The Very Thought of You
Carolann Camillo
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2012 by Carole Di Camillo
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6030-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6030-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6029-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6029-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com; istockphoto.com/Blue Magic Photography
This book is dedicated to Julie, Linda, and Phyllis for their invaluable support.
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
The vanity license plate bolted to the black hybrid read N MAN 1 when it should have screamed TR UB LE. A rainy night rush hour flat tire on the freeway kind of trouble. That's what Molly Hewitt expected when she approached the not-for-profit medical clinic where she served as administrator. Otherwise, why would Nick Mancini's car squat in the twenty-four minute zone â ticket territory? He had his own parking slot at the other end of the block, alongside the trailer he used for a construction office. It wasn't as if he were inside the clinic making a killer donation. The odds on that were as slim as men and women flip-flopping on the Mars/Venus thing.
The morning from hell already landed on Molly's doorstep. She'd overslept, burned her toast, and forgotten to plug in the coffeemaker. Now, hungry and caffeine deprived, and with Ms. Cranky lurking inside her and ready to stomp on her usually placid disposition, she had to maneuver through a
tête-à -tête
with the San Francisco condo king. Were the Furies tap dancing on her head, or what?
She shoved her defenses into high alert, pushed open the clinic door, and stepped into the small waiting room. She'd expected to find the builder ready to pounce from one of the six mismatched chairs aligned beneath the Golden Gate Bridge poster, but there was no sign of him. Still, she sensed he prowled somewhere nearby. She shot a glance toward the closed door of her equally undersized office.
“He's not in there.” Cynthia Wells brushed aside a long strand of maroon-tinted hair and stepped out from behind the third-hand desk that served as a reception center. “When I told him you hadn't come in yet, he decided to go for coffee. I offered ours, but he turned it down. I guess he didn't want to feel obligated.”
“That's assuming he feels anything at all.” Molly headed into her office. To make the cluttered space more tranquil, the pale lime walls held a quartet of scenic Monet prints that bled all her favorite pastel colors. She flipped on the fluorescent overhead lights and dumped her faux Kate Spade handbag and worn leather briefcase onto her desk. The tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee settled in around her.
It surprised Molly that it had taken Mr. Mancini a week to accuse her of poking her nose into his business â a possible million-dollar poke at that. She'd found that out from Mrs. Zamoulian who lived in that wreck of a building Mancini had recently bought. Since the building sat smack in the middle of his new condo project, he planned to demolish it. Sure, the building screamed for demolition anyway, but not without substantial compensation for the tenants. Apparently, Mrs. Z has caved under the third degree from her new landlord and ratted out Molly, whose only crime was to express an opinion on how
she
would handle his cheesy buyout offer should she ever be in Mrs. Z's shoes.
Cynthia leaned in her office. “What will you say when he comes back?”
“Hmm. What I'd like to say is so X-rated my lips would have to do penance for a month. So I'll stick to the PG version.” Molly dug a tin of Altoids out of her purse. Unlike some of her friends who hit the gym or the fast food counter when under pressure, Molly stuck to Altoids. Less pain ⦠less gain. She offered some to Cynthia, then popped a couple into her mouth. The spearmint flavor burst on her tongue and began to soothe her rattled psyche.
“How can anyone look so gorgeous and be so rotten?” Cynthia said from the open doorway.
“Who knows? Maybe he suffered some deep childhood trauma.”
“You think so?”
Molly shrugged. “Anything's possible.”
“Well, inside, he might be decayed meat, but outside he's a dream.”
“Yes, but what good are looks if they mask a whole laundry list of defects?”
Cynthia grinned. “Where should I start?”
Although Cynthia was usually focused, today she wore a bemused expression, which suggested Nick Mancini still occupied her attention. Barely two years out of high school and fully invested in guys who gave her “jock shock,” looks still mattered to her.
Molly was almost a hundred percent certain Mr. Mancini had been the one in the dress shirt, tie, and pressed slacks she'd spotted the other day leaning against the hybrid's hood and talking with several hardhats at his construction site. If so, even she had to admit he deserved her highest rating â three mochachino raspberry grandes â two point five more than she awarded each of her last two boring dates.
Molly changed the subject and glanced in the direction of the two examining rooms located at the rear of the building. “Have the doctors come in yet?”
“Huh?”
“Are the doctors in?”
It took Cynthia a few seconds to refocus. “Dr. Ed is with a patient. Dr. Jake is on late call today.”
