The Very Thought of You (13 page)

Before he had a chance to fully commit, the front door opened and a man stalked outside. One of his tenants, the surly one. Serk. As he approached the construction site, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a hip pocket and lit up. Nick tightened his hold on the flashlight in case the book of matches flared and arced behind the security fence. It didn't, and Serk continued on his way.

Lights began to glow in the other apartments. Nick crossed back to the van. Again, no signs of life. He decided to wait in his car and see who showed up. He bet on Molly, if indeed she were inside. If the surveillance guy didn't make it back by ten thirty, he'd leave a note on the windshield firing him.

He sat in his darkened car and started the motor so he could pump in air-conditioning. Then he played around with the radio dial until he found an all-night talk station. Only dim light from the street lamps and few apartments kept the area from falling into complete darkness. The single-story commercial buildings across from his project were dark. A few stars poked through the ozone layer. He leaned his head back but kept his gaze focused on the van and the front door of the apartment building.

Molly slipped outside just as his patience began to fade and he thought he might zonk out from fatigue. The sight of her in her knee-length skirt, short-sleeved blouse, and halo of curls gave him a jolt of energy. He cut the motor, grabbed the flashlight off the front seat, jumped out of the car, and closed the door before the ceiling light caught her attention.

Molly headed quickly toward his trailer. Yeah, that was her car parked alongside. He had her pegged — every which way. She had her keys out and in the door lock before he reached the middle of the street. She didn't waste any time but slid behind the wheel and fired the motor.

Nick picked up his pace. Probably, he should have blocked her car with his. Quite possibly, that would have derailed what happened next. As he approached the driver's side of the Chevy, he turned on the flashlight and aimed the beam through the window.

“Molly … ”

She turned her head and squinted into the light. The sound of a gunned motor reached him a second later, and he had just enough time to dive out of range before the car fishtailed backward into the street.

He sprinted to his car, but by the time he leaped behind the wheel, the Chevy had disappeared into the night. Shit. That was the second time she pulled a vanishing act on him. It pissed him off this time. She was slick all right. If that was how she wanted to play, he was more than ready to arrange some serious one-on-one private time with her. He thought about it for a minute, thought about where and when and how to sandbag her. He preferred to corral her on her turf, but not at the clinic.

He stuck the key in the ignition and waited. Then it came to him like a blessed revelation. Oh, yeah. He rubbed his hands together as an idea took shape. Why hadn't he thought along those lines earlier? The where and when fell neatly into place, and a broad grin spread across his face. He had the perfect surprise in store for her. If it was one of the last things he ever did, he was going to get her alone and win her over to his side.

At seven forty-five, the private room above The Grill restaurant buzzed with chatter. Molly took a quick head count from where she stood on the raised platform that served as a stage. Only about a dozen chairs remained empty. If they didn't fill by eight o'clock, she'd wait a few more minutes and then start the auction. With the guest list limited to a hundred, she counted on a full house.

A microphone, gavel, and two boxes that contained gift cards for each donated item occupied space on the table in front of her and Dominique. Soft light emanated from wall sconces, illuminating a pair of murals that depicted a Venetian canal spread along one wall and the Italian lakes on another. An abstract painting, ablaze in color, in contrast to their muted tones, sat propped against the front of the table.

Molly watched people's reactions as they approached to examine the canvas. Some smiled while they studied the frenzied globs of paint; others frowned as if perplexed. Molly thought it belonged stashed away in a dark attic. Still, to show appreciation to the artist who'd donated it, she'd gushed over the painting as if it deserved space in MOMA — the city's modern art museum. Maybe it did. Her tastes ran to Impressionists — notably Monet and Renoir. Whether it took an hour or a month to slap together, she counted on it sparking a lively bidding war.

Molly checked her watch. Almost seven fifty. A steady hum filtered throughout the room. The hum escalated when the deputy mayor arrived with a popular supermodel. Molly hoped they wouldn't become a continued distraction and dampen the crowd's enthusiasm for the auction.

