Match Me If You Can

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Toni Duchette appeared at her elbow, fresh blond chunks in her short brown hair, fireplug figure stuffed into a black sequined number. “Did you bid on anything?”

  “The watercolor.” Portia gestured toward a rip-off Berthe Morisot on the nearest table. “It’s perfect to hang over my dresser.”

  She remembered the startled expression on Bodie’s face the first time he’d seen her extravagantly feminine bedroom. His outrageous masculinity should have looked ridiculous in her billowy white fairy princess bed, but seeing those sinewy muscles outlined against her silky ecru sheets, his shaved head denting her satin pillows, a frill of lace veiling the tattoos that banded his arm, had merely fueled her desire.

  As Toni went on about the donations they’d received, Portia automatically scanned the room for interesting prospects, but this was an older crowd, and supporting the women’s shelter had never been about business for her. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than being under the power of an abusive man, and she’d given the shelter thousands of dollars over the years.

  “The committee’s done a wonderful job,” Toni said, surveying the crowd. “Even Colleen Corbett showed up, and she hardly ever comes to these things anymore.” Colleen Corbett was a bastion of old Chicago society, seventy years old, and a former intimate of both Eppie Lederer, otherwise known as Ann Landers, and the late Sis Daley, wife of Boss Daley and mother of the current mayor. Portia had been trying to ingratiate herself with her for years without success.

  When Toni finally moved away, Portia decided she’d try again to break through Colleen Corbett’s reserve. Tonight, Colleen wore one of her signature Chanel suits, this one peach with beige trim. Her permed and shellacked hairstyle hadn’t changed since her photos from the 1960s, except for its color, now a polished steel gray.

  “Colleen, it’s lovely to see you again.” Portia offered her most ingratiating smile. “Portia Powers. We chatted at the Sydneys’ party last spring.”

  “Yes. Nice to see you.” Her voice was faintly nasal, her manner cordial, but Portia could tell she didn’t remember. Several beats of silence ticked by, which Colleen didn’t try to fill.

  “Some interesting auction pieces.” Portia resisted the urge to grab a gin and tonic from a passing waiter.

  “Yes, very interesting,” Colleen replied.

  “A little warm in here tonight. The ice sculpture seems to be fighting a losing battle.”

  “Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”

  This was hopeless. Portia hated looking like a sycophant, and she’d just decided to cut her losses when she noticed a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. The noise level dropped; a head pivoted here and there. She turned to see what had caused the rustle of interest.

  And felt the floor drop out from under her.

  Bodie stood just inside the doorway, his massive frame clad in a perfectly cut, pale beige summer suit with a chocolate-colored shirt and subtly patterned necktie. He looked like a very expensive, very deadly, Mafia hit man. She wanted to run into his arms. At the same time, she felt a wild urge to dive under the buffet table. The biggest gossips in the city were here tonight. Just by herself Toni Duchette broadcast to more people than WGN Radio.

  Her knees felt weak, the tips of her fingers numb. What was he doing here? Her mind raced then fastened on an image of him standing naked in front of the small console in her living room where she kept her personal mail. He’d moved away as she approached, but he must have seen the stack of invitations she never mentioned to him: the Morrisons’ pool party, the new River North gallery opening, tonight’s benefit. He would have known exactly why she hadn’t invited him to go with her. Now, he intended to make her pay.

  The cloying scent of Colleen’s Shalimar made her stomach pitch. Bodie’s gangster’s smile offered no reassurance as he headed straight toward her. A trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts. This wasn’t a man who took slights well.

  Colleen had her back to him. Portia didn’t know how to brace herself for a disaster of this magnitude. He stopped just behind Colleen. If the older woman looked around, she’d have a heart attack. Mockery turned his blue eyes to slate. He raised his arm. And set his hand on Colleen’s shoulder.

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  Portia sucked in her breath. Bodie had just called Colleen Corbett “sweetheart”?

