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. He wasn't good for her. But a dark, dissonant chorus overcame her willpower. She turned the lock. "I'm working."
"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 like to believe."
"I get a few days off now and then."
"I came in today because of him." She gestured toward her computer. "Little Miss Granger can wine and dine him for all she's worth, but I'm the one who'll find his wife."
"Probably."
She perched on the edge of her desk. "Tell me about the women he's dated in the past. He's not very forthcoming."
"I don't want to talk about Heath." He moved to the window, gazed out at the street, then pulled the drapery cord. The panels closed in a soft whoosh. He turned back toward her, and his eyes-so pale and remote they should have turned her to ice-felt like a warm balm to her shriveled soul.
"Take off your clothes," he whispered.
Chapter Seventeen
The week after the disastrous Wind Lake retreat, Annabelle immersed herself in work to keep from obsessing over what had happened. The Perfect for You Web site was up and running, and she received her first e-mail inquiry. She met separately with Ray Fiedler and Carole, who weren't going to be a love match but had learned something from each other. Melanie Richter, the Power Matches candidate Heath had rejected, agreed to have coffee with Shirley Miller's godson. Unfortunately, Jerry was intimidated by her Neiman's wardrobe and refused to ask her out again. A few more senior citizens arrived at her door, taking up too much of her time and doing nothing to improve her bottom line, but she understood loneliness, and she couldn't turn them away. At the same time, she knew she needed to think bigger if she intended to make a living wage. She examined her bank account balance and decided she could just afford to throw a wine and cheese party for her younger clients. All week, she waited for Heath to call. He didn't.
On Sunday afternoon she was listening to vintage Prince on the radio while she unpacked some groceries when her phone rang. "Hey, Spud. How's it going?"
Just the sound of her brother Doug's voice made her feel inept. She envisioned him as she'd last seen him: blond and good-looking, a male version of their mother. She stuffed a bag of baby carrots into the refrigerator and flicked off the radio. "Couldn't be better. How are things in LaLa Land?"
"The house next door just sold for one-point-two mil. On the market less than twenty-four hours. When are you coming out to visit again? Jamison misses you."
"I miss him, too." Not exactly true, since Annabelle barely knew him. Her sister-in-law had the poor kid so overscheduled with play dates and toddler enrichment classes that the last time Annabelle had visited, she'd mainly seen him asleep in his car seat. As Doug rattled on about their fabulous neighborhood, Annabelle imagined Jamison showing up on her doorstep as a twitchy, neurotic thirteen-year-old runaway. She'd nurse him back to mental health by teaching him her best slacker tricks, and when he grew up, he'd tell his children about his beloved, eccentric Auntie Annabelle who'd saved his sanity and taught him to appreciate life.
"So get this," Doug said. "I surprised Candace last week with a new Benz. I wish you could have seen the expression on her face."
Annabelle glanced out the kitchen window toward the alley where Sherman sat baking in the sun like a big green frog. "I'll bet she loved it."
"I'll say." Doug went on about the Benz-interior, exterior, GPS, like she cared. Once he put her on hold to take another call-shades of Heath. Finally he got to the point, and that was when she remembered the main reason Doug called. To lecture. "We need to talk about mom. Adam and I've been discussing the situation."
"Mom's a situation?" She opened a jar of Marshmallow Fluff and dug in.
"She's not getting any younger, Spud, but you don't seem to recognize that fact."