Sexy in the City
Page 56
She dug her heels in with a giggle. “I don’t think I can take another step until you’ve kissed me.”
Joe paused, and turned to her with a brilliant smile that made her weak at the knees. He took a single stride toward her. His hands caressed her waist, invoking a breathless sigh. His eyes darkened playfully as he pulled her close once more. He gently tilted Rachel’s chin upward with his forefinger and thumb, the anticipation making her breath hitch in her throat. She closed her eyes as he brushed his lips gently against hers. Finally, his mouth claimed hers as he wound his arms around her and swept her off her feet, kissing her deeply. Rachel clung to him, breathless and happy, as she kissed him fervently.
Thinking back to her first day at Equinox, she thanked the universe again — for the puddle, the linen truck, and for the series of events that set her life’s path on course to lead to this very moment. It all led to him, she thought in delighted surprise, to Joe — my Hottie McCoffeehouse.
About the Author
Samantha Anne is a writer/musician from New York City, specializing in lady jokes, tomfoolery, and baking the greatest cheesecake in the five boroughs. She writes all genres, but has recently fallen in love with Romance. Learn more about her at www.samanthaannebooks.com.
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Heart of Design by Ellen Butler
The Very Thought of You
Carolann Camillo
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Carole Di Camillo
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6030-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6030-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6029-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6029-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com; istockphoto.com/Blue Magic Photography
This book is dedicated to Julie, Linda, and Phyllis for their invaluable support.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Chapter 1
The vanity license plate bolted to the black hybrid read N MAN 1 when it should have screamed TR UB LE. A rainy night rush hour flat tire on the freeway kind of trouble. That’s what Molly Hewitt expected when she approached the not-for-profit medical clinic where she served as administrator. Otherwise, why would Nick Mancini’s car squat in the twenty-four minute zone — ticket territory? He had his own parking slot at the other end of the block, alongside the trailer he used for a construction office. It wasn’t as if he were inside the clinic making a killer donation. The odds on that were as slim as men and women flip-flopping on the Mars/Venus thing.
The morning from hell already landed on Molly’s doorstep. She’d overslept, burned her toast, and forgotten to plug in the coffeemaker. Now, hungry and caffeine deprived, and with Ms. Cranky lurking inside her and ready to stomp on her usually placid disposition, she had to maneuver through a tête-à-tête with the San Francisco condo king. Were the Furies tap dancing on her head, or what?
She shoved her defenses into high alert, pushed open the clinic door, and stepped into the small waiting room. She’d expected to find the builder ready to pounce from one of the six mismatched chairs aligned beneath the Golden Gate Bridge poster, but there was no sign of him. Still, she sensed he prowled somewhere nearby. She shot a glance toward the closed door of her equally undersized office.
“He’s not in there.” Cynthia Wells brushed aside a long strand of maroon-tinted hair and stepped out from behind the third-hand desk that served as a reception center. “When I told him you hadn’t come in yet, he decided to go for coffee. I offered ours, but he turned it down. I guess he didn’t want to feel obligated.”
“That’s assuming he feels anything at all.” Molly headed into her office. To make the cluttered space more tranquil, the pale lime walls held a quartet of scenic Monet prints that bled all her favorite pastel colors. She flipped on the fluorescent overhead lights and dumped her faux Kate Spade handbag and worn leather briefcase onto her desk. The tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee settled in around her.
It surprised Molly that it had taken Mr. Mancini a week to accuse her of poking her nose into his business — a possible million-dollar poke at that. She’d found that out from Mrs. Zamoulian who lived in that wreck of a building Mancini had recently bought. Since the building sat smack in the middle of his new condo project, he planned to demolish it. Sure, the building screamed for demolition anyway, but not without substantial compensation for the tenants. Apparently, Mrs. Z has caved under the third degree from her new landlord and ratted out Molly, whose only crime was to express an opinion on how she would handle his cheesy buyout offer should she ever be in Mrs. Z’s shoes.
Cynthia leaned in her office. “What will you say when he comes back?”
“Hmm. What I’d like to say is so X-rated my lips would have to do penance for a month. So I’ll stick to the PG version.” Molly dug a tin of Altoids out of her purse. Unlike some of her friends who hit the gym or the fast food counter when under pressure, Molly stuck to Altoids. Less pain … less gain. She offered some to Cynthia, then popped a couple into her mouth. The spearmint flavor burst on her tongue and began to soothe her rattled psyche.
“How can anyone look so gorgeous and be so rotten?” Cynthia said from the open doorway.
“Who knows? Maybe he suffered some deep childhood trauma.”
“You think so?”
Molly shrugged. “Anything’s possible.”
