“I hope not.” He smiled for the first time. At least he proved he had the capacity and wasn’t all just rugged good looks. The smile softened his strong features. Molly supposed plenty of women jumped out of their lace thongs at the slightest encouragement from him. Even if she wore a thong, she didn’t foresee adding her name to the list. Not even if she prevailed and he encouraged.
“Well, disagreeing, then.”
“I understand your point, and yes, I’ll admit it will take some effort to relocate where rents are cheaper. But those kinds of units do exist.”
“Really? Maybe in the Yukon … and even there, there must be a waiting list.”
The smile dropped a notch. “There’s no need to go that far. Low rent apartments can be found right here.”
“Not to my knowledge.” Also, if the rumor proved true, he might gobble up the seedy real estate — perhaps even the clinic — at her end of the block and no one would make a buyout offer to her. No other San Francisco landlord would give the clinic the kind of break on rent her current “angel” offered — a dollar a month. She would love to pump Mr. Mancini on any future plans but decided against a two-pronged assault.
“In my business, I’ve gotten to know the city pretty well. There’s affordable housing available right now if you know where to look. Do you want me to prove it to you?”
“Do you really think you can?”
He slid his cell phone from its sheath and gave it his attention for a few seconds. “I can free up some time this afternoon to prove there are inexpensive units out there — given my tenants will have a windfall to work around. We’ll check out a few. Then once you’re convinced, we can both get on with business.”
It had been far too long since a determined man invited her inside an apartment for any reason — she didn’t count the octopus who’d earned a squirt in the eye with hand sanitizer when he’d decided to take inventory of her body, and in a public lobby. Or the blind date with the comb-over that didn’t quite hide the double-sided tape. Even though this man had a face and body that could take a woman’s inhibitions and shred them into confetti, she wasn’t about to drive around town with him so he could try to prove a non-provable point. “That sounds like a waste of both our time.”
“I can make time.”
“Sorry, but I can’t during work hours on a Friday or any other weekday. So why not just take a good look at the classified ads in the Chronicle or check out the Internet? You’ll see what’s available in the rental market.” That should settle it.
His gaze bored into her like a laser primed for maximum penetration. “You’re backing down.”
“Absolutely not.”
He braced his hands on the edge of her desk and leaned in several inches, which brought his eyes practically level with hers. His arm muscles flexed, and a second later, her toes curled. Which would be understandable if he were her type, which he wasn’t, but he was TR UB LE. Oh, yes.
“Ms. Hewitt … ?”
“Huh?” Great. Now she was channeling Cynthia.
“Why don’t you just admit you’re wrong?”
For heaven’s sake, why didn’t he just throw down a glove and challenge her to a duel? Obviously, mere words would never change his mind. He needed physical proof, so she figured she might as well relent.
“I admit nothing of the kind. Also, I don’t have an overblown ego that forbids me to acknowledge a mistake.” A dark brow — the one with the mole — rose. Her dart had hit a bull’s eye. “To prove my point, I’ll take a look at what you imagine is available.”
He nodded. “Okay, then. Why don’t I drop by your place and pick you up tomorrow at ten?”
That was the time she’d set aside to cruise around the city and scoop up gift cards donated by several high-end restaurants for her upcoming auction event. Afterwards, she had an appointment with the producer of the funky smash revue Beach Blanket Babylon. They’d discussed the possibility of squeezing in the highest bidder somewhere between Louis the Fourteenth and the dancing poodles.
“I have appointments tomorrow, but I could finish by two.” Free from there on, also. All she had on tap for Saturday night was to curl up with a glass of Chardonnay and a good murder mystery.
“Doesn’t work for me.” He went back to his cell phone. “How’s Sunday afternoon around three?”
She figured that morning he’d be sleeping off a big Saturday night frolic. He didn’t sport a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean he didn’t frolic with a wife. “Not possible then, either. Sorry.” Her cousin Dominique had agreed to drop over around four to help with the proposal Molly planned to submit to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. She would cancel except for a looming deadline.