At precisely that moment, the front door opened and closed. Molly offered up a silent prayer for it to be someone seeking medical attention, but one look at Cynthia's lips forming the words “it's him” and her belief system crashed.
As soon as Cynthia cleared the doorway, Nick Mancini filled it. Yes, he was the man she'd spotted with the construction crew. Only today he'd opted for khakis and a forest green T-shirt. The short sleeves banded well-toned muscles, which placed him high on her totally buff list. Add those to the hard pecs and abs held prisoner beneath the fabric that stretched across a broad chest, and he easily qualified for triple blue ribbon status. Molly swallowed, and what remained of the Altoids slid down her throat.
When she had cruised by his building site the other day, he'd glanced over, which had forced her to speed up. Now she stood close enough to better fit the pieces of his face together: strong chin, full mouth, and a nose flat enough at the bridge to make it interesting. Perhaps he'd fallen off a ladder and broken it. His dark hair, worn long enough to separate him from the “looking forward one day to retirement” crowd, ramped up his sex appeal.
Look, but don't touch.
Molly bit down on the outer edge of her bottom lip. She'd hate herself in the morning but, what the heck, she piled on an extra mochachino.
“You must be Ms. Hewitt.” Two long strides brought him into the middle of her office. The air bristled with the high-octane energy that rolled off him. His deep voice boasted a full complement of male hormones â not exactly gruff, but not musical, either. Whatever the quality, it was in direct proportion to the rest of him: exceedingly male.
“You are ⦠?” Molly obeyed the urge to feign ignorance. After all, why give the impression she attached any importance to his complaint about her meddling?
“Nick Mancini.” His eyes drilled into hers like a bit swiveling through a redwood plank.
Still, she remained rooted to the vinyl floor, exactly three feet from N MAN 1. “Yes, I'm Molly Hewitt.” She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you.” Which it wasn't, given the circumstances, but maybe the “nice” would take some of the charge out of his battery.
His gaze drifted over her royal blue knit top and ivory linen knee-length skirt. The tightly bunched muscles in his face relaxed.
“We need to talk.” He took her hand and applied what felt like friendly pressure when, probably, he'd like to snap all five fingers as if they were swizzle sticks. His skin texture suggested the reverse side of an emery board â barely abrasive. Why not, since he no longer had to climb up on a girder and bang away at a helpless board anymore. The hired crew carried out the heavy duty stuff.
He withdrew his hand and began to fire questions at her. “What's your connection to the tenants in my building down the street? In what capacity do you represent them?”
“I don't â ”
“What are you, another wannabe lawyer?” That brought him one step closer.
“I'm not a wannabe anything.” Molly jumped in quickly before he accused her of having her hand in the latest economic downturn. “Nor do I represent your tenants. Several are patients here at the clinic. That's my only connection to them.”
Standing five feet nine and a half in her three-inch wedge sandals , she brought her eyes closer to Mr. Mancini's. They shared basically the same color â sort of a smoky caramel brown. She was never wild about the shade, but he made it seem almost ⦠exotic. Due, no doubt, to the contrast with his dark lashes. Hers were redhead-light and needed a double application of mascara from any brand on sale at the local drugstore.
“You're advising them on a matter that doesn't concern you.”
It took another moment to drag her eyes away from his and cajole her brain into thinking mode again. “Actually, I didn't offer any advice.”
“That's not what I heard.”
Poor Mrs. Z. He'd probably threatened her with the twenty-first century equivalent of the rack. “Well, I did offer a suggestion or two.” A small, dark mole that looked more interesting than dangerous sprouted near the outer edge of his left eyebrow.
Maybe Dr. Ed should take a look at it later.
“That's not giving yourself nearly enough credit. My guess â you offered a lot more than
two
suggestions. That's why they've formed a tenants' association.” He held up a hand before she had a chance to contradict him. “Don't bother denying where the idea, along with the inflated buyout demand, came from. Now there's talk about circulating a petition.”
“I don't recall the police carting anyone off to San Quentin for that.”
“I suppose tomorrow you'll advise them to walk a picket line in front of the building.”
A picket line. What a great idea.
She might mention it to Mrs. Z so she could pass it on to the others at the next tenants' meeting.
“All my permits are in order. They can collect a thousand signatures and leaflet the entire South of Market area. It won't change anything. They'll never stop my project from going ahead.”
They'll give it a heck of a try, though.
Maybe they could interest enough people to see the justice of their cause. San Francisco was rife with citizens' groups agitating for the have-nots who were always getting the shaft from the have-it-alls.
