Man, he had never had it this bad.

Zach knew nothing about her. Marnie could be a thief trying to break into the apartment. But he didn’t care. Zach forced himself to turn back to taking off the door hinges. He had to get a grip. Moments later the door was off and Marnie ran into the room.

“I am so cold!” Marnie raced over to the bed and pulled on the socks that lay rolled in a ball on the floor by a pair of ugly brown hiking boots.

It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

Before he could stop himself, he’d knelt down and taken one of her feet, rubbing it between both hands.

“That tingles.”

“Tingles are good.” He smiled up at her and switched to a slow, deep kneading, concentrating on her toes and the ball of her foot. And maybe her leg and the sexy curve of her calf and how her skirt kept climbing northward…

Marnie let out a tiny moan. “That feels so good. You could do this for a living.”

He could do this forever, Zach realized with a jolt.

HEATHER MACALLISTER

lives near the Texas gulf coast where, in spite of the ten-month growing season and plenty of humidity, she can’t grow plants. She’s a former music teacher who married her high school sweetheart on the Fourth of July, so is it any surprise that their two sons turned out to be a couple of firecrackers? When she’s not writing stories in which life takes a funny twist, Heather collects vintage costume jewelry, and also loves fireworks displays, Christmas lights (which are like frozen fireworks displays), commercial-free television and sons who answer their mother’s e-mail. You can visit her on the Web at www.HeatherMacAllister.com.

Male Call

Heather MacAllister

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Peggy Field and Sue Pellegrino-Wolf

With Alpha Gam love

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Prologue

MY DEAR MRS. HIGGENBOTHAM,

Greetings from sunny and windy San Francisco! I do hope you and Pierre are in the throes of connubial bliss. I want to hear all the details of the wedding, particularly in regard to the jewelry and gowns. I so wish I could have been there in New York, however it was time to move on. I do miss the city and the apartment building and your own dear self, though.

I cannot stress how much your friendship has meant to me during the trying times of late. Both Marlon and I thought we would be together forever and for my part, I did nothing to threaten that. I had invested all of myself. I’d spent my days looking after Marlon’s building and tenants only to have him…but that is water under the bridge, as you know. It is sad when courts must become involved to protect those of us who have given all to a relationship. One would assume there would be an equitable distribution of assets with the understanding that there cannot be a monetary value placed on some contributions. Apparently my contributions were only worth one modest apartment in San Francisco.

Yet, I am not bitter. At least I now have a home. Marlon’s apartment—former apartment, as I have recently received the deed—is one of four in a charming pink-and-green Painted Lady, which is what we San Franciscans call the Victorian houses.

This one and its neighbors survived the great earthquake, though since construction began on the house across the street, I feel as though I relive the quake daily.

The apartment is furnished in period style—Marlon always did have exquisite taste—with a bedroom, office where I can work on my script and a largish kitchen. Oh, and a balcony, a cozy place where I can sit and watch the activity on Mission Street as I answer the call of my muse.

And speaking of that, I cannot express my gratitude to you for the gift of the skirt.

As my muse appears to have remained in New York, I shall continue with my study of the effects of the skirt on heterosexual mating. I find the subject fascinating, if perplexing, and I do believe there is a story here. Urban legends are always popular in movies and plays. The very idea that this nondescript, though well-tailored, black skirt has some sort of power to attract men is preposterous and yet A.J., Sam and Claire, and even your dear self all swear it’s true. And have you heard from the girls? I do miss them. Is all well with them? Sam, especially, was a valuable source of gossip.

I have decided to put the skirt to the test. As it happens, I find myself short of cash. Not to worry! The residents of this building and the others on the block have never known the convenience of a doorman until now. For a small honorarium, I have offered my services to deal with repairmen and accept packages and keep an eye on the neighborhood. But until my talents as an actor and playwright are recognized, I must provide my own backing. Therefore, I have removed to the service quarters in the basement and am attempting to rent out the apartment on a daily basis to those who need a temporary base in the city.

