“He can’t buy up another chunk of the block for a million dollars.”
Vi picked up her mug of mulled cider. “It might be enough to float a bank loan for the motel and Chinese restaurant.”
“Or the costume store and clinic,” Dominique offered. “Maybe even the building that housed the defunct coffee shop, too. A triple whammy. He could anchor the block with new condos.”
“Ask him on Sunday,” Vi suggested.
Molly nodded. “First chance. I promise. Although, on Sunday it’s important to keep his attention on his tenants.”
Dominique dealt the last face down card. “Did he strike you as a man with a limited attention span?”
“Not in the least.” Molly didn’t find him limited in any respect other than his cavalier attitude.
She perused her cards. Even with all the wild threes and nines, she could only muster two pair.
Vi laid down a royal flush helped by three wild cards and raked in sixty-five cents.
Molly slumped in her chair. “Why couldn’t he have built on some other city block? God knows there are enough in need of a wrecking ball.” She pushed away from the table. “I’ve gotta go.” She grabbed her newspaper and marker. Just talking about the builder brought on a headache. Spending hours with him on Sunday was going to totally wreck her karma.
Chapter 3
As soon as Nick entered his apartment, he pulled off his tie, yanked open the top button on his shirt, and shrugged off his suit jacket. He tossed the tie and jacket onto the sofa, then headed into the kitchen and rescued a cold beer from the refrigerator. At the rehearsal dinner that night, the prelude to his brother’s wedding the following evening, champagne had flowed as if from a gusher. He hated champagne. It gave him a headache. Ordering a beer at the dinner, however, was apparently tantamount to committing a mortal sin. Since the affair was semi-formal, his mother had given him the usual orders: suit, tie, and no beer bottles on the table. Shit.
He popped the cap on his brew and sauntered back into the living room where he didn’t bother to turn on a light. A street lamp and a perfectly full moon gave off enough illumination. He found his Faith Hill CD and slipped it into the player. While the music drifted low in the background, he sipped his beer and opened the sliding glass door. Now that many parts of the country were preparing for the briskness of fall, the fog that shrouded San Francisco all summer had finally dissipated, ushering in balmy weather. He never minded the fog. It was one of the many features, along with the hills and cable cars, that made the city so unique.
He stepped outside onto his small balcony, leaned against the rail, and gazed out over the bay. Lights blinked in every direction. The Golden Gate Bridge stood out in stark relief and spanned the inky-dark water.
“Hi, Nick. Great night, isn’t it?”
His neighbor Serena — or was it Sabrina — greeted him from her balcony less than thirty feet from his.
“Yeah, it’s okay.” He could think of several ways it could have been better: bottled beers at dinner, a black hole swallowing Ms. Hewitt, and Serena/Sabrina canning the conversation.
“You’re out late tonight.” She flipped her Sheena, Queen of the Jungle jet-black hair over a shoulder. “I missed you earlier. My gym has a promotion — two free months for newbies. Interested?”
He wanted to ask if she kept a running account of his movements — which he suspected she did — but knew any encouragement would only lead to a drink invitation.
“Uh … not at this time.”
“I get a free month if you sign up. It’s worth a dinner … on me. Can I change your mind?”
The woman was a piranha. He waved her off.
“Well, the dinner invitation still stands. You’re not dating right now, are you?”
He wasn’t, but before he let her know that, he’d take a header off the balcony.
“How about — ”
“I have no time right now.” He cut her off without the addition of “maybe in the future.” That courtesy had once landed her within fifteen seconds at his front door.
“Well, think about it.”
He stepped back a couple of paces, which put a three-foot portion of a side wall between them.
His apartment building sat midway up a steep hill in Pacific Heights and afforded one of the best views of the city. He glanced down over the rooftops and wondered if Molly lived somewhere within sight. He’d been unaware of her until last week. When he’d asked around about the clinic, he’d found out it had been open for almost two years and operated on a sliding scale from free to whatever a person could afford. Obviously, a shoestring operation. One story high, the building was squeezed into a narrow slot that fronted a sidewalk littered with soda cans and assorted paper debris. The steel door kept it safe at night. No window faced the street, probably for the same reason.
Somehow, Molly must earn a living from it. When he’d walked into her office that morning, he’d expected a woman somewhere between fifty and retirement age with bad hair and narrow lips and who wore polyester and no-nonsense orthopedic shoes. A bulldog. What he found instead was Molly — with a jumble of rust-colored curls that ended midway down her neck and looked as if they’d stick out all over like heating coils after a night of steamy sex. That is, if nosy do-gooders even engaged in steamy sex, which he doubted. He also figured a couple of decades would pass before she saw fifty and left behind her strappy shoes and knee-length skirt. The pale fabric had hugged a slim waist and nicely shaped hips, the kind he usually didn’t mind wrapping his hands around.
Although plenty of attractive women lived and worked in the city, she scored well above average. That should take some of the sting out of spending Sunday morning apartment hunting with her. And if she kept her opinions stuck permanently on pause, the sting might disappear altogether.
