At His Fingertips. Dawn Atkins
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,