Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(13)

She paused, listened, and nodded. He pulled out his cell and paged through the list of calls that had come in while he was talking to Gwen. It wasn’t quite nine o’clock in Denver. He still had time to check in with Jamal to see how his hamstring was coming along.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ll pass it on. Thanks.” She flipped her cell closed, slipped it into her tote, then gazed at him across the table. “Gwen liked you. But only as a friend.”

For one of the few times in his life, he was struck speechless.

“I was afraid that might happen,” she said briskly. “The twenty-minute time frame didn’t exactly give you a chance to put your best foot forward.”

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.