Match Me If You Can

tumbler of scotch he'd abandoned earlier. A sharp rapping at the window made him whirl around… and stare into a vision straight from hell.

'Fuck!'

His tumbler shattered to the floor, scotch sloshing over his bare calves. 'What the-'

The nightmare face ducked into the shrubbery. 'Open the damn door!'

'Portia?' He stepped over the broken glass but saw only rustling branches outside the window. He couldn't have conjured up that dark, shrouded face, which was stripped of all human features except for a pair of gaping eyes. He returned to the foyer and threw open the door. The porch was empty.

He heard a hiss from behind the bushes. 'Come over here.'

'No way. I've read Stephen King. You come to me.'

'I can't.'

'I'm not moving.'

A few seconds ticked by. 'All right,' she said, 'but turn around.'

'Okay.' He didn't move.

Gradually Portia emerged from the shadows onto the walk. She wore a long black coat with a very expensive scarf pulled forward around her head. She held her hand over her forehead like a visor. 'Are you looking?'

'Of course I'm looking. Do you think I'm nuts?'

Seconds ticked by, and then she dropped her hand.

She was blue. Her entire face and what he could see of her neck. Not a faint bluish tint, but bright, bold, Blue Man Group blue. Only the whites of her eyes and her lips had escaped.

'I know,' she said. 'I look like a Smurf.'

He blinked his eyes. 'I was thinking of something else, but you're right. Does it wash off?'

'Do you think I'd come out like this if it washed off?'

'I guess not.'

'It's a special cosmetic acid peel. I had it done yesterday morning.' She sounded angry, as if it were his fault. 'Obviously I didn't intend to show my face until it faded.'

'But here you are. How long does the Smurf thing last?'

'Another few days, and then it peels off. It was worse yesterday.'

'Hard to imagine. And you've done this to yourself because…?'

'It removes dead cells and stimulates new- Never mind.'

She took in his unshaven jaw, white bathrobe, bare legs, and Gucci loafers. 'I'm not the only one who looks like hell.'

'Can't a man take a day off now and then?'

'A Sunday in the middle of the football season? I don't think so.' She charged past him into the house where she promptly turned off the overhead foyer light. 'We need to have a serious conversation.'

'I don't know why.'

'Business, Heath. We have business to discuss.'

Normally, he'd have thrown her out, but he'd lost his appetite for scotch, and he needed to talk to somebody who wasn't predisposed to take Annabelle's side. He moved ahead of her into the living room and-because he wasn't his damned father and knew something about simple courtesy-turned down the dimmer on the room's only lamp. 'There's broken glass by the fireplace.'

'I see.' She took in the room's lack of furnishings but made no comment. 'I heard that you proposed to Annabelle Granger last night. But what I don't know is why the little twit turned you down. Given that she rushed out of the Mayfair Club without you, I'm assuming that's what happened.'

His sense of being ill-used erupted. 'She's a nutcase, that's why. Way more trouble than I need in my life. And don't call her a twit.'

'Apologies,' she drawled.

'It's not like she had a whole truckload of guys lining up to marry her.'

'I heard her last fiance had a gender identity problem, so I think it's safe to say you were a step up.'

'Apparently not.'

Portia didn't seem to notice her scarf slipping off her head. Beneath it, her hair was a mess, matted on one side, sticking up on the other. Hard to reconcile her lunatic appearance with the fashion plate he remembered. 'I tried to tell you she was a loose cannon,' she said. 'You should never have done business with her in the first place.' She moved closer, her eyes piercing in their eerie blue craters. 'You certainly shouldn't have fallen in love with her.'

A knife shot through his belly. 'I'm not in love with her! Don't try to stick a label on this.'

She eyed the empty scotch bottle. 'You could have fooled me.

No way was he going to let her do this to him. 'What is it with you women? Can't you leave things alone? The fact is, Annabelle and I get along great. 'We understand each other, and we have fun together. But that's not good enough for her. She's so frickin' insecure.' He began pacing the room, nursing his sense of being ill-used and searching for an example that would prove his point. 'She's got this thing about her hair.'

Portia finally remembered her own and touched the flattened mess. 'With hair like hers, I suppose she can be forgiven a little vanity.'

'She hates it,' he said triumphantly. 'I told you she was a nutcase.'

'Yet this is the woman you chose to marry.'

His anger faded. He felt wrung out, and he wanted another drink. 'The whole thing sort of sneaked up on me. She's sweet, smart-really sharp, not just book smart. She's funny. God, but she makes me laugh. Her friends love her, and that tells you something right there, because they're incredible women. I don't know… When I'm with her, I forget about work, and…' He stopped. He'd already said too much.

Portia wandered to the fireplace, her coat gaping to reveal red sweatpants and what looked like a pajama top. Normally, he couldn't have taken a woman with a Smurf-blue face and an advanced case of bed head too seriously, but this was Portia Powers, and he kept his guard up, which was fortunate, because she hit him again. 'But despite all that, you seem to love her.'

He could barely control his turmoil. 'Come on, Portia. You and I are two of a kind. We're both realists.'

'Just because I'm a realist doesn't mean I don't believe love exists. Maybe not for everyone, but…' She made a small, awkward gesture that seemed out of character. 'Your proposal must have thrown her for a loop. She loves you, of course. I had an inkling of that during our ill-fated meeting. I'm surprised she wasn't willing to overlook your emotional constipation and take you up on your offer.'

'The fact that I wouldn't lie to her doesn't mean it wasn't a damn good offer. I'd have given her everything she needed.'

'Except love. That's what she was waiting to hear, right?'

'It's a word! Action is what counts.'

She nudged the scotch bottle he'd left on the floor with the toe of her shoe. 'Has it occurred to you-and I'm merely asking because it's my job-it is possible Annabelle's the sane one, and you're the nutcase?'

'I think you'd better go home.'

'And I think you're protesting too much. You've been introduced to a dazzling array of women, but Annabelle is the only one you've wanted to marry. That in itself has to give you pause.'

'I looked at the situation logically, that's all.'

'Oh, yes, you're the master of logic, all right.' She stepped around the broken glass. 'Come on, Heath. Cut the crap. I can't help you if you won't tell me the truth about that wall you've built around yourself.'

'What is this? Shrink time?'

'Why not? God knows, your secrets are safe with me. It's not like I have an army of intimate friends waiting to tear them out of me.'

'Believe me, you don't want to hear about my childhood traumas. Let's just say that, right around the time I turned fifteen, I figured out my survival depended on making sure I didn't keep throwing my heart at people. I backslid once, and I paid the price. Do you know what? It's turned out to be a saner way to live. I recommend it.' He advanced on her. 'I also resent like hell your implication that I'm some kind of coldblooded monster, because I'm not.'

'Is that what you're hearing? You do have all the classic symptoms.'