'You conned me,' he said again, almost as if he were still trying to take it in.
Apprehension knotted her stomach. 'I couldn't see another way.'
A bird shrieked overhead. Another screeched in response. And then the edges of his mouth crinkled. 'Way to go, Tinker Bell. This is exactly what I've been talking about.'
Just because Heath approved of Annabelle's scam didn't mean that she escaped a lecture about business ethics. She defended herself by saying, truthfully, that it wouldn't have occurred to her to do something so dishonorable to any other client.
He was only partially satisfied. 'Once you start flirting with the dark side, it's hard to turn back.'
And didn't she just know it.
Kevin eventually popped through the trees. 'Oh, good,' he said as he spotted Annabelle. 'I told Molly you'd probably still be alive.'
She stayed at Kevin's side as they all walked back to the gazebo. Shortly after that, Heath took off. As he left, she found herself thinking that this deception crap was getting old. How would Heath have reacted if she'd been honest? Right. Like that wouldn't have been a recipe for destroying everything from her self-esteem to her professional dreams. But she was sick of deceit. She wanted to make love with someone she didn't have secrets from, someone she could build a future with. And didn't that just say it all. This was about chemistry. It had nothing to do with an eternal meeting of kindred souls.
Chapter Sixteen
Portia hit the Enter key on her office computer to sort the data file. This time she'd searched by hair color, which was stupid because hair color could change from one week to the next, but surely someone lurked in her data bank whom she'd missed, someone who'd be perfect for Heath, and she kept envisioning a blonde. She winced as the aggressive whine of a power saw cut through the Sunday afternoon quiet. Non-union laborers were remodeling the office overhead, and the intrusion grated at her already frayed nerves.
Heath had taken off for the weekend with Annabelle Granger. Portia had gotten the news from his receptionist, a woman she'd befriended several months earlier with front-row seats at a Shania Twain concert. Portia still couldn't quite absorb it.
The power saw emitted another abrasive screech. Generally she stayed away from the office on Sunday afternoons, but today she'd been more restless than usual. She'd begun the morning with mass in Winnetka. When she'd been a kid, she'd hated going to church, and in her twenties, she'd given it up altogether. But about five years ago, she'd started attending again. At first it had been a business tactic, another way to make the right contacts. She'd targeted four upscale Catholic churches and rotated among them: two on the North Shore, one in Lincoln Park, and one near the Gold Coast. But after a while, she'd begun to look forward to the services for reasons that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with the way the knots inside her unraveled as the familiar words of the liturgy washed over her. She still alternated churches-God helped those who helped themselves, didn't he?-but now her Sundays had become less about business and more about the possibility of peace. Not today, however. Today the serenity she needed so desperately had eluded her.
She'd met some acquaintances for coffee after mass, socially prominent friends from her brief marriage. How would they react if she introduced them to Bodie? Just the thought made her headache worse. Bodie inhabited a secret compartment in her life, a sordid, perverted chamber she could never let anyone peer into. He'd left two messages on her machine this week, but she hadn't returned either of them, not until today. An hour ago, she'd given in to temptation and dialed his number, then hung up before he could answer. If she could get one good night's sleep, she'd stop obsessing about him. Maybe she'd even be able to stop worrying so much about Heath and the feeling that her business was falling apart.
The power saw shrieked again, drilling through her temples. Before her marriage, she'd had her share of affairs. More than a few of them had brought her unhappiness, but none of them had degraded her. Which was what Bodie had done last week. He'd degraded her. And she'd let him do it.
Because it hadn't felt degrading.
That's what she couldn't understand. That's why her insomnia was growing unmanageable, why she hadn't been able to unwind during the mass, and why she'd forgotten last week's weigh-in. Because what he'd done had felt almost tender.
The columns on the computer monitor swam before her eyes, and hammering replaced the sound of the power saw. She had to get out of here. If she were still mentoring, she could have met with one of the women. Maybe she'd stop at the health club, or call Betsy Waits to see if she wanted to meet for dinner. But instead of doing either of those things, she returned her attention to the data on her screen. She had to prove to herself that she was still the best, and the only way she could do that was to find Heath's match.
The hammering turned to rapping, but not until it had become louder and more insistent did she realize it wasn't coming from overhead. She left her desk and made her way into the reception area. She was still dressed in the short, off-white Burberry jacket and Bottega Veneta slacks she'd worn to mass, but she'd kicked off her shoes while she worked, and she moved soundlessly across the carpet. Through the frosted glass, she made out a man's broad-shouldered form. 'Who is it?'
A tough, flat voice replied. 'The man of your dreams.'
She squeezed her eyes shut and told herself not to open the door. This wasn't good for her.
'I'll watch.'
'You'll be bored to tears.' She stepped aside and let him in.
Muscle-bound men usually looked better in workout gear than street clothes, but not Bodie Gray. His chinos and tailored French blue shirt fit his body to perfection. He gazed at the reception area, taking in the cool green walls and Zen-like furnishings, but saying nothing. She refused to let him play another of his silent games. 'How did you know I was here?'
'Caller ID.'
She should never have called him. She cocked her head. 'I hear your lord and master has gone off for the weekend with my rival.'
'News travels. This place is nice.'
The neediest part of her lapped up his feeble words of praise, but she remained outwardly impassive. 'I know.'
He gazed toward the reception desk. 'Nobody handed you a thing, did they?'
'I'm not afraid of hard work. Women competing in business need to be tough or they won't survive.'
'Somehow I can't see anybody giving you too much trouble.'
'You have no idea. Successful women are always judged by a different standard than men.'
'It's your breasts.'
She'd never had a sense of humor about sexism, and she was shocked to feel herself smile, but his cocky, unrepentant machismo was difficult to resist.
'Show me the place,' he said.
She did. He poked his head around the parchment screens, took in the quota charts she kept on a wall of the break room, asked questions. She heard the faint sound of Spanish as the workers decided they'd tortured her enough for today and left by the back staircase. She needed to know more about Heath's weekend away, but she waited until she led Bodie into her private office before she broached the subject.
'I'm surprised Heath didn't make you go with him this weekend. Apparently you're not as indispensable as you
