Match Me If You Can

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “What makes you think there’s only an off chance?”

  He nodded toward the table. “You want another slice?”

  “No.” She shoved his plate in the dishwasher. “No, I want to hear this. Why are you so sure he won’t call?”

  “Calm down. I only meant that you’ve got a few years on him.”

  “So?” She slammed the dishwasher closed and told herself to shut up, but the words kept coming. “Older women and younger men are all the fashion these days. Don’t you read People?”

  “Dean only dates party girls.”

  She knew what he really meant, and a streak of masochism made her push him to say it aloud. “Spit it out. You don’t think I’m hot enough for him.”

  “Stop putting words in my mouth. All I’m saying is that the two of you aren’t going to make a love connection.”

  “True. But we might make a sex connection.”

  She’d flung the last remnants of caution to the winds, and a long, lean finger came right at her. “You’re not having sex with him. I know these guys, and you don’t. I’m trusting you about Claudia Reeshman. You need to trust me about Dean Robillard.”

  She wouldn’t let him off that easily. “You’re looking for a wife. Maybe I’m just looking for a little fun.”

  “If you need fun,” he shot back, “I’ll give you fun.”

  She was stunned.

  A car raced by in the street outside, its radio blaring. They stared at each other. He looked surprised, too. Or maybe not. Slowly, deliberately, the corner of his mouth curled, and she realized the Python was toying with her again.

  “Gotta go, Tinker Bell. I have some work I need to catch up on. Thanks for dinner.”

  Only after the front door closed behind him did she manage a weak “You’re welcome.”

  Yes…Yes, all right. Send him up.” Portia’s hands trembled as she set down the phone. Bodie was in the lobby.

  He hadn’t called once since their date at the sports bar ten days ago, and now he’d shown up at her condo at nine o’clock on the night of the Fourth of July, expecting her to be waiting for him. She should have told the doorman to send him away, but she hadn’t.

  She moved automatically toward her bedroom, stepping out of her cotton shift on the way. The Jensons had invited her out on their boat tonight to watch the fireworks, but fireworks depressed her, like most holiday rituals, and she’d declined. It had been a terrible week. First the Claudia Reeshman debacle, then the assistant she’d hired to replace SuSu Kaplan had quit, saying the job was “too stressful.” Portia desperately missed the mentoring program. She’d even tried to set up a lunch with Juanita to discuss the situation, but the director was dodging her calls.

  She tried to imagine how Bodie would react to the condo she’d bought after her divorce. Because she used her home to host monthly cocktail parties for her most important clients, she’d chosen a spacious unit on the top floor of an excruciatingly expensive prewar limestone just off Lakeshore Drive. She wanted to project old-world elegance, so she’d borrowed from the color palate of the Dutch masters: rich shades of brown, antique gold, muted olive, along with subtle touches of bittersweet. In the living room, a pair of masculine, deep-seated couches and a big leather club chair bordered the tea-stained oriental rug. A similar oriental rug complemented the heavy teak dining room table with its lushly upholstered side chairs. It was important for men to feel comfortable here, so she kept the tables free of bric-a-brac and the liquor cabinet well stocked. Only in her bedroom did she indulge her passion for over-the top femininity. Her bed was a confection of ivory and ecru satin, with lace pillows and beribboned shams. Chunky silver candleholders sat on delicate chests, and a small crystal froth of a chandelier dangled in the corner near a powder puff reading chair piled with fashion magazines, several literary novels, and a self-help book that purported to help women find their inner happiness.

  Maybe Bodie was drunk. Maybe that’s why he’d shown up tonight. Still, who knew what motivated a man like him? She pulled on a scoop-necked sundress printed with antique roses and slipped into a pair of rose-colored ankle-strap stilettos embellished with tiny leather butterflies. The buzzer sounded. She forced herself to walk slowly to the door.

