“Entertaining,” he said after she left, “but not in a good way. This evening’s been a time sink.”

“Your next match won’t be. I’ve got someone special lined up.” Nana’s senior client base was turning out to be a rich source of referrals. Rachel Gorny, the granddaughter of one of Nana’s oldest friends, didn’t have Barrie’s extravagant beauty, but she was intelligent, accomplished, and strong-minded enough to hold her own against him. She also had the social polish Heath seemed to require. Annabelle had considered introducing them tonight, but she’d wanted to see how he’d react to Barrie first.

She toyed with her swizzle stick to keep herself from studying Heath’s profile and made a mental note to look for a sweet, hunky, not-too-bright guy who’d treat Barrie well.

“You’ll need to do a better job, Annabelle. No more dates like the first one tonight.”

“Agreed. And no more making me sit through your Power Matches introductions, either. As you so wisely pointed out, helping Portia Powers isn’t in my best interests.”

“Then why are you still trying to talk me into seeing Melanie again?”

“Hunger makes me weird.”

“You got rid of the last one in fourteen minutes. Well done. I’m rewarding you by letting you sit in on all the introductions from now on.”

She nearly choked on an ice cube. “What are you talking about?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“By all, you don’t mean—”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He drew out a big gold money clip stuffed with bills, tossed a few on the table, and pulled her from her chair. “Let’s get you fed.”

“But—I’m not—I won’t—” She sputtered her way across the bar, trying to tell him that she had no intention of hanging around with Powers’s candidates and that he’d obviously lost what was left of his mind, but he ignored her to greet the owner, a wiry terrier of a man. They conversed in Italian, which surprised her, although why anything about Heath should surprise her at this point, she had no idea.

They’d barely been seated in the dining room’s prime booth before the waiter took their drink orders and Mama greeted Heath with a breadbasket and antipasto platter. More Italian flew. Annabelle couldn’t resist the yeasty smell of the warm bread, so she tore off a chunk and dredged it through a rosemary-flavored puddle of olive oil.

Like the bar, the dining room had roughly plastered gold walls and heavy purple moldings, but the lighting was brighter here, showcasing the salmon tablecloths and grape-colored napkins. Small earthenware pots at each table held simple arrangements of country flowers and herbs. The restaurant had a homey, comfortable feel, yet still projected an air of elegance.

Heath knew more about wine that she did, and he ordered a cabernet for her, but he drank Sam Adams himself. The antipasto platter overflowed with meats, stuffed mushrooms, sprigs of fried sage, and matchstick skewers of pecorino cheese and plump red cherries. “Eat first,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”