At His Fingertips

“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.