"You win some, you lose some, right, boss?"
"He calls me that to piss me off."
Bodie studied her in the rearview mirror. "So you're the matchmaker?"
"Marriage facilitator." Heath swiped her mocha Frappuc-cino.
"Hey!"
He took a drag on the straw, and Bodie chuckled. "Marriage facilitator, huh? You got your work cut out for you with the boss, Annabelle. He has a long history of lovin' and leavin'." He made a left on LaSalle. "But here's what's ironic… The last woman he was interested in-some pooh-bah in the mayor's office-dumped him. How's that for a laugh?"
Heath yawned and stretched his legs. Despite his pricey wardrobe, she could easily imagine him in jeans, a ratty T-shirt, and scuffed-up work boots.
Bodie turned onto Congress. "She dumped him because of the way he screwed around on her."
Annabelle's stomach sank. "He was unfaithful?"
"Big-time." Bodie made a lane change. "He kept humpin' his cell phone."
Heath took another swig of the Frappuccino. "He's bitter because I'm successful, and he's screwed up for life."
No response from the front seat. What sort of weird relationship was this?
A cell rang. Not the same cell Heath had been talking on a few minutes earlier. This one came from the pocket of his sports coat. Apparently, he was ambi-phonorous.
"Champion."
Annabelle took advantage of the distraction to reclaim her Frappuccino. As she closed her lips around the straw, she had the depressing thought that this would probably be as close as she'd get to swapping spit with a multimillionaire hunk.
"The restaurant business is littered with the dead bodies of great athletes, Rafe. It's your money, so I can only advise you, but…"
The downside of being a matchmaker meant that she might never have another date. When she met attractive single men, she had to turn them into clients, and she couldn't let her personal life complicate that. Not a problem in this particular case… She gazed at Heath. Just being near so much unbridled macho made her want to break out in hives. He even smelled sexy, like expensive sheets, good soap, and musky pheromones. The Frappuccino sliding down her throat didn't do much to cool her hot thoughts, and she faced the sad truth that she was sex starved. Two miserable years since she'd broken her engagement to Rob… Way too long to sleep alone.
The opening bars of the William Tell Overture intruded. Heath had the gall to frown as she retrieved her phone. "Hello."
"Annabelle, it's your mother."
She sank back into the seat, cursing herself for not remembering to turn the thing off.
Heath took advantage of her distraction to reclaim the Frap-puccino while he continued his own conversation. "… it's all a matter of setting financial priorities. Once your family's secure, you can afford to take a flyer on a restaurant."
"I tracked the application through FedEx," Kate said, "so I know you got it. Have you filled it out yet?"
"Interesting question," Annabelle chirped. "Let me call you back later so we can discuss it."
"Let's discuss it now."
"You're a prince, Raoul. And thanks for last night. You were the best." She disconnected, then turned off her phone. There'd be hell to pay, but she'd worry about that later.
Heath ended his own call and regarded her through those money green, country boy's eyes. "If you're going to program your cell to play music, at least make it original."
"Thanks for the advice." She gestured toward the Frappuc-cino. "Luckily for you, there's only a slight chance I have diphtheria. Let me tell you, those skin lesions are a bitch."
The corner of his mouth kicked up. "Put the drink on my bill."
"You don't have a bill." She thought of the parking garage where she'd once again been forced to leave Sherman since she hadn't known how long they'd be gone. "Although I'm starting one today." She retrieved the questionnaire from her tropical print Target tote.
He eyed the papers with distaste. "I told you what I'm looking for."
"I know. Soldier Field, fart jokes, yada yada. But I need a little more than that. For example, what age group are you thinking of? And please don't say nineteen, blond, and busty."
"He's been there and done that, right, boss?" Bodie chimed in from the front seat. "For the last ten years."
Heath ignored him. "I've outgrown my interest in nineteen-year-olds. Let's say twenty-two to thirty. Nothing older. I want kids, but not for a while."
Which made Annabelle, at thirty-one, feel ancient. "What if she's divorced and already has children?"
"I haven't thought about it."
"Have you considered religious preference?"
"No fruitcakes. Other than that, I'm open-minded."
Annabelle made a note. "Would you date a woman who doesn't have a college degree?"
"Sure. What I don't want is a woman without a personality."
"If you had to describe your physical type in three words, what words would you choose?"
"Thin, toned, and hot," Bodie said from the front seat. "He's doesn't like a whole lot of booty."
Annabelle shifted her own booty deeper into the seat.
Heath ran his thumb over the metal band of his watch, a TAG Heuer, she noticed, similar to the one her brother Adam had bought for himself when he'd been named St. Louis's top heart surgeon. "Gwen Phelps isn't in the phone book."
"Yes, I know. What are your turnoffs?"
"I'm going to find her."
"Why would you want to?" Annabelle said a little too hastily. "She's not interested."
"You really don't think I can be put off that easily, do you?"
She made a business of clicking her pen and perusing the questionnaire. "Your turnoffs?"
"Flakes. Gigglers. Too much perfume. Cubs fans."
Her head shot up. "I love the Cubbies."
"Surprise, surprise."
She decided to let that one pass.
"You never dated a redhead," Bodie offered.
A lock of Annabelle's own red hair chose that moment to fall over her cheek.
Heath eyed the back of Bodie's neck where a Maori warrior's tattoo curled into his shirt collar. "Maybe I should let my faithful manservant answer the rest of your questions, since he seems to have all the answers."
"I'm saving her time," Bodie replied. "She brings you a redhead, you'll give her grief. Look for women with class, Annabelle. That's most important. The sophisticated types who went to boarding schools and speak French. She has to be the real thing because he can spot a phony a mile away. And he likes them athletic."
"Of course he does," she said dryly. "Athletic, domestic, gorgeous, brilliant, socially connected, and pathologically submissive. It'll be a snap."
"You forgot hot." Heath smiled. "And defeatist thinking is for losers. If you want to be a success in this world, Annabelle, you need a positive attitude. Whatever the client wants, you get it for him. First rule of a successful business."
"Uh-huh. What about career women?"
"I don't see how that would work."
"The kind of potential mate you're describing isn't going to be sitting around waiting for her prince to show up. She's heading a major corporation. In between those Victoria's Secret modeling gigs."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Attitude, Annabelle. Attitude."
"Right."
"A career woman can't fly across the country with me on two hours' notice to entertain a client's wife," he said.
"Two on, no outs." Bodie flipped up the volume.
As the men listened to the game, Annabelle contemplated her notes with a sinking heart. How was she going to find a woman who met all these criteria? She couldn't. But then neither could Portia Powers, because a woman like this didn't exist.
What if Annabelle took a different path? What if she found the woman Heath Champion really needed instead of the woman he thought he needed? She doodled in the margin of the questionnaire. What made this guy tick besides money and conquest? Who was the real man behind the multiple cell phones? On the surface, he was all polish, but she knew from Molly that he'd grown up with an abusive father. Apparently, he'd started rooting around in the neighbors' garbage looking for things to sell before he could read, and he'd been working ever since.