Fatigue settled in. His day at the construction site had been a bitch. What had once seemed doable — building five floors of live/work lofts on a space occupied by an empty warehouse, a ten-unit apartment building, and a vacant lot — had become plagued with problems. As the guys had dismantled the last warehouse wall, he’d said “go easy” so many times he sounded like a damn monk spouting a mantra. Oh yeah, and they’d had an audience. Five people from the apartment house had carted out folding chairs and watched them chip away at the wall. It had taken a lot of persuasion to convince them to move back to a safe distance. He didn’t need a lawsuit if a stray brick connected with someone’s head. He’d also expected Molly to steamroll down the street in support of the tenants, but she hadn’t. Too bad. He’d like to check her out again and see if the sun turned those russet curls flaming red.
He finished his beer and hit the kitchen for another. Inside the refrigerator, along with three bottles left over from the six-pack, there was a half brick of cheese, a carton of milk, and something that had rolled toward the back and vaguely resembled an apple. His mother had dropped in recently, poked her head into the refrigerator, and thrown out everything but the beer. While she’d delivered sheets, towels, and cutesie sofa pillows — none of which he wanted or needed — she’d given him the usual sermon about his being single.
“You still live like a traveling salesman. Your sisters are all married and your brother will be soon. You need a wife.”
She must be on the same wavelength as Serena/Sabrina. Thank God the women had never met. Maybe someday he’d need a wife, but right now he’d settle for more action in the sack. If he told his mother that, she’d race to the nearest church and start a novena. He knew any time he wanted sex, he’d find it where single women congregated after work. After springing for a couple of drinks and dinner, he’d have a bed partner. But a one-night-only collision with a stranger usually held little appeal.
Last week, his mother had nagged him again, this time about not bringing a date to his brother’s wedding.
“You’ll be the only one on the dais without a partner. There’s still time for you to meet a nice girl” — girl, as if he were still in high school — “and invite her to accompany you.” Maybe jump in and make it a double ceremony while he was at it. But he’d let her ramble on.
“God forbid you stay a bachelor forever, like your Uncle Richard who lives with a houseful of cats. You’ll wind up talking to yourself, and that won’t be the worst part. People will think you’re eccentric or, God forbid, peculiar.” Why didn’t any of his relationships last more than a few weeks? Maybe if he found the right girl.
He’d stood back while she’d sprayed Windex on his kitchen counters, which were almost spotless since he never cooked. Pizza, Chinese, and Mexican take out got eaten right out of the carton at the coffee table in the living room while he watched the late news or a ball game. He couldn’t remember ever bemoaning the fact that there wasn’t a wife and an overdone roast waiting for him after work. Lonely wasn’t a word that occupied space in his conscious mind. As for his recent relationships, he didn’t have the time right now for the kind of attention women demanded.
He ambled back onto the balcony with his beer. Serena/Sabrina had abandoned her post, which made it safe to walk to the railing. Almost midnight now, fewer lights glowed in the surrounding homes and apartments. He wondered if Molly lived alone or with some guy — another do-gooder or Mr. Success. Yeah, he wondered who she slept with and if she slept au natural. His last girlfriend had slept in the nude, which had been convenient. But when she’d paraded around the apartment like Eve in Eden, much to the delight of his neighbor with the telescope, he’d figured it was time to move on. That was eight months ago.
He couldn’t imagine Molly Hewitt sashaying around in broad daylight in the buff. Even if she were married. She wore a ring on her right hand, a small amethyst set in gold. So maybe a husband wasn’t in the picture yet. However, it wouldn’t surprise him if a boyfriend lurked in the background. If he was going to bird-dog her, he didn’t need any complications from Mr. Right. He didn’t need any complications, period.
He thought about how she’d meddled with his tenants and started getting pissed all over again. He finished half the beer and pressed the cold bottle against his forehead. When he’d first met with the tenants and offered a buyout, he’d assumed they’d grab the money and resettle in the time allotted. But somewhere between then and now, Molly, with the pouty lips that made a man want to grab her and plant a big wet one on them, had entered the picture. In a nanosecond, twenty-five thousand had become little more than taxi fare. He was stretched thin. Dangerously so. He’d already taken out a second on the small office complex he owned on Sutter. Shit, did he look like Donald Trump with money cascading out of his nostrils? He owned a small company. In nine years, he’d completed four projects, and this was only the second time he’d had to deal with an occupied building.
What had puzzled him about his tenants was how organized they’d become — at least, until he’d met little Ms. Greedy.
A picture of how Molly had filled out the sleeveless knit top she’d worn that morning floated into his mind. Yeah, she scored pretty high on the “cute-as-all-hell” scale and had enough sex appeal to catch and hold the attention of a healthy male. Him, for one, to be honest about it. Along with looks and a body that could get a man to think about doing the nasty tango with her, he guessed she also possessed some pretty well-honed organizational skills.
What he’d discovered at the clinic that morning was she might look like an angel, but she had an I-bar up her butt. She didn’t bend. He’d bet his building permit she was the de facto head of the tenants’ association. He’d have to go through her in order to reach a settlement with them. So yeah, dealing with Molly Hewitt would require strategy. He’d start by throwing a little charm her way. Once he knew her better, he could find out what curled her toes and brought a smile to those sexy lips.
