The Very Thought of You (14 page)

She guessed correctly about the Maui trip. The bidding climbed to nine thousand dollars in less time than it took her to apply a splash of color to her lips in the morning.

“Do I hear ninety-five hundred?”

The deputy mayor flicked his hand, the one that hadn't clutched the supermodel all night. What kind of salary did he earn to jump in at that level? Especially since the city was almost on the brink of bankruptcy. It didn't really matter. He dropped out before Molly banged down the gavel after the final bid of thirteen thousand.

The boxes were almost empty of donation cards when she opened the bidding on a day trip to the wine country.

“I wish I could bid on this item myself. The package includes door-to-door limousine service, a hot air balloon ride over the Napa Valley, and a gourmet food basket. We've arranged for a table at Thistle Creek Cellars in their private dining room for after your flight. A bottle of vintage wine — either red or white — awaits you there. We'll start the bidding at five hundred dollars.”

The room fell silent. Molly couldn't believe it. Gliding over the Napa Valley was one of life's pleasures she often promised herself but always put off. It usually had something to do with cost. A woman she recognized as the CEO of a large corporation headquartered in the city raised her program. Finally some action.

“Okay. I have five hundred. Do I hear five fifty?”

The room remained quiet except for the rustle of programs and people shifting in chairs.

“I guess some of you must have a height phobia. Would it help to smuggle the wine aboard before you leave the ground?” That garnered a few chuckles. With luck, now the logjam would break.

“Five fifty,” a male voice called from a center row.

“That's the spirit. Who'll bid six hundred?”

The clock ticked and no one spoke.

“Seven hundred.” A deep voice rolled forward from the back of the room. Nick's.

Seven? What happened to six? He must really want this package. Apparently, height didn't qualify as one of his fears.

“Okay.” Encouraged by Nick overbidding, she called out, “Do I hear eight?”

Silence.

“You mean I'm going to have to let this go for seven hundred?” Nick rose to his feet just as she was about to throw in a plug for the clinic and its many good works.

“Okay, eight hundred.”

Molly blinked. “Eight? You just bid seven.” He looked and sounded sober, but Molly had her doubts. Now it seemed he couldn't wait to give his money away.

“Yeah, but now I'm bidding eight.” Nick nailed her with a sharp gaze.

“Well, all right … I guess. Your money's as green as anyone's.” Perhaps even greener. “Is that the final bid?” Molly grabbed the gavel and her eyes searched the crowd. No other takers. She waited a few seconds anyway. It seemed Nick had a date to sail over the treetops. “Last chance. Going once … twice … ”

“Hold on a minute.” He stepped into the aisle.

“What?” He must have realized he overbid. Now would he insist on backtracking, maybe to the six hundred level?

“I'm not finished.”

Oh, he'd nipped at something for sure. Not Pepsi. If she played along, maybe she could jack him up as high as nine hundred, even the thousand she'd hoped the package would garner.

“Did you want to change your bid?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh.”

“Unless someone else wants to jump in, my bid stands at eight hundred.” He glanced around. No one seemed interested in upping him. “Okay, then, in that case, I'll go as high as twelve hundred, but that's only if Miss Molly up there comes along for the ride.”

A smattering of applause, a shrill whistle, and a male voice that croaked, “Go for it, buddy,” greeted Nick's announcement.

Molly's chin dropped, and her mouth opened wide in perfect imitation of one of her favorite comic strip characters, Lio, when he either stepped into trouble or caused it. Her brows knit together. She couldn't have been more disconcerted if Nick climbed up on his chair and begun to perform a slow striptease.

“What are you talking about?”

“You heard me.” Nick stood in the aisle, his jacket open, hands jammed in the pockets of his pinstriped pants. A black belt circled his waist and rode above narrow hips and the flattest stomach this side of a vegan convention. His legs looked as long as a carnival worker's who strode around fairgrounds on stilts. Molly could think of at least six women who'd kill to be trapped aloft with him beneath a hot air balloon. Was she one of them? Well, she wouldn't exactly
kill
for the privilege. Then again, it wasn't the worst proposition she'd ever had to juggle. It opened up too many problems, though. The warning “consorting with the enemy” came to mind. Having “consorted” once, she knew better than to repeat that mistake.

