Heath had heard his speech a dozen times, and as Kevin took his seat, he returned to the rear of the ballroom. The introductions began, and Heath’s mind wandered back to Annabelle’s ambush yesterday morning. She’d burst into his house, filling up the place with her sass, and despite what he’d said, he’d been glad to see her. All the same, he hadn’t lied when he’d told her he’d needed time to think things over, including how he could torpedo that infantile crush she had on Dean Robillard. If she didn’t come to her senses soon, Heath was going to lose all respect for her. Why did women leave their brains behind when it came to Dean?

Heath pushed away an uncomfortable memory of a former girlfriend saying exactly the same thing about him. He intended to have a pointed conversation with Dean to make sure Golden Boy understood Annabelle wasn’t another bimbo he could stick in his trophy case. Except Heath was supposed to be courting Robillard, not antagonizing him. Once again, his matchmaker had put him in an impossible situation.

Kevin made a self-deprecating joke, and the crowd laughed. He had them right where he wanted, and Heath slipped into the hallway to check his messages. When he saw Bodie’s number, he returned it first. “What’s up?”

“A buddy of mine just phoned from Oak Street Beach,” Bodie said. “Tony Coffield, remember him? His old man owns a couple of bars in Andersonville.”

“Yeah?” Tony was one of a network of guys who fed Bodie information.

“So guess who else just showed up to catch some rays? None other than our good buddy Robillard. And it seems he’s not alone. Tony says he’s sharing a blanket with a red-haired chick. Cute, but not his usual type.”

Heath backed against the wall and clenched his teeth.

Bodie chuckled. “Your little matchmaker sure knows how to keep herself busy.”

Annabelle lifted her head from the sandy blanket and gazed over at Dean. He lay on his back, muscles bronzed and oiled, blond hair gleaming, eyes shaded by space-age sunglasses with bright blue lenses. A pair of bikini-clad women made their fourth pass, and this time it looked as though they’d worked up the nerve to approach. Annabelle caught their eyes, pressed her index finger to her lips indicating that he was sleeping, and shook her head. Disappointed, the women walked on.

“Thanks,” Dean said, without moving his mouth.

“Does this job pay?”

“I bought you a hot dog, didn’t I?”

She propped her chin on her fists and dug her toes deeper into the sand. Dean had called her yesterday, a few hours after she’d left Heath’s house. He’d asked if she could squeeze in a trip to the beach before T-camp started. She had a million things to do to get ready for the dating marathon she had planned, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to feed the story of her infatuation in case Heath still had doubts.