At His Fingertips
Dawn Atkins
The same psychic prediction three times is definitely a sign. Even though Esmeralda McElroy is ready to reunite with a man from her past, she doesn't expect Mitch Margolin to be him. Mitch is no longer the sexy musician who once caught her eye. Now he's a conservative, buttoned-down hot guy. So not her type.Still, the steamy way they connect between the sheets is making her see stars. The tricks he does with his fingers are sinful! But out of bed their different views collide. Does that mean he's Mr. Wrong? Is she tempting fate by continuing to sleep with him? Where is that crystal ball when she needs it?
At His
Fingertips
Dawn Atkins
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my friend Suzan,
for opening her heart and my eyes
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
1
“SO IF I WANT THIS GRANT, I should let you read my palm?” The young woman bumped the table with a knee, sloshing the gingko-chamomile tea Esmeralda McElroy had brewed to enhance alertness and calm for her and her clients.
“It’s not a requirement, hon. Consider it a bonus gift.” Esmeralda zeroed in on Cindy’s face. Something was wrong with Cindy’s grant application and Esmeralda had to figure out what. Esmeralda’s psychic skills weren’t a formal part of her job as director of the Dream A Little Dream Foundation, but they were the reason she’d been hired after the first director left. Olivia, the founder, had been a palm client and trusted Esmeralda implicitly.
The proposal for an exercise playland for toddlers was solid, but as Cindy explained the benefits of large-muscle development and parent-child bonding, her eyes were empty, her aura gray with gloom. Cindy had a dream, but it wasn’t this one.
“A gift? And this will help?” Cindy bit her lip.
“I could read tea leaves if you prefer.” Esmie had recently ordered some silver-needle tea that produced dramatic configurations. “Your aura is as gray as a rain cloud.”
“My aura is…gray?” Cindy blinked at her.
“Let’s stick with your palm, huh?” Esmeralda smiled kindly.
Cindy extended a hesitant hand and when Esmeralda cupped it, she felt a rough spot on Cindy’s left thumb. “Cuticles need a trim.” She paused, then spoke in the somber voice of a TV fortune-teller. “Through my crystal ball…I see in your future…a healing manicure.” She grinned. “I do nails, too.”
“Really?” Cindy laughed, relaxing as Esmie had hoped. It was no accident that her own aura was wild with light-hearted yellow.
“I love this.” Cindy touched Esmie’s index fingernail, which held the stenciled star with a rhinestone fleck she’d created for the thirty-fifth birthdays of her and her friends.
“Thanks. So…let’s see what’s going on with you, hmm?” She took Cindy’s hand again, closed her eyes, silently prayed for clarity and wisdom, then looked down at Cindy’s earth hand with its square palm and short, evenly spaced fingers.
The girl’s heart line held passion, but the angle of her thumb showed she was not ambitious…hmm.
Cindy’s story came together in Esmie’s head, clicking into place like puzzle pieces. “Ah…I get it.”
“You do?” Cindy said. “You get it?”
“You want to work with kids, Cindy, but not in a business, as a teacher. Here is your passion…” She pointed to the line. “This shows how you lead by example. This shows your need to interact with people. You’re a natural teacher.”
Cindy gave a sad smile. “But I only have one semester at Phoenix College.”
“That’s easy to fix. Request a scholarship from us.” Esmeralda tapped the grant application. “Whose dream is this?”
The girl flushed. “My dad’s. He read about childhood obesity and how yuppie parents hover over their kids, so he thought this would be a moneymaker.”
“He’s right, I’m sure, but you need to overcome your tendency to please others, sometimes to your own detriment. Use the courage that’s here.” She touched the large, curved upper Mars mount.
“That’s my courage?” She looked so hopeful.
“Absolutely. Tomorrow night I’m holding a Wish Upon A Star workshop. We help people pin down dreams and make them real. I think you and your dad should come.”
“My dad?”
“Sure. So he can own this dream—” she patted the application “—and understand yours.”
“Okay. We’ll come. Thanks.” Cindy beamed, then looked down at her hand. “You see anything else I should know?”
Before Esmeralda finished, Cindy had a plan to declare her independence from her father, an appointment for a full reading—and a manicure—and tears in her eyes.
Esmeralda accepted Cindy’s hug and said goodbye, pleased, but drained. Back-to-back appointments, someone’s dreams on the line every hour, was exhausting. But this was only week four. Surely she’d build stamina.
She had to make time to read through the grant applications on her desk—two daunting towers of spiral binders, portfolios and folders. She should work weekends, too, except her palm and nail clients needed her.
This week she had to hire a consultant to make sense of the jumbled business plan she’d inherited. Lack of business expertise was her Achilles heel, but she wouldn’t let that stop her. Phoenix was a mecca for entrepreneurs and people starting over. She should have no trouble finding a consultant.
Thinking of all she faced made the knot in her chest tighten and her stomach churn, but she would make this work. The Dream A Little Dream Foundation was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make a difference in lots of lives. She loved reading palms, of course, but sometimes it seemed like such an insubstantial thing. The foundation was big and tangible and important.
It would make her mother proud, too. As a dedicated social worker and counselor, her mother had always given so much to her own clients. She was Esmie’s hero. This job was a way to follow in her mother’s footsteps, to honor her memory.
Needing energy, Esmie bent into a fan pose, legs apart, elbows to the floor, and eased into a refreshing stretch.
“So, it went well?” The voice of her assistant, Belinda Warwick, made Esmeralda jump up so fast she had to grab her desk for balance.
“It did. Yes. Once I read her palm and saw what she needed.” That success reassured Esmie that she belonged here. A person without her skills might have funded the well-crafted proposal without noticing the disconnect between the dreamer and the dream. The purpose of the foundation was not just to give out money, it was to fulfill dreams.
“I wish I had a thimble-full of your talent,” Belinda said. “I study, but it doesn’t get through.” She tapped her temple with the nail on which she’d had Esmeralda stencil the star design, making her many bracelets rattle. She’d asked where Esmeralda bought hers and doubled the number she wore.
“It takes time, Belinda. Hundreds of readings, hours of study. You can’t rush it.”
Esmeralda had inherited Belinda, Olivia’s niece, who aspired to be a palm reader. She saw herself as Esmeralda’s protégée and took notes on everything Esmie did, practically giving an “I’m not worthy” bow when she left the room. Esmeralda feared Belinda’s hero worship kept her from picking up her own inner voice, which was crucial for success.
“Your four o’ clock had to reschedule,” Belinda said. “I wasn’t able to get a fill-in.”
“That’s fine. Gives me time to catch up.” She nodded at the towers of proposals.
“We’re still getting calls from the newspaper article.”
“That’s good.” A feature in the Arizona Republic about the foundation had tripled the calls and applications. The story had even been picked up by papers outside Phoenix.
“I’d be happy to go through these,” Belinda said, looking through the top few.
“Let’s see how it goes.” Belinda knew even less than she did about grants and business. Esmeralda had to blaze a trail first.
“I’d love to help…really.” Her voice faded as she flipped through the stack. “Tomorrow, your nine o’ clock is a man you know….”
“Really?” Esmeralda’s heart jumped. Could it be Jonathan at last? Was her ex-husband finally showing up as predicted? You must begin anew with a man from your past were the exact words from three separate readings. Their marriage had ended abruptly and she blamed herself, so a second chance was perfect.
Belinda’s gaze shot to her. “Oh, wait. I’m sorry. It’s not the man from your past. At first, when he said he knew you, my heart flipped, too, but he’s a bartender from Moons. Jasper?”
“Oh, sure.” Esmeralda knew him through a hairdresser at her shop who also waitressed at the strip club. Before Jasper could start the stock group he wanted a grant for, he had to control the gambling impulse she’d read in his hand.
“I’m so sorry it wasn’t him.” Belinda had done one of the readings that picked up the man from her past message and seemed to feel responsible for his arrival. Esmeralda hadn’t mentioned Jonathan to Belinda—she was embarrassed enough about how eagerly she kept an eye out for the familiar dimples, the blond thatch and the big smile of her ex-husband. She really missed him. And she was dying to see him.
“He’ll get here when the time is right,” she said, showing a patience she didn’t feel.
“Shall I smudge your office?” Belinda asked. “Make some tea? Light your incense?”
“I’m fine, Belinda. Truly.” Belinda behaved as though assistant was code for slave. Absolutely not Esmeralda’s way. “Don’t you have a reading in a bit?” Belinda used Esmie’s salon station to see a few clients. “Why don’t you take off early?”
“Are you sure? I really want to help in any way I can.”
“You are helping. You’ve got the appointment calendar just right. The grant evaluation rubric and spreadsheet look great. The Web site’s coming along. The biggest thing is getting the books straight.”
