Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(120)

“Go after him,” Bodie said, “and when you find him, ask him two questions. When you hear his answers, you’ll know exactly what to do.”

“Two questions?”

“That’s right. And I’m going to tell you exactly what they are…”



Water from the soggy leaves seeped into Annabelle’s sneakers, and her teeth had begun to chatter, more from nerves, she suspected, than the chill. She might be making the worst mistake of her life. She couldn’t see anything special about the questions Bodie had posed, but he’d been adamant. As for Portia…The woman was scary. Annabelle wouldn’t have been surprised to see her pull a handgun from her purse. Portia and Bodie were the weirdest couple she’d ever seen, and yet they seemed to understand each other perfectly. Apparently, Annabelle had a lot more to learn about being a matchmaker. She had to admit Portia was growing on her. How could you hate a woman who was so willing to put herself on the line?

The path grew steeper as it climbed toward the rocky bluff that jutted over the water. Molly said she and Kevin came here sometimes to dive. Annabelle paused as she rounded the bend to catch her breath. That was when she saw Heath. He stood on the rocky ledge gazing out at the lake, his jacket pushed back, his fingertips stuffed in his back pockets. Even unkempt and disheveled, he was magnificent, an alpha male at the top of every game he played, except the most important one.

He heard her footsteps and turned his head. Slowly, his hands dropped to his sides. In the distance, she saw a tiny speck in the sky. The balloons drifting away. It didn’t seem like a comforting omen. “I need to ask you two questions,” she said.

His stance, his shuttered expression, everything about him reminded her of the way the cottages had been closed up for the winter—no hot water, curtains drawn, doors locked. “All right,” he said tonelessly.

Her heart hammered as she stepped around the NO DIVING sign. “First question. Where’s your cell?”

“My cell? Why do you care?”

She wasn’t sure. What difference could it make which pocket he’d stashed it in? Still, Bodie had insisted she ask.

“Last time I saw it,” Heath said, “Pip had it.”

“You let her steal another phone?”

“No, I gave it to her.”

She swallowed and stared at him. This was getting serious. “You gave her your cell? Why?”

“Is this the second question?”

“No. Scratch that. The second question is…Why haven’t you returned Dean’s calls?”

“I returned one of them, but he didn’t know where you were.”

“So why did he call you in the first place?”

“What is this, Annabelle? Frankly, I’m getting tired of everybody acting like the world revolves around Dean Robillard. Just because he’s developed this sudden need for an agent doesn’t mean I have to jump to attention. I’ll get to him when I get to him, and if that’s not good enough, he has IMG’s phone number.”

Her legs gave out from under her, and she sank down on the nearest rock. “Oh, my God. You really do love me.”

“I already told you that,” he retorted.

“You did, didn’t you?” She couldn’t get her breath back.

Finally, he grew aware that something had changed. “Annabelle?”

She tried to answer, really she did, but he’d once again turned her world upside down, and her tongue wouldn’t cooperate.

Hope battled against the wariness in his eyes. His lips barely moved. “You believe me?”

“Uh-huh.” Her hammering heart created a ripple effect, and she had to clasp her hands to keep them from shaking.

“You do?”

She nodded.

“You’re going to marry me?”

She nodded again, and that was all he needed. With a low moan, he pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Seconds…hours…she had no idea how long the kiss lasted, but he covered a lot of territory: lips, tongue, and teeth; her cheeks and eyelids; her neck. His hands reached under her sweater for her breasts; she fumbled beneath his jacket to touch his bare chest.

She barely remembered how they made it back to the empty cottage, only that her heart was singing and she couldn’t move fast enough to keep up with him. Finally, he swept her into his arms and carried her. She threw back her head and laughed at the sky.

They undressed, their urgency making them awkward as they kicked away muddy shoes and wet jeans, hopped awkwardly to shake off clammy socks, bumped into furniture, into each other. She was shivering with cold by the time he pulled back the covers and drew her with him into the chilly bed. He offered the heat of his body to make the goose bumps disappear, rubbed her arms and the small of her back, suckled the warmth back into her puckered nipples. Eventually, his fevered fingers found the tight folds between her legs and opened them into summer-warmed petals plump with welcoming dew. He claimed every inch of her body with his touch. She gasped as he entered her.

“I love you so much, my sweet, sweet Annabelle,” he whispered, everything he felt in his heart spilling into his words.

She laughed with the joy of his invasion and gazed into his eyes. “And I love you.”

He groaned, kissed her again, and tilted her hips to take all of him. They abandoned themselves, not in beautifully choreographed lovemaking, but in a messy mating of spunk and juice, of sweet filth, luscious obscenities, of deep and total trust, as pure and sacred as altar vows.