The Very Thought of You (15 page)

Molly thought the description less than fitting. The man could be dangerous.

“That doesn't sound like anything he'd propose. In fact the opposite.”

“I don't believe he meant it in the way Mrs. Z understood it.” She told him about Serk's threat.

Nick shrugged and didn't seem worried about having his nose mashed courtesy of his tenant's fists. Nick was taller, leaner, and came across like he kept himself in really good shape. She guessed he could deck Serk even before the man had a chance to fully curl his stubby fingers into anything potentially lethal.

“It was a nice gesture from her, anyway,” Molly said.

“She wanted to negotiate. I wonder who that idea came from.”

“It's a common practice.”

Nick unfolded his arms and rested his palms against the edge of the table and leaned back. “She said you taught them about give and take.”

“Perhaps something along those lines came up.”

“The negotiating team didn't say anything about giving, however. It was mostly taking. Except for the cookies, I didn't see a whole lot of goodwill on their part.”

“They don't have your experience.”

“True. They've never had to negotiate union contracts.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I think my tenants are harder to deal with than a bunch of hardhats.”

“If you made the first move … ”

“And upped the ante, you mean?”

“That seems like a good start.”

He moved away from the table. Two steps brought him close enough to Molly for her to get a good whiff of his aftershave. It hinted of sandalwood blended with a touch of juniper. His dark hair was tousled enough to give her heart a bump. She knew he didn't need extra padding to fill out the shoulders of his suit jacket. Every bone, muscle, and sinew beneath it was built with expert precision.

“I said I'd go to thirty.”

“You did?”

“That's pretty much my top offer. You might pass that along to them. While you're at it, remind them that, if I go up, they need to come down.”

“You mean to ninety-five.”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. They're going to have to make a bigger adjustment than that.”

“Well, you'd better negotiate it. I'm not putting myself in the middle.”

“You already are.”

“I can't bargain with you. Is that what you planned for Saturday? To trap me up in a balloon and hammer away over money?”

He didn't answer right away, which seemed to prove her point. The twelve fifty he'd bid was a future investment against a million dollar loss. Okay. She'd give him several hundred thousand dollars' worth of opinion the second he brought up money.

“Not at all. On Saturday we'll just be two people out to have some fun.” He touched the tip of her chin with his bent finger, like he did the first time in her office. Now he kept it there longer. “You know how to have fun, Ms. Molly, don't you?”

She'd have liked to ask the same question of him but suspected she'd get that drowsy, sated, rolling around in the wild, king of the beasts look from him again. She kept her response to a simple yes. Which was just as well. The moment his finger made contact with her skin, her heartbeat went into quickstep.

When he took his finger away, she didn't have to ask herself if she liked it when he touched her. She did.

“Okay. So we're on for Saturday.”

“You won't bring up the situation with your tenants?”

“Not even once. Let's put anything that approaches finances off limits. Why ruin what may turn out to be a perfect day by dragging along any problems? Agreed?”

“That will take an awful lot of restraint. Personally, I don't think you can do it.” She'd bet her next ten paychecks on finances becoming the center of conversation. Why else would he want to corner her in a floating basket two hundred feet above the ground? At the very least, he'd try to use her as a go-between. What other interest could he have in her?

He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I'll make a deal with you. If I mention anything along those lines, I'll add a couple thousand dollars to the thirty I offered.”

Restraint, to which she was no stranger, kept her mouth from doing another Lio imitation. Could she have been wrong about his motive when he outbid himself? Perhaps he just wanted to end the contention that seemed to grow between them. Should she trust that he spoke the truth? Hmmm.

“I'm going to take that as a challenge.”

He smiled. “I'm up for it.”

“What if I broach it?” Or, just as importantly, the clinic. What better time to get a straight answer? While they admired the scenery, she could slip in a question as to whether or not he had any further expansion plans. Technically, it could be considered breaking his “no finance, no problems” rule, since the purchase of property involved money and the loss of the clinic would create a huge problem. Somehow, she'd find a way to skirt around the restriction.

“Will you?”

“I don't … ah … expect to. If something slips out, though, what will you do, nick a couple thousand off the thirty?”

He took another step forward. He moved with a rolling gait that brought her eyes to his hips, a spark of heat to her cheeks, and a stab of guilty pleasure into her heart. She dragged her gaze up to his.

“There's a word for people who promise something then back down. When I give my word, it's solid.”

“If I do. Slip, I mean. What then?”

This time, he didn't bother with a finger under her chin. He put his hands on either side of her face. “Trust me.” She smelled minty toothpaste on his breath. “I'll find a way to puncture that balloon — and I don't mean the one we'll be drifting under — the second it lifts off the ground. Understand what I'm talking about?” His lids dipped and his lips remained parted. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her again and show her exactly what he was talking about.

A brushfire claimed the skin under his hands and leaped down Molly's throat and into her chest. She figured he'd have no trouble deflating whatever balloon she was foolish enough to launch. So it became vital for her to remember to use subtlety while giving the impression she held up her end of their bargain. Either she did it right or somewhere, as they floated over the treetops, her subconscious was liable to collide with his thought transference. She wouldn't need Ouija to predict the outcome.

Confident he knew every major thoroughfare and back street in San Francisco better than most other natives, Nick easily found Molly's address. The house climbed three stories above a small neatly trimmed lawn that bordered a tree-shaded sidewalk and was painted pale blue, with raspberry and white trim under the eaves and around the windows. Spindled railings flanked the eight or so steps that led to a front door set back under a pediment. The Victorian features — slim columns bracketing windows, latticework, and the intricately carved open designs set into the upper corners of a small second floor porch — whizzed straight to his builder's heart. One day he wouldn't mind owning one like it. He priced the house easily at a couple of mil.

