Portia walked toward her private office. “You, too, Inez.”
“I’m the receptionist,” Inez protested. “I don’t have to be in the clubs at night.”
Portia ignored her. They all wanted the prestige of working for Power Matches, but nobody wanted the hard work and the discipline that went along with it. Discipline turns the dream into reality. How many times had she said those words to the women she mentored at the Community Small Business Initiative? And how many times had they chosen to ignore her?
Kiki Ono had a chipper smile on her face, and Briana didn’t seem too worried, but if SuSu Kaplan kept frowning that way she’d need Botox before she hit thirty. Inside Portia’s office, half a dozen curry-colored ceramic pieces provided the only decorative accessories in a space dominated by glass, straight lines, and hard surfaces. Her personal preferences ran toward softer, more feminine interiors, but she believed a woman’s office should project authority. Men could surround themselves with all the bowling trophies and family photos they wanted, but female executives didn’t have that luxury.
As she made her way into her private bathroom, she heard the rustle of shoes and jackets being removed, the chink of discarded belts and bracelets. She slid the glass-and-chrome precision scale from beneath the pedestal sink with the pointed toe of her lavender Christian Louboutins, then picked it up and carried it out to the black marble office floor. By the time she extracted the chart she needed from her desk, SuSu had stripped down to a navy bra and panty set.
“Who’s brave enough to go first?”
“I will.” Briana Olsen, a willowy Scandinavian beauty, mounted the scale.
“One hundred and twenty.” Portia noted the weight on her chart. “You’ve picked up a pound since last month, but with your height, that’s not a problem. Your manicure, though…” She gestured toward the chipped mocha polish on Briana’s index finger. “Honestly, Briana, how many times do I have to tell you? Appearances are everything. Get it fixed. Inez, you’re next.”
Inez’s extra pounds were a foregone conclusion, but she had fabulous skin, a marvelous touch with makeup, and a way of putting clients at ease. Besides, the reception desk was high enough to cover the worst of her chub. “If you ever want to get another husband…”
“I know, I know,” Inez said. “One of these days I’ll get serious.”
Kiki, always a team player, took the heat off her. “My turn,” she chirped. Flipping her silky black hair over one shoulder, she stepped on the scale.
“One hundred and two pounds,” Portia noted. “Excellent.”
“It’s a lot easier when you’re Asian,” SuSu said sullenly. “Asian women are small-boned. I’m Jewish.”
As she reminded them at every weigh-in. But SuSu had a degree from Brown and connections to some of the wealthiest families on the North Shore. With her great hair—incredible caramel highlights—and her infallible eye for fashion, she radiated a Jennifer Aniston kind of sex appeal. Unfortunately, she didn’t have Aniston’s body. Portia gestured toward the scale. “Let’s put you out of your misery.”
SuSu balked. “I want to go on record. I find this demeaning and insulting.”
“Possibly. But it’s also for your own good, so up you go.”
She reluctantly climbed on. Portia noted the number with a sigh. “One hundred and twenty-seven pounds.” Unlike Inez, SuSu had no desk to hide behind. She was out in the clubs representing Power Matches. “Everybody else, back to work. SuSu, we have to talk.”
SuSu hooked a lock of that gleaming hair behind her ear and looked sullen. Kiki shot her a sympathetic glance then filed out with the others. SuSu picked up her black Banana Republic sheath and held it in front of her. “This is discriminatory and illegal.”
“My lawyer disagrees, and the employment contract you signed is clear. We talked about this before I hired you, remember? Personal appearance is paramount in this business, and I put my money where my standards are. No one offers the bonuses and benefits that I do. In my mind that means I deserve to be a little demanding.”
“But I’m the best associate you have. I want to be judged by my work, not by how much I weigh.”
“Then grow a penis.” SuSu still didn’t understand that Portia had their best interests at heart. “Did you even try?”
“Yes, but—”
“How tall are you?” Portia knew the answer, but she wanted SuSu to come to terms with this herself.
“Five feet four.”
