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
T he 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
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
T he 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
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