The Very Thought of You (2 page)

“You never know,” she said. “Sometimes good things happen when least expected.” His aftershave brought a refreshing hint of the outdoors into the small, windowless space. Nice. After he left — and it couldn't be soon enough — she hoped the scent would linger.

“They've had more than enough time to relocate, nearly twice what the law requires. You
advised
them to stay put.” He stabbed the air with one long finger, almost as if conducting a discordant symphony. Molly beat off the urge to lean back, since that might suggest she'd given up ground. Unless her little patch of terra firma crumbled, she was determined not to part with an inch.

“Several tenants asked what I'd do in their situation, and I told the truth. Having practically no resources with which to make a move, I'd absolutely stand pat.”

His eyes narrowed at the poker term, as if he'd just awakened to the possibility that he was dealing with a con artist or at least someone accomplished at bluffing. Nothing could be further from the truth. Sure, most Friday nights Molly played poker with her Aunt Vi and cousin, Dominique. She never bluffed, though, and wouldn't know how to con anyone.

“I made a very generous cash offer. One any landlord would consider overly generous.”

His skin tone ran toward olive and blended well with an eye-catching tan. One of the perks of outdoor work. Even lathered with sunscreen, she couldn't avoid burning through the entire pink to red spectrum if she exposed her skin to the sun for more than thirty minutes.

“You consider twenty-five thousand dollars per apartment unit generous?”

“When you don't have to work for it, yes.”

“Sorry. Not even close. Especially for people who live on or just one notch above the poverty line.” She tried to temper the censure in her voice but failed.

“I suppose
suggesting
they hold out for a hundred grand instead wasn't the same as giving them advice.”

“That's not how I see it.”

“I get it.
You
would hold out for a hundred.” That brought him in maybe fifteen more inches. Another fifteen and he'd leave his shoe print on her sandals and spray-on tan toes.

“If I were in their situation, sure I would.”

“You don't consider a hundred grand greedy?” He shook his head and a lock of dark hair nudged his brow, further ramping up his sex appeal and breaking God only knew how many scientific laws of nature.

Molly took a few moments to clear her head of the kind of thoughts that could turn a woman into Play-Doh. If he were any other man, under any other circumstances … She sucked in a deep breath and had to kick start herself to refocus on greed.

“No.” She exhaled in a whoosh of air. “To expect a generous buyout isn't greedy. It's just plain common sense. When's the last time you checked out the economy?” She sidestepped around her desk, opened the center drawer and dug out a hand calculator. “Hard to imagine where you think those people are going to move to in this city on twenty-five thousand dollars. You probably have a team of financial advisors who do nothing all day but figure out ways to make you piles of money. For your tenants, though, a savings account is probably the best they can expect. That's one step up from a cookie jar.” She tapped numbers into the calculator. “Let's assume twenty-five thousand times a measly two point five percent in a money market, which assumes it's tied up practically for life. That only comes to … ”

“Six twenty-five.” He spit it out, with hardly a hesitation, as if he had an adding machine implanted in his brain. “Even without the interest, the principal should last for years if they're careful.”

“You mean if they use it as a supplement and add it to the amount they pay for rent now.”

“That's the idea. They'll have a financial cushion to bridge the gap once they relocate.”

“Except in today's market and in this city, that should last about … ”

As her fingers again danced across the instrument's key panel, his hand reached out and clamped onto hers. He snatched the calculator with his other hand and dropped it onto her desk.

“You know, I'd love to sit down with you sometime and crunch numbers or whatever, but right now I'm running late for an appointment.”

She pulled her hand away. “That sounds like just another way to say the argument has gone against you, and it's time to retreat.”

“Were we arguing?”

“Weren't we?”

“I hope not.” He smiled for the first time. At least he proved he had the capacity and wasn't all just rugged good looks. The smile softened his strong features. Molly supposed plenty of women jumped out of their lace thongs at the slightest encouragement from him. Even if she wore a thong, she didn't foresee adding her name to the list. Not even if she prevailed and he encouraged.