No, do not feel sorry for me, Mrs. H. One must suffer for one’s art, though I seem to suffer more than most. But my plan is to rent to single young ladies who can make use of the skirt—and who will recount all their adventures to me. Perhaps my muse will be intrigued enough to help me incorporate these stories about the skirt into a small play.

So far, I have found two young women who are willing to take on a partial sublet and a third who is currently considering. I have seen her walk by here every day and feel she would provide the skirt with its most stringent test. Attractive women attracting attractive men, well, where is the challenge for the skirt in that? But this young woman practices none of the feminine arts and, indeed, seems unaware of them. Oh, to witness when she becomes aware…

In any event, know that I am well, of good cheer and no doubt destined for greatness.

Until then, I remain, ever yours,

Franco Rossi

1

AT THE SOUND of an old-fashioned wolf whistle, Marnie LaTour looked up from her laptop, which was currently sitting on the serving counter of the Deli Dally next to her cold meatball sub. Her three co-workers from Carnahan Custom Software—all male—had swiveled on their stools to stare out the window.

“Whoa, would you look at that?” murmured one.

Marnie looked. A long-legged blonde walked by in a flippy skirt that fluttered alarmingly in the San Francisco wind. Glued to her side was one of the men from Technical Support.

“All right, Gregie boy!” Two of the guys high-fived each other.

Marnie watched long enough to see that Greg was taking the blonde to Tarantella, the new Italian restaurant down the street, then returned to the screen full of code she was trying to debug. If she had written the code in the first place, there wouldn’t have been anything to debug.

“You think she’s wearing a thong?” This comment came from Barry Emmons, who was sitting next to Marnie since it was his program she was trying to fix. She assumed he meant that as a rhetorical question and didn’t answer.

The three men slid off the counter stools and walked over to the window.

“All I’m asking for is one really good gust of wind before they make it to the door.” It was probably Doug.

“Oh, yeah.” That was Barry again.

Marnie wished he’d stayed with her instead of heading for the window with the rest of them. She also wished she was dining alone with him at Tarantella instead of going with the guys to two-for-one Italian night at the Deli Dally. After all, she’d just spent three hours fixing the code for his animated oil-field tool instructional video. At least he’d bought her meatball sub.

Well, actually he’d paid for his and had given her the free one. Still. It was something. A start. And right now, Marnie needed a start.

She’d worked at Carnahan since graduating from college six years ago and had eliminated all the dating possibilities among her co-workers. Barry had been working at Carnahan less than a year and was still in the “possible” column. Word was that he’d spent time in a couple of women’s “possible” columns, but wasn’t dating anyone currently.

Marnie figured it was her turn, except that Barry was proving slippery to pin down. Thus, she’d volunteered her code expertise to help with his projects. Several times.

She glanced over her shoulder at the men. Clearly, he needed a nudge.

While they stood at the window, Marnie found and corrected a repeating error in a line of code. And that should do it. She brought up the animation of a rotating tool that did who-knew-what on screen and watched as it turned, opened, swiveled and let yellow arrows parade through it.

“Hey, you fixed it!” Barry and the others returned to the bar stools, the wind apparently not having cooperated.

Barry leaned one hand on the counter, blocking her from the others’ sight. “You’re a genius,” he murmured and looked down at her, smiling.

Marnie looked up at him and her heart gave an extra blip. It was a movie moment. Inches separated their mouths and if he’d wanted to, he could have kissed her, not that he would here in the delicatessen in front of their co-workers, but still, Marnie knew they’d made a connection.

He reached in front of her and typed on her keyboard—almost suggestively—so that the program ran again. “Man, I owe you, Marnie.”

She waited a beat. “Take me to Tarantella and we’ll call it even.”

“Tarantella.” He made a rude noise. “Good one, Marnie.”

“Hey, I’m serious!” She’d heard the restaurant was expensive, but it wasn’t that expensive. She’d even order spaghetti instead of the seven-layer lasagna.

