Molly had told her to be aggressive. He’s fought his way to the top, one client at a time. Brutal aggression is the only emotion Heath Champion understands. But Annabelle wasn’t a naturally aggressive person. Everyone from bank clerks to taxi drivers took advantage of her. Just last week she’d lost a confrontation with the nine-year-old she’d caught egging Sherman. Even her own family—especially her own family—walked all over her.

And she was sick of it. Sick of being condescended to, sick of too many people getting the best of her, sick of feeling like a failure. If she backed down now, where would it end? She met those money green eyes and knew the time had come to tap deep into her Granger gene pool and play hardball.

“There was a dead body under my car.” It was almost true. Mouse had been dead weight.

Unfortunately, the Python didn’t look impressed, but then he’d probably been responsible for so many dead bodies that he’d grown bored with the whole concept of corpses. She took a deep breath. “All that red tape. It made me late. Otherwise, I would have been punctual. More than punctual. I’m very responsible. And professional.” Just like that, she ran out of air. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” She sank into the nearest chair.

“You don’t listen well, do you?”

“What?”

He gazed at her for a long moment before dismissing his receptionist. “Hold my calls for five minutes, Sylvia, unless it’s Phoebe Calebow.” The woman left, and he gave a resigned sigh. “I assume you’re Molly’s friend.” Even his teeth were intimidating: strong, square, and very white.

“College buddies.”

He tapped his fingers on the desk. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ll have to make this fast.”

Who did he think he was kidding? He thrived on being rude. She imagined him in college dangling some poor computer geek out a dorm window or laughing in the face of a weeping, possibly pregnant, girlfriend. She sat straighter in the chair, trying to project confidence. “I’m Annabelle Granger from Perfect for You.”

“The matchmaker.” His fingers tapped away.

“I think of myself as a marriage facilitator.”

“Do you now?” He drilled her again with those money-hard eyes. “Molly told me your company was called something like Myrna the Matchmaker.”

Too late, she remembered that she’d overlooked that particular point in her conversations with Molly. “Marriages by Myrna was started by my grandmother in the seventies. She died three months ago. I’ve been modernizing since then, and I’ve also given the company a new name to reflect our philosophy of personalized service for the discriminating executive.” Forgive me, Nana, but it had to be done.

“Exactly how large is this company of yours?”

One phone, one computer, Nana’s dusty old file cabinet, and herself. “It’s a manageable size. I believe the key to flexibility is staying lean.” She hurried on. “Although this was my grandmother’s company, I’m well qualified to take over.” Her qualifications included a B.A. in theater from Northwestern that she’d never officially used, a short-lived stint at a dot-com that went bankrupt, partnership in a failed gift shop, and, more recently, a position at an employment agency that had fallen victim to the economy.