Molly's Chevy hugged the curb in front. He found a spot three doors down with barely enough room to fit his hybrid. He cut the motor but stayed behind the wheel.

He'd arrived ten minutes early despite taking the time to rip into the box of corn flakes and carton of milk his mother had brought over the previous evening, along with a basket that bulged with fruit. The fruit would stay in the refrigerator until the next time she dropped over. He'd been healthy all his life in spite of shunning fruit and vegetables, even as a kid. You'd think by now his mother would have given up. Fruit didn't come anywhere close to what he needed. What he needed was something his mother couldn't provide. He thought of Molly. Was he pumped? Sure. Molly was attractive and bright — and his for the day. She had plenty of sex appeal, too, made even more potent since she seemed unaware of it. Embers smoldered under a controlled outer shell. He'd brought them close to the surface once and wouldn't mind trying for a full-fledged conflagration. Would she let him? He looked forward to finding out.

When he'd talked with her after the auction, he'd gotten the impression she might have started to weaken. She'd warned him about Serk and encouraged the tenants to negotiate with him. A small step but at least it headed in the right direction and didn't cost him anything. Maybe the hundred thou wasn't chiseled in stone. Maybe she'd taken a harder look at his side of the problem and understood it better. For all he knew, she was one of those bleeding hearts out to save the world. Maybe he could bring her around to wanting to save him.

The apartment house wasn't the first time he had to deal with tenants. He'd faced the same situation three years ago in the Outer Mission. Forget twenty-five thousand. He'd offered fifteen and the tenants had grabbed it and were out in a week. He'd expected the same thing this time. He'd never considered himself naïve. Anything but. Savvy, informed, and well aware of what was happening around him was a more accurate assessment.

Now he regretted that he'd volunteered to put the impasse with his tenants off limits. All morning, he'd asked himself the same question: Why had he decided to take the high road? When she'd asked if he intended to hammer away at her during the balloon ride, he'd thought
shit
yes
, then quickly denied it. The truth wouldn't have gotten him in the same county with her, no less in a floating basket. He wanted her ear — and, okay, a little more — maybe a lot more — but why kill his best opportunity? Yeah, that wasn't his smartest move. He needed Molly to convince his tenants to come down out of the stratosphere and onto solid ground. Even if they roasted an ox for him in the space alongside his trailer, he couldn't move up much further than the thirty K. She could persuade them to accept his offer. Today would have been perfect to work a little magic on her.

But a deal was a deal. He couldn't go back on his word. He'd have to use a little creativity.

He snapped off his seat belt and flexed his arm muscles. When he moved his head in a circular motion, he heard the joints crack. He hadn't slept well. Last night he'd spent several hours parked in the spot where the surveillance guy should have been watching the condos. Except, he'd fired him on Monday.

Nothing had happened at the construction site to cause him concern, so at two in the morning, he'd dragged his tired body home and crawled into bed. But he couldn't fall asleep. As soon as he hit the sheets, he'd started to think about Molly. He pictured her long legs and then slowly dragged his tired eyes up from there. Although near exhaustion, he'd had no trouble when he mentally peeled her clothes off and ran his hands over every part of her. Touching her in places he knew she'd never let him. The problem with that was, his body had started giving him a message: either jerk off or go to sleep. Solo sex had never appealed to him so he'd chosen the latter. Now his body gave the impression he'd been on a two-day binge. Being less than one hundred percent could shoot his creativity all to hell.

He shook his head in hopes it would revive him. Then he climbed out of the car, shoved the keys into a front pocket of his jeans, and walked the short distance to her house. It was one of the better examples of Victorians in the city. It commanded his attention again, and he paused a few more moments to admire it.

A wrought iron gate met him at the foot of the stairs. He fumbled with the lever, pulled the gate open, and climbed up to the small front porch. A brass plate built into a side wall held two doorbells alongside an equal number of name slots. Hewitt was printed on the top one and the name Grandy below it. Probably the aunt occupied two floors.

The door swung open before he had a chance to ring Molly's bell. A woman dressed in a yellow halter top, knee-length pink shorts, and cowboy boots stood in the filtered light. Two long gray-flecked braids hung from her head like thick ropes rubber-banded above frayed edges. Willie Nelson in drag came to mind.

“Hi, you must be Nick. I'm Molly's Aunt Vi. Come on inside. She's running late.”

He pulled off his sunglasses and hooked them on the neck of his T-shirt. Then he followed her into a foyer where an oak combination coat rack and metal umbrella stand occupied one wall. Even to his untrained eye, the piece looked like an expensive antique. A staircase led to the second floor. He followed Molly's aunt and entered what he assumed was the downstairs part of her living quarters.

Apparently, she was a huge fern fan. They dangled in beaded slings from every corner of the living room. A couple more hung in muted sunlight that spread in through a pair of windows. A huge macramé owl, perched on a yard-long branch, took up most of the opposite wall. Enough candles to set the neighborhood on fire, if anyone was crazy enough to light them all at once, occupied a coffee table. Another table held a hookah and a crystal ball.

Holy shit. This was the woman who raised Molly.

“Have a seat.” She pointed to a brown overstuffed sofa that looked as if it could swallow a small person. He sank down into it and wondered if he'd need a lifeline to haul himself back up.

“Let me find you something to drink.”

She spun out of the room before he had a chance to forestall her and returned a minute later with two glasses of something yellow. He hoped it was only lemonade. Probably a tree half the height of the house grew in the backyard and provided Molly and her aunt with enough vitamin C to ward of any forthcoming plagues. The two of them should get together with his mother sometime. On second thought, maybe not. She handed him a glass.

“Do you live in the city?” Vi eased into a plump companion chair.

“Yes, I do.”

“You rent, correct?”

“Yeah.” His gaze strayed to the crystal ball. Nah.