At His Fingertips. Dawn Atkins

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      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      The ponytail that had made him seem laid back had been replaced by a crisp business cut, and his hair was a muted brown.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, confirm with my assistant tomorrow. You can pay the fee when you get there.”

      “There’s a fee?”

      “Nominal. Just a hundred dollars. That way participants make a real commitment to the process. That’s why we offer matching grants, so they invest financially as well as emotionally and spiritually.”

      “You ask them for capital? Up front?”

      “Investment signals action. We encourage them to find outside investors as well.”

      “I see.” But the idea seemed to confirm some suspicion he had.

      “We eventually want the foundation to be self-sustaining.” Part of the long-range plan she had no clue how to create.

      “If Dale does the workshop, will he get a grant?”

      “If he meets our criteria. And if it’s his dream. I had a client today who thought she wanted a business, but what she wanted was to become a teacher.”

      “So you turned her down?”

      “I shifted her focus. She’s coming to the workshop and she’ll probably change her application to a scholarship. Bring Dale and you’ll see how it works.” She touched his hand—a reassuring gesture she used all the time—but it was like a lightning rod for the sexual current between them. She jerked her hand away.

      Mitch looked at his hand, then at her face, as if he’d felt the charge, too. When he spoke, he seemed groggy, like someone awakened from a stage hypnosis. “What are the, uh, criteria?”

      She used words he would respect. “We have a rubric to evaluate the viability of the idea, the level of the applicant’s commitment and the value of the service or product.”

      “That sounds good.” He seemed relieved, which irked her.

      “And, of course, I read the palm of every applicant.”

      “You what?”

      “I’m teasing, but my gift helps me choose who to fund.”

      “Ok-ka-a-ay.” He wanted to laugh, she could tell, and that irritated her. She usually avoided skeptics or ignored their insults, but Mitch got to her. Maybe because of her own recent doubts.

      “If it makes you feel better, just call it my strong intuition and knowledge of human psychology.”

      “Fair enough,” he said. “What’s your approval percentage?”

      “I’ve only been here for a few weeks, so I can’t say. The first director funded a dozen projects and I—”

      “What happened to the first director?”

      “She had to leave because of a family illness.”

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