“Come on.” He sat on the stool. “Tarantella is where you take your lady for a very special—” he raised and lowered his eyebrows “—evening.”

“I happen to think three hours of my time fixing your mess is worth a special evening.”

“What do you say I buy you a six-pack? You name the brand. I’ll even spring for imported.”

“Ooo, imported,” the others mocked.

Marnie extended her hands palms up, imitating a scale. “Let’s see…a six-pack of beer…dinner at Tarantella…helping Barry out of a jam…letting him spend all night trying to figure out where he screwed up in time for the client’s demo tomorrow. Gee, Barry, I dunno.”

“What, you want wine instead?”

There was general snickering.

Marnie glared down the bar. “No, I want dinner at Tarantella.”

The others looked at each other, then stared at their plates.

“Marnie, Tarantella is a date restaurant. You know, it’s dark, there’re candles, booths, tablecloths—all that stuff. There’s even a violin dude.”

“Yeah, chicks love that stuff,” Doug said.

Barry lowered his voice and leaned toward her. “It’s where you take your girlfriend.”

Marnie waited for Barry to connect the dots, but he was as bad at that as he was at writing code. “So?” she prompted.

He laughed as he picked up his soda. “You’re not the girlfriend type.”

Until a few nanoseconds ago, she’d kinda, sorta thought she was on her way to being his girlfriend. “What do you mean?”

Barry was still chuckling. “You know.”

“Apparently I don’t.”

As the tone of her voice registered, Barry stopped laughing and shifted on the bar stool. Marnie was aware that the other two guys had gone very quiet.

He cleared his throat. “Well…you don’t give off girlfriend vibes.”

Did he really think she’d helped him because she loved extra work? And she’d just asked him to take her to a romantic restaurant. Clearly she wasn’t vibe-literate. “Vibes how?”

“For one thing, you don’t dress…” He made a vague gesture at her jeans and baggy sweater. He, himself, was wearing Dockers and a golf shirt with a dribble of sauce from the meatball sub. Hardly the stuff of fantasies.

Marnie thought of the blonde. “Short skirts, stiletto heels, that kind of thing?”

“Hell, yeah,” Doug chimed in.

Barry made a slashing motion with his hand at others. “Not so much that, but there’s a certain attitude that lets men know you’re girlfriend material.”

“I see.” Marnie didn’t like what she saw.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. We like that you’re one of the guys.”

As if that weren’t bad enough, there were murmurs of agreement from the others. Marnie just stared at him.

“It’s a compliment,” Barry added.

She glanced from the green awning and the liveried doorman outside Tarantella to the partially eaten, cold meatball sub next to her laptop. “It doesn’t feel like a compliment.”

“Trust me, it is. You’re easy to work with ‘cause there’s none of that man/woman stuff going on.”

“Oh, the available-for-sex vibes. Right.”

There was not a sound in the deli.

Okay, then. Marnie saved the program to a disk which she ejected and handed to Barry.

He looked relieved. “Thanks, Marnie. You’re a pal.”

“Yeah, that’s me. A real pal.” She closed her laptop.

Barry gave her a look. “I’m telling you, you’d hate Tarantella. It’s not your style.”

Marnie gave him a look right back. “It could be.” He wanted vibes? She’d show him vibes. One of the guys? Not anymore. Attitude? Just wait. She was going to show him so much attitude he’d beg her to let him take her to Tarantella. She’d make all of them take her to Tarantella.

Barry squinted at her before shaking his head. “I’m just not seeing it. Better take me up on the beer.” He cuffed her on the shoulder. “What kind do you want?”

NOT THE GIRLFRIEND TYPE. Vibeless. One of the guys. A pal.

Barry had all but called her sexless. Or maybe he had. He’d definitely made it clear that she held no feminine appeal for him and, while he was at it, included the entire male gender. Even worse, the other guys hadn’t contradicted him.

At this moment, Marnie wasn’t too pleased with the entire male gender.

