Page 11 of Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars 6)

was going for the gusto. “Normally, the fee would include a session with an image consultant, but…” Her gaze took in his haircut, touched up every two weeks at eighty bucks a pop, his black Versace dress shirt, and pale gray Joseph Abboud slacks. “I, uh, think we can dispense with that.”

Damn right they could. Heath had crap taste when it came to clothes, but image was everything in his profession, and just because he didn’t give a damn what he wore didn’t mean his clients felt the same way. A very gay, very discriminating wardrobe consultant purchased everything Heath wore, and he’d forbidden Heath to match up any shirts, pants, or ties that weren’t already coordinated on the charts hanging in his closet.

“Ten thousand is steep for someone with no track record,” he said.

“Like you, I believe in charging what I’m worth.” Her eyes hung up on his mouth.

He suppressed a smile. Tinker Bell needed to practice her poker face. “I’ve already paid through the nose for my contract with Portia Powers.”

The small cupid’s bow at the center of her top lip grew a little pale, but she had game. “And how many women has she introduced you to like Gwen?”

She had him there, and this time he didn’t hide his smile. Instead, he picked up the contract and started to read. The ten thousand dollars was a bluff, nothing more than wishful thinking on her part. Still, there was Gwen Phelps. He scanned the two pages. He could lowball her, but how far did he want to go? The art of the deal required that everybody come out feeling like a winner. Otherwise, resentment got in the way of performance.

He pulled out his Mont Blanc and began making modifications, scratching through a clause here and there, amending another, adding one of his own. Finally, he slid the papers back to her. “Five thousand up front. I only fork over the balance if you’ve found the right woman.”

The flecks of gold in her brown eyes flashed like the glitter embedded in a kid’s yo-yo. “That’s unacceptable. You’re practically asking me to work for free.”

“Five thousand dollars isn’t exactly chicken feed. You have no track record with someone like me.”

“And yet I brought you Gwen.”

“How do I know she’s not all you’ve got? There’s a big difference between talking a good game and playing one.” He flicked his thumb toward the contract. “The ball’s yours.”

She snatched up the pages and glowered as she scanned the changes he’d made, but finally she signed, as he’d known she would. He did the same, then kicked back in his chair and studied her. “Hand over Gwen Phelps’s phone number. I’ll set up the next date myself.”

She tugged on her bottom lip, revealing small, white teeth. “I have to check with her first. It’s an agreement I make with all the women I introduce.”

“Sensible. But I’m not too worried.”

As she reached for her cell, he glanced at his watch. He was tired. He’d spent the day in Cleveland, and he still needed to make a quick stop at Waterworks to see if he could pick up any new scuttlebutt on Dean Robillard. Tomorrow he was scheduled from breakfast straight through until midnight. Friday, he had an early morning flight to Phoenix and, the following week, trips to Tampa and Baltimore. If he had a wife, his overnight case would be packed when he needed it, and he’d be able to find something other than beer in the refrigerator after a late-night flight. He’d also have somebody to talk over his day with, a chance to let down his guard without worrying about the country twang that crept into his speech when he was tired, or inadvertently dropping an elbow on the table while he was eating a sandwich, or any of the other crap he always had to be aware of. Most of all, he’d have somebody who’d stick.

“Gwen, it’s Annabelle. Thanks again for agreeing to meet Heath on such short notice.” She shot him a pointed look. Tinker Bell was chastising him. “He’s asked for your phone number. I happen to know he’s planning a dinner date at”—another pointed look tossed his way—“Charlie Trotter’s.”

He wanted to laugh, but he deadpanned her so she didn’t get too full of herself.

She paused, listened, and nodded. He pulled out his cell and paged through the list of calls that had come in while he was talking to Gwen. It wasn’t quite nine o’clock in Denver. He still had time to check in with Jamal to see how his hamstring was coming along.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ll pass it on. Thanks.” She flipped her cell closed, slipped it into her tote, then gazed at him across the table. “Gwen liked you. But only as a friend.”

For one of the few times in his life, he was struck speechless.

“I was afraid that might happen,” she said briskly. “The twenty-minute time frame didn’t exactly give you a chance to put your best foot forward.”

He stared at her, not quite able to believe what he was hearing.

“Gwen asked me to pass on her best wishes. She thinks you’re very good-looking, and she’s sure you won’t have any trouble finding someone more suitable.”

Gwen Phelps had rejected him?

“We might…,” Annabelle said thoughtfully, “…need to start looking a little lower on the female totem pole.”

Chapter Three

The midnight blue Jaguar crept around the corner of Hoyne onto the narrow Wicker Park street. The woman behind the wheel peered at the house numbers through a pair of rimless Chanel sunglasses with tiny interlocking rhinestone Cs at the hinges. Strictly speaking, they were fashion sunglasses, which meant they barely had enough UV protection for even a cloudy day, but they looked incredible against her pale skin and cloud of dark hair, and Portia Powers didn’t believe in sacrificing style for function. Not even her approaching birthday—her thirty-seventh to close acquaintances, her forty-second as her mother remembered it—would let her consider trading in her Christian Louboutin stilettos for Easy Spirits. Her ex-husband had said that Portia’s inky hair, winter white complexion, startling blue eyes, and whippet-thin body made her look like Snow White after a few months on the South Beach diet.

She slowed as she found what she was looking for on the tree-lined street. She’d never seen a more likely candidate for a teardown than this tiny frame house, which was painted a fading robin’s egg blue with peeling periwinkle trim. A blistered black wrought-iron fence surrounded a patch of yard the size of her bathroom. The place looked like a gardening shed for one of the elegant two-story brick rehabs rising on each side of it. How had it managed to escape the wrecking ball that had already claimed most of Wicker Park’s shabbier homes?

Portia had spotted the Perfect for You folder on Heath Champion’s desk when she’d stopped by yesterday, and her formidable competitive instincts had gone into hyperdrive. In the past year, she’d lost two big clients to new agencies, and one husband to a twenty-three-year-old event planner. Failure had a smell to it, and she’d work herself to the bone before she ever let that smell cling to her. A few hours’ research had unearthed the information that Perfect for You was simply a new name for Marriages by Myrna, a small-time operation that had been little more than a curiosity. The granddaughter had taken it over after Myrna Reichman’s death. A little more digging had revealed that this same granddaughter had gone to college with Kevin Tucker’s wife, Molly. Portia had let herself relax a little. Naturally Heath would feel obligated to give the girl a courtesy interview if his client’s wife requested it, but he was too demanding to work with an amateur. She’d gone to bed with an easy mind …and had a painfully erotic dream about her prized client. Not that she’d ever consider acting on it. A fling with Champion would be exciting, but she never let her personal life interfere with business.

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