The Very Thought of You (9 page)

The elevator door slid open with a groan. Nick stood back to let Molly exit first. As she stepped into the hallway, the sway of her hips earned her another leer from the landlord. Nick considered decking the guy. Except a fist to the jaw would lead to a lawsuit, and he didn't need another hand in his pocket. He'd pull the man aside and give him a verbal one-two punch if he tried it again. At six feet two, weighing in at one ninety, he knew he could appear intimidating.

Low wattage bulbs burned in sconces along the hallway, making it as dimly lit as the ground floor. When they arrived at apartment 3D, the owner pushed a key into the lock and opened the door. A rancid odor immediately escaped. Holy hell. Nick shot a glance at Molly who crinkled her nose. He'd have to deal with the smell later, too.

“Come on in, folks.”

Once inside, Nick glanced around but couldn't find much “in” in the cramped space. The whole apartment couldn't measure more than five hundred square feet.

“Someone must have left raw meat on the counter for at least a week.” Molly's voice wafted from behind him.

“No, no. The unit's been empty for over a month. We just need to let in some air.” The owner stepped to one of a pair of windows that overlooked the street and cranked a lever. As he forced the metal casement out, traffic noise flooded in.

Molly, who'd moved into the center of the room, couldn't have looked more out of place in this dump. Nick wanted to take her hand, scrap the crummy elevator, and hustle her down three flights of fire stairs to his car. From there he'd head straight to Fisherman's Wharf where they'd stroll around like tourists and eat fresh crab and prawns out of paper cones. He gave the idea serious thought, then quashed the impulse. First, he had to prove his point: Low rent units existed in San Francisco.

The temperature inside the apartment must have been close to ninety degrees. Molly lifted the back of her hair with one hand. With the other, she peeled the collar of her blouse off her neck and exposed skin that glowed with a pink flush. Nick knew better than to blow cool air right below where she held up a fistful of russet curls. Curls he'd discovered were infused with the scent of strawberries. Curls that invited him to plow his hands through right now.

“The apartment could use fresh paint.” A few steps took Molly to the kitchen doorway. She peeked into the miniscule space beyond. “Also, someone needs to scrub the stove or, better yet, junk it.” She turned away and let her hair fall back into place. “The whole apartment needs new carpets, and those windows … ” She shrugged and her nose twitched.

She couldn't have said it any clearer. The place was a hellhole. Still, Nick might be able to convince her that, if spruced up, it could become livable. Even better, at a little over seven hundred a month, clones must exist in other parts of the city. They could discuss it over lunch at the Wharf. His confidence rose.

“This here's the bedroom.” The landlord pushed open a door and entered a room little bigger than a tool shed. He began to wrestle with the lone window. He banged on the wooden frame and coaxed it up.

Nick sidestepped around Molly and took up a position in the doorway, which blocked the entrance. No way would he allow this guy — okay, slumlord — to maneuver her into a room with the word “bed” attached to it. She moved close behind him and he glanced at her over his shoulder. She stood on her tiptoes, which brought the top of her head even with his ear. Her breath brushed the side of his neck. While she checked out the room, he checked out the sudden increase in his heart rate.

“I'd say
bedroom
is a misnomer, wouldn't you?” she whispered.

“No, I wouldn't.”

“It's hardly bigger than a shower stall.”

“It looks adequate. How much time do people spend in a bedroom anyway?” Like her, he kept his voice low.

“In a dinky room like this one, I'd say not much. Stuck in there, a person could develop serious claustrophobia.”

He'd made his own checklist, so he guessed where she headed. First the paint and carpet, then the stove, now the rotten dimensions of the bedroom. It surprised him she hadn't brought up the cacophony that blasted in from the street.

“Another person might consider it cozy.” He figured the “cozy” angle was worth a try. Maybe she'd give it a second look and view it, not for its deficiencies, but as a valuable piece of real estate.

She leaned closer. “A child would find it minuscule. You couldn't even cram a double in there, not if you wanted to add a nightstand and a chest of drawers.”