“Five feet four and one hundred twenty-seven pounds.” She leaned against the hard glass ridge of her desktop. “I’m four inches taller. Let’s see how much I weigh.” Ignoring the resentment in SuSu’s eyes, she slipped off her shoes and sweater, dropped the pearls on her desk, and stepped on the scale. “One hundred and twenty-two. I’m up a bit. Oh, well. No carbs for me tonight.” She stepped back into her shoes. “Do you see how easy it is? If I don’t like what I see on the scale, I cut back.”
SuSu collapsed on the couch, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m not you.”
Women who cried on the job reinforced every negative stereotype about females and the workplace, but SuSu hadn’t developed the hard shell of experience, and Portia knelt at her side, trying to make her understand. “You’re a terrific worker, SuSu, and you have a great future. Don’t let obesity stand in your way. Studies show that overweight women receive fewer job promotions and make less money. It’s one more way the business world is stacked against us. But at least our weight is something we can control.”
SuSu regarded her mulishly. “One twenty-seven isn’t obese.”
“No, but it’s not perfect, is it? And perfection is what we all need to strive for. Now go into my bathroom and take a few minutes to pull yourself together. Then get back to work.”
“No!” Red-faced, SuSu leaped to her feet. “No! I do a good job for you, and I don’t have to put up with this. I’m quitting.”
“Now, SuSu—”
“I hate working for you! Nobody can ever live up to your expectations. Well, I don’t care anymore. You might be rich and successful, but you don’t have a life. Everybody knows that, and I feel sorry for you.”
The words stung, but Portia didn’t flinch. “I have a very good life,” she said coolly. “And I won’t apologize for demanding excellence. Obviously, you’re not prepared to give it, so clear out your desk.” She walked to the door and held it open.
SuSu was crying and furious, but she didn’t have the nerve to say more. Clutching her dress in front of her, she rushed from the office. Portia closed the door carefully, making sure it didn’t slam, then leaned back and shut her eyes. SuSu’s angry words had struck home. By the age of forty-two, Portia had expected to have everything she wanted, but despite all the money she’d made and the accolades she’d received, the pride of accomplishment eluded her. She had dozens of friends, but no soul-deep friendships, and she had a failed marriage. How could that have happened when she’d waited so long and chosen so carefully?
Carleton had been her perfect match—a power match—urbane, wealthy, and successful. They’d been one of Chicago’s A-list couples, invited to all the best parties, chairing an important benefit. The marriage should have worked, but it had barely lasted a year. Portia would never forget what he’d said when he’d left. “I’m exhausted, Portia …I’m too worried about having my dick cut off to get a good night’s sleep.”
Too bad she hadn’t done just that because, three weeks later, he’d moved in with a bubble-headed twenty-three-year-old event planner who had breast implants and a giggle.
Portia splashed half a bottle of Pellegrino into one of the Villeroy & Boch goblets Inez kept by her desk. Maybe someday SuSu would understand what a mistake she’d made by not taking advantage of Portia’s willingness to mentor her. Or maybe not. Portia wasn’t exactly drowning in thank-you notes from either former employees or the women she tried to mentor.
Heath Champion’s file lay on her desk, and she sat down to study it. But as she
gazed at the folder, she saw the gold teapot wallpaper in the kitchen of the Terre Haute house where she’d grown up. Her working-class parents had been content with their lives—the discount store clothes, the imitation wood end tables, the mass-produced oil paintings bought in a famous artists’ sale at the Holiday Inn. But Portia had always craved more. She’d used her allowance to buy magazines like Vogue and Town & Country. She’d posted photographs of beautiful houses and elegant furniture on her bedroom bulletin board. In junior high school, she’d terrified her parents with the crying jags she’d thrown if she didn’t get an A on a test. Throughout her childhood, she’d ignored the fact that she’d inherited her father’s eyes and coloring and pretended she was a victim of one of those freakish hospital mix-ups.
Straightening in her chair, she took another sip of Pellegrino and turned her attention back to where it belonged, finding Heath Champion the perfect wife. She might have lost two prominent clients and an equally prominent husband, but she wouldn’t fail again. Nothing and no one would keep her from making this match.
