At His Fingertips

At His

Fingertips

Dawn Atkins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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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.