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Your Loving Fiancé
P.S. Why did you let Jack take my dog?
She threw the note in the trash. One more person she’d grown to care about had taken off without warning. But so what? She didn’t care that much.
It was only Friday afternoon. Where had he gone? An ominous foreboding claimed her. She raced upstairs, grabbed her purse, and pulled out her wallet. Sure enough, the hundred dollars he’d given her the night before had disappeared.
Her loving fiancé wanted to make sure she stayed put.
Annabelle Granger Champion gazed at Dean across the living room of the spacious contemporary home in Chicago’s Lincoln Park that she shared with her husband and two children. Dean was still sprawled on the floor from an earlier bout of roughhousing with Trevor, her three-year-old son, who was now napping.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Annabelle said from her perch on the roomy sofa.
“There’s a lot I’m not telling you,” he retorted, “and I intend to keep it that way.”
“I’m a professional matchmaker. I’ve heard it all.”
“Good. Then you don’t need to hear any more.” He got up and walked toward the wedge of windows that looked out over the street. He had an evening flight back to Nashville, and he damned well intended to be on it. He wasn’t going to be driven away from his own home, and as long as he kept Blue in place as his buffer, he could make it work.
But Blue was more than his buffer. She was his—
He didn’t know what she was. Not exactly a friend, although she understood him better than people he’d known for years, and she entertained him as much as any of them, maybe more. Also, he didn’t want to fuck his friends, and he definitely wanted to fuck her.
Yeah, he was a real stud, all right. Memories of his mortifying performance on Thursday night made him cringe. He’d been messing around with her, getting them both warmed up, but then he’d heard those throaty moans, felt her convulse, and he’d lost it. Literally. Blue had been throwing him off stride since the moment they’d met. Speed Racer, indeed. Next chance he got, he was going to make her eat those words.
Annabelle was staring at him. “There’s something going on with you,” she said, “and it involves a woman. I’ve been sensing it all afternoon. Something more than another one of your meaningless sexual escapades. You’ve been very distracted.”
He arched his eyebrow at her. “All of a sudden you’re some big psychic?”
“Matchmakers have to be psychic.” She turned to her husband. “Heath, go away. He won’t tell me a thing while you’re hanging around.” Annabelle had met Dean’s agent not long after she’d taken over her grandmother’s matchmaking business when Heath had accidentally hired her to find him a beautiful, sophisticated society wife. Annabelle wasn’t exactly any of those things. But her big eyes, feisty personality, and riot of curly red hair had captivated him, and they had one of the best marriages Dean had ever seen.
Heath, who was nicknamed the Python for his habit of consuming his enemies whole, curled his mouth in a snake’s smile. He was a good-looking guy, about Dean’s height, with an Ivy League degree and a street scrapper’s mentality. “The Boo tells me everything, Annabelle. Except for you, he’s my closest friend.”
Dean snorted. “The depth of your friendship, Heathcliff, is purely based on how much revenue I generate for Champion Sports Management.”
“He’s got you there, Heath,” Annabelle said cheerfully. And then, to Dean, “Privately, you drive him crazy. You’re too unpredictable.”
Heath tucked their sleeping infant daughter into the crook of his neck. “Now, now, Annabelle, no pillow talk in front of my grossly insecure clients.”
Dean loved these guys. Well, he loved Annabelle, but he also knew his professional life couldn’t be in better hands than Heath’s.
Annabelle was like a bloodhound when she felt she was on the track of something interesting. “You’re never distracted, Dean. I’ve lost five pounds, and you didn’t even notice. What’s wrong? Who is she?”
“Nothing’s wrong. If you want to nag somebody, nag Bozo over there. Do you know he’s planning to take fifteen percent for that cologne deal?”
“I want a new car,” she said. “Now stop dodging. You’ve met somebody.”
“Annabelle, I left Chicago less than two weeks ago, and until I got to the farm, I spent most of my time in the car. How could I have met someone?”
“I don’t know, but I think you did.” Annabelle dropped her bare feet to the floor. “This shouldn’t be happening when I’m not around to supervise. You’re too swayed by appearances. I’m not saying you’re shallow because you’re not. It’s just that you’re always attracted by the superficial, and then you’re disappointed when the women don’t live up to your expectations. Although I have made several excellent matches from your castoffs.”
Dean could see exactly where this discussion was going, and he tried to head it off. “So, Heath, has Phoebe signed Gary Candliss yet? When I talked to Kevin, it sounded like a done deal.”
But Annabelle was picking up steam. “Then when I set you up with someone who’s perfect for you, you won’t give her a chance. Look what happened with Julie Sherwin.”
“Here we go,” Heath murmured.
Annabelle ignored him. “Julie was smart, successful, beautiful—one of the sweetest women I’ve ever met—but you dumped her after two dates!”