  He wore a silky long-sleeved taupe shirt and matching trousers in one of those pricey microfabrics that moved against his legs. From the shoulders down, he looked muscular, but respectable, even elegant. But from the shoulders up, all respectability vanished. His sinewy tattooed neck, ice pick blue eyes, and ominous shaved head made him appear even more dangerous than she remembered.

  He gazed around the living room without speaking, then walked toward the French doors that led to her small balcony. Each summer she vowed to start a container garden there, but gardening took patience she didn’t possess, and she never followed through. A cloud of humidity blew into the climate-controlled interior as he opened one of the doors and stepped outside. She considered for a few moments then wandered over to the wet bar. She ignored the assortment of imported beers he’d prefer, choosing instead a bottle of champagne and two frail tulip goblets. She carried them over to the French doors and flicked on the exterior light before she went outside.

  The air was thick and woolly, with high, dark clouds swirling over the roof of the apartment building on the opposite corner. She approached the concrete railing, which had a wide, flat top supported by chubby, urn-shaped balusters. She set the champagne bottle down, along with the delicate glasses.

  He still hadn’t spoken. On the street ten stories below, a car pulled out of a parking space and turned the corner. A group of stragglers headed toward the lake to view the city’s fireworks display, which would be starting any minute. Bodie uncorked the bottle and poured. The fragile glasses didn’t look nearly as ridiculous in his big hands as she’d hoped they would. The silence between them lengthened. She wished she’d spoken when he’d first come in, because now it felt like a competition to see who could hold out the longest.

  A car horn blared, and the muscles in her shoulders knotted with tension. She slipped one of her feet onto the bottom rail. The concrete baluster scraped her bare ankle bone. He set his glass on the rail next to the bottle and turned toward her. She didn’t mean to look up, but she couldn’t help herself. Dark clouds swirled behind his head in a devil’s halo. He was going to kiss her, she could feel it. But he didn’t. Instead, he took the tulip glass from her fingers and set it next to his. Then he lifted his arm and ran his thumb across her lips with just enough pressure to smear her lipstick onto her cheek.

  The tiny hairs at the back of her neck prickled. She told herself to move away, but she couldn’t. Instead, he was the one who moved …over to the French doors, where he reached inside and flicked off the light, plunging the balcony into darkness. A thrill of panic shot through her. Her heart began to pound. She turned away and curled her damp palms around the railing. She felt him come up behind her, and she trembled as his big hands settled around her hips. The heat of his palms penetrated the silky rose-garden fabric of her dress. Beneath, she wore only a pair of silk tap pants in palest cream. Her skin quivered, and heat licked at her insides. He traced the narrow band at the top of the tap pants through her dress, the exploration more erotic than if he’d touched bare flesh.

  A diadem of strobes erupted in the sky, crystal white spheres of noise and light exploding over the lake to announce the beginning of the fireworks display. His breath fell hot on her damp neck, and his teeth settled around the tendon that marked the place where her neck and shoulder joined. He restrained her that way—not hurting, but holding her still like an animal. His hands slipped under the hem of her skirt.

  She didn’t try to get away, didn’t move. He kneaded her bottom through her tap pants. He ran his thumbs down the crack, then up, then down again, taking his time. A light flicked on in the window across the street, and golden palms opened like umbrellas in the sky. She caught her breath as his thumbs slid between her thighs.

  Just
when her legs felt as though they were giving out, he eased his mouth from her neck and glazed his tongue over the place where he’d held her prisoner. He knelt behind her. She stayed where she was, gripping the rail, staring out as orange and silver serpents uncoiled against the clouds. He touched her calves, then slid his hands up beneath her skirt to skim her outer thighs, then her tap pants. He hooked his thumbs over the waistband and drew them down to her ankles. He lifted one foot and pulled the panties over her shoe. They pooled around her opposite ankle where he left them. He rose.

  A forest of blue and green willows dripped from the sky. She felt his hand against the center of her back. He pressed, but it took her a moment to understand what he wanted her to do. Slowly, he bent her over the rail. Below, a taxi slid along the street. He pushed her floaty skirt up to her waist. From the front, the fabric covered her modestly so that anyone glancing out an opposite window would only see a woman leaning over the balcony rail with a man standing behind her. But from the back, she was fully exposed to him.