Earlier, she'd placed programs on each chair. Most of the guests still perused the three pages of short blurbs that described the items up for bid. Although cool air poured from ceiling vents, pockets of heat skipped like tiny flash fires under Molly's three-quarter-sleeve black rayon dress. She'd picked through her closet and hunted for something suitable — not too dressy but not too severe. The dark shade and tiny metal studs that swirled beneath the neckline accomplished the goal. Still, she should have chosen something lighter in color and sleeveless. She planned to dash home and jump under a cool shower the minute the auction ended.

While Molly fantasized about lowering her body temperature, Cynthia burst through the doorway at the back the room. Maroon hair flew as the young woman rushed down the center aisle. She climbed onto the platform and almost stumbled into Molly.

“He's here.” Cynthia panted as if she'd just galloped through Golden Gate Park in her four-inch stilettos. She braced her hands on the table edge and swallowed a deep breath. “He's coming up the stairs right now. I almost trampled him getting here first, so I could warn you.”

“Who are you talking about?” Molly couldn't remember inviting anyone who would generate a movie/rock star level of excitement in Cynthia, whose job was to collect tickets at the door.

“Him. The dude … you know … from last week.”

Molly's eyes tracked the direction of Cynthia's waggling finger. Nick stood just inside the entrance of the room. He wore a dark pinstriped suit, white dress shirt, and red and blue striped tie. Drop dead gorgeous didn't begin to cover his appearance.

“Holy … ” Molly caught herself and gulped down the S word, or at least half of it. Too late, unless Nick found something else amusing. It was enough to plaster a big grin across his face. He waggled his fingers in a brief wave, and her heart skidded against her ribs. His eyes stayed locked on hers. Then he shifted his attention toward a cluster of empty seats. He settled onto one. Molly tore her gaze away and fussed with the gavel and boxes of gift cards.

“Holy, my foot,” Dominique whispered. “That's sin on the hoof if ever I saw it, and I think I see it now. I take it that's Mr. Condo.”

“Shhh,” Molly hissed. “He'll know you're talking about him.”

“So what?”

“I sense trouble. That's what. Ignore him.”

“I'm not sure I can, or if I even want to, but I'll certainly try.”

“I wonder why he's here.”

Dominique sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a murmured trill. “Lighting up the room, I'd say. Damn, but he's gorgeous.”

Molly kept her eyes averted. Three nights ago, she'd almost amputated his toes when she practically ran over them with her car. Although certainly not on purpose. What did he expect, sneaking up and almost blinding her with a flashlight? She hadn't realized it was Nick and not the elusive rapist who preyed on lone women in the South of Market area. She'd acted like any sensible woman — she'd burned rubber. Now he was here and, in less than a minute, managed to totally shred her inner calm.

Molly leaned closer to Dominique and talked out of the side of her mouth. “Don't make it obvious. Can you see what he's doing?”

“He's browsing through the program. No, wait, now he's staring at you again.”

“How does he look?”

“I already told you. H … O … T. and I don't need Ouija's confirmation. No wonder you let him kiss you.”

“You did? Wow.” Cynthia's smile stretched almost to her ears.

“No.” Molly shook her head, and with perfect clarity, sketched a mental picture of herself glued to Nick in that shabby doorway. A ripple of heat glided up her neck. She grabbed a program off the table and swatted the air. Good luck. Only if she drifted on an Arctic ice floe could she hope to extinguish the embers that smoldered beneath her skin.

She turned to Dominique. “Does he look … annoyed by any chance?”

“You mean because of the near hit and run the other night?”

“Yes.”

“If that's annoyed, I'll sign up for it any time. Aren't you going to return the wave?”

“No.” Molly pressed her chin almost into her chest and snuck a glance at her watch. One minute to eight. Almost time to start. She pulled in her breath, held it, and let it out slowly. She waited for her heartbeat to return to something that resembled a normal rhythm. She adjusted the microphone.