Belinda cringed, ducking her head. “That. Right. I got some help from a friend of mine? Rico? If that’s okay? He did the books for Uncle Louis, so he’s showing me the basics.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She’d never met him, but if Rico worked for Olivia’s brother, he’d be trustworthy. She had some vague recollection that Rico and Belinda had dated, too. “So go. Leave early. Study the palms I gave you.” She’d given her several photos with interpretation for training purposes.
“If you’re sure?” When Esmie nodded, Belinda bounded away, her bracelets jingling, blond curls bouncing. She’d bleached and curled her hair to match Esmeralda’s. Wore similar clothes, too. Esmeralda found it embarrassing—and potentially disturbing—but she knew from Belinda’s palm that she needed a role model to develop security. Esmeralda would do her best to be that person.
She headed into her office for a head-clearing meditation.
Her cell stopped her. It was Annika, her temporary roommate, with an update. One of Esmie’s foster dogs had bitten a hole in the sofa she was holding for a friend; Esmie’s neighbor wanted to borrow her car; two friends needed advice; three people wanted palm appointments.
Sometimes Esmeralda’s life felt so full it seemed ready to pop, but giving felt too good to have regrets. The universe never gave you more than you could handle.
To clear her head for reviewing grants, she warmed her strawberry-scented shoulder bag in the microwave, lit strawberry incense, put Yoga Chill on her CD player, and hefted herself into a legs-up-the-wall pose.
She laid the steamy, sweet-smelling bag across her face so it rested on either side of her head, blocking all but a whisper of music. Air brushed her bare legs, since her skirt had fallen to her lap.
She breathed in slowly through her nose, out through her mouth, letting her thoughts gather one by one.
They were mostly worries. Could she nail the business aspects of the work? Would she make good grant choices? Would she impress the board at the first meeting? Olivia had hinted some board members were skeptical about Esmeralda’s skills. Would she even be ready in a month?
As each worry arose, she pictured a fat, fluffy cloud lifting it away across the blue sky of her mind. What about Jonathan? That was a hope, not a worry, at least.
She’d almost called him in San Diego, the last address she had. But she knew she should let the universe churn, not try to wrestle the prediction into what she wanted—her tendency. As with many psychics, readings on herself or those she loved were rarely accurate, consisting of wishful thinking and selective omissions. He’ll appear when he’s supposed to, she told herself and let a gold-tinted cloud float Jonathan away.
IT WAS NEARLY FIVE when Mitch Margolin stepped into the Dream A Little Dream Foundation office. The walls were purple with gold trim and covered with posters with woo-woo slogans. There were crystals on a table and stars everywhere—star mobiles, star paintings, star paperweights, even stars in a small water fountain. Full on fairy dust.
And it sank his hope like a stone.
Damn. He wanted a solid opportunity for his brother, not mystical nonsense. He’d even called his buddy Craig with the Attorney General’s office to see if there was anything suspicious about the foundation, which sounded too good to be true.
For now, Mitch was here to learn what he could. If the place was for real, it would be good to be an early applicant. Besides, Dale might lose interest any minute. His brother was a bass player who contented himself with what he made playing gigs, teaching lessons or doing studio work. The fact he’d actually expressed interest in a day job made Mitch jump on it.
The empty desk and dark computer monitor told him the receptionist had gone for the day. Not long ago, though, judging by the smell of blown-out candles. A different, fruit-scented smoke came from deeper in the office. Incense?
He followed the smell down a short hall to a closed door. The nameplate said the office belonged to Esmeralda McElroy, Executive Director. He heard Eastern music—a sitar, cymbals and high-pitched singing—coming from inside.
Bookshelves beside the door held a peculiar mix of titles: Tarot and You, What Color is Your Parachute? Small Business Basics, Palmistry for Beginners. Business and New Age. More BS alarms went off in his attorney brain. Maybe he’d spent too much time around Craig, who had lots of con artist war stories—Phoenix was a hotbed for scammers—or maybe he’d seen enough rip-offs in his day.
Still, Mitch wanted this for his brother so badly he could taste it. It was Mitch’s fault, after all, that Dale’s life had never taken off, that, at thirty, the man lived like a teenager.
He tapped at the door. No answer. The music must be too loud, so he turned the knob and stepped inside.
He took in the busy room, painted in the same purple and gold as the reception area. Colorful artwork filled the walls, and the furniture was red and puffy and included a couple of star-covered beanbags. Above the spindly teak desk, he spotted something amiss—a pair of female legs sticking up, soles pointed at the ceiling.
O-o-o-oka-a-a-a-y.
She was doing some funky exercise—tai chi, yoga, whatever. He stepped close enough to speak to her, absently noting the stars on her toenails.
Her legs were shapely and tan and her colorful skirt had pooled at her hips, barely, uh, covering…uh. Mitch got an involuntary charge. He jerked his gaze where it belonged—to her face, which was covered by a bag.
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”
The woman startled, shoved the bag off her face and smiled at him from the floor, not the least embarrassed about her legs sticking up like that. “Hello there.”
“Sorry to catch you…indisposed.” He cleared his throat.
With a graceful move, she pushed away from the wall and down to a sit, legs crossed beneath her. “May I help you?”
“I hope so—” Whoa. Seeing her right side up, he was startled to realize that he knew her. It was those eyes—an electric blue-green that almost hurt to look at.
They’d met years ago at a summer fair where his band had played. He’d been just out of college. She’d just graduated from high school and was learning to read palms. He’d let her read his—a play to get those fingers on him, her sweet breath close, her hot eyes right there. She’d studied his hand as if it was a secret map to all the world’s riches.
Now she held out her hand so he could help her up. Her grip was firm and warm, and she sprang to her feet like a gymnast.
“You’re Lady E,” he said softly, still feeling the electricity of that brief contact.
Her exotic eyes went wide, her brow creased and both thin straps of her slippery top slid down her arms.
“You knew me then?” She hadn’t recognized him, but that was no surprise. He’d long ago ditched the bleached-blond ponytail, goatee and thin’ stash. He shaved, kept his brown hair short and wore glasses.
“Wait…May I?” She reached for his wire frames and he let her tug them from his face. “Oh. Wow. You’re Doctor X!”
From Xtent of the Crime, his band. So ridiculous, but at the time he’d been deadly serious and preposterously ambitious.
“I recognize your eyes,” she said.
He had dime-a-dozen brown eyes, he knew, but he smiled all the same. “I’m Mitch Margolin.” He took back his glasses, needing the barrier.
“Esmeralda McElroy,” she said faintly, still staring. “I can’t believe you’re here. After seventeen years…almost to the day.”
“You remember the day?” It had been a great night and all, with a meteor shower, and making out had been hot, but still…
“That’s because…well, another reason. Never mind.” Pain crossed her face, but she forced a smile. “The point is, you’re back in my life now.”
“Back in your life?” Her words made him uneasy.
“You’ve changed,” she said. “You look so different.”
“And you look the same.” She’d grown into her face, but her features were still fresh and young and sweet. Her puffy lips were parted softly. Her hair was still long, wavy and blond, tousled in that fresh-from-sex way he’d liked. A crystal on a thin cord rested easily in the hollow at the base of her throat and her collarbone looked so delicate it would snap in a hug. She took a shaky breath and those damnable straps shivered against her upper arms.
Her scent filled his head. Fresh, with a tart sweetness—like flowers and strawberries and oranges, like falling face first into a fruit and flower stand.
As she stared at him, he had the same eerie feeling he’d had that night—that she could see straight into him.
Had to be those eyes.
Or maybe he was caught up in leftover romantic impulses from his silent crush on Julie, his associate.
“Let’s sit down and catch up.” Esmeralda led him to an overstuffed couch, jingling as she padded, barefoot, across the room. The sound came from bracelets on both wrists and beads around her ankles. Still the same flower child, evidently.
The sofa was so soft he’d need a boost to climb out. Esmeralda sat close, one leg caught under her, and her neckline drooped.
He averted his gaze, which snagged on her toes, but that seemed just as intimate. Hell, he didn’t know where to look.
“So, how did you find me?” she asked eagerly, leaning forward, making those straps shiver against her skin.
“Find you?” Like he’d hunted her down? “I wasn’t looking. I mean, it was the newspaper story. My brother read it. He has this idea for a grant, see, and—”
“Oh. The article.” She seemed disappointed. “Oh, well. It got you here. The universe has its own sweet plan.”
What the hell was she talking about? “Anyway, my brother Dale is a musician, and—”
“I remember. He was in your band. Extent of something…”
“Xtent of the Crime, yeah.”
“Where are you playing now?”