  The older woman tilted her head. “Bodie? What on earth are you doing here?”

  Portia’s world spun.

  “I heard they were handing out free drinks,” he said. And then he pressed a kiss to Colleen’s papery cheek.

  Colleen slipped her hand into his big paw and said peevishly, “I got that dreadful birthday card you sent me, and it wasn’t one bit funny.”

  “I laughed.”

  “You should have sent flowers like everyone else.”

  “You liked that card a hell of a lot more than a bunch of roses. Admit it.”

  Colleen pursed her lips. “I admit nothing. Unlike your mother, I refuse to encourage your behavior.”

  Bodie’s gaze drifted to Portia, recalling Colleen to the amenities. “Oh, Paula …This is Bodie Gray.”

  “Her name is Portia,” he said. “And we’ve met.”

  “Portia?” Her forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure, Auntie Cee.”

  Auntie Cee?

  “Portia? How Shakespearian.” Colleen patted Bodie’s arm and smiled at her. “My nephew is relatively harmless, despite his terrifying appearance.”

  Portia wobbled ever so slightly on her needle-sharp heels. “Your nephew?”

  Bodie reached out to steady her. As he touched her arm, his soft, menacing voice slid over her like inky silk. “Maybe you should put your head between your knees.”

  What about the trailer park, and the drunken father? What about the cockroaches and the trashy women? He’d made it all up. This whole time he’d been playing her.

  She couldn’t bear it. She turned and pushed her way through the crowd. Faces flashed by as she dashed into the hallway, out of the restaurant. The night air hung thick and heavy with heat and exhaust. She set off down the street, past the shuttered shops, past a graffiti-splattered wall. The Bucktown restaurant edged the border of less fashionable Humbolt Park, but she kept walking, not caring where she was going, only knowing that she had to keep moving. A CTA bus roared by, and a punk with a pit bull gave her a sly, assessing eye. The city closed around her, hot, suffocating, filled with menace. She stepped off the curb.

  “Your car’s the other way,” Bodie said from behind her.

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  He caught her arm and dragged her back up on the curb. “How about apologizing for treating me like nothing more than a piece of meat?”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not turning this back on me. You’re the one who lied. All those stories …The cockroaches, the drunken father. Right from the beginning you lied to me. You aren’t Heath’s bodyguard.”

  “He can pretty much take care of himself.”

  “This whole time you’ve been laughing at me.”

  “Yeah, sort of. When I wasn’t laughing at myself.” He pushed her into the recessed doorway of a shabby flower shop with a dirty window. “I told you what you needed to hear if the two of us were ever going to have a chance.”

  “Lies are your idea of how to start a relationship?”

  “They’re my idea of how this one needed to start.”

  “So this was all premeditated?”

  “Now, there you’ve got me.” He rubbed his thumbs over her arms where he’d been holding her, then let her go. “At first I was jerking your chain because you pissed me off. You wanted a stud, and I was more than happy to comply, but it didn’t take me long to start resenting being your dirty little secret.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “You wouldn’t have been a secret if you’d told me the truth.”

  “Right. You’d have loved that. I can just imagine how you’d have parad
ed me in front of your friends, letting everybody know that my mother and Colleen Corbett are sisters. Sooner or later you’d have found out that my father’s family is even more respectable. Old Greenwich. That would have made you real happy, wouldn’t it?”

  “You act like I’m some terrible snob.”

  “Don’t even try to deny it. I’ve never known anyone as frightened of other people’s opinions as you.”

  “That’s not true. I’m my own person. And I won’t tolerate being manipulated.”

  “Yeah. Not being in control scares the hell out of you.” He ran his thumb down her cheek. “Sometimes I think you’re the most frightened person I’ve ever known. You’re so afraid you’ll come up short that you’re making yourself sick.”

  She shoved his hand away, so furious she could barely speak. “I’m the strongest woman you’ve ever known.”