Chapter Four
The deep male voice rumbled its displeasure into the phone. “I’ve got a call coming in. You have thirty seconds.”
“Not enough time,” Annabelle replied. “We need to sit down together so I can get a more specific idea of what you’re looking for.” She didn’t waste her breath asking him to complete the questionnaire she’d spent so many hours perfecting. The only way she’d get the information she needed was to pull it out of him.
“Let’s put it this way,” he retorted. “My future wife’s idea of a good time is sitting in Soldier Field in January with the wind blowing in off the lake at thirty knots. She can feed half a dozen college athletes a spaghetti dinner with no warning and play eighteen holes of golf from the men’s tees without embarrassing herself. She’s sexy as hell, knows how to dress, and thinks fart jokes are funny. Anything else?”
“It’s just so darned hard to find women who’ve had lobotomies these days. Still, if that’s what you want…”
A muffled snort. Whether it was displeasure or laughter, she couldn’t tell. “Would tomorrow morning be convenient?” she asked, chirpy as one of the cheerleaders he’d undoubtedly dated by the gross in his college playing days.
“No.”
“Then name the time and place.”
She heard a combined sigh of resignation and exasperation. “I have to see a client in Elmhurst in an hour. You can ride out there with me. Meet me in front of my office at two. And if you’re not on time, I’m leaving without you.”
“I’ll be there.”
She hung up and grinned at the woman sitting across the green metal bistro table from her. “Bingo.”
Gwen Phelps Bingham set down her iced tea glass. “You talked him into filling out the questionnaire?”
“Sort of,” Annabelle replied. “I’ll have to interview him in his car, but it’s better than nothing. I can’t go any further until I get a more specific idea of what he wants.”
“Boobs and blond hair. Be sure and give him my best.” Gwen smiled and gazed toward the collection of weedy daylilies that formed a border between her yard and the alley behind her Wrigleyville duplex. “I’ve got to admit, he’s quite a hottie…if you like your men rough and tumble, but oh so rich and successful.”
“I heard that.” Gwen’s husband, Ian, poked his head through the open patio door. “Annabelle, that big fruit basket doesn’t even come close to making up for what you put me through last week.”
“How about the year of free babysitting I promised?”
Gwen patted her nearly flat tummy. “You’ve got to admit, Ian, it was worth it just for that.”
He wandered outside. “I’m not admitting anything. I’ve seen pictures of that guy, and he’s still got hair.”
Ian was more sensitive about his thinning hair than he should be, and Gwen regarded him affectionately. “I married you for your brain, not your hair.”
“Heath Champion graduated at the top of his law class,” Annabelle said, just to make trouble. “So he’s definitely got a brain, too. Which is why he was so captivated by our Gwennie.”
Ian refused to bite. “Not to mention the minor fact that you told him she was a sex surrogate.”
“Wrong. I told him she was an authority on sex surrogates. And I read her master’s thesis, so I know it’s true.”
“Funny you neglected to mention she’s now an elementary school psychologist.”
“Considering everything else I neglected to mention, it seemed a minor point.”
Annabelle had met Gwen and Ian right after college when they’d lived in the same apartment building. Despite his thinning hair, Ian was a great-looking guy, and Gwen adored him. If they weren’t so much in love, Annabelle would never have considered asking to borrow Gwen for the evening, but Heath had backed her into a corner, and she’d been desperate. Al-though she had several women in mind for him to meet, she hadn’t been certain any of them would score the knockout punch she needed to ensure that he’d sign her contract. Then she’d thought of Gwen, a woman who’d been born with that mysterious gene that made men whimper just from looking at her.
Ian was still feeling put-upon. “The guy’s rich, successful, and good-looking.”
“So are you,” Gwen said loyally, “except for being rich, but we’ll get there someday.”
Ian’s home-based software company had finally begun to show a profit, which was why they were about to move into their first house. Annabelle experienced one of those pangs of envy that hit her every other minute when she was with them. She wanted a relationship like this. Once she’d thought she had it with Rob, which proved the folly of believing in following her heart.
