Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(42)

He’d managed to get her alone before he’d left and tried to cross-examine her, but all of a sudden the kid no hablo-ed the inglés. As a result, he’d lost a couple of dozen important e-mails and the final notes on a new contract. Later, Bodie had said Heath should have just told Kevin what had happened, but Kevin and Molly were starry-eyed when it came to their kids, and Heath couldn’t imagine saying anything they could interpret as criticism of their little darling.

She stomped a foot in the grass. “Wanna see phone now.”

“Forget it.”

She screwed up her face. Oh, shit, she was going to cry. He knew from past experience that the tiniest sound of dismay coming from her moppet’s mouth sent Molly’s head spinning. Where the hell was Annabelle? He whipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his newest cell. “I’ll hold it while you look.” He knelt at her side.

She made a grab. “I wanna hold it.”

Heath would never for a moment have let it go—he wasn’t that stupid—but Annabelle chose that particular instant to make her appearance, and he was so surprised by what he saw that he lost track.

A queen of England–size crown nestled in her wild tumble of curls, and she wore a long silvery gown. Shimmering rhinestones sprinkled the fluffy skirt, and a wisp of silver netting framed her bare shoulders. As she walked onto the grass, the sun struck her from every direction, setting her hair on fire and striking sparks in the rhinestones. No wonder the shrieking little girls fell silent. He was fairly awestruck himself.

For a moment, he forgot how pissed he was with her. Although the gown was a costume and the tiara fake, she seemed almost magical, and something inside him didn’t want to look away. Most of the girls were dressed by now, their tiny pink gowns pulled on over shorts and T-shirts. As Annabelle approached them, he spotted her flip-flops peeking from under the hem of her gown. For some weird reason, they seemed just right.

“Greetings, my little beauties,” she trilled, sounding like the good witch in The Wizard of Oz. “I’m Annabelle, your fairy godmother. I’m going to ask each of you your name and then cast a magic spell that will turn you into an official princess. Are you ready?”

Their shrill squeals seemed to indicate they were.

“After I do that,” she went on, “I’ll help you make your own magic wand to take home.”

Heath snatched up the wands he’d dumped in a heap and began tossing them among the pots of pink glitter and plastic jewels on the tables. Annabelle moved along the row of little girls, leaned down to ask each child her name, then waved her own wand over the child’s head. “I dub thee Princess Keesha…I dub thee Princess Rose …I dub thee Princess Dominga…I dub thee Princess Victoria Phoebe.”

Damn it! Heath whirled around, remembering too late that the kid had his phone. He searched the grass where they’d been standing and checked his pockets, but his cell was nowhere to be seen. He turned toward the girls, and there she stood, a pint-size phone felon with empty hands and a crooked pink tiara on her head.

The kid was only three, and hardly any time had passed. How far could she have gone with it? As he considered his next move, Phoebe popped up at his side with a Polaroid camera. “We want a picture of each of the girls sitting on the throne in her costume. Will you take them for free,” she cooed, “or are you going to put a lien on their tooth fairy money?”

“Phoebe, I’m wounded.”

“Not to worry. I doubt you’ll bleed.” She plopped the camera in his hand, and off she went, pink tiara aglitter, ill will oozing from every pore. Great. So far, he’d managed to fire his matchmaker and lose another cell without getting one step closer to repairing his relationship with the Stars’ owner. And the party was just getting started.

Annabelle finished the naming ceremony, then she and Molly guided some of the girls to the tables to decorate their wands while Phoebe and Hannah led the others toward a tray of lipsticks and eye shadows. He had a few minutes before he needed to set up his photo shop, enough time to figure out where a three-year-old could have hidden a phone.

A trill of laughter coming from Glinda the Good Witch drifted his way, but he refused to be distracted. Unfortunately, Pippi had hunkered down with her mother. Her hands were occupied, one with a glue stick, the other attached to the thumb she’d popped in her mouth, so she must have stashed it somewhere. Maybe she’d slipped it into her shorts pocket under her gown. He remembered he’d programmed it to vibrate, and he set the camera down, then cut around the house to grab his BlackBerry with its built-in phone from his car. When he returned, he entered the number of the lost cell and stood off to the side to see if she’d react.

She didn’t. Not in her pockets then.

Damn. He needed Annabelle. Except he’d cut her out of his life.

All of the little girls were clamoring for her attention, but instead of being rattled, she seemed to like it. He made himself turn away. So what if she looked as innocent as a Disney cartoon? He didn’t forgive and he didn’t forget.

He slipped deeper into the shade of the patio. None of the girls were ready for their photos, and he had time to make a few calls, but as sure as anything, she’d catch him at it and make some withering remark. Once again, the theme from Jaws blared in his head. He looked down.

Pippi wore bright blue eye shadow and sported a rosebud mouth slick with red lipstick. He quickly shoved his BlackBerry in his pocket.