“Well, disagreeing, then.”

“I understand your point, and yes, I'll admit it will take some effort to relocate where rents are cheaper. But those kinds of units do exist.”

“Really? Maybe in the Yukon … and even there, there must be a waiting list.”

The smile dropped a notch. “There's no need to go that far. Low rent apartments can be found right here.”

“Not to my knowledge.” Also, if the rumor proved true, he might gobble up the seedy real estate — perhaps even the clinic — at her end of the block and no one would make a buyout offer to her. No other San Francisco landlord would give the clinic the kind of break on rent her current “angel” offered — a dollar a month. She would love to pump Mr. Mancini on any future plans but decided against a two-pronged assault.

“In my business, I've gotten to know the city pretty well. There's affordable housing available right now if you know where to look. Do you want me to prove it to you?”

“Do you really think you can?”

He slid his cell phone from its sheath and gave it his attention for a few seconds. “I can free up some time this afternoon to prove there are inexpensive units out there — given my tenants will have a windfall to work around. We'll check out a few. Then once you're convinced, we can both get on with business.”

It had been far too long since a determined man invited her inside an apartment for
any
reason — she didn't count the octopus who'd earned a squirt in the eye with hand sanitizer when he'd decided to take inventory of her body, and in a public lobby. Or the blind date with the comb-over that didn't quite hide the double-sided tape. Even though
this
man had a face and body that could take a woman's inhibitions and shred them into confetti, she wasn't about to drive around town with him so he could try to prove a non-provable point. “That sounds like a waste of both our time.”

“I can make time.”

“Sorry, but I can't during work hours on a Friday or any other weekday. So why not just take a good look at the classified ads in the
Chronicle
or check out the Internet? You'll see what's available in the rental market.”
That should settle it.

His gaze bored into her like a laser primed for maximum penetration. “You're backing down.”

“Absolutely not.”

He braced his hands on the edge of her desk and leaned in several inches, which brought his eyes practically level with hers. His arm muscles flexed, and a second later, her toes curled. Which would be understandable if he were her type, which he wasn't, but he
was
TR UB LE. Oh, yes.

“Ms. Hewitt … ?”

“Huh?” Great. Now she was channeling Cynthia.

“Why don't you just admit you're wrong?”

For heaven's sake, why didn't he just throw down a glove and challenge her to a duel? Obviously, mere words would never change his mind. He needed physical proof, so she figured she might as well relent.

“I admit nothing of the kind. Also, I don't have an overblown ego that forbids me to acknowledge a mistake.” A dark brow — the one with the mole — rose. Her dart had hit a bull's eye. “To prove my point, I'll take a look at what you
imagine
is available.”

He nodded. “Okay, then. Why don't I drop by your place and pick you up tomorrow at ten?”

That was the time she'd set aside to cruise around the city and scoop up gift cards donated by several high-end restaurants for her upcoming auction event. Afterwards, she had an appointment with the producer of the funky smash revue Beach Blanket Babylon. They'd discussed the possibility of squeezing in the highest bidder somewhere between Louis the Fourteenth and the dancing poodles.

“I have appointments tomorrow, but I could finish by two.” Free from there on, also. All she had on tap for Saturday night was to curl up with a glass of Chardonnay and a good murder mystery.

“Doesn't work for me.” He went back to his cell phone. “How's Sunday afternoon around three?”

She figured that morning he'd be sleeping off a big Saturday night frolic. He didn't sport a wedding ring, but that didn't mean he didn't frolic with a wife. “Not possible then, either. Sorry.” Her cousin Dominique had agreed to drop over around four to help with the proposal Molly planned to submit to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. She would cancel except for a looming deadline.

He nodded his head. “See, you're trying to avoid a showdown. You know I'm right.”