It was true that she’d prided herself on being a team player and that the guys included her in their downtime. Working with them was comfortable. She hadn’t realized that it was because they’d forgotten she was a woman.

So, she’d just figure out a way to remind them.

One of the guys. Not girlfriend material.

On her way home, Marnie mentally chewed on Barry’s words as she got off the bus and walked toward the 24th Street Mission BART station where she’d spend the next hour or so riding the train to Pleasant Hill, where, yes, she lived with her mother. Her mom was a great roommate—even if she weren’t Marnie’s mom. She did more than her share of the housework and cooking and didn’t bug Marnie too much about where she was going at night…mostly because by the time Marnie got home, she was in for the evening. How exciting was that?

Yeah, now that she thought about it, that sounded like a vibeless existence. The thing was, she’d never expected that she’d end up single and still living with her mother at the age of twenty-eight. What person thinks as a kid, “I want to live at home when I grow up?” When she was young, she’d had this image of what her future would be. She couldn’t exactly remember what it was, but living with her mother and sleeping in the same bedroom she’d had all her life wasn’t it.

Marnie was ready to settle down, as they say. But unfortunately, she hadn’t found anybody to settle with. Or even settle for.

When was the last time she’d been anybody’s girlfriend?

Marnie stopped walking right in the middle of the sidewalk, next to a trendy boutique, one of a string of them in this block.

There had been Darren, but that hadn’t lasted long and it had been the same kind of cheapie meal and occasional movie relationship she’d always had with guys. That had been fine when they were all starting out, but lately Marnie wanted more.

And, darn it, she was going to get it. Somehow.

She’d been gazing into the distance, but now she focused on the display window of the boutique. Skirts. Skimpy sweaters. Purses too tiny to be useful. Girlfriend clothes.

Marnie wore jeans and sweaters or T-shirts just like everyone else in her department. How stupid would she look if she started wearing clothes like that to work? And why should she have to change the way she dressed and fool around with her hair and makeup? She used to wear makeup, but she liked the extra sleeping time. Anyway, San Francisco’s windy weather made her eyes water and the stupid mascara run, so she’d get to work and have to do everything over again. Waste of time.

And did it matter? Were men really that shallow?

Of course they were.

Grumbling to herself, Marnie rounded the corner and headed down Twenty-Third Street, her favorite part of the walk to and from the station. Her route took her past a row of Painted Ladies, the San Francisco Victorian houses. Their defiantly gaudy colors and ornate trim appealed to Marnie. Why, she didn’t know. She was more of a neutral, sleek, chrome and clean lines kind of person, when she thought about decor at all. These houses were about as far from that as something could be.

This had been her route for nearly six years, uneventful until recently. First, several days ago, Marnie had noticed a sign in one of the pretty town houses—the pink-and-green one with the cream trim and darling gingerbread balcony—offering two-day rentals.

She’d memorized the sign: Two-Day Sublet. Inquire Within. There was additional writing beneath. It is not up to me to supply reasons why you might need an apartment for two days a week. If you do, let’s talk. If you do not, please walk.

Marnie had been thinking about it—she’d even met the doorman who had insisted that she take a flyer and had talked a blue streak at her until she’d given him a politely noncommittal platitude just to get away from him. Still, it would be wonderful to avoid the tedious commute for a couple of days a week.

The other thing that had happened was that construction had begun on one of the more tawdry of the ladies across the street. The house was being completely renovated and would no doubt rent or sell to a gazillionaire, if it hadn’t already.

At some point during the years since the town houses had been built in the late 1800s, they’d been updated by having their gingerbread trim torn off and new facades built over the old so that they’d lost all their personality. Now they’d get it back.

Marnie slowed to check on the progress—okay, and to see if the hunky construction foreman was around. In her current mood, Marnie could use a good construction foreman sighting.

Oh, goody. His truck was there. The blue-and-white Bronco bearing the name Renfro Restoration was parked off the sidewalk in the patch of grass by the front steps, just where it had been this morning when she’d walked by.