“I … um … unfortunately don't come as part of the package.” She kept her tone light for the benefit of the audience, while she struggled against the undercurrent that pulled her toward and then away from Nick. “Since that's the case, perhaps you'd like to withdraw your bid.”

“Uh-uh.”

Molly's instincts told her to shut him down. “I have five fifty from the previous gentleman,” she called out in a somewhat quavering tone. Then she cleared her throat. “Who'll make it six hundred?”

“Twelve fifty.” Nick began to walk toward the stage.

“You can't raise your own bid.”

Dominique snickered in her ear. “Says who?”

Nick paused halfway up the aisle. “You said you wished you could bid on the item.”

“Well, yes, but … ”

“There you are. You want to go, and I want to as well. So, why don't we go together?”

There seemed only one reason why he wanted to spend almost a whole day with her. If he were persuasive enough, his twelve hundred and fifty dollar investment could wind up saving him — she did a quick calculation — seven hundred fifty thousand if she got the tenants to agree to his original offer. He thought he could wear her down. Why wouldn't he after the way she'd let him do a lot more than she'd allowed her last date?

“Really, I can't accompany you.” Ugh, she sounded like a school marm from a bygone era.

Dominique picked up the gavel and banged it on the table. “Really, she can. This item is herewith sold to the lucky gentleman standing in the aisle.” She plucked the card with all the particulars out of Molly's hand and hurried over to Nick.

Someone gave a shrill whistle while a few others burst into applause.

“Gee, I wanted to bring him the card,” Cynthia said. “He … is … so … hot.”

Molly thought so, too.

Dominique spoke into his ear while he wrote the check. There was a height difference of several inches, and he had to cock his head to hear her. He laughed at something she said, and she laughed back. Molly tried to ignore them. However, her eyes kept flicking back as she auctioned the one-of-a-kind floor-standing vase another local artist had hand woven out of strips of colorful paper.

Nick passed Dominique his check and she said something that brought his head up and his gaze to Molly. What was going on with them? What mischief was her cousin up to? She didn't trust her as far as she could throw Aunt Vi's crystal ball. Molly lost track of the bids. When someone offered eleven hundred for the vase, she banged the gavel down and declared the bidding closed.

Cynthia plucked the card away from Molly and brought it to the winner. Then she scooted over to Nick and Dominique, who'd moved toward the back of the room. Her head bobbed as she spoke. She glanced back toward the stage and pointed at Molly. He listened, nodded, and shook her hand. Oh, sure, another introduction. Why should Cynthia be left out? Then both women seemed to talk at once. Nick smiled down at them. Between her cousin and her assistant, they had him almost purring.

Molly thanked everyone for their participation. The painting and vase and several other items were carted away, and the room began to clear. Then the author approached Nick. Though she was two decades older than him, with the surgical work she must have had done on her face, they looked close to being contemporaries. According to the
Chron
, she recently cut loose from her fifth husband. Maybe it was time to troll for another. She certainly hung onto Nick's hand long enough. Molly winced as a dart aimed by the Goddess of Jealousy pricked her skin.

She turned away and hurried over to the outlet in the back wall where she'd plugged in the microphone. She stooped and pulled the cord free. When she stood up, Nick was at her side. He fished the white card Dominique had given him out of his jacket pocket. It contained the information outlining the day's activities printed beneath a picture of a basket carried aloft by a colorful balloon.

“I've always wanted to go up in one of these things, but I never seemed to have the time. I couldn't pass it up.”

“What happened to your sister?” Molly wondered if Barbara had colluded with her brother or had been bribed or pressured into giving up her seat at the auction. Maybe she envisioned Cupid nailing Molly and Nick with his little arrow while they floated above the grapevines. Maybe the family really couldn't wait to hustle him to the altar. Well, they had a big surprise coming if they expected her to become the next Mrs. Mancini.

