Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(90)

All last night she’d lain awake reliving the horrible things he’d said to her. Maybe she could have forgiven the lies he’d told her about his upbringing, but she could never forgive the rest. Who did he think he was to psychoanalyze her? The only thing wrong with her was him. Maybe she’d been a little depressed before she met him, but it hadn’t been significant. Last night he’d made her feel like a failure, and she wouldn’t let anyone do that to her.

Her hands were trembling as she stopped inside his office door. He was on the phone, his massive frame tilted back in his chair. As he spotted her, his face broke into a smile, and he dropped his feet to the floor.

“Let me call you back, Jimmie …Yeah, sounds good. We’ll get together.” He set the phone aside and rose. “Hey, babe…Are you still talking to me?”

His silly, hopeful grin made her falter. Instead of looking dangerous, he looked like a kid who’d spotted a new bike sitting on his front porch. She turned away to compose herself and came face-to-face with a wall of memorabilia. She took in a pair of framed magazine covers, some team pictures from his playing days, newspaper clippings. But it was a black-and-white photo that caught her attention. The photographer had captured Bodie with his helmet tilted back on his head, chin strap dangling, a scrap of turf caught in the corner of his face mask. His eyes shone with triumph, and his radiant grin owned the world. She bit her lip and made herself turn back to confront him. “I’m breaking it off, Bodie.”

He came around the side of the desk, his smile fading. “Don’t do this, sweetheart.”

“You couldn’t have been more wrong about me.” She forced herself to say the words that would keep her safe. “I love my life. I have money and a beautiful home, a successful business. I have friends—good, dear friends.” Her voice caught. “I love my life. Every part of it. Except the part that involves you.”

“Don’t, babe.” He reached toward her with one of his gentle, meat hook hands, not touching her, a gesture of entreaty. “You’re a fighter,” he said softly. “Have the guts to fight for us.”

She steeled herself against the pain. “It was a fling, Bodie. An amusement. Now it’s over.”

Her lips had begun to tremble, just like a child’s, and she didn’t wait for him to respond. She turned away…left his office…rode numbly down to the street in the elevator. Two pretty young things passed her as she stepped outside. One of them pointed toward her feet, and the other laughed.

Portia brushed past them, blinking back tears, suffocating. A red double-decker tour bus crawled by, the guide quoting Carl Sandburg in a booming, overly dramatic voice that felt like fingernails scraping the chalkboard of her skin.

“Stormy, husky brawling…City of the big shoulders: They tell me you are wicked, and I believe them…”

Portia swiped at her eyes and picked up her step. She had work to do. Work would fix everything.



Sherman’s air-conditioning was on the fritz, and Annabelle’s appearance had degenerated into a mass of curls and wrinkles by the time she got home from the meeting with Heath, but she didn’t go inside right away. Instead, she stayed in the car with the windows rolled down and braced herself for the next step. He was only giving her one more introduction. That meant she couldn’t put it off any longer. Even so, it took all her willpower to pull her cell from her purse and make the call.

“Delaney, hi. It’s Annabelle. Yes, I know. It’s been ages…”

We’re poor as church mice,” Delaney Lightfield told Heath the night of their first official date, a mere three days after they’d been introduced. “But we still maintain appearances. And thanks to Uncle Eldred’s influence, I have a great sales job at the Lyric Opera.”

She relayed this information with a charming, self-deprecating laugh that made Heath smile. At twenty-nine, Delaney reminded him of a blond, more athletic Audrey Hepburn. She wore a sleeveless navy cotton sweater dress with a strand of pearls that had belonged to her great-grandmother. She’d grown up in Lake Forest and graduated from Smith. She was an expert skier and a competent tennis player. She golfed, rode horseback, and spoke four languages. Although several decades of outdated business practices had depleted the Lightfield railroad fortune and forced the sale of the family’s summer house in Bar Harbor, Maine, she liked the challenge of making it on her own. She loved to cook and confessed that she sometimes wished she’d gone to culinary school. The woman of his dreams had finally appeared.

As the evening progressed, he switched from beer to wine, reminded himself to watch his language, and made it a point to mention the new Fauvist exhibit at the Art Institute. After dinner, he drove her back to the apartment she shared with two roommates and gave her a gentleman’s kiss on the cheek. As he drove away, the faint scent of French lavender lingered in the car. He grabbed his cell to phone Annabelle, but he was too revved to go home. He wanted to talk to her in person. Singing along with the radio in his off-key baritone, he headed for Wicker Park.

Annabelle opened the door. She wore a V-necked striped top and a blue mini that did great things for her legs. “I should have issued my ultimatum sooner,” he said. “You definitely know how to deliver under pressure.”

“I thought you’d like her.”

“Did she call you yet?”