She rose, patted Gwen’s stomach, and gave Ian an extra hug. Not only had he lent her his wife, but he was also designing Annabelle’s Web site. Annabelle knew she needed a presence on the Web, but she didn’t intend to turn Perfect for You into an Internet dating service. Nana had been vehement on the subject. “Three-quarters of the people who sign up for those things are already married, sex deviants, or in prison.” Nana had exaggerated. Annabelle knew couples who’d found love online, but she also didn’t believe any computer in the world could beat the personal touch.
She freshened up her makeup in Gwen’s bathroom, checked her short khaki skirt and mint green blouse for stains, and set off downtown. She reached Heath’s office building a few minutes early, so she ducked into the Starbucks across the street and ordered an overpriced mocha Frappuccino. As she came back outside, she saw him emerge with a cell phone pressed to his ear. He wore aviators, a light gray polo shirt, and slacks. An expensive-looking sports coat dangled over one shoulder from his thumb. Men like him should be required by law to carry a heart defibrillator.
He headed toward the curb, where a shiny black Cadillac Escalade with darkened windows sat with its motor idling. As he reached for the passenger-door handle, he didn’t even glance around for her, and she realized he’d forgotten she existed. The story of her life.
“Wait!” She made a dash across the street, dodging a taxi and a red Subaru. Horns blared, brakes squealed, and Champion looked up. He flipped his cell shut as she finally stepped up on the curb.
“I haven’t seen anybody run a pattern like that since Bobby Tom Denton retired from the Stars.”
“You were going to leave without me.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“You didn’t look!”
“Things on my mind.” At least he held the back door of the rapmobile open for her, then climbed in at her side. The driver moved up the passenger seat for more legroom before he turned to check her out.
The driver was big and terrifyingly buff. Tattoos decorated a massive set of arms and the wrist he’d draped over the steering wheel. With his shaved head, wise-guy eyes, and crooked smile, he had a Bruce Willis’s evil twin thing going that was sexy in a very scary sort of way. “Where we off to?” he asked.
“Elmhurst,” Heath said. “Crenshaw wants me to see his new house.”
As a Stars fan, Annabelle recognized the name of the team’s running back.
“The Sox are up two-one,” the driver said. “You want to listen in the back?”
“Yeah, but unfortunately I have some business I promised to take care of. Annabelle, this is Bodie Gray, the best linebacker who never played for Kansas City.”
“Second-round draft pick out of Arizona State,” Bodie said as he pulled the SUV into the traffic. “Played two years for the Steelers. My right leg was crushed in a motorcycle accident the day I got traded to the Chiefs.”
“That must have been terrible.”
“You win some, you lose some, right, boss?”
“He calls me that to piss me off.”
Bodie studied her in the rearview mirror. “So you’re the matchmaker?”
“Marriage facilitator.” Heath swiped her mocha Frappuccino.
“Hey!”
He took a drag on the straw, and Bodie chuckled. “Marriage facilitator, huh? You got your work cut out for you with the boss, Annabelle. He has a long history of lovin’ and leavin’.” He made a left on LaSalle. “But here’s what’s ironic …The last woman he was interested in—some pooh-bah in the mayor’s office—dumped him. How’s that for a laugh?”
Heath yawned and stretched his legs. Despite his pricey wardrobe, she could easily imagine him in jeans, a ratty T-shirt, and scuffed-up work boots.
Bodie turned onto Congress. “She dumped him because of the way he screwed around on her.”
Annabelle’s stomach sank. “He was unfaithful?”
“Big-time.” Bodie made a lane change. “He kept humpin’ his cell phone.”
Heath took another swig of the Frappuccino. “He’s bitter because I’m successful, and he’s screwed up for life.”
No response from the front seat. What sort of weird relationship was this?
A cell rang. Not the same cell Heath had been talking on a few minutes earlier. This one came from the pocket of his sports coat. Apparently, he was ambi-phonorous.
Match Me If You Can Page 5
