Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(114)

“Just because her grammie’s not around don’t mean people aren’t watching out for her.”

“Tell me about it,” Heath muttered.

“What’s that you say?”

“I said, I’m in love with her.” He liked the way the words sounded, and he said them again. “I love Annabelle, and I plan to marry her.” If he could find her. And if she’d still have him.

Mr. Bronicki scowled. “Just make sure she don’t raise her rates. A lot of people are on a fixed income, you know.”

“I’ll do my best.”

After Mr. Bronicki had parked the Audi in his garage for safekeeping, Heath circled the house and pounded on the front door, but it was closed up tighter than a drum. He pulled out his phone and decided to try Gwen again, but got her husband instead. “No, Annabelle didn’t spend the night here,” Ian said. “Dude, you’d better watch your back. She talked to somebody in the book club yesterday, and the women are pissed. Here’s a word of advice, chump. Most women aren’t too anxious to marry a guy who’s not in love with them, no matter how much hair he’s got.”

“I am in love with her!”

“Tell her, not me.”

“I’m trying to, damn it. And I can’t tell you how comforting it is to know that everybody in the city is in on my private business.”

“You brought it on yourself. The price of stupidity.”

Heath hung up and tried to think, but until he could get somebody to talk to him, he was screwed. As he stood on Annabelle’s porch, he flicked through his messages. None of them were from her. Why the hell couldn’t everybody leave him alone? He rubbed his jaw and realized he’d forgotten to shave for the second day in a row, and with the way he was dressed, he’d be lucky if he didn’t get arrested for vagrancy, but he’d pulled on the first things he grabbed: designer navy slacks, a ripped black-and-orange Bengals T-shirt, and a paint-smeared red Cardinals windbreaker Bodie had picked up somewhere and left in his closet.

Finally, he got hold of Kevin. “It’s Heath. Have you—”

“All I’m saying is this…For a supposedly bright guy, you’re—”

“I know, I know. Did Annabelle spend the night at your house?”

“No, and I don’t think she was with any of the other women either.”

Heath sank down on Annabelle’s front step. “You’ve got to find out where she went.”

“You think they’d tell me? The girls have a big NO BOYS

ALLOWED sign plastered all over their little pink clubhouse.”

“You’re my best shot. Come on, Kev.”

“All I know is that the book club is meeting at one o’clock today. Phoebe takes Mondays off during the season, and it’s at her house. Molly’s been making leis, so they’ve got some kind of Hawaiian theme going.”

Annabelle loved the book club. Of course, she’d be there. She’d run to those women for comfort and support as fast as those small feet would carry her. They’d give her what she wasn’t getting from him.

“One more thing,” Kevin said. “Robillard’s been calling everybody trying to get hold of you.”

“He can wait.”

“Did I hear you right?” Kevin said. “This is Dean Robillard we’re talking about. Apparently, after months of screwing around, he’s developed an urgent need for an agent.”

“I’ll get to him later.” Heath headed for the street and his car.

“Would that be about the same time you get around to congratulating me on yesterday’s game, arguably the best of my career?”

“Yeah, congratulations. You’re the best. I’ve got to go.”

“Okay, slimeball, I don’t know who you are or what you’re up to, but put my agent back on the phone right now.”

Heath hung up. And then it hit him. He’d seen Dean’s number on his phone log, but he’d been ignoring the calls. What if Annabelle hadn’t spent the last two nights with one of her girlfriends? What if she’d gone running to her pet quarterback?

Dean picked up his phone on the second ring. “Daffy Dan’s Porno Palace.”

“Is Annabelle with you?”

“Heathcliff? Damn, man, you really screwed her over.”

“I know that, but how do you know it?”

“Phoebe’s secretary.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Annabelle who told you? Has she been with you?”

“I haven’t seen her or talked to her, but if I do, I’m going to strongly suggest she tell you to—”

“I love her!” Heath hadn’t meant to shout, but he couldn’t stop himself, and the woman who’d just emerged from the house across the street scurried back inside. “I love her,” he repeated in a voice that was only marginally quieter, “and I need to tell her that. But I have to find her first.”

“I doubt she’ll call me. Not unless that pregnancy test—”

“I’m warning you, Robillard, if I find out you know where she went, and you aren’t telling me, I’ll break every goddamn bone in that million-dollar shoulder of yours.”

“The boy’s talkin’ smack, and it’s not even lunchtime. You are so whipped. Now here’s the thing, Heathcliff, the reason I’ve been calling you. A couple of high rollers at Pepsico contacted me, and—”