Match Me If You Can

goes through women like potato chips.'

'Well, baby, he can snack on me anytime he wants.'

To her surprise, he took her seriously. 'No way you're falling for him.'

Now this was interesting. 'Can I get back to you on that?'

'Look, Annabelle, Dean's not a bad guy, but when it comes to women, all he cares about is racking up notches.'

'Like I don't?'

'God, you're a wiseass.'

He'd handed her a golden opportunity to delve a little deeper into the life and times of Heath Champion. 'Just out of curiosity, how many notches did you rack up? When you were racking them up, that is. And how long ago was that, by the way?'

'Too many notches. I'm not proud of it, either, so no lectures.'

'You really think your notching days are behind you?'

'If I didn't, I wouldn't be getting married.'

'You're not getting married. You haven't even gone out on a second date.'

'Only because I've hired two semi-incompetent matchmakers.'

She hadn't told him about Portia's visit, but what could she say? That Portia Powers was a bitch. He probably already knew that. Besides, she had something else she needed to tell him, and she dreaded doing it. 'I got a call from Claudia Reeshman this morning. She still wants to meet you.'

'No kidding?' He kicked back in his chair, a crooked grin on his face. 'Why'd she call you instead of Powers?'

'I guess we sort of connected on Thursday.'

'Amazing.'

'I thought I'd convinced her you were unworthy, but apparently not.' She picked up her pizza, even though she'd lost her appetite. 'So I suppose you want me to add her to Wednesday night's agenda?'

'No.'

A glob of cheese slid into her lap. 'You don't?'

'Didn't you say she wasn't right for me?'

'She's not, but…'

'Then no.'

Something warm and sweet unfurled inside her. 'Thanks.' Embarrassed, she scrubbed at her lap.

'You're welcome.'

She took her time wiping off her fingers. 'The woman I'm introducing you to on Wednesday isn't as beautiful.'

'Not many are. Reeshman's last SI cover was incredible.'

'She's a harpist finishing up a master's in music performance. Twenty-eight, an undergraduate degree from Vassar. You were supposed to meet her last Thursday.'

'Is she ugly?'

'Of course she's not ugly.' She snatched up her plate and carried it to the sink.

Heath didn't say anything for a few minutes. Finally, he picked up his own plate and brought it to her. 'On the off chance Dean calls you again, be careful what you say about me.'

'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