The Very Thought of You (4 page)

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.

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.”

He secured the lid on his coffee and set it in the drink holder behind the gear shift. Then he reached into the glove compartment — as noticeably tidy as the rest of the car — pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses, and slipped them on. As if he didn't have enough sex appeal before, it did a steady climb up the heat index chart and almost blew the top off. Either Molly's coffee still steamed, or somehow Mr. Mancini had the kind of effect on her not even her last three boyfriends put together ever had. At least she'd never experienced a tingle in her toes
and
heels before. Hopefully, the little beads of moisture that broke out along her scalp would settle down once he activated the air conditioner.

He turned to face forward and eased the car into the slow stream of traffic. “Who pays your salary? If that sounds like prying, just tell me and I'll stop.”

Molly sat back. Blessed air pumped through the car's interior vents, and her body returned to a more recognizable state. “No, that's okay.” If she answered a couple of questions about herself, she might root out some further clue to his personality and any future plans he had for expansion. “I'm paid through the fundraisers I sponsor each year. That's really the main part of my job and mostly the only way to keep the clinic open.”

“Do you live in the city, since your budget is so tight?”

“You mean have I found low-rent housing for myself?”