Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(48)

“Thanks for the warning.”

“And don’t let him get too close to anybody wearing a hat.”

“I’m going now.”

As she hung up, she realized she was smiling, which wasn’t a good idea at all. Pythons could strike at will, and they seldom gave any warning.



Sean Palmer’s mother, Arté, had salt-and-pepper dreadlocks, a tall, full-figured body, and a hearty laugh. Annabelle liked her immediately. With Bodie as their travel guide, they saw the sights, beginning with an early morning architectural boat tour followed by a sweep through the Impressionists collection at the Art Institute. Although Bodie handled all the arrangements, he stayed in the background. He was a strange guy, full of intriguing contradictions that made Annabelle want to know more about him.

After a late lunch, they headed for Millennium Park, the glorious new lakefront park Chicagoans believed finally put them ahead of San Francisco as America’s most beautiful city. Annabelle had visited the park many times, and she enjoyed showing off the terraced gardens, the fifty-foot-high Crown Fountain with its changing video images, and the shiny, mirrorlike Cloud Gate sculpture affectionately known as The Bean.

As they walked through the futuristic music pavilion, where the bandshell’s curling stainless-steel ribbons blended so exquisitely with the skyscrapers behind it, their conversation returned to Arté’s son, who’d soon be playing fullback for the Bears. “Sean had agents all over him,” his mother said. “It was a happy day for me when he signed with Heath. I stopped worrying so much about people taking advantage of him. I know Heath’s going to look out for him.”

“He definitely cares about his clients,” Annabelle said.

The July sunlight flirted with the waves on the lake as the two women followed Bodie over the snaking steel pedestrian bridge that meandered above the traffic on Columbus Drive. When they reached the other side, they wandered toward the jogging trail. As they stopped to admire the view, a biker called out to Bodie, then pulled up beside him.

Annabelle and Arté fell still, both of them gazing at the man’s skintight black biker shorts. “Time to praise God for the glory of his creation,” Arté said.

“Amen.”

They moved closer, checking out the biker’s sweat-slicked calves and the blue-and-white mesh T-shirt clinging to his perfectly developed chest. He was in his mid-to-late twenties, and he wore a high-tech red helmet that hid the top of his damp blond hair, but not his Adonis profile.

“I need a plunge in the lake to cool off,” Annabelle whispered.

“If I were twenty years younger…”

Bodie gestured toward them. “Ladies, I’ve got somebody for you to meet.”

“Come to mama,” Arté murmured, which made Annabelle giggle.

Just before they reached the men, Annabelle recognized the biker. “Wow. I know who that is.”

“Mrs. Palmer, Annabelle,” Bodie said. “This is the famous Dean Robillard, the Stars’ next great quarterback.”

Although Annabelle had never met Kevin’s backup in person, she’d seen him play, and she knew him by reputation. Arté shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Dean. You tell your friends to take it easy on my boy Sean this season.”

Dean gave her his ladykiller smile. And didn’t he know exactly the effect he had on women? Annabelle thought.

“We’ll do just that for you, ma’am.” Oozing sex appeal like an oil slick, he turned his charm on her. His openly assessing eyes slid down her body with a confidence that said he could have her—or any woman he wanted—whenever and however he liked. Oh, no, you can’t, you naughty, sexy little boy.

“Annabelle is it?”

“I’d better check my driver’s license to make sure,” she said. “I’m all out of breath here.”

Bodie choked, then laughed.

Apparently Robillard wasn’t used to women calling his visual bluffs because he looked momentarily taken aback. Then he ratcheted up the old charm-o-meter. “Maybe it’s the heat.”

“Oh, it’s hot all right.” Normally, gorgeous men intimidated her, but he was so full of himself she was merely amused.

He laughed, this time genuinely, and she found herself liking him in spite of his cockiness. “I do admire a feisty redhaired woman,” he said.

She slipped her sunglasses lower on her nose and gazed at him over the top. “I’ll just bet, Mr. Robillard, that you admire women in general.”

“And they admire you right back.” Arté chuckled.

Dean turned to Bodie. “Where did you find these two?”

“Cook County Jail.”

Arté snorted. “You behave yourself, Bodie.”

Dean returned his attention to Annabelle. “Something about your name rings a bell. Wait a minute. Aren’t you Heath’s matchmaker?”

“How did you know about that?”

“Word gets around.” A Rollerblader whizzed by, brunette hair flying. He took his time enjoying the view. “I never met a matchmaker,” he finally said. “Maybe I should hire you?”

“You do know my business doesn’t have anything to do with lighting campfires, right?”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Hey, everybody wants to meet somebody special.”