“I know,” she said. “I look like a Smurf.”

He blinked his eyes. “I was thinking of something else, but you’re right. Does it wash off?”

“Do you think I’d come out like this if it washed off?”

“I guess not.”

“It’s a special cosmetic acid peel. I had it done yesterday morning.” She sounded angry, as if it were his fault. “Obviously I didn’t intend to show my face until it faded.”

“But here you are. How long does the Smurf thing last?”

“Another few days, and then it peels off. It was worse yesterday.”

“Hard to imagine. And you’ve done this to yourself because …?”

“It removes dead cells and stimulates new—Never mind.” She took in his unshaven jaw, white bathrobe, bare legs, and Gucci loafers. “I’m not the only one who looks like hell.”

“Can’t a man take a day off now and then?”

“A Sunday in the middle of the football season? I don’t think so.” She charged past him into the house where she promptly turned off the overhead foyer light. “We need to have a serious conversation.”

“I don’t know why.”

“Business, Heath. We have business to discuss.”

Normally, he’d have thrown her out, but he’d lost his appetite for scotch, and he needed to talk to somebody who wasn’t predisposed to take Annabelle’s side. He moved ahead of her into the living room and—because he wasn’t his damned father and knew something about simple courtesy—turned down the dimmer on the room’s only lamp. “There’s broken glass by the fireplace.”

“I see.” She took in the room’s lack of furnishings but made no comment. “I heard that you proposed to Annabelle Granger last night. But what I don’t know is why the little twit turned you down. Given that she rushed out of the Mayfair Club without you, I’m assuming that’s what happened.”

His sense of being ill-used erupted. “She’s a nutcase, that’s why. Way more trouble than I need in my life. And don’t call her a twit.”

“Apologies,” she drawled.

“It’s not like she had a whole truckload of guys lining up to marry her.”

“I heard her last fiancé had a gender identity problem, so I think it’s safe to say you were a step up.”

“Apparently not.”

Portia didn’t seem to notice her scarf slipping off her head. Beneath it, her hair was a mess, matted on one side, sticking up on the other. Hard to reconcile her lunatic appearance with the fashion plate he remembered. “I tried to tell you she was a loose cannon,” she said. “You should never have done business with her in the first place.” She moved closer, her eyes piercing in their eerie blue craters. “You certainly shouldn’t have fallen in love with her.”

A knife shot through his belly. “I’m not in love with her! Don’t try to stick a label on this.”

She eyed the empty scotch bottle. “You could have fooled me.”

No way was he going to let her do this to him. “What is it with you women? Can’t you leave things alone? The fact is, Annabelle and I get along great. We understand each other, and we have fun together. But that’s not good enough for her. She’s so frickin’ insecure.” He began pacing the room, nursing his sense of being ill-used and searching for an example that would prove his point. “She’s got this thing about her hair.”