At His Fingertips

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 mean, it was the newspaper story. My brother read it. He has this idea for a grant, see, and—”

“Oh. The article.” She seemed disappointed. “Oh, well. It got you here. The universe has its own sweet plan.”

What the hell was she talking about? “Anyway, my brother Dale is a musician, and—”

“I remember. He was in your band. Extent of something…”

“Xtent of the Crime, yeah.”

“Where are you playing now?”

“We broke up years ago. Just a few days after that night, actually. But Dale still plays and—”

“But you had that record deal. And I remember I saw in your palm that you would succeed.”

Didn’t she know how stupid that sounded?

“The L.A. thing didn’t work out.” They’d been scouted for a music video and three-album deal in L.A. In his gut, he’d known it was too easy, but when Lady E had read his palm—really, his wild hope—he’d been convinced to go for it. He’d been arrogant and ambitious, like every other twentysomething with a band.

She’d meant no harm. He’d been young, hooked by her sureness, the fire in her eyes, and ignored what his head told him.

“That’s a shame. You were so good.”

He’d played one of his songs for her, he remembered, and she’d stared, those eyes going from his face to his fingers and back, enthralled. What an ego boost.

“I grew up.” And thank God for that. His first job out of law school had allowed him to bail his parents out of the dot-com crash, where they’d lost most of their investments.

“What do you do now?” Esmeralda asked.

“I’m an attorney. I practice business law. I’m a sole proprietor with an associate. I mostly work with startups.”

“That’s a long way from music. But there was lots of space between your heart and head lines, which means a strong commitment to fairness. And your lines were deep, I think, which means you’re practical and grounded, like an attorney needs to be. But your head line had a creativity curve and I don’t remember a split fate line. May I…?” She reached for his hand. “I have a great memory for palms.”

Jesus. Palm reading had been fun at eighteen, but she was, what, thirty-five now? To his thirty-nine. “You’re still into that…psychic stuff?”