  “You spend so much time trying to prove how superior you are that you’ve forgotten how to live. You obsess over all the wrong things, refuse to let anybody see inside you, and then you can’t figure out why you’re not happy.”

  “If I wanted a shrink, I’d hire one.”

  “You should have done that a long time ago. I’ve lived in the shadows, too, babe, and I don’t recommend staying there.” He hesitated, and she thought he’d finished, but he went on. “After I had to quit football, I had a big problem with drugs. You name it; I tried it. My family convinced me to go into rehab, but I told everybody the counselors were assholes and left after two days. Six months later Heath found me passed out in a bar. He banged my head into the wall a couple of times, told me he used to admire me but that I’d turned into the sorriest son of a bitch he’d ever seen. Then he offered me a job. He didn’t give me any lectures about staying clean, but I knew that was part of the deal, so I asked him to give me six weeks. I put myself in rehab, and this time I paid attention. Those counselors saved my life.”

  “I’m hardly a drug addict.”

  “Fear can be an addiction.”

  Even as his poisoned dart hit home, she refused to blink. “If you have so little respect for me, why are you still around?”

  He slipped a gentle hand into her hair and pushed a curl behind her ear. “Because I’m a sucker for beautiful, wounded creatures.”

  Something broke apart inside her.

  “And because,” he want on, “when you let down your guard, I see someone who’s brilliant and passionate.” He brushed her cheekbone with his thumb. “But you’re so afraid to lead with your heart that you’re dying inside.”

  She felt herself coming apart, and she punished him in the only way she knew how. “What a bunch of crap. You’re still around because you like to fuck me.”

  “That, too.” He kissed her forehead. “There’s a hell of a woman hidden away behind all that fear. Why don’t you let her come out and play?”

  Because she didn’t know how.

  The tightness in her chest made it hard to breathe. “Go to hell.” Pushing past him, she took off down the street, half walking, half running. But he’d already seen her tears, and for that, she would never forgive him.

  Bodie heard the sound of a baseball game coming from his television as he let himself into his Wrigleyville condo. “Make yourself right at home,” he muttered, tossing his keys on the mission-style table that sat in the foyer.

  “Thanks,” Heath said from the big sectional sofa in Bodie’s living room. “Sox just gave up a run in the seventh.”

  Bodie sank into the armchair across from him. Unlike Heath’s house, Bodie’s was furnished. Bodie liked the clean design of the Arts and Crafts period, and over the years he’d bought some good Stickley pieces and added Craftsman-style built-ins. He kicked off his shoes. “You should either sell your fucking house or live in it.”

  “I know.” Heath set down his beer. “You look like shit.”

  “A thousand beautiful women in this town, and I’ve got to fall for Portia Powers.”

  “You set yourself up for grief that first night when you blackmailed her with that bodyguard bullshit.”

  Bodie rubbed his hand over his head. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “If that woman ever realizes how scared you are of her, you’ll really be screwed.”

  “She’s such a pain in the ass. I keep telling myself to walk away, but …Hell, I don’t know…It’s like I’ve got X-ray vision, and I can see who she really is underneath all the bullshit.” He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with saying so much, even to his best friend.

  Heath understood. “Tell me we’re not sharing our feelings, Mary Lou.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Shut up and watch the game.”

  Bodie relaxed into the chair. Initially he’d been attracted by Portia’s beauty, then by her sheer gall. She had as much grit and determination as any teammate he’d ever played with, and those were qualities he respected. But when they made love, he saw another woman, one who was insecure, generous, and full of heart, and he couldn’t get past thinking that this softer, unguarded woman was the real Portia Powers. Still, what kind of idiot fell for someone who needed so badly to be fixed?