The guy had been solely responsible for Marnie acquiring a very expensive coffee habit. Every morning, she passed by about the time he arrived on site.

He’d lean against his Bronco and sip coffee from a familiar tall paper cup with a brown cuff around it. Though it was nearly May, the mornings were still cool and he’d wrap both hands around the cup. She could practically taste the coffee he gingerly brought to his lips. She’d think about it all the way into work and then have to stop in at the Starbucks next to the Carnahan building.

Early this morning, the two-man construction crew had been stripping the house to the insulation. Now they were cleaning up for the day. A large flatbed truck was parked on the street and the men threw the old wood and debris in it. Marnie stopped and watched them work. Actually, she watched one of them work because the foreman was right in there with them. His denim jacket and clipboard were on the hood of the Bronco and only a T-shirt was between him and the cooling evening.

A nicely filled out T-shirt. And jeans. Mustn’t overlook the jeans that emphasized a flat, taut stomach that clearly didn’t have a cold meatball sub sitting in it.

A broken two-by-four hit the side of the truck, bounced off and landed near Marnie. Startled, she jumped.

“Watch it!” The foreman approached her and Marnie’s eyes widened.

He was so much…more up close. Muscles and sinews worked in perfect rhythm as he strode toward her. Sawdust and other bits of old house dusted his shoulders and clung to his hair. Testosterone clouded the air. Everything about him shouted I am man and I do manly things. And the subtext which was, of course, I demand a woman who does womanly things.

Marnie doubted writing computer code counted as a womanly thing, but was willing to try to convince him.

He came to a stop in front of her, his shortish sun-kissed hair ruffling attractively in the wind. He wore gloves and swiped the back of his wrist over his forehead before resting his hands at his waist. His stance indicated that he was used to being in charge.

Marnie sighed a little. He could be in charge of her any time.

“You okay?” he asked.

She managed to nod. This was a lot of man and she wasn’t exactly sure what to do.

Apparently she didn’t have to do anything. He picked up the board and tossed it into the truck bed. “It’s dangerous to stand this close.” Then he walked back to the pile and picked up more wood. He raised his eyebrows until Marnie realized he was waiting for her to move on.

Way to go, Marnie. Talk about vibeless.

Couldn’t she have managed to come up with something to say? One measly conversational opener? She worked with men all day long and she couldn’t figure out an approach?

Talk about seriously rusty. The fact that he was a completely different type for her was no excuse. So his in-your-face masculinity had rendered her mute. Clearly, she needed help.

Disgusted with herself, she hunched into her ski parka and buried her nose in her woolen scarf as the wind picked up. Where was spring already?

She crossed the street, which brought her right by the Victorian with the two-day rent sign in the window. But she wasn’t looking at the sign—she was using the window’s reflection to watch the construction guy some more.

That was one serious hunk of man.

And she hadn’t even pinged his radar.

But to be fair, guys like that had never pinged her radar, either. She’d always gone for cerebral types, and the foreman was more the “hunka hunka burnin’ luv” type.

As Marnie stood there thinking that maybe the cerebral types she knew could use a testosterone transfusion, the door to the Victorian opened and two tiny, long-haired dogs—the kind that barked in annoying little yips—led a tall, thin man down the steps. The doorman.

“Slow down or you’ll strangle yourselves, you irritating little twits.”

The dogs ignored him and struggled to descend the stairs. Once down on the sidewalk, they sniffed at Marnie’s shoes.

The doorman pulled at the leash. “I’d say heel, but they’d only think I was suggesting another part of your foot.” He looked up at her. “Oh, it’s you. Have you decided about the apartment?”

“Uh…” Marnie stepped back and the dogs yipped in protest. “I was just…” She trailed off.

Wait a minute. She was just having a pity party because Barry had rejected her and she’d been thrown for a loop by the construction guy.

She needed to make some changes and here was an opportunity being handed to her. Just because it was attached to a couple of high-strung dogs shouldn’t distract her.