“You're wrong on both counts. I can meet you tonight around six.” That would turn tonight into the second Friday in a row she'd have to bail out of the poker game. But she wanted to get this search over with, like quadruple ASAP.

“Can't make it.”

“Well, then, I guess that only leaves Sunday morning. Or perhaps now you'd like to postpone this indefinitely.”

The mouth that had smiled so invitingly only a couple of minutes before sank into a frown. “I … okay, I can try to squeeze it in.”

“Thank you.” She managed to get the words out without too much sarcasm — which, where Nick Mancini was concerned, didn't come easily. If he was going to have an overnight guest, too bad. He'd just have to kick her out of the sack early.

“All right, where do you live?” he asked.

“Why do you want to know that?”

The broad shoulders under his T-shirt slumped, and he blew air out through his mouth. “So I can pick you up.”

“Oh.” At least he refrained from adding “stupid.” “I can meet you here. I don't give out my address to people I don't know.”

He stared at her for such a long time she wondered if he'd had some sort of seizure. What luck they were in a medical office.

“Right. We'll meet here Sunday morning at, say, ten. Does that fit into your schedule?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Good. We'll settle this, and then maybe you can stay out of trouble for a while. Or at least not cause any more.”

“Really? Not cause trouble for whom?” She figured the “whom” stared her down from across her desk.

“I had my tenants in mind. Who did you think I meant?”

“You. Who else?”

“Uh-uh.” The corners of his lips tipped up and his facial muscles relaxed. “Usually, when trouble heads my way, it has little to do with business.” Between the slow drawl and the sensual look that bumped his expression into
approach at your own risk
territory, a patch of heat sprang into her cheeks. To her credit, she kept her mouth from dropping open.

“Your face is flushed.” He reached across the desk and tapped her lightly on the chin with a bent finger. “Do I make you nervous?”

At this juncture he did, more so than when he'd practically laid siege to her office.

“No, of course not.” Lax, lately, about practicing yoga, Molly made a mental note to review the Alternate Breath Technique. She had a feeling that, on Sunday morning, she would need the benefit of its promised natural tranquilizer.

“Okay, then. I'll stop by for you Sunday at ten.” No more smiles. He just turned and left the office.

Once the front door closed, Cynthia buzzed in. She set a mug of steaming coffee on Molly's desk. “You sure held your own with the big bad builder.”

Molly let out the breath held far too long. She swept her dog-eared copy of
Grant Writing for Dummies
and a pile of empty file folders off her chair and plopped down onto it. “Do you think so?” She fanned her face with her hand. Either the cooling system had failed, or Mr. Mancini had vacuumed up all the air.

“I know so. Wow, I would have crumpled.”

“Yeah, like poor Mrs. Zamoulian.” It pained her to think about the woman going up against N MAN 1. She hadn't stood the tiniest chance. Well, on Sunday morning, Molly intended to show up with enough evidence to prove low-rent housing was even scarcer than a fogless summer in San Francisco. Then, hopefully, after their apartment hunt, Mr. Mancini would realize his cheesy twenty-five thousand dollar buyout offer wouldn't stretch from here to the corner.

Would he admit it, though? She guessed he hardly ever confessed he was wrong, even when faced with incontrovertible proof. Speaking of which, she wondered how much he was going to require and if just a few hours would be enough to prove her point.

That put a prickly thought into her head. She wouldn't have to do this more than once with him, would she?

“Molly, you remember my friend who works at the Hall of Records.” Vi Phillips dealt from a deck of cards whose backs were emblazoned with a faithful image of a young, slim Elvis. “She helped you out by telling fortunes at your carnival event last year.”

Trudie, aka the mole. Molly shuddered inwardly. “You didn't volunteer her for my auction, did you?” At the carnival Molly had sponsored the previous summer, she'd overheard the mole reading the palm of one of the city's most prominent men. She predicted he'd find a Playboy Bunny in his bed that night.