Maybe he’d come on a little strong that morning. Instead, he should have taken some time to figure out the best way to nudge her toward a compromise. How much of a man-eater could she be, running a not-for-profit clinic? If he worked at it, he thought he could convince her to sign up for his team. That shouldn’t be impossible. He possessed some pretty fierce organizational skills himself. When a situation called for persuasion, shit, he was the man. He was definitely up for a little one-on-one with her and might even get some fun out of it.
Yeah, it was time to introduce Ms. Hewitt to Mr. Charm.
Chapter 4
When Molly pulled up outside the clinic on Sunday morning, Nick Mancini’s hybrid was already parked at the curb. She wondered how long he’s been sitting there and if he was an early bird, the kind who rose at five A.M. and needed only a few hours’ sleep. Or maybe he was trying to make a good impression. Of course, she’d arrived early, too, and that had nothing to do with impressing him. For once, she hadn’t had to spend an excessive amount of time taming her hair so it didn’t resemble something you slapped on the end of a pole and used in place of a Swiffer.
She dragged herself out of her car and walked to the passenger side of the hybrid. He popped the lock, and she slid into the seat beside N MAN 1 and engaged her safety belt. Today, he wore tan slacks and a black T-shirt that more than accomplished its job of defining his impressive set of pecs, abs, and prize-winning biceps. She figured him for a gym rat.
“Good morning.” He greeted her with a smile and a drink container from Starbucks that looked exactly like the one in his hand. “I didn’t know if you had time for coffee, or even if you drank coffee, or what kind you liked. I took a chance on a mochachino raspberry grande. Is regular okay?”
Was he telepathic? Mochachino raspberry grande, four of which she’d already awarded him for his looks, was her very favorite. She rarely sprang for a grande, though, and regular was the only way she drank her coffee. A needed jolt most days.
“Thanks.” She smiled and didn’t have to force it. She parked her purse in her lap along with a couple of folders that contained unfurnished apartment ads from the Chronicle and tips she’d gleaned from Craigslist and other Internet sites. She also brought along a couple of local independent publications that advertised rental properties. She pried the top off her container. The subtle aroma of chocolate mixed with the robust blend of coffee made her want to moan with pleasure. She put that on hold and took a few sips before replacing the lid.
“I see you came prepared with ammunition.” Nick shifted position so he partially faced her. He placed his hand on her seatback, and his fingers brushed her hair. She wondered if that was deliberate or if her hair stuck out too much and he couldn’t avoid contact.
She followed the direction of his eyes to the newspaper ads that peeked out from the folders under her purse.
“I figured we needed someplace to start. Or did you already have somewhere in mind?” Maybe he’d tucked similar materials away in the glove compartment. The interior of his car was spotless. Not even a gum wrapper. Unlike hers. Half-filled water bottles, running shoes, a windshield sun visor, and assorted materials related to her fundraisers cluttered the backseat and floor.
He drank from his coffee container for a few moments. “I’m curious about the clinic. Who funds it?” His hand moved and brushed her hair again. “I’m curious about you, too.”
She edged slightly forward and turned toward him. Not to avoid his fingertips, which caused a pleasant little buzz of electricity to swarm around her head, but so she could make eye contact when she spoke. A lot could be gleaned from a man’s expression, oftentimes more than from his words.
“The clinic is strictly treat and release. We keep a small supply of prescription medication on hand — most of it donated by medical salesmen. Our most serious procedure is usually setting a broken bone.” She took a sip of coffee and savored its sweet, robust flavor. “The city contributes a small percentage toward the salary of our senior doctor
. Since most of our patients have no health insurance, my job is to find enough financing to cover everything else. One way I do that is to stage events.”
“How many doctors staff the clinic?”
“Just two. In order to work with us, our younger doctor temporarily gave up the opportunity to practice medicine in the Amazon. Luckily, the grant I wrote to cover a portion of his salary came through.”
“You’re good at it, aren’t you?”
Molly blinked. “At what? Oh, you mean grant writing. My cousin helps me with that.”
“No, I meant rounding up financing, separating people from their money.” His smile and jovial tone didn’t quite jibe with his words.
“I do okay.”
“I’ll bet a lot better than okay.”
Molly shrugged. “Most people are very generous when approached for a good cause. I don’t twist arms or anything, and I rarely just ask for donations. I always plan something interesting and fun. I much prefer that to grant writing, which is such a hard slog and so technical. Also, I never meet the people I address.”
“How many grants do you have in the pipeline?
“I’m writing one to fund a dentist a few hours a week. That’s the only way to squeeze it into the budget. Ours is tighter than Washington’s at Valley Forge. I don’t suppose you’d care to contribute?”
He draped one arm over the steering wheel and settled into a position that brought his right knee closer to hers. “I’m tempted, what with the expectation of … fun … and all.” He tapped a long finger against the wheel. “What did you have in mind?”
His expression slid from sensual to carnal and hot enough to make her want to weld a Yale lock to her panties.
Mind? Molly’s was bereft of thought. She could only shrug.
“Hmm. Well, it doesn’t matter. As much as I’d love to contribute, right now I could use someone to write a grant for me.”
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