“Well, inside, he might be decayed meat, but outside he’s a dream.”
“Yes, but what good are looks if they mask a whole laundry list of defects?”
Cynthia grinned. “Where should I start?”
Although Cynthia was usually focused, today she wore a bemused expression, which suggested Nick Mancini still occupied her attention. Barely two years out of high school and fully invested in guys who gave her “jock shock,” looks still mattered to her.
Molly was almost a hundred percent certain Mr. Mancini had been the one in the dress shirt, tie, and pressed slacks she’d spotted the other day leaning against the hybrid’s hood and talking with several hardhats at his construction site. If so, even she had to admit he deserved her highest rating — three mochachino raspberry grandes — two point five more than she awarded each of her last two boring dates.
Molly changed the subject and glanced in the direction of the two examining rooms located at the rear of the building. “Have the doctors come in yet?”
“Huh?�
��
“Are the doctors in?”
It took Cynthia a few seconds to refocus. “Dr. Ed is with a patient. Dr. Jake is on late call today.”
At precisely that moment, the front door opened and closed. Molly offered up a silent prayer for it to be someone seeking medical attention, but one look at Cynthia’s lips forming the words “it’s him” and her belief system crashed.
As soon as Cynthia cleared the doorway, Nick Mancini filled it. Yes, he was the man she’d spotted with the construction crew. Only today he’d opted for khakis and a forest green T-shirt. The short sleeves banded well-toned muscles, which placed him high on her totally buff list. Add those to the hard pecs and abs held prisoner beneath the fabric that stretched across a broad chest, and he easily qualified for triple blue ribbon status. Molly swallowed, and what remained of the Altoids slid down her throat.
When she had cruised by his building site the other day, he’d glanced over, which had forced her to speed up. Now she stood close enough to better fit the pieces of his face together: strong chin, full mouth, and a nose flat enough at the bridge to make it interesting. Perhaps he’d fallen off a ladder and broken it. His dark hair, worn long enough to separate him from the “looking forward one day to retirement” crowd, ramped up his sex appeal. Look, but don’t touch. Molly bit down on the outer edge of her bottom lip. She’d hate herself in the morning but, what the heck, she piled on an extra mochachino.
“You must be Ms. Hewitt.” Two long strides brought him into the middle of her office. The air bristled with the high-octane energy that rolled off him. His deep voice boasted a full complement of male hormones — not exactly gruff, but not musical, either. Whatever the quality, it was in direct proportion to the rest of him: exceedingly male.
“You are … ?” Molly obeyed the urge to feign ignorance. After all, why give the impression she attached any importance to his complaint about her meddling?
“Nick Mancini.” His eyes drilled into hers like a bit swiveling through a redwood plank.
Still, she remained rooted to the vinyl floor, exactly three feet from N MAN 1. “Yes, I’m Molly Hewitt.” She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you.” Which it wasn’t, given the circumstances, but maybe the “nice” would take some of the charge out of his battery.
His gaze drifted over her royal blue knit top and ivory linen knee-length skirt. The tightly bunched muscles in his face relaxed.
“We need to talk.” He took her hand and applied what felt like friendly pressure when, probably, he’d like to snap all five fingers as if they were swizzle sticks. His skin texture suggested the reverse side of an emery board — barely abrasive. Why not, since he no longer had to climb up on a girder and bang away at a helpless board anymore. The hired crew carried out the heavy duty stuff.
He withdrew his hand and began to fire questions at her. “What’s your connection to the tenants in my building down the street? In what capacity do you represent them?”
“I don’t — ”
“What are you, another wannabe lawyer?” That brought him one step closer.
“I’m not a wannabe anything.” Molly jumped in quickly before he accused her of having her hand in the latest economic downturn. “Nor do I represent your tenants. Several are patients here at the clinic. That’s my only connection to them.”
Standing five feet nine and a half in her three-inch wedge sandals , she brought her eyes closer to Mr. Mancini’s. They shared basically the same color — sort of a smoky caramel brown. She was never wild about the shade, but he made it seem almost … exotic. Due, no doubt, to the contrast with his dark lashes. Hers were redhead-light and needed a double application of mascara from any brand on sale at the local drugstore.
“You’re advising them on a matter that doesn’t concern you.”
It took another moment to drag her eyes away from his and cajole her brain into thinking mode again. “Actually, I didn’t offer any advice.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
Poor Mrs. Z. He’d probably threatened her with the twenty-first century equivalent of the rack. “Well, I did offer a suggestion or two.” A small, dark mole that looked more interesting than dangerous sprouted near the outer edge of his left eyebrow. Maybe Dr. Ed should take a look at it later.