“Hmm, she couldn't make it.” Nick gave no further explanation.

Molly wound the microphone cord into a coil. “Look, you don't have to go through with this. I can withdraw the item.”

“Why would you withdraw it? Anyway, it's too late now. We have a date.”

Date?

Molly returned to the table and repackaged the microphone and gavel.

“The card says any Saturday for the next month. The prediction is for the low eighties this weekend. Sounds like perfect flying weather to me.”

Molly had always subscribed to the theory nothing in life was perfect. The body occupying the space about two feet from her and fueled by high octane testosterone Mother Nature rarely dispensed came pretty close, though. Could she handle a few hours alone with him in a venue
Travel Magazine
voted one of the most romantic in the country? She thought so. She couldn't imagine any situation cropping up that would allow him to maneuver her into another faux marriage.

“The clinic could certainly use the money.”

“That's exactly what I thought. It would have been a shame to let this trip go for five fifty. The clinic performs a much-needed service down there in SoMa. I'm glad I had a chance to do my share to keep it in operation.”

His coming across like Dr. Albert Schweitzer, the long-gone champion of the sick and needy, didn't fool Molly. He had an ulterior motive: saving himself a suitcase full of money.

“So, how about this Saturday?”

She couldn't see any purpose in putting off the inevitable. “Sure, Saturday's fine. Give me the card and I'll make the necessary arrangements.”

“Uh-uh. We're going on my dime, so I'll take care of it. I'll pick you up at home. That's not a problem anymore, is it? Or do you still consider me a stranger?”

Well, an intimate stranger if such a thing existed.

“No, it's not a problem.” She took the card and wrote her address on the back. They agreed he'd come by for her at eleven o'clock on Saturday.

Molly put the box containing the microphone she'd borrowed from City Hall into a shopping bag. She flattened the two empty boxes and added them to the bag too. Nick leaned back against the table and folded his arms across his chest.

“I'm sorry I startled you Monday night.” He seemed truly apologetic, not like a man who'd almost had his toes pancaked.

Molly grimaced. “I had no idea it was you. Not until it was too late.”

“I'm sure you didn't.” His tone lacked conviction. Still, there was no reproach in his eyes in spite of her quick get-away.

She waited for him to pump her about the association meeting.

“How often do the tenants get together?”

Molly shrugged. “I don't know. They're pretty secretive.”

“Are the meetings always held on Monday nights?”

“As far as I know they've only had two.” She couldn't remember when the group first met. She wasn't included.

“Let me know when they hold the next one. I'd like to attend.”

Molly recalled the great “secrets to the enemy” speech delivered by the Attila the Hun wannabe, Duncan Serk. “I don't think that will happen any time soon.”

“Why not?”

“I suggested it, but they voted it down.”

He didn't respond right away. “Okay, we'll leave it for now. Thanks for being honest.”

She wanted to tell him his “for now” was more likely to turn into forever. Not unless he had a way to hijack the seven more easily intimidated souls and perform a Duncan Serk on them.

“Oh, and thanks for the cookies.”

Bewilderment clouded her brain. “What cookies?”

“I had a visit Wednesday morning from Mrs. Zamoulian, along with a couple from my building. She brought me a plate of home-baked cookies.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She picked a nice variety — peanut butter, chocolate chip, and coconut. I guess she wanted to make sure she hit at least one of my favorites. She did, and then some. In baseball parlance, that's called batting a triple. They went down great with my morning coffee.” He grinned, adding to the wattage from the overhead lights. “I won't need a jolt of sugar for the next year. She said it was your idea.”

Molly had no recollection of ordering up an overload of sweets. Then she remembered the thug, Duncan Serk who spouted something about cookies, but not in a friendly manner.

“I think the suggestion came from one of your tenants. Do you remember Mr. Serk?”

He nodded. “Oh, sure. Serk the jerk. You'd need to undergo a lobotomy to forget him.”