“We broke up years ago. Just a few days after that night, actually. But Dale still plays and—”
“But you had that record deal. And I remember I saw in your palm that you would succeed.”
Didn’t she know how stupid that sounded?
“The L.A. thing didn’t work out.” They’d been scouted for a music video and three-album deal in L.A. In his gut, he’d known it was too easy, but when Lady E had read his palm—really, his wild hope—he’d been convinced to go for it. He’d been arrogant and ambitious, like every other twentysomething with a band.
She’d meant no harm. He’d been young, hooked by her sureness, the fire in her eyes, and ignored what his head told him.
“That’s a shame. You were so good.”
He’d played one of his songs for her, he remembered, and she’d stared, those eyes going from his face to his fingers and back, enthralled. What an ego boost.
“I grew up.” And thank God for that. His first job out of law school had allowed him to bail his parents out of the dot-com crash, where they’d lost most of their investments.
“What do you do now?” Esmeralda asked.
“I’m an attorney. I practice business law. I’m a sole proprietor with an associate. I mostly work with startups.”
“That’s a long way from music. But there was lots of space between your heart and head lines, which means a strong commitment to fairness. And your lines were deep, I think, which means you’re practical and grounded, like an attorney needs to be. But your head line had a creativity curve and I don’t remember a split fate line. May I…?” She reached for his hand. “I have a great memory for palms.”
Jesus. Palm reading had been fun at eighteen, but she was, what, thirty-five now? To his thirty-nine. “You’re still into that…psychic stuff?”
“Of course.” She blinked at him. “I was just learning when we met. I made some mistakes.” Pain crossed her face again. “Maybe I was wrong when I read yours.” She leaned forward for his hand again.
He withdrew it. “No big deal,” he said, not wanting to laugh at her. “I didn’t take it seriously.”
“I do,” she said. “I take it very seriously. It’s my life’s work.”
“You’re kidding.” The words were out before he could figure out something more diplomatic. “I mean, you’ve got Executive Director by your name. You don’t get a job like that reading crystal balls.” He smiled, hoping to hell he was right. Think of the harm she could do to any poor schmuck who took her guesses at face value.
She’d been earnest when they’d met. Wide-eyed and full of hope. He’d been that way, too, really. Didn’t miss it one bit. Hated that sense of expectation, that vulnerability and the crash that followed. Better to nail down what you wanted, set reasonable goals, then work to get them.
“The woman who started the foundation is one of my palmistry clients, and she asked me to apply for the job after the first director left.”
“Really? Because you read her palms?”
“Really,” she said, sounding insulted.
He had to smooth it. “But you had to have relevant experience.” God, he hoped so, or his brother’s grant was gone in a wisp of fruit-scented smoke.
“I have the credentials that matter to her.”
“You mean a strong intuition, an understanding of human psychology, right? Personnel directors are like that.” Was she a complete nut case? Or was it the founder who was crazy?
“It might interest you to know that there are scientific studies on palmar dermatoglyphics that have appeared in prominent professional journals.” Her voice had an angry edge. “They have verified the link between hand markings and behavior. I can give you Web links or printouts if you—”
“I’m sorry. I got us off on the wrong foot. I came here to find out about a grant for my brother. I don’t mean to offend you.” Pissing off the CEO would not score a grant.
She sighed. “You’re just not what I expected.” She caught herself, covered her mouth. “I mean, remembered. But here you are. And on our anniversary. So that’s that. We go from here.”
“Where are we going?” He felt as though he’d fallen down some Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole.
“Don’t you think it’s curious that we’re meeting again on exactly this day?” Maybe it wasn’t incense he smelled. Maybe she’d been smoking some fruit-flavored hallucinogen.
“Small world, I guess.” He moved his shoulders uneasily.
Her eyes found his with their strange piercing power, so he looked down, but there were her sloppy straps and her nipples.
Ouch.
“That was a magical night. Remember the meteor shower?”
“Sure. I guess.”
“And the fruit we ate? Strawberries and raspberries and, my favorite, star fruit.”
“It tasted like pears?” That was how she’d tasted. Like pears and something sweet that was all her. Her lips had been soft and strong, and he’d been so hot for her he thought he would explode—
“So, Mitch…?” She touched his hand.
Electricity zoomed through him. Seventeen years had gone by, but the chemistry between them had not changed one bit. Screw the grant, screw her craziness, he thought, blood pounding through him. He wanted this woman. Right here, right now.
2
“WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME about your brother’s idea?” Esmeralda managed to ask, trying not to sound stunned. How could she help it, though? Doctor X had returned seventeen years later, almost to the day of when they’d met. The minute she recognized him, heat and light had poured through her from the soles of her feet to every last follicle on her scalp.
Mitch seemed stunned, too. By her touch or something in her gaze. Maybe some latent psychic impulse? She could only hope.
There was attraction, of course. It shivered in the air between them, like heat from an oven on broil, and made her forget his insulting hints that she was in over her head with the foundation.
Could he be the one? He was from the past, all right, and they had unfinished business. He hadn’t called her when he’d returned from L.A. as he’d promised. But then her life had changed so terribly the next day that a hot musician from a star-mad night had faded to nothing in her mind.
“His idea…?” Mitch seemed to struggle to clear his head. “For the grant, right. It’s, uh, a high school program to get low-income kids instruments and lessons. He’ll use musicians he knows to donate time and get a break on instruments….”
He kept explaining, while Esmeralda pondered possibilities. But he wasn’t even Doctor X anymore. He was Mitch Margolin, attorney-at-law, and he’d sneered at her gift. When she’d asked to see his palm, he’d practically hidden it behind his back. He thought she was a crackpot.
How could he be the one? Her body seemed intrigued, that was certain. If she were fur-bearing, she’d be fluffed out like a puff ball, prickling with awareness.
That long ago night, her attraction had been so hot and bright it had almost hurt. Of course, she’d been a virgin and he was older and a musician and devastatingly hot. How could she not be smitten?
He was still exceptionally attractive, though his jaw seemed firmer, the planes of his face more chiseled. The eyes behind the fashionable glasses had gone from a soft brown to hard, dark marbles with pinpoints of white judgment in the center.
The ponytail that had made him seem laid back had been replaced by a crisp business cut, and his hair was a muted brown. His smile was still sexy, but it didn’t seem to come so easily any more. Where he’d been wiry, he was now muscular and he smelled of a pricey cologne instead of sandalwood, clean sweat and fresh grass. The effect was serious, commanding, driven.
She felt funny sitting near him. Nervous, scared and, well…
Hot. She shifted against the ache between her legs, the rolling heat, the helpless urge to touch him, to be touched by him.
This was not how she expected to feel when the man from her past appeared. Jonathan had made her feel relaxed and content. They’d been friends as well as lovers. With Mitch she felt jumpy, unsettled, irritable. And she ached all over.
“Esmeralda?”
“Huh?” She realized he’d asked her a question.
“So, does this sound like something you’d fund?”
She’d hardly heard a word he’d said. “I’d need to see a full proposal before I could say more.”
“Yeah. Makes sense. Any suggestions for the format?”
“Tell you what. Bring your brother to my Wish Upon A Star workshop tomorrow night. We help people pin down their dreams.”
“You hold a workshop on dreams?” He raised his eyebrows.
“You’ve heard of investment groups, haven’t you? Networking groups? Often, people don’t know what they want or are afraid to give voice to it. We brainstorm plans and offer mutual support to make dreams real.”
“And what about the grants?”
“We provide a grant template and tips, too. But the purpose of the foundation is fulfilling dreams, not just giving away money. Let me show you.”
She grabbed one of their new brochures from the end table and handed it to him. “Olivia Rasbergen’s mission is to give money ‘from the heart’ to ‘the little people.’ We fund small businesses and services that deserve a chance, even if making a profit proves elusive.”
“That fits Dale. He’s not big on generating income.”
“And that makes you angry?”
“No. Worried.” Concern instantly replaced sarcasm. “He’s stuck in limbo, kind of an eternal adolescence. Ever since I dragged him to L.A. If I’d thought he’d drop out, I’d never have done it.” Mitch shook his head. “So I feel responsible. If I can help him get his life straight, I want to do it.”
“But is he happy with his life?”
Mitch shrugged. “He’s got the rhetoric down, the old ‘screw materialism and Yuppie striving.’He’d never tell me what he really thinks.”
“Because you’re his big brother.”
“Exactly. We push each other’s buttons. You know how it is.” His hard eyes had softened as he talked about his brother, which made her like him a little more.
“I can imagine.” She was an only child of a single mother, but she understood sibling dynamics from clients and friends. “So tell him about the workshop. If he’s interested, confirm with my assistant tomorrow. You can pay the fee when you get there.”