  Now when he traced her, no silky barrier lay between her flesh and the pads of his thumb. He opened her like the segments of an orange. Played in the juice. Her breath came shallow and fast. She moaned. He stepped back. She heard a rustle as he dealt with his clothes, dealt with a condom that told her he’d planned this from the beginning. And then he dealt with her.

  She caught her breath against the thrilling indignity of his fingers. Comets shot into the sky then raced to their death in the water. She gripped the rail tighter and gasped as he spread her with his thumbs, toyed, then thrust deep inside her. He drove from behind, gripping her hips, holding her where he wanted her to be, where she wanted to be. He stroked…stretching her, filling her. She soared with the comets …bloomed with the willows…exploded with the rockets. And in the end, she tumbled to the earth in a shower of sparks.

  Afterward, he smoothed her skirt back in place then disappeared into her bathroom with its antique vanity, Italian mirror, and Colefax & Fowler wallpaper. When he came out, he looked cool and unruffled. She wanted to weep. Instead, she gave him her iciest glare, strode to the door, and yanked it open.

  The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. He made his way to her side and traced the lipstick smear on her cheek with his finger. She refused to flinch. With another smile, he stepped into the hallway and walked toward the ornate brass elevator. Before he got there, he turned back and spoke for the first time.

  “Are we clear now?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Annabelle and Heath left Chicago Friday afternoon. The Wind Lake Campground was located in northeastern Michigan about an hour from the pretty town of Grayling. Kevin and Molly had been there all week and the other book club members were driving up, but Mr. Super Agent couldn’t spare that much time, so he’d snagged a ride for them on a friend’s corporate jet. While he made phone calls, Annabelle, who’d never been on a private jet, gazed out the window and tried to talk herself into relaxing. So what if she and Heath were sharing a cottage for the weekend? Most of the time he’d either be hanging out with the men or trying to impress Phoebe, so she’d hardly see him, which was definitely for the best, because all those male pheromones he emitted were getting to her. Fortunately, she understood the difference between biological attraction and lasting affection. She might be horny, but she wasn’t entirely self-destructive.

  A gray rental SUV waited for them at the small airstrip. They were only about eighty miles from Mackinac Island, and the warm afternoon air carried the crisp, piney scent of the north woods. Heath grabbed her bag along with his own and carried them to the car, then went back for his golf clubs. She’d strained her budget to buy a few new things for the trip, including her buff slacks, which had thin brown stripes that made her legs look longer. A flirty bronze top set off tiny amber eardrops, a Christmas gift from Kate. She’d gotten her split ends trimmed, and for once her hair wasn’t giving her trouble. Heath wore another of his expensive polo shirts, this one moss green, along with stone-colored chinos and loafers.

  He set the suitcases in the back then tossed her the keys. “You drive.”

  She repressed a smile as she climbed behind the wheel. “With each passing day, your reasons for wanting a wife become clearer.”

  He shoved his laptop in the back and settled into the passenger seat. She consulted Molly’s directions, then pulled out onto a winding two-lane highway. She wondered how he’d spent the Fourth. She hadn’t seen him since Wednesday, when she’d introduced him to the De Paul harpist, whom he found intelligent, attractive, but too serious. After the date, he’d pressed her for more information about Gwen. Someday very soon she’d have to tell him the truth about that. Not a pleasant thought.

  As he made another call, she concentrated on the pleasure of driving a car that wasn’t Sherman. Molly hadn’t exaggerated when she’d described how beautiful it was up here. Woods stretched on each side of the road, stands of pine, oak, and maple. Last year, Annabelle had been forced to cancel her plans to attend the retreat after Kate had shown up in Chicago unannounced, but she’d heard all about it: the walks they’d taken through the campground, how they’d gone swimming in the lake and held their book discussion in the new gazebo Molly and Kevin had build near their private living area, which was attached to the B&B. It had sounded so relaxing. But she didn’t feel relaxed now. She had too much at stake, and she had to get her head together.

