl breasts…
“What?” Her fork hung in midair, and tiny frown lines creased her forehead.
He quickly rearranged his expression. “I was wondering about your next candidate. Do you really have one lined up?”
She smiled and propped an elbow on the table. “Yes. And she’s special. Sharp, attractive, fun to be with.”
“At the risk of incurring your wrath, there are thousands of women who meet that description. I’m looking for someone extraordinary.”
Her honey-colored eyes announced an amber alert. “Extraordinary women tend to fall in love with men who put them first. Which pretty much rules out a guy who excuses himself in the middle of a conversation to take a phone call like you did tonight.”
“It was an emergency.”
“With you, I suspect they all are. No offense.”
He ran his thumb around the rim of his mug. “I don’t usually feel the need to defend myself, but I’m going to make an exception now, and you can apologize when I’m done.”
“We’ll see.”
“A player I recruited a couple of years ago wrapped his Maserati around a telephone pole tonight. That was his mother on the phone. He’s not even my client—he signed with another agent—but I got to know his folks a little. Nice people. He’s in intensive care…” He nudged his plate back from the edge of the table with his thumb. “She called to let me know they don’t expect him to last until morning.” He gazed at her. “You tell me which was most important. Making small talk or comforting that mother?”
She stared at him. Then she laughed. “You just made that up.”
He was seldom taken by surprise, but Annabelle Granger had done it. He gave her his iciest glare. “Interesting that you find someone’s tragedy so amusing.”
Her eyes crinkled at the corners, golden flecks dancing in the irises. “You totally made it up.”
He tried to stare her down—he was superb at stare-downs—but she looked so pleased with herself that he lost it and laughed.
She regarded him smugly. “I have two brothers who are also overachieving workaholics, so I’m intimately acquainted with the tricks performed by men of your ilk.”
“I have an ilk?”
“A definite ilk.”
“It finally becomes clear…” He propped his elbow on the table, rubbed the corner of his mouth, and studied her over the back of his hand. “Poor, pathetic Annabelle. All the inappropriate put-downs you’ve subjected me to, the snide comments …A simple case of transfer. The result of growing up overshadowed by those magnificent brothers. Was it very painful to feel so neglected? Do the scars still ache when it rains?”
She snorted, a surprisingly loud sound coming from such a small woman. “I prayed to be neglected. Ballet, piano, horseback riding. Fencing, for Pete’s sake. Who makes their kid take fencing lessons? Girl Scouts, orchestra, tutors if I slipped below a B, monetary incentives to join every club with a special bonus if I ran for office. And yet somehow I survived, although the torture continues.”
She’d just described his dream childhood. Fragments of memory swept over him. His father’s drunken voice…Pull your head out of that goddamned book and go buy me some cigarettes. Cockroaches scrambling under the refrigerator, leaky pipes dripping rusty water on the linoleum. The scent of Lysol—a good memory—when one of the old man’s girlfriends tried to clean up the place, and then the inevitable bang of that warped metal door when she’d storm out.
Annabelle chased her remaining scallop to the edge of the plate and looked up at him. “I really think you’ll like Rachel.”
“I like Gwen.”
“That’s because she refused you. The two of you had no chemistry.”
“You’re so wrong. There was definite chemistry.”
“I don’t get why you need a wife right now. You have Bodie, you have assistants, and you can hire a housekeeper to handle all those impromptu dinner parties. As for having kids…It’s hard to raise them with a cell phone super glued to your ear.”
It was long past time to put Tinker Bell in her place. He settled back in his chair and let his eyes drift to her breasts. “You left out sex.”
She took a few seconds too long to respond. “You can hire that, too.”
“Honey,” he drawled, “I’ve never had to pay for sex in my life.”
She flushed, and he thought he finally had her where he wanted her, only to watch that small nose shoot into the air. “Which merely points out how desperate some women can be.”
“Speaking personally?”
“Raoul’s opinion. My lover. He’s very insightful.”
He grinned, and right then it occurred to him that he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much with a woman in a very long time. If Annabelle Granger were a few inches taller, a hell of a lot more sophisticated, better organized, less bossy, and more inclined to worship at his feet, she’d have made a perfect wife.
Chapter Six
Someone took the seat next to Heath in the first-class cabin, but he was too preoccupied with the spreadsheet he’d pulled up on his laptop to pay attention. It wasn’t until the flight attendant called for electronic devices to be shut off that he grew conscious of a dark, subtle perfume. He lifted his head and found himself looking into a set of intelligent blue eyes. “Portia?”
“Good morning, Heath.” She leaned against the headrest. “How in the world do you cope with these early morning flights?”
“You get used to it.”
“I’ll prete
nd to believe you.”
She was wearing some kind of a silky lilac wrap dress, slim and sleeveless, with a purple cardigan knotted around her shoulders and a silver chain at her neck studded with three bezel-set diamonds. She was a beautiful woman, cultured and accomplished, and he liked doing business with her, but he didn’t find her sexy. She was too carefully put together, too aggressive. Pretty much a female version of himself. “What takes you to Tampa?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not the weather, that’s for sure. It’s going to be ninety-three degrees there today.”
“Is it?” Heath paid no attention to any weather that didn’t affect the outcome of a game.
She gave him a smile designed to charm. It might have worked if he didn’t own a similar smile that he used for exactly the same purpose. “After your phone call last night, I decided we needed to evaluate where we are and see what adjustments we should make. I promise I won’t talk your head off the entire flight. Nothing is more annoying than being trapped on a plane with someone who won’t shut up.”
If he had to be cooped up on a plane with one of his matchmakers, he would have preferred Tinker Bell. He could have bullied her into leaving him alone. Portia’s appearance this morning had nothing to do with a sudden urge to visit Tampa. He’d explained the new arrangement to her over the phone last night then hung up while she was still in shock. Obviously, she’d recovered.
She contented herself with general chitchat until they were in the air, but once the breakfast service started she began working her way to the point. “Melanie really enjoyed meeting you. More than enjoyed. I do believe she has a bit of a crush on you.”
“I hope not. Nice person, but I didn’t feel any real connection with her.”
“You were only together for twenty minutes.” She gave him the identical sympathetic smile he used when a client was being difficult. “I understand exactly where you’re coming from, but the time limit you’ve set is a bit of a problem. I’ve been in this business long enough to recognize when two people need to give themselves a second chance, and I think you and Melanie qualify.”
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