Page 127 of Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars 6)

“I returned one of them, but he didn’t know where you were.”

“So why did he call you in the first place?”

“What is this, Annabelle? Frankly, I’m getting tired of everybody acting like the world revolves around Dean Robillard. Just because he’s developed this sudden need for an agent doesn’t mean I have to jump to attention. I’ll get to him when I get to him, and if that’s not good enough, he has IMG’s phone number.”

Her legs gave out from under her, and she sank down on the nearest rock. “Oh, my God. You really do love me.”

“I already told you that,” he retorted.

“You did, didn’t you?” She couldn’t get her breath back.

Finally, he grew aware that something had changed. “Annabelle?”

She tried to answer, really she did, but he’d once again turned her world upside down, and her tongue wouldn’t cooperate.

Hope battled against the wariness in his eyes. His lips barely moved. “You believe me?”

“Uh-huh.” Her hammering heart created a ripple effect, and she had to clasp her hands to keep them from shaking.

“You do?”

She nodded.

“You’re going to marry me?”

She nodded again, and that was all he needed. With a low moan, he pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Seconds…hours…she had no idea how long the kiss lasted, but he covered a lot of territory: lips, tongue, and teeth; her cheeks and eyelids; her neck. His hands reached under her sweater for her breasts; she fumbled beneath his jacket to touch his bare chest.

She barely remembered how they made it back to the empty cottage, only that her heart was singing and she couldn’t move fast enough to keep up with him. Finally, he swept her into his arms and carried her. She threw back her head and laughed at the sky.

They undressed, their urgency making them awkward as they kicked away muddy shoes and wet jeans, hopped awkwardly to shake off clammy socks, bumped into furniture, into each other. She was shivering with cold by the time he pulled back the covers and drew her with him into the chilly bed. He offered the heat of his body to make the goose bumps disappear, rubbed her arms and the small of her back, suckled the warmth back into her puckered nipples. Eventually, his fevered fingers found the tight folds between her legs and opened them into summer-warmed petals plump with welcoming dew. He claimed every inch of her body with his touch. She gasped as he entered her.

“I love you so much, my sweet, sweet Annabelle,” he whispered, everything he felt in his heart spilling into his words.

She laughed with the joy of his invasion and gazed into his eyes. “And I love you.”

He groaned, kissed her again, and tilted her hips to take all of him. They abandoned themselves, not in beautifully choreographed lovemaking, but in a messy mating of spunk and juice, of sweet filth, luscious obscenities, of deep and total trust, as pure and sacred as altar vows.

Long afterward, with only cold water to wash themselves, they cursed and laughed and splashed each other, which led them back to bed. They made love for the rest of the afternoon.

As evening fell, a loud knock at the door intruded, followed by Portia’s voice. “Room service!”

Heath took his time but eventually wrapped a towel around his hips and went to investigate. He returned with a brown paper grocery bag filled with food. Ravenous, they fed themselves and each other, gorging on roast beef sandwiches, juicy Michigan apples, and a gluey pumpkin pie that tasted like heaven. They washed it all down with lukewarm beer and then, groggy and sated, dozed in each other’s arms.

It was dark when Annabelle awakened. Wrapping herself in a quilt, she went into the living room and retrieved her phone. Within seconds, she’d reached Dean’s voice mail.

“I know Heath went a little nuts on you, pal, and I apologize for him. The man’s in love, so he can’t help himself.” She smiled. “I promise he’ll call first thing tomorrow and set everything straight, so don’t you dare talk to IMG before then. I mean it, Dean, if you sign with anybody but Heath, I will never speak to you again. Plus, I’ll tell everybody in Chicago that you sleep with a giant poster of yourself right next to your bed. Which you probably do.”

She grinned, hung up, and retrieved a tattered pad of yellow lined paper from the drawer, along with a gnawed pencil stub. When she got back to the bedroom, she turned on a lamp and propped herself against the footboard with the quilt wrapped tightly around her. Her feet were freezing, so she slid them under the covers and up against Heath’s warm thigh.

He yelped and heaved himself into the pillows. “You will definitely pay for that.”

“Here’s hoping.” She propped the notepad on her quilt-draped knee and drank in the sight of him. He looked like a wicked pirate against the snowy pillowcases. Tan skin, disheveled dark hair, and the marauder’s stubble that had chafed various sensitive parts of her body. “Okay, lover, it’s time to deal.”

He pushed himself higher onto the pillows and gazed at the notepad. “Do we really have to?”

“Are you nuts? You think I’m marrying the Python without an ironclad prenup?”

He fumbled under the cove

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