“There’s a fee?”
“Nominal. Just a hundred dollars. That way participants make a real commitment to the process. That’s why we offer matching grants, so they invest financially as well as emotionally and spiritually.”
“You ask them for capital? Up front?”
“Investment signals action. We encourage them to find outside investors as well.”
“I see.” But the idea seemed to confirm some suspicion he had.
“We eventually want the foundation to be self-sustaining.” Part of the long-range plan she had no clue how to create.
“If Dale does the workshop, will he get a grant?”
“If he meets our criteria. And if it’s his dream. I had a client today who thought she wanted a business, but what she wanted was to become a teacher.”
“So you turned her down?”
“I shifted her focus. She’s coming to the workshop and she’ll probably change her application to a scholarship. Bring Dale and you’ll see how it works.” She touched his hand—a reassuring gesture she used all the time—but it was like a lightning rod for the sexual current between them. She jerked her hand away.
Mitch looked at his hand, then at her face, as if he’d felt the charge, too. When he spoke, he seemed groggy, like someone awakened from a stage hypnosis. “What are the, uh, criteria?”
She used words he would respect. “We have a rubric to evaluate the viability of the idea, the level of the applicant’s commitment and the value of the service or product.”
“That sounds good.” He seemed relieved, which irked her.
“And, of course, I read the palm of every applicant.”
“You what?”
“I’m teasing, but my gift helps me choose who to fund.”
“Ok-ka-a-ay.” He wanted to laugh, she could tell, and that irritated her. She usually avoided skeptics or ignored their insults, but Mitch got to her. Maybe because of her own recent doubts.
“If it makes you feel better, just call it my strong intuition and knowledge of human psychology.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “What’s your approval percentage?”
“I’ve only been here for a few weeks, so I can’t say. The first director funded a dozen projects and I—”
“What happened to the first director?”
“She had to leave because of a family illness.”
“I see.” Was he thinking she was a desperation hire? She’d feared that, too, though Olivia had said no. You are tuned to the beat of every heart, cara, like I don’t know what for, she’d said in her charming Italian-cum-New Jersey accent. I should have gone with my heart and hired you first. Forget my brothers and their obligations.
“Anyway, I’ve funded six grants so far, including an earth-friendly organic bakery, a program for poor kids to earn computers through good grades and another to help prostitutes turn their lives around.”
“Prostitutes?”
“Yes. It’s a career-skills program. You can see how wide-ranging our projects can be.”
“Is there a prospectus or annual report? I noticed you don’t have a Web site.”
“Just the brochure so far. Belinda, my assistant, is working on the Web site, which should be up soon. We’re doing good work, Mitch, even if we don’t have a paper trail.”
“Sorry. I’m a lawyer. If it’s not in triplicate with six signatures, it doesn’t exist.” He gave a self-mocking smile.
“Have a little faith.”
“Not in my nature.” He shrugged.
“That’s not quite true.” She’d caught flickers of a wistful optimism behind his judgmental eyes. His self-mocking humor spoke of the humility she’d remembered. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll decide to draft your own grant.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I sense some dissatisfaction in you.”
“You’re reading my mind?” He was teasing, but she answered him straight.
“Only dimly. When I know someone my gift fades.” She had picked up a muddy blue coated with gray when she first saw him, signifying emotional reluctance, guardedness and suspicion. Not at all the openhearted guy she’d met that star-streaked night. But then maybe she’d read him wrong, read his palm wrong, too, as with her mother. That made her throb with pain. The day after she’d met Doctor X, her confidence, her world, had been rocked to its foundations.
She didn’t need any gift to read Mitch’s skepticism. “Everyone has psychic abilities, Mitch, however rudimentary or undeveloped. Even you. We all respond to subtle information about the people around us.”
She watched him fight a sharp remark, then decide to keep the peace. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Come to the workshop with an open mind and you’ll see.”
“Okay,” he said softly. “Surprise me.”
He’d sure surprised her.
Why hadn’t it been the friendly and familiar Jonathan smiling down at her when she’d shoved the eye bag off her face? Instead, it was Doctor X, who’d turned out all wrong.
The universe didn’t give you what you wanted, she knew, it gave you what you needed.
She needed Mitch Margolin? A brusque and suspicious lawyer who thought she belonged in a rubber room? It seemed impossible. Despite that, even after he’d gone she was shaking with arousal.
If he came to the workshop tomorrow night, she would get a chance to separate the tug of lust from the nudge of fate.
It just couldn’t be him.
Could it?
A LITTLE PUNCHY from the encounter with Esmeralda, Mitch swung by his office to pick up some files and to see if Craig had returned his call. He had to verify that the foundation was sound now that he’d promised to bring Dale to her workshop.
On dreams. God Almighty, how had she talked him into that?
It was that husky voice, those eerie eyes. And that mouth…
“You again!” Maggie, his motherly secretary, looked at him with dismay. “When you left here at four, soldier, I thought you were finally acting like a civilian.”
Maggie was always on him to take it easier. Her husband was retired military and Maggie swore that all the moves had taught her how to determine what mattered in life.
When you’ve packed as much as I have, you know what to U-Haul and what to yard-sale.
“Julie around?” he asked. He preferred to avoid her, at least until he got over the pain of his stupid crush. It had been three weeks, though. Should be time enough.
“Working at home.” Maggie’s steel-gray eyes were sympathetic. She’d figured it out, he guessed, and that made him feel even more ridiculous.
Before his crush on Julie had dead-ended, Maggie had strong-armed him into dating one of her daughter’s single friends—a PR woman with her own firm, as driven as he was. He’d liked her a lot, but they eventually got tired of matching calendars. When he’d felt only relief, it dawned on him what had kept him so disengaged. Julie. The way he felt about her.
He liked to hit problems straight on, so he’d asked her out to dinner, aching to lay it on the line. The rub was that they worked together. Also, she was younger than him. But if she felt like he felt, they’d figure out a solution.
She’d wanted to talk to him, too, it turned out, which gave him hope. As soon as they took their first sip of the wine he’d selected in the restaurant he’d chosen for its romantic ambiance, reserving a private table, she’d told him how much his friendship meant and how grateful she was that he’d taken her on right out of law school, and she wanted him to be the first to know that she was engaged to be married.
To some bureaucrat in land management. Dull as the dirt he parceled.
Mitch should have spoken up sooner. Why had he waited? Too late then and his confession had died in his chest. He’d wished her well. Of course. He wanted her to be happy.
He’d just hoped it would be with him.
“Dinner’s in your office,” Maggie said now. “A basket of homemade tamales from the wife of the landscape guy to thank you for all the extras. I could buy a new house with the billables you give away, Mitchell. Keep it up and your pro bonos will make us pro-broke-os.”
“I see their tax statements, Maggie. It does not serve us well to break their piggy banks paying us.” His clients often needed piddly advice he could rattle off without any research. “It’s practice-building,” he said. “Gets me referrals.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. He was swamped and she knew it.
The way he saw it was you gave extra and extra came back to you. Esmeralda would call it karma. He called it good business.
Right out of school, he’d gotten tons of experience with a business-law firm. Pro-bono work with the Small Business Administration helping startups had fired his blood, so he’d opened his own firm with that specialty six years ago, hired Maggie, then grew enough to bring on Julie last year.
He was up to his eyeballs in work, but he’d begun to feel restless, as though he needed a new challenge. Craig was after him to work for the A.G.’s office. A big income dive, but it was important work. A good next step, he figured.
“Let me see if any of this is urgent.” Maggie flipped through the pink message slips. “It can all wait. Go home.”
“When I’m ready. What are you doing here so late?”
“Keeping your head above water. Ed can heat up leftovers and Rachel’s working. Soon enough I’ll have more time than I’ll know what to do with.” She sighed and he realized she was talking about the fact that her daughter started college soon.
“You need time off to drive her up there?” She’d be attending Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, just three hours away.
“Nope. Saturday’s move-in day, so we’ll drive up then.”
“So hang with her a couple of days maybe.”
“And be accused of clinging? She’d be mortified. No. We’ll be fine. I’m just…antsy, I guess.”
“You know what I’m going to say….”
“I don’t need more school.”
“A paralegal would really help. I’d pay your tuition.”
“You don’t need to do that,” she said.
“It’s a write-off. Good for my taxes.”
“You are such a softie.”
“Eh-eh-eh. I’m a ruthless shark and don’t you forget it.” He gave her a stern look. “If my clients hear otherwise, they’ll quit me cold.”
She smiled. “I’ll take off then. Just don’t stay too late.” She shut down her computer, then adjusted the small photo of her daughter as a young girl, running a thumb across the surface in a sad and tender gesture.
