“Mr. Ryan said that the owner of the other property has been out of town. He’ll be available Monday.”
“Monday? When Monday?” She shoved her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face.
“Ah, he’ll call,” the secretary replied hesitantly.
Steve stood. He’d heard enough.
Lifting her bifocals to her face, the eagle-eyed secretary stared pointedly at him.
“Did you forget something, sir?”
“You talking to me?”
Ms. Hard Hat whirled around as he spoke.
The secretary narrowed her eyes and inhaled impatiently. “Yes, Mr. De Niro. I’m speaking to you.”
Giving the magazine in his hand a brief perusal, he set it down. “Just wanted to finish this article. Thanks.” With a snappy salute, Steve sauntered out the door and headed to the elevators.
He slapped the down button and checked his watch. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, his attention on the lighted numbers above the door.
To the left, the law office doors opened.
Ms. Hard Hat stepped into the hall.
Anger flashed in her eyes as she spotted him.
Steve moved slowly towards an exit sign.
“Hey, you,” she called out, her steps quickening.
He grinned and disappeared through the open stairwell door.
“Wait!”
He hit the stairs, bounding down eighteen flights until he exited onto the street below.
The pedestrians walked around him on the sidewalk, staring curiously at the sight of a man doubled over, gulping air. A police car slowed down, as it rolled past. Steve nodded to the officers and tried to look inconspicuous while he struggled to catch his breath.
Scanning the traffic, he cursed the inconvenience of not having a limo waiting at the curb. Yeah, and where was a cell phone when he needed one?
He’d have to do this the hard way.
A taxi and a pay phone.
Hailing a cab, he looked up at the glass office complex—counting the floors to number eighteen. “Sorry, Ms. Baldwin,” he said. “But I’m going to have to mess up your well-laid plans.”
Chapter 2
She knew it.
Call it woman’s intuition, call it whatever, but something was wrong.
Hancock Finney had called while she was with the realtor’s secretary. He’d left a message for her to call back, and when she’d tried to call him, of course, her cell phone was dead. And wouldn’t you know it, her portable charger was dead as well. Why would Finney still be in the office on a Friday afternoon? He had a standing appointment to tee-off at three every Friday.
Juggling her briefcase and leather satchel, she gripped the white deli take-out bag in her teeth while she punched the elevator button.
It had something to do with that man. Twice she’d run into him in two days. What were the odds?
Could he be following her?
But why?
It appalled her to remember the warmth that surged through her at his perusal. No man should exude so much appeal with just a wink and a smile. This one needed a haircut badly. She hated long hair on men. And that beard. All he needed was a gold earring and a knife in his teeth.
There was something else about him...something that wasn’t right. He was probably on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. She’d remember to check when she went to the post office.
Striding into the reception area of Hancock Finney Properties, she ducked into her office and tossed her briefcase onto her desk.
“Mr. Finney is waiting for you.”
Nicki jumped at the voice and whirled around. “Sarah, don’t do that.”
The perky young receptionist stood in the door way. “Sorry. A little edgy today?”
“Yes. Why is Finney still here?”
“I tried to call you.”
“My cell died.” Again, the niggles of anxiety raced through her.
“Finney wants to see you as soon as he gets off the phone.”
Nicki groaned.
“So, what’d you do?”
“Nothing.” She fumbled through her desk drawers knocking papers onto the carpeted office floor.
“Here, these are yours.” With a sympathetic smile, Sarah held out a stack of pink message slips.
“Thanks,” Nicki said, accepting the slips and dumping them onto the desk.
“Hey, aren’t you going to look at those?”
“No, I’ll deal with everything else after this deal closes.”
“But, they might be personal messages.”
“I don’t get personal messages.”
“One was from a Jack. He had a great voice.” Sarah grinned enthusiastically.
Without comment, Nicki bent over to yank open the bottom drawers.
“Nicki, who’s Jack? Are you holding out on me?”
“He owns the demolition company that’s supposed to handle those properties behind the new Cappuccino Junction project.” She met Sarah’s gaze. “He’s married.”
“Bummer.”
Nicki moved to the other side of the office and pulled open her file cabinet.
“What are you looking for?”
“Aha!” Triumphantly, she pulled out her back up phone charger. “This!” Dumping the contents of her purse on the desk, she grabbed the phone, attached it to the charger, and plugged it into her computer.
In the outer office, the phone on the reception desk began buzzing. Sarah raced to grab it. “Yes, Mr. Finney, she’s been here waiting for some time. I’ll send her right in.” She motioned for Nicki to get going.
Nicki mouthed a thank-you and started down the long hall to the executive offices, preparing herself for the worst.
He’d somehow found out about her father.
No, he couldn’t possibly have.
Worse. There was a glitch with the Cappuccino Junction deal.
No, it couldn’t be. She’d personally walked through every inch of the project so far. The whole thing was making her crazy, but it was almost complete. Her dream was within reach. She’d be promoted and live happily-ever-after at the offices of Hancock Finney.
“Where is Ms. Baldwin?” Her boss’s voice boomed into the corridor.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Approaching the office, she knocked though the door was open.