“I'm ready to turn this thing on. So be quiet, both of you.” She flipped the switch and gazed out at the crowd. She tried to keep her eyes from straying to Nick, but it was impossible to accomplish. Even more so than when she'd bought a box of See's candy and tried not to eat most of the chocolate-covered cherries on the way home. At least he'd quit staring at her. He paged through the program instead.

“Good evening.” Molly rushed through her introduction in half the time it took when she practiced it. She blamed Nick for single-handedly destroying her nerves. “Shall we start?” She pulled a card out of the nearest box and read the notation at something just below warp speed. “The first item up for bid is a pair of seats on the aisle, center orchestra, to opening night at the opera.” She paused and drew in a breath. “Included is an invitation to the gala dinner preceding the performance and the after-party.” A low buzz wafted through the room. “We'll start the bidding at five hundred dollars.”

She wondered how Nick felt about opera. She loved it and tried to attend at least one production a year, albeit perched high in the stratosphere. Anything by Puccini and Verdi.
Madame Butterfly
was her favorite. She almost never missed a performance.

A man seated in the first row raised his program.

“Do I hear five fifty?” Molly's gaze slid over to Nick. He sat with his hands on his knees and his mouth shut. Opera obviously wasn't one of his passions. Others in the audience appeared more receptive. A few minutes of heavy bidding ensued, after which a prominent high-powered attorney snagged the tickets for two thousand dollars. Cynthia brought them over and collected his check.

The enthusiasm generated by the opera package encouraged Molly and she presented several other items, including a four-course dinner for two at one of the city's renowned restaurants. Less than an hour into the evening, her calculator showed a figure just shy of twenty thousand dollars. Nick still hadn't moved a hand. The gentleman who sat beside him bid eight hundred dollars and won two seats in the owners' box for the Giants' opening game the following season. She recalled Barbara telling her Nick never missed a Giants' opener. Suddenly he had no interest in baseball? What was that about? Okay, he passed on the opera. Lots of guys didn't appreciate it. But no interest in dinners at swanky restaurants, either? Maybe he liked abstract art. The painting was due to come up next.

“This is a wonderful representation of John Fuller's work.” Molly hoped the artsy crowd wouldn't share her opinion that it resembled a frenzied romp executed by a bunch of baboons high on an illegal substance. A loud hum erupted from different sections of the room. It signaled promise.

“John's next showing is at the Golden State Gallery on Union Street next month. You are all invited to his open studio this Sunday, as well. Before you leave tonight, please pick up his business card at the podium downstairs in the restaurant.” Those promotions were Molly's trade off with the artist. It was worth kissing his tush to snag one of his paintings. Rumor had it he was the next Jackson Pollack. “We'll open the bidding at five thousand dollars.” She glanced at Nick. He gave a subtle shake of his head and grimaced. Molly bit back a smile.

Heated action from the moneyed crowd followed and promised a good haul. The painting sailed out the door for twenty-five thousand. That was abstract art, though. What Molly saw as chaos, someone else viewed as talent.

She brought the Hawaiian trip up for auction at the midpoint of the evening and didn't have to feign enthusiasm.

“Someone will spend a glorious week on the Island of Maui in a fabulous oceanfront home. The package includes two rounds of golf, a spa day, daily maid service, and use of a car.” A burst of chatter filled the room. She waited for it to ebb. “My thanks to Helena Singleton who so generously offered her home for this fundraiser.” Molly beamed a smile at the prolific author who sat in the front row. “The bidding will start at sixty-five hundred.”

She glanced at Nick. Either he squeezed his tan out of a tube like she did or he ignored the dangers of too much sun and hit the beach. She figured him for the real thing, UV rays and all. An image of him stripped of his suit and everything else underneath popped into her head. Clear and sharp, there was nothing abstract about
that
picture. Molly's mouth went dry.

A man three rows back raised his hand. Quickly, the bidding escalated. Molly came out of her trance at eight thousand.

“Who'll bid nine?” Would Nick duke it out for a Hawaiian odyssey? Would he dare throw around such substantial money and then shortchange his tenants? He'd guarded his wallet all night. He'd never even raised an eyebrow before the case of champagne fell into someone's hands for twelve hundred dollars.