At His Fingertips. Dawn Atkins

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