“Come in,” he barked.
Thankfully, Finney was all steam. The man had his quirks, but he was fair-minded and quick to praise her hard work. He wasn’t praising today.
Nicki entered the room, a vague sense of impending doom growing.
“Sit down, Ms. Baldwin.” He stood. Folding his hands, he rested them on his rotund abdomen. “It appears you have a problem.”
The tremors started.
Easing down to the edge of the leather chair, she pressed her knees together tightly and ground her heels into the carpet.
Her legs kept shaking. Pushing her hands onto her thighs, she attempted to stop the knocking. Once again, just when things were going right, after she’d painstakingly planned her future down to the last detail, the rug was being pulled out from under her.
Oh Lord, you know I don’t ask for help often, but please help me. Don’t let this all fall apart now.
“Sir?”
Finney paced back and forth behind his enormous desk. The buttons on his crisp white shirt barely restrained his large girth. He turned to her, his round face, red with agitation.
“The property is no longer available.” The words rang out into the stuffy air of the office.
Great. She’d had a brain lapse. For a second she thought he’d said the property wasn’t available.
“Did you hear me, Ms. Baldwin?” Finney peered down at her then paused. “Are you all right?”
Nicki sat stunned. “I was just at the realty offices. Everything’s set.”
“Not anymore, it isn’t.” He adjusted his suspenders. “I got a call from the former owners of the property on Broadway. We’ve been out maneuvered.”
“Former?” Threads of panic wrapped their fingers around her throat.
“Someone bought it right out from under us.”
“Who?” she croaked.
He pinned her with his eyes, the bushy white brows drawn together. “I don’t know. You’re my assistant. That’s what I pay you for.”
She stood up like a shot. “Yes, sir.”
“Find out who bought that building and offer them more. Offer them whatever you have to.”
Nicki dashed to the door.
“And Ms. Baldwin.”
She turned.
“I want that property.” He paused and lowered his voice, melodramatically addressing her like a general sending his troops to war. “The future of this firm. My future and your future depends on our relationship with Cappuccino Junction. If they aren’t happy, I’m not happy. If I’m not happy, then you won’t be happy. Is that crystal clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be out of town until Tuesday. I want an answer when I get back. I know you can do fix this.”
She fought the urge to salute “Yes, Mr. Finney.”
“Peas. Carrots. Cucumbers. Tomatoes,” she muttered under her breath. One of the only legacies Nicki had from her mother was her constant lessons in propriety. Ladies didn’t curse. As a little girl, she’d taught Nicki to recite as many vegetables as she could until her temper and frustration were under control.
That particular lesson proved invaluable at the moment.
“Beets!”
Racing down the hall, Nicki nearly passed her office. Grabbing the door jam, she propelled herself into the tiny room. With a sweep of her arm, she slid all her belongings across the desk and into her satchel and then threw the leather bag over her shoulder. She snatched her brief case, now pathetically cold lunch, picked up her cell phone and headed out the door.
After two steps the cord yanked her back, nearly knocking her computer to the floor.
“You forgot to unplug.” Sarah stood in the doorway.
Nicki frowned and retraced her steps, unplugging the phone. “You know how to reach me.”
“Nick, it’s three o’clock. It’s Friday. Go home. It can wait till after the weekend.”
“I wish.”
Sarah sighed. “I guess this means you can’t go for pizza again.”
“Can I take a rain check?”
“Oh, sure, why not?” Sarah raised her arms in a gesture of frustration. “That makes what? Thirty-four rain checks since last November?”
Nicki raced past the reception area. “Sorry, Sarah, after Tuesday. I promise.”
Arms crossed, Nicki paced back and forth in front of the two-story Victorian. Not only had someone stolen the house out from under her, but the thief actually lived in the monstrosity.
Flakes of white paint from the bald siding danced in the air with the passing breeze. A paint job wouldn’t solve anything here. Head cocked, she counted six, no, make that seven, missing shingles on the roof. For a moment she stared fascinated at the small turret to the left of the roof, complete with a domed cupola.
With a quick dismissal, her inspection moved on. Three floors, she scoffed silently. Why, the place must cost a fortune to heat in the winter. She knew firsthand the necessity of shoving wads of newspaper into window well cracks to keep the cutting winter wind out.
Pushing back her satchel, she shoved her hands into her pockets. The whole block needed to go, as far as she was concerned. There was nothing worth redeeming here. It was far easier to knock it down and start over, fresh, with no traces of the past.
Nicki leaned against the iron balustrade and stared up at the old house. Sunset was beginning. Blocking out the silhouette of the painted lady against the blushing sky, Nicki closed her eyes. She tried to regroup and hold the combination of exhaustion and unwanted emotions at bay.
Barely making it to the city offices before they closed, she’d sweet-talked the clerk into staying open five more minutes and giving her the information she needed.
Steven T. Smith was the owner of the property now. He’d purchased it for almost three times the price she’d negotiated for the land. Her eyes opened to glare up at the glass door.
He was probably some old coot who’d no doubt saved his money in his mattress. Well, the old coot had outsmarted her.