His gaze cut sideways to her eyes. Such serious eyes. Maybe he should try to lighten her up a little. Otherwise, how could he ever elevate this hellhole into practically move-in condition?

“When you say ‘double,' I suppose you mean a bed?”

She tilted her head back and scrunched her eyebrows in a way that said she couldn't believe he was so dense. “What else?”

“A lot of people who live alone don't require anything bigger than a single.” He wondered about his tenants' sleeping accommodations. Only six out of the thirteen were married.

“Get serious. Only kids sleep in singles.”

“Some grownups do, too.”

She shook her head in denial. “No.”

He nodded in assent. “Yes.”

“What makes you so certain?”

He shrugged. “I'm as certain as a thinking man can be. Lots of people live in studios, share apartments. It's a space issue.”

She rested her hand on his shoulder. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Sleep in a single.”

That brought him around so fast he almost fell over her. She lowered her heels and gazed up at him. He tried to find something suggestive in her eyes. Instead, they were wide open and clear, without any hint of guile.

What the hell? She started it. “No, I don't sleep in a single.”

“That's what I imagined.”

He backed her up a couple of steps. Had she thought about him? Or more to the point, had she thought about his
bed
and imagined him in it? Could such a thought have credibility? Maybe she wondered if he slept in pajamas or
au natural
.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Why do you think I want to know?” She barely mouthed the words.

He could maybe detect a little seduction in her tone. If he wanted to stretch it. If circumstances were different, if she weren't the woman he couldn't risk offending, he'd ask her if she'd like to come home with him and see firsthand what his sleeping accommodations were. Maybe even try them out.

He opted for caution. “I haven't a clue. Would you like to tell me?”

She gave him a wilted smile. “Sure. I just believe whatever is good enough for you should serve as the norm for your tenants.”

“Hey, folks, why don't you talk it over while I go next door for a couple of minutes? Woman needs a new washer in the kitchen faucet.” The landlord headed for the front door. “Take your time. I'm not in any rush.”

As soon as he vacated the apartment, Molly planted her hands on her hips. “Ha, I'll just bet he isn't. Wouldn't that guy love to rent this dump? I wouldn't offer him more than five hundred a month. I'd make him toss in a new stove, as well.”

Nick supposed that signaled the end of bedroom talk. It was back to stoves and carpet and the kind of serious money required to rent an adequate apartment.

“I think it has potential. At least now you know something is available in the low seven hundreds.”

“Who's Sonja?”

“What?”

“There's an ode to her in the elevator. The cretin who wrote it must live here. That's the kind of person who inhabits a dump like this.”

“What does it matter? Your fan club isn't moving in. We just ran a test. It passed as far as I'm concerned. Case closed.”

“It's a rat hole.”

At least that had a better ring than hellhole. Although it
was
a rat hole, it seemed like one with possibilities. He might still find a way to bring her around.

“Look, I'm not into interior decorating or whatever, but I'm sure some fresh paint and a major clean-up in the kitchen would more than satisfy anyone looking for a bargain.”

“The whole place should be gutted and turned into a studio. At least then a tenant wouldn't feel like it was impossible to take more than five steps in any direction.”

“You're exaggerating. You just don't want to admit you're wrong.”

Molly made a slow three-hundred-sixty degree turn. “If Martha Stewart were to take a gander at this place, she would probably instruct one of her minions to toss in a bomb.”

Nick wondered how often the mayor had to deal with her. Maybe too often, which would account for all the time His Honor spent away from City Hall.

“Anyone with enough savvy could decorate, which is what I suggested earlier. A few bucks for paint. Carpet just needs a cleaning … ”

Molly pressed her lips together and shook her head.

“So, folks, what do you think?” The owner had slipped back inside.

Nick glanced around the small space and nodded. “I think it's a steal for seven something a month.”

Molly folded her arms across her chest and stared at the ceiling.

“Who told you seven?” The landlord jiggled the keys in his pocket. “You can't rent anything around here for that price.”