  Heath made a second call before he put his phone away and occupied himself with criticizing her driving. “You have plenty of room to pass that truck.”

  “As long as I ignore the double yellow line.”

  “You’ll be fine if you step on it.”

  “Right. Why worry about a silly thing like a head-on collision?”

  “The speed limit’s fifty-five. You’re barely doing sixty.”

  “Don’t make me stop this car, young man.”

  He chuckled, and for a few moments, his tension eased. Soon, however, he was back at it: sighing, tapping his foot, fiddling with the radio. She shot him a dark look. “You’re never going to be able to manage three whole days away from work.”

  “Sure I can.”

  “Not without your cell.”

  “Definitely not. You’ll win our bet.”

  “We don’t have a bet!”

  “Good. I hate losing. And it’s not really three days. I’ve already put in eight hours today, and I’m taking off for Detroit on Sunday morning. You made plans to get back to the city, right?”

  She nodded. She was riding back with Janine, the group’s other unmarried member. He peered over at the speedometer. “You must have spoken to Molly since the party, and I’m guessing she grilled you about this weekend. How did you explain why I was coming with you?”

  “I said that someone was at my door, and I’d get back to her. Is that a wild turkey?”

  “I don’t know. Did you call her back?”

  “No.”

  “You should have. Now she’ll be suspicious.”

  “What was I supposed to say? That you’re obsessed with sucking up to her sister?”

  “No, you were supposed to say that I’ve been working too hard, and it’s made me so tense I can’t appreciate all the great women you’re introducing me to.”

  “That’s for sure. You should give Zoe another chance. The harpist,” she added, in case he’d already forgotten.

  “I remember.”

  “Just because she thinks Adam Sandler is moronic doesn’t mean she has no sense of humor.”

  “You think Adam Sandler’s funny,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, but I’m immature.”

  He smiled. “Admit it. You know she wasn’t right for me. I don’t even think she liked me that much. Although she did have great legs.” He leaned against the headrest, his mouth curling like a Python’s tail. “Tell Molly you can’t find me a wife when all I think about is work. Say you need to get me away from the city this weekend so you can have a serious talk with m
e about my screwed-up priorities.”

  “Which they are.”

  “See? You’ve already made progress.”

  “Molly’s sharp. She won’t buy that for a minute.” She didn’t add that Molly had already started asking Annabelle probing questions about how she and Heath were getting along.

  “You can handle whatever she throws at you. And do you know why, Ace? Because you’re not afraid of a challenge. Because you, my friend, live for challenges, the tougher the better.”

  “That’s me, all right. A real shark.”

  “Now you’re talking.” They flew past a sign pointing toward the town of Wind Lake. “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “The campground’s on the other end of the lake.”

  “Let me see.”

  As he reached for the crumpled page of directions lying in her lap, his thumb brushed the inside of her thigh, and she got goose bumps. She distracted herself with a little passive aggression. “I’m surprised this is your first trip to the campground. Kevin and Molly come up here all the time. I can’t believe he hasn’t invited you.”

  “I never said I hadn’t been invited.” He glanced from the directions to a road marker. “Kevin’s a solid guy. He doesn’t need the same amount of hand holding my younger clients do.”

  “You’re weaseling. Kevin’s never invited you up here, and do you know why? Because nobody can relax around you.”

  “Exactly what you’re trying to change.” A green-and-white sign with gilt-edged letters came into view on their left.

  WIND LAKE COTTAGES

  BED AND BREAKFAST

  ESTABLISHED 1894

  She turned into a narrow lane that tunneled through a dense stand of trees. “I know this might be hard to process, but I think you should be honest. Everybody knows you and Phoebe are at loggerheads, so why don’t you just admit that you saw an opportunity to improve your relationship and took advantage of it?”