Damn. He hated to see her blue. She had to stay busy. That was the secret. He’d cook up an extra assignment for her. Hell.
“What’s that?” Maggie nodded at the brochure in his hand.
He looked down at it. “A foundation that offers grants. Something I’m looking into for Dale.”
She leveled her gaze. “You can’t live his life for him.”
“Just a jumpstart, that’s all. Craig call?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“I’ll try him again.”
“Don’t stay—”
“Late, got it. Good night, Mom.”
“I don’t know why I bother. You never listen to me.” She was shaking her head as she walked out the door and he headed into his office. Maybe if he kept her busy nagging him, she wouldn’t have time to miss her daughter.
Craig picked up on the first ring. “Craig Baker.”
“I have you live?” They often traded voice mail for days just booking a racquetball game.
“Trying to catch up.” Craig sighed. His friend was hopelessly overworked, which would be Mitch’s fate if he came on board. Sounded good to him. He needed…something.
“I hate to bug you, but did you get a chance to look into that foundation?” Mitch dropped into his chair and rolled close to the desk, laying the purple brochure beside his keyboard.
“Not yet.” Craig sighed. “I’m up to my ears. On top of everything else, there’s media interest in the roofing company fraud case out in Sun City West. I’m prepping the press secretary.”
An assistant A.G., Craig was part of a cross-agency task force to stem the tide of scam artists preying on Arizona’s retirees. “I’ll squeeze it in when I can.”
“If it helps, I went there and met the director. I got a brochure if you want the names of board members and staff.”
“Good idea. Give ’em to me.” There was a rustle as he prepared to take notes.
Mitch read off the list. Craig stopped him halfway through. “Sylvestri? That name’s familiar.”
“Yep. There are two Sylvestris on the board. Enzo and Louis.”
“Interesting. I’ll get a secretary to run a Lexis Nexis search and get back to you.” That would provide any news mentions or lawsuits, at least. A place to start. “How did it seem when you were there?”
“Hard to tell. Quirky.” Talk about understatement. “They have the grantees match funds and get investors.”
“Ah…possible prepayment scam. That’s how that MedQuest real estate investment group operated.”
“Made me wonder, too.” The phony music deal had been that kind of rip-off. A common music industry con, he’d learned afterward and was grateful they’d only lost a grand in “advance costs.” He’d been young, of course, and con artists were clever. One of his clients, a savvy guy, recently lost his shirt to a group that funded invention prototypes. They left the country with his and a hundred other dreamers’ “patent-filing fee.”
“Also, the director is new. She replaced a woman who left supposedly because of a family illness.”
“Major changes in top staff—especially early on—is a sign of trouble,” Craig said, confirming his suspicion.
“Yeah.” What would Craig say if he knew that Esmeralda got the job because she read palms? Lord.
“Got the name of the previous director?”
“I’ll ask when I see the new one tomorrow night.”
“You’re seeing her again?” Craig perked up.
“She’s holding a workshop for people looking at grants. I’m bringing Dale.” He paused. “Funny thing is that I know her. I met her back when I had a band.”
“So she was, what, a groupie?”
“Hardly.” She’d liked when he’d played for her, though. Of course she’d had those incredible eyes and that great mouth….
“But you slept with her.”
“Nah. She was jailbait.” She’d seemed younger than she was—eighteen—and probably a virgin, and he’d been leaving for L.A. anyway….
“You were a gentleman? No wonder your band never made it.”
“Yeah. That was the problem.” You will succeed beyond your wildest dreams, she’d said, looking up from his palm. And he’d believed her. He couldn’t imagine he’d ever been that naive. If he’d used the brains God gave him he’d have checked out the “scout” before leaving town.
“See what you can find out at the workshop,” Craig said. “If it’s bogus, you’re doing a public service. You’ll look good around here, too, if you’re still interested in a job.”
“I am.” The idea got his blood pumping like when he’d first opened his practice. Something new. Something important.
They finished the call with a date for racquetball, which lately had been his main social outlet, along with tossing back some brews watching sports on TV with a few friends.
He liked long hours in the office, despite Maggie’s nagging at him. It got too quiet at his house when Dale was out. Besides, he loved what he did. No regrets. Esmeralda had acted as if quitting music had been some kind of crime against humanity.
She’d looked at him so strangely, as though he was the ghost of Christmas past or a relative she’d thought lost at sea.
To be honest, he’d felt an odd vibration, too. Probably just sexual chemistry. Or maybe inhaling all that incense.
What had she told him? Scientific studies on palmar derma-whatever? Please. Psychics and palm readers were such common scammers, they’d practically earned their own fraud division.
Mitch didn’t believe anyone’s future rested in the lines of a palm. Now, fingerprints, on the other hand, those definitely said something about your future. For Dale’s sake, he hoped Craig didn’t find Esmeralda’s anywhere.
3
AT HOME, MITCH FOUND HIS BROTHER on the couch, clutching a bowl of Cap’n Crunch with a big glop of peanut butter on top. Stoned again. Dale mainlined junk food whenever he fired up a bowl.
Dale looked up from the MTV reality show he was watching. “You’re early.” He shoved magazines and a Xbox controller to the floor and patted the cushion for Mitch. His gaze returned to the plasma screen.
Mitch grabbed the remote and thumbed down the sound. He would be casual. Start real easy, no pressure. “So, I stopped by that foundation office—the one you cut out from the paper?”
Slowly, Dale turned away from the screen. “What?”
“The place that gives grants? You wrote down that after-school music program idea? Wholesale instruments, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” He shrugged. No big deal. That was how he’d acted when the music store had failed. Dale treated job ideas like catch-and-release fishing. There would always be another one. Not so, Mitch knew. Some chances didn’t come twice.
“So I found out more information for you.”
“You didn’t need to, but thanks.” Dale was an easy going guy, popular, with lots of women around. Always out and about, distracted from any doubts he had about the way he lived.
Maybe Mitch should have done the tough-love thing and booted him out, but he couldn’t stand the idea of his brother dragging his cookbooks and guitar from friend’s sofa to friend’s sofa. Mitch had the room and the money to help, so he did.
“The grant sounds possible. We need a proposal, though, and here’s the deal—there’s a grant-writing workshop tomorrow we need to go to. They’ll give tips.” And maybe hold a séance? God.
“Tomorrow night? We’ve got a gig.”
“This is at seven. And it’s a foot in the door on the grant.”
Dale chewed thoughtfully. “How about if you just cover it for me?” He turned to the TV. “I’ve got a couple of lessons in the late afternoon.”
“So skip your nap. Come on. This could be great.” He kept himself from saying anything harsh or pushy. Easy does it.
“It was just an idea, Mitch. No big thing.”
“It was a good idea. Give yourself some credit.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, but Mitch knew he was just afraid of trying something new. Dale’s band sold a decent number of downloads off MySpace, but it wasn’t enough to make a living, to be independent, to build up any security.
“The director was encouraging. And you’re good with your students. Working with kids would be great for you.”
Nothing.
“Make an effort here.” He took a weary breath.
“I’m getting on your nerves, living here so long, huh? I can stay at Bailey’s or with Sarah.”
“No. I’m glad you’re here. I have the space.” And, frankly, he enjoyed the company. “I just want you to—”
“Become you. Yeah, I get that. I don’t intend to bust my hump six days a week like you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my life.” He had rewarding work, friends, a nice home, money in the bank.
“You need to get laid, bro,” Dale said. “You’re a lot easier to get along with when you’re gettin’ it regular.”
Mitch rolled his eyes.
“You don’t even play anymore. Hell, you used to write.”
“Not interested,” Mitch said. He hadn’t even thought about music in years. His guitar was in his closet, way out of tune. Music used to be everything to him—making it, listening to it, analyzing it—but that came from being young and ambitious and obsessed with making a mark.
“I’m getting on your nerves. I should move out.”
“Stay. For God’s sake, I’m just trying to—”
“You’re mad that I trashed the kitchen making that reduction?”
“Not at all.” Dale aspired to be a gourmet cook, except he preferred improvising to following recipes. Which worked fine in music, not so fine in the kitchen. “Maybe less salt next time.” He’d choked down some of the glop to be polite. “Meet me at the workshop, would you?”
“You’re not gonna let up? I’ll try to be there. You hungry? I’ve got vegan chili in the slow cooker.”
“Sure.” What could Dale do to chili, after all? Mitch followed his brother into the kitchen, which looked like a food bomb had gone off, scattering chunks of onion, garlic cloves, spices and pinto beans everywhere. The counter was littered with grocery bags and Dale’s exotic cookbooks—he had an entire book for braising, one for cooking chiles, another for Mongolian fare.