  As a kid, he used to bring home injured animals and try to nurse them back to health. Apparently he was still doing it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Annabelle had trouble finding a parking spot for Sherman, but she was only two minutes late for the meeting Heath had scheduled, which hardly justified the censorious look from his Evil Receptionist. ESPN played on the television screen in the lobby, phones rang in the background, and one of Heath’s interns struggled to change a printer cartridge in the equipment closet. The office door on her left had been closed the first time she was here, but now it stood open, and she saw Bodie with his feet propped on a desk and a telephone pressed to his ear. He waved as she passed. She opened the door to Heath’s office and heard a throaty female voice.

  “…and I’m very optimistic about her. She’s incredibly beautiful.” Portia Powers sat in one of two chairs positioned in front of Heath’s desk. His voice mail message hadn’t mentioned this would be a threesome.

  Just looking at the Dragon Lady made Annabelle feel dowdy. Summer fashion was supposed to be all about color, but maybe Annabelle had gotten a little carried away with her melon-colored blouse, lemon yellow skirt, and the drop earrings set with tiny lime green stones she’d found at TJ Maxx. At least her hair looked decent. Now that it was longer, she’d been able to use a big barrel curling iron, then finger-comb the results into a casual tousle.

  Portia was all cool elegance in pewter silk. Against her dusky hair, the effect was dazzling. Small, petal pink earrings provided a subtle touch of color against her porcelain skin, and a Kate Spade handbag in the same pink shade sat on the floor at her side. She hadn’t made the mistake of going into pink overkill with her shoes, which were stylish black mules.

  Or one of them was.

  Annabelle stared at her competitor’s feet. At first glance, the shoes looked the same. They both had open toes and low heels, but one was a black mule and the other a navy sling-back. What was that about?

  Annabelle drew her eyes away and slipped her sunglasses in her purse. “Sorry I’m late. Sherman didn’t like any of the parking spots I showed him.”

  “Sherman is Annabelle’s car,” Heath explained as he rose from behind the desk and gestured to the chair next to Portia’s. “Have a seat. I don’t believe you and Portia have met in person.”

  “As a matter of fact we have,” Portia replied smoothly.

  Through the long wall of windows behind his desk, Annabelle spotted a sailboat skimming over Lake Michigan in the distance. She wished she were on it.

  “We’ve been at this since spring,” Heath said, “and now football season is starting. I think both of you know that I’d hoped to be further along.”

  “I understand.” Portia’s smooth confidence belied her mismatched shoes. “We all hoped this would be easier. But you’re an extremely discrimina
ting man, and you deserve an extraordinary woman.”

  Suck up, Annabelle thought. Still, when it came to Heath, Annabelle didn’t exactly deserve high marks for professionalism, and she could do a lot worse than follow Portia’s example.

  Portia shifted slightly in her chair, which cast her face into a harsher light. She wasn’t as young as Annabelle had thought when they’d met, and her expertly applied makeup couldn’t camouflage the dark circles under her eyes. Too much nightlife or something more serious?

  Heath set his hip on the corner of the desk. “Portia, you found Keri Winters for me, and even though that didn’t work out, you were on the right path. But you’ve sent too many candidates who aren’t in the ballpark.”

  Portia didn’t make the mistake of getting defensive. “You’re right. I should have eliminated more of them, but every woman I’ve chosen has been so special, and I hate second-guessing my most discriminating clients. I’ll be more careful from now on.”

  The Dragon Lady was good. Annabelle had to give her that.

  Heath turned his attention to Annabelle. No one could have imagined that he’d fallen asleep in her attic bedroom two nights ago, or that once, in a pretty cottage by the side of a Michigan lake, they’d made love. “Annabelle, you’ve done a better job screening, and you’ve introduced me to a lot of also-rans, but you haven’t produced a single winner.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say a word, he cut her off. “Gwen doesn’t count.”

  Unlike Portia, Annabelle thrived on being defensive. “Gwen was almost perfect.”

  “As long as we overlook her husband and that inconvenient pregnancy.”

  Portia sat straighter in her chair. Annabelle crossed her hands primly in her lap. “You have to admit she was exactly what you’re looking for.”

  “Yeah, bigamy’s my life’s dream, all right.”