“That’s not giving yourself nearly enough credit. My guess — you offered a lot more than two suggestions. That’s why they’ve formed a tenants’ association.” He held up a hand before she had a chance to contradict him. “Don’t bother denying where the idea, along with the inflated buyout demand, came from. Now there’s talk about circulating a petition.”
“I don’t recall the police carting anyone off to San Quentin for that.”
“I suppose tomorrow you’ll advise them to walk a picket line in front of the building.”
A picket line. What a great idea. She might mention it to Mrs. Z so she could pass it on to the others at the next tenants’ meeting.
“All my permits are in order. They can collect a thousand signatures and leaflet the entire South of Market area. It won’t change anything. They’ll never stop my project from going ahead.”
They’ll give it a heck of a try, though. Maybe they could interest enough people to see the justice of their cause. San Francisco was rife with citizens’ groups agitating for the have-nots who were always getting the shaft from the have-it-alls.
“You never know,” she said. “Sometimes good things happen when least expected.” His aftershave brought a refreshing hint of the outdoors into the small, windowless space. Nice. After he left — and it couldn’t be soon enough — she hoped the scent would linger.
“They’ve had more than enough time to relocate, nearly twice what the law requires. You advised them to stay put.” He stabbed the air with one long finger, almost as if conducting a discordant symphony. Molly beat off the urge to lean back, since that might suggest she’d given up ground. Unless her little patch of terra firma crumbled, she was determined not to part with an inch.
“Several tenants asked what I’d do in their situation, and I told the truth. Having practically no resources with which to make a move, I’d absolutely stand pat.”
His eyes narrowed at the poker term, as if he’d just awakened to the possibility that he was dealing with a con artist or at least someone accomplished at bluffing. Nothing could be further from the truth. Sure, most Friday nights Molly played poker with her Aunt Vi and cousin, Dominique. She never bluffed, though, and wouldn’t know how to con anyone.
“I made a very generous cash offer. One any landlord would consider overly generous.”
His skin tone ran toward olive and blended well with an eye-catching tan. One of the perks of outdoor work. Even lathered with sunscreen, she couldn’t avoid burning through the entire pink to red spectrum if she exposed her skin to the sun for more than thirty minutes.
“You consider twenty-five thousand dollars per apartment unit generous?”
“When you don’t have to work for it, yes.”
“Sorry. Not even close. Especially for people who live on or just one notch above the poverty line.” She tried to temper the censure in her voice but failed.
“I suppose suggesting they hold out for a hundred grand instead wasn’t the same as giving them advice.”
“That’s not how I see it.”
“I get it. You would hold out for a hundred.” That brought him in maybe fifteen more inches. Another fifteen and he’d leave his shoe print on her sandals and spray-on tan toes.
“If I were in their situation, sure I would.”
“You don’t consider a hundred grand greedy?” He shook his head and a lock of dark hair nudged his brow, further ramping up his sex appeal and breaking God only knew how many scientific laws of nature.
Molly took a few moments to clear her head of the kind of thoughts t
hat could turn a woman into Play-Doh. If he were any other man, under any other circumstances … She sucked in a deep breath and had to kick start herself to refocus on greed.
“No.” She exhaled in a whoosh of air. “To expect a generous buyout isn’t greedy. It’s just plain common sense. When’s the last time you checked out the economy?” She sidestepped around her desk, opened the center drawer and dug out a hand calculator. “Hard to imagine where you think those people are going to move to in this city on twenty-five thousand dollars. You probably have a team of financial advisors who do nothing all day but figure out ways to make you piles of money. For your tenants, though, a savings account is probably the best they can expect. That’s one step up from a cookie jar.” She tapped numbers into the calculator. “Let’s assume twenty-five thousand times a measly two point five percent in a money market, which assumes it’s tied up practically for life. That only comes to … ”
“Six twenty-five.” He spit it out, with hardly a hesitation, as if he had an adding machine implanted in his brain. “Even without the interest, the principal should last for years if they’re careful.”
“You mean if they use it as a supplement and add it to the amount they pay for rent now.”
“That’s the idea. They’ll have a financial cushion to bridge the gap once they relocate.”
“Except in today’s market and in this city, that should last about … ”
As her fingers again danced across the instrument’s key panel, his hand reached out and clamped onto hers. He snatched the calculator with his other hand and dropped it onto her desk.
“You know, I’d love to sit down with you sometime and crunch numbers or whatever, but right now I’m running late for an appointment.”
She pulled her hand away. “That sounds like just another way to say the argument has gone against you, and it’s time to retreat.”
“Were we arguing?”
“Weren’t we?”