Dale flipped on some music and Mitch recognized the Xtent of the Crime demo the band had cut. “What made you play that?”
Dale shrugged. “A little voice in my head.” He grinned the grin that made him look like a kid again. He was as sunny as Esmeralda. She had a purpose, at least, kooky as it was. Dale bounced around, did whatever felt good.
He’d stayed in L.A. for six years after the band had broken up, surviving on studio work and band hookups, until he’d come home dead broke. How could he be so aimless?
It made Mitch nuts. Life was more than just getting through the days undamaged. You had to grow, accomplish things, make a difference.
“Wait’ll you taste this.” Dale scooped chili into two bowls. It smelled good, at least.
“Not too much for me.” If it was terrible, he could nibble, then dump it when Dale wasn’t looking.
The next song came on, and he realized he’d sung this one to Esmeralda that night. He’d only written a couple of ballads—thank God, since the overwrought lyrics made him cringe. She’d sighed with pleasure, making him want to roll her onto the grass and never stop kissing her sweet mouth.
He noticed a grocery sack from the nearby Chinese market. Beside it, a wire mesh bowl held fruit—small, bright-red strawberries, a couple of kiwis, a clump of what looked like pale, oversized raspberries. He picked one up. “What’s this?”
“That’s a lychee,” Dale said. “Put out the rest.”
In the sack he found more kiwi and several yellow, grooved fruit the size of small apples that he recognized. “Star fruit?”
Dale shot him a look, surprised he knew. “Yeah.”
“A friend of mine likes these.” He sniffed the cool surface. Pears. Yeah. And Esmeralda’s mouth. Mmm. He was getting moony over a piece of fruit and a pair of turquoise eyes.
And a mouth. Don’t forget the mouth….
Dale handed him a bowl and a spoon.
Maybe if Dale knew about Esmeralda, he’d be more interested. “Remember the girl I met at that fair we played before we went to L.A.?”
“That chick you were sitting on the hill with all night?”
“That’s the one.”
“She was hot.”
“That’s who runs the foundation. And the workshop.”
“You’re kidding. Small world, huh?”
“Yeah.” Esmeralda seemed to think their meeting had cosmic significance. Good Lord. She made him…nervous. One minute she made sense, the next she said something loony, then she joked—
“So you like the chili, I guess.”
He stopped, the spoon near his mouth. Thinking of Esmeralda, he’d mindlessly sucked down half the bowl. He paused to actually taste it. Blech. Grainy and dry and bitter with garlic. “You’re getting there,” he said, trying not to gag. “So you can meet her tomorrow night?”
Dale shrugged.
“Save me a few of these,” Mitch said, tapping a star fruit. He would take them as a peace offering. Go early and offer to help. Say nothing to offend her. Kook or not, she was in charge of a million-dollar foundation and could be Dale’s ticket out of limbo. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt. At least until he heard from Craig.
THE NEXT DAY, ESMERALDA GRABBED her yogurt from the office kitchen and headed to the front desk to check the afternoon schedule. Belinda should be at lunch, but she was hunched over a palmistry book, chewing a nail.
“Belinda?”
She jerked up. “Oh, Esmeralda. Sorry. I’m studying. It’s my lunch break, though, so I’m not robbing the foundation.”
“It’s fine. I just wanted to check the schedule.”
“I booked you back-to-back till five. Is that okay? Or do you want an hour in there to work on proposals? You know, I could save you time by prescreening some grants if you—”
“The schedule’s fine, Belinda. And you should take a lunch break. Eat something.”
“I’m fine. I want to be available. You never know when you-know-who might call.” She grinned. “Oh, that reminds me.” She read from a message slip. “A Mitch Margolin called to say he and his brother will attend the workshop tonight. Make sense?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He might be the one. Belinda would be thrilled to hear that, but Esmeralda wasn’t ready to accept it herself yet.
“So, how’s it going?” Esmeralda nodded at the palmistry book and sat beside Belinda, dipping into her yogurt.
“Not so hot.” Belinda sighed. “I can’t get the fingers—shape and lines and color. Last night, I was looking at this woman’s Mercury finger, and I thought it was long, but then it shrank before my eyes, so I couldn’t tell. I just froze.”
“Trust your first impulse,” she said. Belinda had the same enthusiasm Esmie had had when she’d started, but nowhere near the confidence. But then Esmie had sometimes been too sure of herself at first.
“Let me show you a couple of things.” She found the finger diagram in the book and talked through a few examples.
“I get it now,” Belinda said. “You make it so easy. This is fun, isn’t it? Talking like this.”
“Sure. It’s great.” Especially when she could see Belinda making progress.
“This is embarrassing, but sometimes I feel like you’re, like, my big sister, you know? I got so sick of three brothers.”
“I’m honored,” she said, very touched by the affection.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate everything. You’re so patient and I can be such a blockhead. Did you see I got you that new tea?”
“I did. You don’t need to do extras. I can wash my car when it needs it. Really.”
“I know, but I know Olivia made you hire me. I just want you to be glad you have me.”
“I am glad. Very.” Olivia had asked her to take Belinda under her wing and she was happy to. Belinda was smart and had potential if she could just lower her anxiety level.
Belinda was eyeing her yogurt.
“Here. Finish it.” She held it out.
“I can’t take your lunch.”
“I’m full. Also, there’s some teriyaki tofu in the fridge if you’re still hungry.”
“Are you sure? I really, really appreciate it.”
“It’s nothing. Enjoy. So, how’s the ledger coming? Rico helping you get it down?”
“Yes. Slowly. It’s coming. I’ll have what you need by the board meeting.” She bit her lip. “There’s one thing. Rico wanted me to ask you about a grant that an associate of his applied for. It’s a company that holds charity auctions of teddy bears dressed up like famous people. Corporations sponsor the bears that then get donated to crisis nurseries. It’s very cool.”
“I don’t recall.”
“You probably didn’t get to it yet. I know you’re behind. That’s why I offered to help.” She looked at her. “But if you don’t think I’m ready…”
“Give me this week, Belinda, to get a feel for the system, then maybe I can hand off some of it to you.”
“Okay.” She thought that over. “Anyway, Rico was wondering if you could put a rush on it? Uncle Louis knows the guy, so Aunt Olivia would want to fund it and all.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. I told him I’d ask. Anyway, do you need anything for the workshop tonight? You’ve got newsprint, easels, markers?”
“I’ve got everything I need,” she said. Including the man from her past. Which gave her mixed feelings. The only thing they had in common was a hot-as-blazes attraction, and you could hardly build a future on that. She needed some kind of sign, an assurance. Some proof…
She noticed the newspaper folded to the horoscopes page.
“Want to check yours?” Belinda handed it to her.
Newspaper horoscopes were far too general to be meaningful, but on the cover was a photo of a starry sky with the headline, First Of Falling Stars To LightAugust Skies. She read on. The Pleiades meteor shower was scheduled to begin tonight. The same astronomical wonder that had lit the sky the night she’d met Doctor X.
Maybe this was the sign. Mitch could stay after the workshop and they would watch the stars shoot across the sky and he would feel like Doctor X again. And she would know it was right.
“Esmeralda? Is it something bad in your stars?”
“I hope not,” she said softly. “I hope it’s something really, really good.”
A HALF-HOUR BEFORE the Wish Upon A Star Workshop, Esmeralda checked the mirror. The spaghetti-strapped black silk tank top looked nice with the turquoise-and-yellow silk skirt. The colors would stimulate creativity and calm, she thought, and she liked the way the handkerchief hem tickled her calves.
She’d struggled to get ready, what with all the phone calls she’d juggled. Nail clients and palm clients and friends wanting appointments and advice and attaboys. Also her neighbor, Jimbo, needed her car again. He was a mechanic who kept her Jetta in tip-top shape, but kept giving away his own cars.
She was mostly ready for the workshop. Just a little more fussing with the food, arranging the furniture, setting up the computer display.
The doorbell rang. Someone was way early.
Her two foster dogs set up a racket and raced her to the door. Huffington, a spindly-legged bulldog, was an old soul, whose rheumy eyes declared he knew it all and had done it twice. Pistol, a wild-eyed cairn terrier, lived to snitch food and knew how to fetch, dance and shake hands. They’d been with her for a month and every day they stayed made it harder to let them go.
That was the worst thing about being a foster owner. How did her friend who ran the rescue shelter handle the repeated losses? Esmeralda tried to stay light in life, to accept hellos and good-byes with an even response, but this was murder.
Sonny and Cher, the two cats lurking on the ledge above the living room, were brother and sister calicos scheduled to go to new homes in a few days. She’d only had them a week, so it wouldn’t be such agony when they left.