The bottom line was that she wanted a boyfriend. A serious boyfriend. A potential husband boyfriend. There was even a technical name for that—fiancé. With her commute, it was hard to date either in the city or in Pleasant Hill. Renting this apartment would give her a temporary base in the city.

She’d just about decided when the sound of gears grinding announced the imminent departure of the flatbed truck. The construction foreman was still there sweeping leftover debris off the sidewalk.

Oh, yes. And as an added perk, she’d wake up to him outside her window.

Marnie looked back at the doorman, who’d been remarkably patient when she sensed that he wasn’t the patient type.

“Yes, I’d like to rent the apartment for two days a week.” It was the first impulsive thing she’d ever done.

He pulled on the dogs’ leashes. “Monday and Tuesday is all that I have left.”

Those weren’t date nights. “Monday and Tuesday will be fine.” She’d make them date nights.

“Fabulous! But as you see, I am otherwise engaged. When can you come by to do the paperwork?”

“Tomorrow morning?” Marnie still couldn’t believe what she’d done.

“How do you take your coffee?”

Marnie blinked at the question. “Large and strong.” Kinda like the construction guy. She almost giggled.

“Understood. Until tomorrow then. Onward, dogs!” The doorman proceeded up the street, fortunately in the opposite direction.

Okay. She’d done it. Now how was she going to tell her mother that she’d rented an apartment in the city for two days a week? Marnie started walking when a whistle pierced the air. Not from the man with the dogs, but from the crew in the truck.

Instinctively, Marnie knew it was a different whistle than the ones the construction workers used to signal each other. Glancing across the street, she saw two women walking, heads bowed against the wind just as hers was when she walked.

That was the only similarity. Where Marnie was dressed in clunky hiking boots, jeans and appropriately warm clothing for a San Francisco spring evening, these stupid females were wearing heels and skirts which blew every which way as their long blond hair whipped about their faces.

What was this? Blonde Day? And why were they all dressed alike?

The wind carried the murmur of appreciative males. The construction workers, clearly unrepentant, had whistled at the women and now watched as they walked past the truck. Ah yes, the call of the male hominus jerkus.

They hadn’t whistled at her, not that she’d ever had a construction worker whistle at her or wanted one to. Or was supposed to want one to.

And yet, and yet… No. If that was what she had to wear to get whistled at, then forget it.

She stood and watched the men watching the women.

“Hey! Haul that stuff off to the dump!” The foreman glanced at the women then tossed a bag of sweepings into the back of the truck. It drove away and the foreman walked into the yard where he set up two sawhorses and a work light clipped to the open door of the Bronco.

He was still in his T-shirt, impervious to the cold. The muscles in his back stretched, the muscles in his arms bunched and his torso was probably a work of art.

Marnie sighed. If she were going to have a man whistle at her, that was the one she wanted doing the whistling.

But he hadn’t even acknowledged her presence.

She should get going or she’d miss her usual train. Except something drew her to the man in the yard. Marnie stepped off the curb and crossed the street. What would she do if he did notice her?

Put out some vibes, that’s what.

The whine of an electric saw shrieked into the evening. Marnie made the brilliant deduction that he was cutting a piece of wood. He wore safety goggles and looked solid and competent and was concentrating as fiercely on the movements of the saw as Marnie usually did staring at a computer screen. Of course if Marnie made a mistake, she wasn’t likely to lose a finger.

A man at work was a thing of beauty. If that wasn’t a famous quote, it should be. Yeah, if nothing else, seeing more of this guy made renting the apartment worth it.

Knowing that he couldn’t hear her, Marnie shouted, “You’re a thing of beauty! And I just rented the apartment across the street. What do you think of that?”

The saw reached the end of the board. The whine stopped and a chunk of wood fell to the ground. Setting the saw aside, the man picked up the part he’d cut and held it to the light. As he examined his work and blew bits of shaving and sawdust off the design, a huge smile creased his face.

ZACH RENFRO liked nothing more than restoring San Francisco’s grand Victorians. He did excellent work, if he did say so himself. No one could afford him, but since he didn’t charge what he was worth, it all evened out.