That was what really stung. All her planning, hard work and a geriatric eccentric had beaten her to the punch.
Surely there was some way she could make him see reason. She could be a bulldog when pushed. Hopefully, this would only take charm and reasoning.
She glanced at her watch. She’d been on her feet for twelve hours now. The “massaging fingers” of her panty hose were now cutting off her circulation in her calves. Her feet hurt, and her heavy bag had cut a two-inch groove into her shoulder.
At this point, she’d kill for a cup of coffee. Chin up, Nicki started up the steps, using the last bit of energy in her reserves. Determination was her companion as she pulled open the heavy glass door, and inspected the two mailboxes. Smith. Number two.
Another short flight of steps.
At the top, she paused. Pulling a brush from her bag, she ran it through her limp hair, tucking the short, disobedient strands behind her ears.
She firmly knocked the door.
“Hang on a second.”
From some far-off, nebulous corner of her brain, it occurred to her that she’d heard that particular male voice before.
She dismissed her tired mind.
The door swung open.
A bearded giant stood in the doorway eyeing her like she was little Red Riding Hood, and he’d been expecting her.
It couldn’t be. Life couldn’t possibly be this cruel.
“Well, hel-lo!”
On second thought it could. This was, after all, her life.
It was him.
He did look like a wolf. A dark-haired wolf with eyes the color of hot chocolate. A tight black t-shirt hugged his broad shoulders, accentuating the wide chest and flat stomach. His muscled arms were covered with a sprinkling of dark hair. Even his jeans were black, completing the menacing picture.
She swallowed. “Carrots.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ah, I’m looking for Mr. Smith.” Nicki tried to peek past his broad shoulders and into the room with no luck.
Perhaps this was his body guard. His grandson. Or maybe his personal assistant? She was willing to delude herself with a myriad of possibilities, just so long as this guy was not Mr. Smith.
“Come on in. I’ll see if I can find him.” He grinned, a dazzling smile, inclining his head to the side. A small gold hoop gleamed in his ear.
Nicki stepped back. Concentrating on a chip in the white paint of the doorframe, she said, “No, I’ll wait here.”
“Out in the hall? What would my mother think?”
Her head jerked up and met his teasing eyes.
She stood there in the hallway, nonplussed. The man was just plain full of himself.
“Come on in. I don’t bite.” He smiled, virescent eyes telling her he was very aware she had a different opinion. “Besides, I have sauce on the stove and the water’s boiling.”
Nicki stood her ground in the hallway. “Look, if I could just talk to Mr. Smith?” He ignored her and moved into the apartment. She stared at his retreating form.
Why, he fully expected her compliance.
She stepped tentatively into the apartment. Where did he go? The aroma of tomato sauce and garlic teased her neglected taste buds as she moved farther into the apartment. It smelled wonderful. In unison, her mouth watered, and her stomach growled.
Nicki looked around. The house held more than one surprise. What was she expecting? The oak floor had been buffed to a high gleam. The walls were painted a pale sage green with gleaming white trim. A bicycle was parked against a far wall. A vintage mahogany dining table and chairs took up most of the main area. But there was room for a deep brown corduroy couch and an end table
that held a tower of books. Real books. No electronic books for Mr. Smith.
In fact, there wasn’t an electronic device in sight. No computer or television anywhere in sight.
The place was immaculate. She contrasted the polished surfaces against her own apartment and grimaced. Most days she ran in and out of the place like a tornado, and the upscale townhouse reflected it. Mr. Smith, on the other hand, was very tidy. Excruciatingly tidy, in her opinion.
Slowly edging her way towards an enormous mahogany desk, she leaned over to examine the paperwork that sat in neat little piles. She could see her reflection in the waxed surface.
Nicki bristled. She contended that a messy desk was a sign of genius. It was a comforting thought, until now.
On the corner of the desk, a worn book lay opened. Several of the pages were loose and unevenly tucked in the book. She scanned the flowery handwritten pages, trying to determine if it was written in Spanish, or perhaps Italian?
“Have you eaten?” His voice tickled her face.
She jumped and whirled around. He stood next to her, a large wooden spoon in his hand and an insolent grin on his face.
“Why, no. I’m not here to eat.”
“If you want to talk, you have to eat.”
Crossing her arms across her chest, she took her most formidable stance. “Look, I just want to talk to Mr. Smith. Is he available?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m available.”
She froze as her eyes met his laughing gaze and she realized it was true.
“You’re Steven Smith.”
“My friends call me Steve.”
“We are not...” She bit back the words. There was still the matter of the building she needed.
“So, Nicki Baldwin, are you going to eat?”
“Excuse me? How do you know my name?” She gritted her teeth as he replied.
“I make it a point to know things.”
Broccoli. Cauliflower. Okra.
Okay, so the man liked to play games.
She was still in control.
She’d still get the property.
She opened her mouth, releasing the breath she was holding. “So, if you knew who I am,” she asked patiently, “why didn’t you tell me who you were right away?”
“Didn’t want to scare you away.”
No Time For Love Page 2