She hushed the dogs and went to the door, startled to find Mitch on her porch holding a paper sack. He looked great in a purple silk shirt and black cargo pants.
Her heart pounded so hard she held her chest when she opened the door.
Mitch entered and their gazes locked for a startling moment of intensity and recognition, almost relief. Unmistakably powerful, and it gave her hope. “I’m glad you came,” she said, the pulse of pleasure in her body making her wobbly.
“I’m glad, too,” he said. He seemed surprised that he’d said that and, maybe, that it was true.
She became aware that the dogs were going nuts, jumping up on Mitch. “I’m sorry,” she said, crouching to grab their collars. “Down, guys.” She fought her own leaping emotions.
“It’s okay.” Mitch squatted with her. “Who are these guys?”
She told him.
“Great names.”
“I didn’t pick them. They’re foster pets. The cats, too.” She pointed up at the ledge where the cats stared down at them.
“Foster pets, huh?” he said, ruffling Huffington’s fur.
“My friend Jill has a rescue shelter, but she ran out of space. So they’re with me until she finds them homes.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“Who could resist these guys?” She rested her cheek against Huffington’s neck, feeling Mitch’s eyes on her.
“I can see that.” He had to clear his throat. “Anyway, Dale’s supposed to stop by for a while. He’s got a gig, so I’m the designated note-taker.”
“It’s nice of you to help him out,” she said.
“It’s my only hope of getting him off my couch.” But she sensed the tenderness behind the sarcasm.
“What’s in the sack?” she asked.
“A thank you.” He handed it to her.
Inside the bag she found three star fruit. “How did you know? This is what’s missing from my fruit tray. My store was out.”
“The Asian market near my house always has exotic stuff.”
She sniffed one of the smooth, cool fruits. “Mmm.”
“Smells like pears?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She held it out, fingers trembling, and he bent to sniff, his dark eyes searching hers out, sexual sparks lighting their depths.
“Reminds me of that night,” he said softly.
“I know.” And the star shower would add to the memory. She wanted to kiss him now, just to see if it would feel the same. Was this their moment? Did he feel it, too?
“Can I help you?”
“Help me?” Yes, yes, oh, yes. She was lost in her fantasy.
He grinned. “Cut up the fruit? For the workshop? Hello?”
She gathered herself. “Oh. Yes. That would be great. Let me put the dogs away.”
He helped her up from the floor, as he’d done the afternoon before. She liked his firm grip, the way he took charge. Their eyes met again. She wished suddenly the workshop was over and they could go out back and watch the stars fly and she could tell him about the prediction and—
The man would run for the hills. He already thought she was a borderline kook. Slow down. Let things unfold as they will.
When she returned to the living room after putting the dogs away, Mitch was watching her. He seemed to have to drag his eyes away to look around the room. “You expecting a crowd?” He meant the extra chairs, loveseat, end tables and sofa.
“Just fifteen people. The extra furniture belongs to a friend. I’m keeping it until she’s sure living with her boyfriend will work out.”
“You’re a soft touch.”
“She’s a friend.” She shrugged. The Early American stuff clashed mightily with the simple designs and the magenta, lime and orange colors of the Pier 1 Imports decor Esmeralda had chosen.
“The extra art is hers?” He meant the framed pieces of art braced against all the walls.
“No. That’s my roommate’s. Annika Morris. She’s an art therapist.” Esmie had hung as many pieces as would fit among her own framed photos and the map collages she’d made with Jonathan. “She’s just here until her grant comes through or she gets a job. She’ll be at the workshop tonight.”
“You’ve got a lot going on. Roommates, foster pets, furniture storage, a new job—”
The phone rang, proving his point.
“I like to keep busy,” she said, rushing to answer it. It was Jill confirming the cats’ pick-up.
“Not a lot of peace and quiet, I take it,” he said when Esmie hung up.
“I do fine.” But coming home to a dozen phone messages every night had lately been wearying. Probably just adjusting to the new job. The phone rang again “Excuse me?” That one was a friend needing advice. She made a lunch date for a more in-depth conversation.
He gave her a look.
“What? So maybe it’s a little hectic at times.”
“That’s what phone machines are for. People take advantage if you let them.”
“The more you give, the more you have to give.”
“Some people take until you say no.”
“That’s quite the world view you have. I don’t know how I’d get up in the morning feeling that negative.”
“It’s not negative. It’s realistic. If you accept human nature, you don’t have misunderstandings and you don’t get disappointed.”
“Or you expect the best and people strive to meet your expectations.”
“I think I read that on the wall of your office.”
He made her idealism seem silly. She rarely had to defend herself, since everyone she knew respected her abilities. This man was like a blast of cold water in the middle of a hot shower. “I happen to believe it’s true.”
“I guess we see things differently.” The pity and judgment in his expression were like a brand on her skin.
“But you know you’re right, don’t you?” She was startled by how quickly her response to him had changed. She went from attraction to hope to irritation to anger with lightning speed.
“No more than you do.”
“You think that by helping others I neglect myself and what I really want? Is that what you think?”
He shrugged.
“I can assure you that’s not what’s happening.” She hated how defensive she sounded. She was usually calm and patient and balanced in her remarks.
“You would be in a position to know.”
“And I do know,” she snapped, then caught herself “Why am I arguing with you?” She sagged, frustrated and upset and so maddeningly hot for the man.
“I don’t know. Frankly, I’m in no position to criticize. My sofa’s got a permanent sag from my brother sleeping there, my remote is stained orange from his Cheetos, and I’m here doing his homework.”
She laughed lightly. “So, you’re a soft touch, too?”
“Just ask my secretary.”
“I don’t know why I’m so defensive,” she said. “Maybe it’s because I know you don’t approve of me.”
“Maybe I just don’t understand you.” He was being kind.
She appreciated the gesture, but couldn’t quite let it stand. “And what you do understand, you disagree with.”
“Not…exactly.” He rolled his shoulder. “We’ve got détente. Let’s leave it at that, why don’t we?”
“You’re right. After you cut up the star fruit, maybe you can help me arrange the furniture?” And during the meteor shower, maybe he’d sense their cosmic bond and they could get past butting heads.
Right, and maybe Huffington and Pistol would do a minuet on the kitchen table.
4
IN THE KITCHEN, ESMIE WATCHED Mitch stop dead at the display of fruit tarts, chocolate-covered strawberries, frosted brownies and the fruit tray she’d prepared. She’d also set out plastic champagne flutes and was icing several inexpensive bottles.
“Wow. You went all out.”
“Except for the star fruit. See how it’s missing?” She indicated the tray of raspberries, blueberries, kiwi, lychee and persimmon, where the horseshoe design left an obvious spot for the missing fruit. Stars had always been significant in her life, and she incorporated the image wherever she could. She’d have mentioned that to anyone but Mitch, who, at best, would give her the indulgent smile reserved for a child who’d heard reindeer on the roof on Christmas Eve.
She frowned at the thought, handing him a paring knife. When he took it, their fingers met and heat shot through her. She lifted her gaze to his. Light glinted off the knife blade and made her blink. Or maybe it was the glare from his glasses.
Something made her knees go weak. Wasn’t there something about friction making sex hotter? Sounded like a Cosmo tip, not something Esmeralda believed. She wanted sexual feelings to be comfortable and easy, not jagged and unsettling and a little bit rough.
“How do you want it?” he asked softly.
Anyway you give it.
“Thin or thick or in between,” he added.
It all sounds good. She caught herself, realizing he meant the fruit, though his tone had simmered with heat. “Whichever.” She swayed, off balance, and bumped the tray with her hip, jarring it forward.
“Easy there.” He set down the knife and steadied her by her arms, his fingers covering her straps. “You’ve got to do something about these.” He lifted them, one at a time, back in place, running a slow finger over each one.
“When I move, they slip,” she breathed.
“And you move a lot. You’re very…wiggly.”
“You think so?”
He nodded slowly.
She became aware of that tightness between her legs and a swooshing feeling inside, like a wind that could lift her off her feet.
Mitch released her, but his eyes held hers, studying them closely. “You have incredible eyes. I never forgot them.”
They were her most powerful feature, she knew. Their color churned from jade to turquoise to crystal blue and back in a way that made people stare. Turquoise signified psychic ability, of course, but her mother believed Esmie’s irises revealed she had a rich soul.
“I remember yours, too.” White-hot points of desire gleamed from the center of each dark marble at the moment.
“Just an ordinary brown.”
“Not ordinary at all.” She felt tugged in, pulled to him.
The moment stretched, they leaned closer until Mitch’s hip bumped the tray, which brought them both back to what they were doing.