He nodded his head. “See, you’re trying to avoid a showdown. You know I’m right.”
“You’re wrong on both counts. I can meet you tonight around six.” That would turn tonight into the second Friday in a row she’d have to bail out of the poker game. But she wanted to get this search over with, like quadruple ASAP.
“Can’t make it.”
“Well, then, I guess that only leaves Sunday morning. Or perhaps now you’d like to postpone this indefinitely.”
The mouth that had smiled so invitingly only a couple of minutes before sank into a frown. “I … okay, I can try to squeeze it in.”
“Thank you.” She managed to get the words out without too much sarcasm — which, where Nick Mancini was concerned, didn’t come easily. If he was going to have an overnight guest, too bad. He’d just have to kick her out of the sack early.
“All right, where do you live?” he asked.
“Why do you want to know that?”
The broad shoulders under his T-shirt slumped, and he blew air out through his mouth. “So I can pick you up.”
“Oh.” At least he refrained from adding “stupid.” “I can meet you here. I don’t give out my address to people I don’t know.”
He stared at her for such a long time she wondered if he’d had some sort of seizure. What luck they were in a medical office.
“Right. We’ll meet here Sunday morning at, say, ten. Does that fit into your schedule?”
“Yes, fine.”
“Good. We’ll settle this, and then maybe you can stay out of trouble for a while. Or at least not cause any more.”
“Really? Not cause trouble for whom?” She figured the “whom” stared her down from across her desk.
“I had my tenants in mind. Who did you think I meant?”
“You. Who else?”
“Uh-uh.” The corners of his lips tipped up and his facial muscles relaxed. “Usually, when trouble heads my way, it has little to do with business.” Between the slow drawl and the sensual look that bumped his expression into approach at your own risk territory, a patch of heat sprang into her cheeks. To her credit, she kept her mouth from dropping open.
“Your face is flushed.” He reached across the desk and tapped her lightly on the chin with a bent finger. “Do I make you nervous?”
At this juncture he did, more so than when he’d practically laid siege to her office.
“No, of course not.” Lax, lately, about practicing yoga, Molly made a mental note to review the Alternate Breath Technique. She had a feeling that, on Sunday morning, she would need the benefit of its promised natural tranquilizer.
“Okay, then. I’ll stop by for you Sunday at ten.” No more smiles. He just turned and left the office.
Once the front door closed, Cynthia buzzed in. She set a mug of steaming coffee on Molly’s desk. “You sure held your own with the big bad builder.”
Molly let out the breath held far too long. She swept her dog-eared copy of Grant Writing for Dummies and a pile of empty file folders off her chair and plopped down onto it. “Do you think so?” She fanned her face with her h
and. Either the cooling system had failed, or Mr. Mancini had vacuumed up all the air.
“I know so. Wow, I would have crumpled.”
“Yeah, like poor Mrs. Zamoulian.” It pained her to think about the woman going up against N MAN 1. She hadn’t stood the tiniest chance. Well, on Sunday morning, Molly intended to show up with enough evidence to prove low-rent housing was even scarcer than a fogless summer in San Francisco. Then, hopefully, after their apartment hunt, Mr. Mancini would realize his cheesy twenty-five thousand dollar buyout offer wouldn’t stretch from here to the corner.
Would he admit it, though? She guessed he hardly ever confessed he was wrong, even when faced with incontrovertible proof. Speaking of which, she wondered how much he was going to require and if just a few hours would be enough to prove her point.
That put a prickly thought into her head. She wouldn’t have to do this more than once with him, would she?
Chapter 2
“Molly, you remember my friend who works at the Hall of Records.” Vi Phillips dealt from a deck of cards whose backs were emblazoned with a faithful image of a young, slim Elvis. “She helped you out by telling fortunes at your carnival event last year.”