“A fellow I know has an apartment in this building. He told me he pays around seven.”

“How long's he lived here?” The owner closed the living room window. “If it's long-term, he's under rent control and gets away with robbery. I'm only able to raise the rent a lousy two percent a year.” He turned back toward Nick. “This unit's priced at a thousand fifty. Only way I can jack up the rent is when someone does me a favor and dies or moves out.”

“A thousand fifty?” Molly's lips tipped up into a smile. “At the moment, that's beyond our budget. Isn't that right …
darling
?”

That's for damn sure.
Nick frowned.

Molly left the apartment and headed for the elevator. After the landlord locked the door, Nick took him aside.

“Can't you do a little better on the rent?”

“Are you kidding? You wouldn't believe how some of my tenants bleed me like leeches.”

“Yeah, I know a little something about that myself.”

When they caught up to Molly, Nick said, “You mentioned you own a couple of other buildings in the city. Would you have anything more affordable in one of those?”

The landlord pushed the elevator button. “I got a vacant studio. If you folks are interested, I could let you see it today. You look like a couple of nice kids. I'll let you have it for eight seventy-five, first and last month's rent plus cleaning deposit. You do any necessary painting and clean-up.”

Eight seventy-five. A slam dunk. Nick congratulated himself for his ability to make champagne out of flat beer. While he patted himself on the back, the owner geared up to give Molly another quick once-over. She seemed clueless that her body stirred up more libidinous thoughts than the peep shows in the Tenderloin. He raised one eyebrow and shot the landlord an “I wouldn't try that one again” husband-like glower. It stopped the guy in mid-stare.

When the elevator car arrived, Molly stepped inside. Nick followed, but this time he didn't have to hide the expression of lust etched into the wall. Now she'd seen it, she turned away. They descended with a lurch, and he reached over and cupped her elbow when she lost her balance. She let his hand stay there until the elevator clunked to a halt on the ground floor and the door opened. She took her loss pretty well. He could almost feel the sun on his back as if they already strolled along the Wharf. He could even imagine the taste of the fresh seafood. First, though, they'd check out the studio, and he'd make sure not to gloat.

“The only problem with the studio is there are no closets,” the landlord announced as the threesome headed for the front door. “You gotta find room to squeeze in a couple portables.”

Nick swung back toward him. The guy might just as well have declared that San Francisco had broken away from the mainland and floated out to sea.
No closets.
What kind of shit was that? It was the kind engineered to force him to really hike up the twenty-five grand buyout figure. That's the kind of shit it was. He really needed to pour it on at the Wharf if he expected to limit the raise to twenty-eight five.

“Listen, Molly … ” He turned toward where she last stood, but she'd evaporated. He kicked open the front door and charged outside in time to see a flash of leg as she jumped into a taxi.

“Son of a … ” The cab zigzagged through traffic and disappeared down the street. Nick jammed his hands into his pockets, then threw back his head and laughed. In the space of twenty minutes, Molly had changed from sculptor's clay, pretty darn near molded by him, to a million-dollar challenge. He should feel pissed but, oddly enough, he didn't. Instead, her little charade energized him. Okay, the apartment was a bust, but he had no plans to leave town. Neither, presumably, did she. Now he had her in his sights, he intended to keep her right there, so close, they'd breathe the same lungful of air.

“So, I'll be back,” he growled in a perfect imitation of the state's body builder/movie star/ex-governor. “Yeah, I'll be back, Ms. Molly. You can count on it.”

Molly rummaged through the box of earthquake supplies she kept under the kitchen sink — flashlight, battery operated radio, bottled water, and granola bars — until she found the utility candles. She brought a pair, along with two candle holders and a book of matches, into the living room. Dominique had already cleared some of the framed pictures and assorted knickknacks off Molly's glass-topped coffee table. In their place, she set a box containing her Ouija board. The lid bore the logo OUIJA Mystifying Oracle; a shadowy figure, cloaked in black, floated above the words.