“I’d better get cutting.” Mitch grabbed the knife and sliced the first fruit open, baring its juicy yellow center. The air filled with that sweet smell that took her back to the night they’d kissed, fruit juice on their lips.
The click-snick of Mitch’s knife teased her ears and she was entranced by his deft movements. What great fingers he had. Jupiter…Saturn…Apollo…Mercury…all working together in perfect rhythm. Strong and long, with the square tips of an analytical person. How would they be on her body? Probing, seeking, sure of what they wanted, giving pleasure with every slide and twist and stroke and rub….
Stop that. The fingers were more than just sexual tools. They were predictors of a person’s strengths and challenges.
Noticing her stare, he stopped cutting. “Too thick?”
“No, no. I was just studying your fingers. They’re nice.”
He held up his hand, wiggled the digits, shiny with juice, then shrugged. “Look normal to me.”
“Finger shape and angle reflect personality,” she said, deciding to share some knowledge. “For example, you have smooth knuckles.” She lightly skimmed the backs of his fingers. “That signifies leadership ability.”
“Oh, yeah?” His gaze flickered at the contact.
“Yes. And your fingers have a lateral curve, especially Jupiter—the index finger—which means you’re a serious person who guards his emotions.”
“Ok-k-kay.” His skepticism seemed to be competing with how much he liked her hands on him.
“That’s also indicated by your long Saturn finger—” she touched his middle finger “—which shows a strong sense of duty and responsibility.” Her voice had gone shaky. “The square fingertips show an analytical nature.”
“If you say so.” He cleared his throat again, not being analytical at all at the moment.
She imagined lifting this juice-sweet hand to her breast and melting against him. Her sex was a throbbing pulse.
He took her hand and looked it over, running his fingers along its edge. “Your fingers curve, but you’re not guarded.”
“It’s not the same kind of curve. My hands are different.”
“They’re smaller…and softer,” he said, looking up at her, still holding her hand, sending electricity flying between them.
She shivered and her strap slipped again.
“Allow me.” With his free hand, Mitch slowly dragged it into place, leaving a moist trail of juice on her arm.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“My pleasure.” He wiped the moisture from her skin, still holding her gaze.
This was ridiculous. They were holding hands, fondling straps, wiping up juice and staring at each other. She had to get this under control for now. For later, well, they’d see.
“The furniture,” she blurted.
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s finish with this and move the furniture, huh?” She pulled her hand away, grabbed the stars he’d cut and turned to arrange them on the tray, grateful when Mitch’s knife began clicking away again.
She hoped the big-muscle work of shifting sofas would ease the tension, but she couldn’t clear her head of his scent or her nerves from continual pulses of arousal, which got worse every time they brushed arms and bumped hips as they maneuvered tables and chairs into place.
Mitch seemed to be constantly dragging his gaze from her body, and he did a lot of throat-clearing. It was as though they were being swirled down the drain of an irresistible attraction, while they clung to the slick, sloped sides of the tub. Whether it was ordinary lust or cosmic forces, she couldn’t yet tell.
Mitch moved the Early American sofa where she asked, treating the monstrous thing as though it was made of balsa wood. He was so deliciously strong. He rose, not even breathing hard from the effort. “Anything else you need from me?”
A million things and they all started with his mouth. And his fingers. And that broad back. “Uh, maybe put the newsprint pads on easels?” They were for small-group time when participants brainstormed solutions to each other’s problems.
While he did that, she set up the computer for the presentation on the grant template.
“Exactly what’s going to happen here tonight?” Mitch asked when he’d finished.
Stay for the meteor shower and you’ll see. She explained the networking, grant-writing tips, brainstorming and goal-setting portions of the workshop.
“Sounds reasonable.” He acted as though he’d expected something bizarre or laughable. So of course she had to startle him.
“And then we strip and dance naked in a circle under the moon, chanting Druid spells.”
His eyebrows shot up as she’d expected.
“I’m joking.” She paused. “But there’s a spiritual aspect to it, too. The idea is to verbalize what you want, write it down, put energy behind it and attract success. This approach works. It’s been documented.”
She watched him fight his skepticism to smile. “Hell, if it would get my brother into something good, I’d strip naked and dance under the moon myself.”
“That I’d love to see.” Her words held surprising heat. Not how she usually flirted. Around Mitch she felt raw and hungry, not light and easy as she usually felt when she anticipated going to bed with someone.
She enjoyed sex—the warmth, the connection, the wonder of two bodies moving together in pleasure. For those moments, she felt part of the life force, eternal and timeless.
But sex with Mitch would be different. It would be intense, erotic and a little scary, like daring yourself to look down from the top of a forty-story building.
She’d sensed that when they’d kissed all those years ago. She’d been a virgin—technically—but she’d made out plenty. Never until that night had she felt a need so ferocious it made her liquid with desire. And here it was again. Only this time she knew exactly what to do about it.
“I almost wish I were psychic,” Mitch said. “I’d love to read your mind right now.”
“I think you already are.”
“Ah.” He shifted closer, his dark eyes intense, then retreated. The electric tug between them seemed to trouble him, too. “So you just write down a wish and it comes true. Like ‘I want to become an astronaut or a ballet dancer or—’”
“A rock star?” She’d meant to tease, but his embarrassed expression made her instantly sorry.
“Yeah. That.” He grinned, but she’d sensed his pain. He’d believed her prediction and it had been wrong.
The truth was ice water down her back. She’d failed him as she’d failed her mother. And he’d been hurt. “I’m so sorry. When I predicted your success, I was just learning and I—”
“Forget it. You told me to go for it. Big deal. I was a kid. We both were.”
“But I—”
“You told me what I wanted to hear, Esmeralda. That was years ago. Forget it.”
The doorbell rang. She stood there, wanting to tell him her mistake was a learner’s arrogance, that she’d become better. But what if her mistake had led to the cynicism she saw in him now?
“Get the door. It’s show time.” He smiled at her, his face full of kind sympathy. “Relax. We’ll talk after. I’ll help you put back that monster sofa.”
“All right.” Mitch was staying and her every chakra pulsed with energy. She’d never felt so alive around a man.
She headed for the door, troubled by the quicksilver of her emotions around him. Everything changeable, everything intense. If they were meant for each other, she would never have a moment’s peace or harmony. How could that be right?
MITCH PASSED THE BOX OF chocolates shaped like genitalia to his left, mortified as hell. He didn’t dare make eye contact with a soul now that they were nibbling boobs or cocks in dark, milk or white chocolate. Good Lord. Esmeralda hadn’t mentioned people would be bringing samples, but apparently the sex candy woman wanted to create a mail-order business.
The workshop wasn’t turning out to be as sensible as Esmeralda had made it sound. There were a few grant-writing tips, sure, and he’d taken notes, but mostly it was pep squad rah-rah and mystical bullshit.
Three of the participants were outright nut cases, a couple were borderline criminals and the kindest thing he could say about the rest was they were…quirky. Well, that girl and her father with the kiddie gym idea were normal enough, if the dad would just quit trying to live through the daughter and let her get a teaching degree. Sheesh. He could hire a manager if he didn’t want to run the gym himself.
Right before the candy lady did her thing, a woman had passed out samples of customized sexy lingerie, saying something about regular women looking ridiculous in the off-the-rack stuff. As she pointed out the features of each item, Mitch kept picturing Esmeralda wearing it. He could imagine her sweet nipples through that lacy slip thing, envision her shapely legs snug in those red fishnets, see her breasts swell above a black half bra.
He shifted his legs to be sure his erection didn’t show. Around her, his lust hit with an unexpected wallop, like some frou-frou drink made with six hard liquors. It mowed him flat. Well, all except the part that stood straight up. Damn.
Now and then her sizzling eyes would catch his. She wanted something from him. Something big. Which made him conclude he would help her with her furniture, but not with those wiggly straps. No way. Talk about asking for trouble.
He had the grant to work out, and he wasn’t up for dealing with her strange and silly beliefs. She treated the kooks and crooks with the same respect she gave the sensible people.
Take the guy who owned a girlie bar and wanted to do something “plaque-worthy” for his strippers. A muscle-bound bartender who worked at his club was looking to be an investment banker. Yeah, right.
Dale never showed. Which irritated Mitch, but he’d taken good notes, ignoring the goofball stuff about positive visualizations and universal energy. He’d talk it up to Dale, tread lightly, ease him on board.
He was relieved when Esmeralda announced the workshop was over. She had everyone recite affirmations to each other. The room echoed with Gregorian chants of wishful thinking: I can see my dream and make it happen…. I am smart and capable and savvy…. I know what I want and how to get it…. I am a successful writer…artist…entrepreneur…
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