Trudie, aka the mole. Molly shuddered inwardly. “You didn’t volunteer her for my auction, did you?” At the carnival Molly had sponsored the previous summer, she’d overheard the mole reading the palm of one of the city’s most prominent men. She predicted he’d find a Playboy Bunny in his bed that night.
“Of course not. Although you kind of hurt her feelings when you closed down her booth. She did you another favor.”
“What?” Apprehension colored Molly’s tone. “I haven’t asked for any favors.” She took a quick glance, then slapped her cards down onto the speckled green tin tabletop. Her aunt was into everything retro, including the chairs they occupied — stainless steel tubing with red vinyl seats. Ferns sprung from every corner of the kitchen and provided a tropical effect for the macramé birds that swooped across one wall. Before it became chic, she’d shopped at vintage clothing stores, which accounted for the floral bell-bottoms she wore that night — bell-bottoms almost identical to the ones she’d bought Molly for her last birthday. Those were secreted in a dark corner of Molly’s closet and worn only when she was coerced into accompanying her aunt to the annual Love Parade.
“I know you didn’t, dear. I did.”
“Aunt Vi … ” What had started as apprehension swooshed into alarm. “What are you up to?”
Vi flipped one of her brown gray-flecked braids over her shoulder. “When we spoke earlier, you said you wished you knew something more about Mr. Mancini, other than the plan to evict his tenants.”
“He hasn’t evicted them, at least not yet. Anyway, how does that concern Trudie?” Molly cast a suspicious glance across the table. “Oh, my God.” Her aunt hadn’t christened her friend the mole for nothing. Buried deep inside the Hall of Records, Trudie had access to all sorts of personal information.
“Your Mr. Mancini is thirty-six years old and was born right here in San Francisco at St. Luke’s Hospital. His birthday is April twenty-ninth. He’s a Taurus.”
“That’s the kind of useless information I don’t need.” Molly gathered her cards. “It would help to know what he’s like inside.” She’d already decided the outside could stand up to anyone voted the Sexiest Man Alive.
“Taurus is a bull, sweetie.” Vi propped her elbows on the table and leaned toward Molly. “Either ride him until he’s spent or chance getting gored by his horns.”
Molly frowned. What kind of advice was that?
“Did Trudie find out if he’s married?” Dominique asked.
“What difference does it make if he’s married?” Molly picked up her cards.
“Have you checked out the lack of availability of thirty-something eligible men in San Francisco lately?”
“No. Also, Aunt Vi, looking up that kind of information is an invasion of privacy, if not against the law. Tell Trudie to quit.”
“No problem. Anyway, if he were married or divorced, there’s no record of it, at least in this county. Nor is there a deed for a private residence. We assume he’s a renter, or worse, lives in the ’burbs. That’s all Trudie could ferret out about him. Unless you want her to call a friend who works at the IRS.”
“Absolutely not. Trudie is liable to get you both arrested over information that’s of no possible use.” Except, maybe, for his tax return. A peek at that would be as good as striking gold, but Molly kept that thought to herself.
“Molly is right, Mom. What’s more important is finding affordable housing for Mr. Mancini’s tenants. Once that’s accomplished, who knows? She might take a second look at him then — if he’s single.”
“Forget it.”
“Well, he sounds like a better deal than your last few dates. Remember the airline pilot?”
Molly had excised that particular loser from her brain. Not only had he taken her to a cheap restaurant, he’d made it very clear what he expected for dessert. She left him sitting at the table with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Just don’t limit your options,” Dominique added. Molly groaned and switched her attention to the local newspaper she’d brought along. In between poker hands, she perused the unfurnished apartment ads in the San Francisco Chronicle. She had highlighted a few of interest with a felt tip pen.
“Listen to this.” She tapped the folded newspaper at her elbow. “Here’s a one bedroom in the Tenderloin advertised for eight and a quarter. A find, if you weren’t mugged almost every time you left the apartment.”
