Match Me If You Can

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.

Unfortunately, this morning's phone call had reignited her anxiety. Ramon, the bartender at Sienna's, was one of many well-placed service people who received lavish gifts from her in return for useful information, and he'd reported that a matchmaker named Annabelle had shown up last night with a beautiful woman in tow whom she'd introduced to Heath. Portia had set off for Wicker Park as soon as she could get away. She needed to see how big a threat the woman posed, but this derelict house proved that Perfect for You was a business only in Ms. Granger's imagination. Champion was simply making nice to please Kevin Tucker's wife.

Feeling marginally reassured, she headed south toward the Loop for her monthly dermabrasion. She spent vast amounts of money keeping her complexion unlined and her body reed thin. Age might add to a man's power, but it stole from a woman's, and an hour later, makeup reapplied, complexion glowing, she entered the Power Matches offices on the first floor of a white-painted brick Victorian not far from the Newberry Library.

Inez, her receptionist-secretary looked guilty and quickly got off the phone. More child care problems. How could women ever get ahead when the burden of child care always fell on them? Portia took in the calm elegance of the open office area with its cool green walls and low, Asian-inspired black couches. Her three assistants were at their desks, which were set apart with stylish parchment screens set in black lacquer frames. Ranging in age from twenty-two to twenty-nine, her assistants scouted the city's trendiest clubs and handled all the initial interviews. Portia had hired them for their connections, brains, and looks. They were required to wear black on the job: simple, elegant dresses; slacks with classic tops; and well-fitting jackets. She had more latitude, and today she'd chosen pearl gray Ralph Lauren: a summer-weight cardigan, tailored blouse, pencil skirt, and pearls, all set off with lavender stilettos that had a girly bow across the vamp.

There were no clients in the office, so she made the dreaded announcement. 'It's that day of the week, everybody. Chop, chop. Let's get the agony over with.'

SuSu Kaplan groaned. 'I'm getting my period.'

'You were getting your period last week,' Portia replied. 'No excuses.' Only her controller and the computer guru who ran the Power Matches Web site were exempt from this weekly ritual, since they didn't deal directly with clients. Besides, they were men, and didn't that just say it all?

Portia walked toward her private office. 'You, too, Inez.'

'I'm the receptionist,' Inez protested. 'I don't have to be in the clubs at night.'

Portia ignored her. They all wanted the prestige of working for Power Matches, but nobody wanted the hard work and the discipline that went along with it. Discipline turns the dream into reality. How many times had she said those words to the women she mentored at the Community Small Business Initiative? And how many times had they chosen to ignore her?

Kiki Ono had a chipper smile on her face, and Briana didn't seem too worried, but if SuSu Kaplan kept frowning that way she'd need Botox before she hit thirty. Inside Portia's office, half a dozen curry-colored ceramic pieces provided the only decorative accessories in a space dominated by glass, straight lines, and hard surfaces. Her personal preferences ran toward softer, more feminine interiors, but she believed a woman's office should project authority. Men could surround themselves with all the bowling trophies and family photos they wanted, but female executives didn't have that luxury.

As she made her way into her private bathroom, she heard the rustle of shoes and jackets being removed, the chink of discarded belts and bracelets. She slid the glass-and-chrome precision scale from beneath the pedestal sink with the pointed toe of her lavender Christian Louboutins, then picked it up and carried it out to the black marble office floor. By the time she extracted the chart she needed from her desk, SuSu had stripped down to a navy bra and panty set.

'Who's brave enough to go first?'

'I will.' Briana Olsen, a willowy Scandinavian beauty, mounted the scale.

'One hundred and twenty.' Portia noted the weight on her chart. 'You've picked up a pound since last month, but with your height, that's not a problem. Your manicure, though…' She gestured toward the chipped mocha polish on Briana's index finger. 'Honestly, Briana, how many times do I have to tell you? Appearances are everything. Get it fixed. Inez, you're next.'

Inez's extra pounds were a foregone conclusion, but she had fabulous skin, a marvelous touch with makeup, and a way of putting clients at ease. Besides, the reception desk was high enough to cover the worst of her chub. 'If you ever want to get another husband…'

'I know, I know,' Inez said. 'One of these days I'll get serious.'

Kiki, always a team player, took the heat off her. 'My turn,' she chirped. Flipping her silky black hair over one shoulder, she stepped on the scale.

'One hundred and two pounds,' Portia noted. 'Excellent.'

'It's a lot easier when you're Asian,' SuSu said sullenly. 'Asian women are small-boned. I'm Jewish.'

As she reminded them at every weigh-in. But SuSu had a degree from Brown and connections to some of the wealthiest families on the North Shore. With her great hair-incredible caramel highlights-and her infallible eye for fashion, she radiated a Jennifer Aniston kind of sex appeal. Unfortunately, she didn't have Aniston's body. Portia gestured toward the scale. 'Let's put you out of your misery.'

SuSu balked. 'I want to go on record. I find this demeaning and insulting.'

'Possibly. But it's also for your own good, so up you go.'

She reluctantly climbed on. Portia noted the number with a sigh. 'One hundred and twenty-seven pounds.'