Dominique, who worked as a law librarian at a prestigious San Francisco firm, and who had promised to research the city’s eviction laws, ran her fingers through her short-cropped dark hair. “On Sunday, drag Mr. Mancini to all the way-out-of-their-reach places first. Then head for the Tenderloin. The shock might force him to up the ante.”
“Did you broach the subject of the rumor he might have designs on your end of the street?” Vi asked.
Molly turned her attention to her poker hand — a pair of twos and junk. It looked like she’d end her day just as it had begun. She was already in the hole for eighty-five cents. “The mood wasn’t conducive to multiple problems.”
“I wouldn’t wait too long to find out, not if you’ll need to relocate the clinic. Unlike his tenants, you’ll be offered zilch.”
“Mom’s right. Sometimes it pays to be up front. Maybe the rumor is false.”
Molly shook her head. “I don’t think so. Except for his condos, the rest of the block looks ready for a bulldozer.”
Dominique tossed a dime into the pot. “Speaking of down-on-your-luck, is the Swaying Palms, that motel a couple of doors from the clinic, a hot pillow joint? I know I wouldn’t lay my head down there.”
Molly kept her pair and added the rest to the discard pile. “No, it’s legitimate. It just needs maintenance. The lights have quit in half of the fronds and the P. Now it reads Swaying alms. It’s ripe for demolition.”
Vi dealt Molly three cards, Dominique two, and herself one.
Dominique checked out her cards, then laid them face down on the table. “I’ll bet a dime. Anyone want to see what I’ve got?”
Molly frowned. There was nothing she could do with a pair of deuces. “I’m out.”
Vi folded her hand. “Ditto for me.”
Dominique raked in the pot and dealt the next round. “Let’s play seven card stud. Threes and nines are wild and fours give you an extra card.”
Everyone anted up a nickel.
“So you think the rumors are true.” Vi peeked at her two hole cards.
“Eddie, the manager of the Swaying alms, caught Mr. Mancini taking pictures from across the street. Not only of the motel but the hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant, the clinic, and the
costume/novelty shop. He wasn’t sure about any of the other properties on the block. Ever since the economy tanked and the mayor put the kibosh on the Halloween hijinks over in the Castro, the costume store has lost business. Eddie wasn’t sure if the building that used to house the coffee shop next door to us at the corner had fallen victim to the camera. The units above it have been unoccupied for at least six months.”
Dominique dealt herself a four, which entitled her to an extra card, then dealt her mother a nine and Molly the inevitable deuce.
“The building department had almost a hundred years to find out those units were out of compliance.” Molly bet a nickel since she already had one deuce in the hole. “Now they’ve caught up to the current owner, you can bet he’s anxious to unload the property. Perfect for Mr. Mancini but a nightmare for the clinic.”
Vi added her nickel to the pot. “He’ll make a tidy profit when he finishes his condos and sells them. Enough to expand. The rumor is probably true.”
Molly wondered if the mole could do a record search to find out if any deeds had recently changed hands. She’d wait a while and see what else developed. If the clinic seemed in jeopardy, she’d ask her aunt to contact Trudie.
Dominique continued dealing. “His profit wouldn’t be so big if he had to fork over a hundred grand per unit to his tenants. You didn’t suggest that on purpose, did you, Molly?”
“Suggest what?”
“They turn down his twenty-five thousand and hold out for a hundred.”
Molly shook her head. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“It’ll cost him a million dollars if they refuse to move for less. That would take a nice bite out of his profit margin.”
Molly sat back and stared at her cousin. “Oh, you have a wicked mind.” She laughed.
“What? You don’t?”
“Not on a million-dollar scale. It never entered my head to try to stop the Mancini bulldozer. His tenants deserve a fair deal. When I offered my opinion, I thought only of them.”
“Maybe you should think of yourself more.”
Sexy in the City Page 57