People lacked patience these days. People like the actor type who lived in the Victorian across the street. The day Zach and his crew had started ripping off the disgusting dress this pretty lady had worn for the past seventy-five years, the guy had swished across the street to complain about the noise. He’d blathered on about a script and how Zach was committing auditory assault.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Zach had climbed down a ladder to talk with the guy and wasn’t pleased about the interruption.

“I have work to do. How can I concentrate with all this commotion?”

“Earplugs?”

“I, Franco Rossi, should not have to wear earplugs in the privacy of my own home.” He gave Zach a haughty look.

Great. One of those. “Well, Frank.” Zach couldn’t believe anyone would admit to being named Franco and shortened it out of courtesy. “This is my work.”

“But my work is art.”

Zach gestured to the house. “So is mine. Once upon a time, my lady, here, was just as pretty as your house. But she wasn’t treated right and now I’m going to give her a little nip and tuck, get her a new dress and make her a pretty necklace.” Zach reached into the front seat of his truck and grabbed the piece of wood that he planned to use as a pattern to cut gingerbread trim. “Now look at that. It’s a custom design and I’m going to cut it out by hand. Are you going to tell me that’s not art?”

Franco stared at the wood, then raised one well-shaped—probably plucked—eyebrow. “My apologies for not recognizing a fellow artiste.” He bowed. Bowed. Zach glanced around to see if his crew noticed.

“So you will understand if I confess that the call of my muse is so faint that your muse is drowning her out.”

“Hang on.” Zach bent down and rummaged in the open toolbox propped on the front steps. Inside was a package of earplugs. He shook out a couple and handed them to Frank. “Occasionally, my muse gets loud even for me.”

Franco stared at the two pieces of bright yellow foam. “Do you have these in blue?”

“No.”

He sighed, then pasted a brave smile on his face. “I shall persevere.”

Zach hadn’t seen him since. Fortunately.

He liked working in this area of San Francisco. There was a lot of contrast with the edge of the Mission District and the trendy part of Valencia Street. He wouldn’t mind living in a place like this. Of course, he wouldn’t mind living in any of the Victorians he’d restored. That was the secret to his inspiration—he got emotionally involved in them. It wasn’t practical, but he left the practical part of running Renfro Construction to his father and his brother, who had enough practicality to spare. Enough for Zach to be Renfro Restoration. So what if he did get a few pangs at the end of a project? Another one always came along.

Zach took a deep breath of the cool evening air and turned on the saw. The drone of the blade as it cut through the wood served as a soothing backdrop for his thoughts.

In spite of all evidence to the contrary, there was a practical side to Zach and that practical side, a residual of years working in the office side of the business, pointed out that there were thousands of very good commercial patterns and manufacturers of Victorian gingerbread trims. And even if he wanted to continue to provide custom designs, he could recycle his more successful ones to increase the profit margin. It would still be a Renfro Restoration original, but he could outsource the fabrication and carry the designs in stock. Construction time and standby labor time would be less, thus increasing the profit margin.

Lord knew it wouldn’t take much to increase the profit margin. But knowing each house was unique appealed to Zach’s pride and an artistic sense he hadn’t known he had.

He owed his father and brother big-time for letting him run this part of the company. They never said a word when Zach’s penchant for perfectionism ate into the already slim profits.

And he was just so much happier doing this than anything else. They knew that, too.

So, he’d work on this new trim design tonight so he wouldn’t have to pay standby time to the crew tomorrow.

Zach concentrated on working the jigsaw and holding the wood steady. One slip would ruin the design. Yeah, there were nails and wood glue, but that was a last resort.

He became aware of a blob of bright colors in his peripheral vision. The blob could have been there any number of minutes since his vision was partially blocked by the side of the safely glasses. He’d seen that blob before—walking by every day and a little while ago it had nearly been beaned with a piece of wood.

Without turning his head, Zach swiveled his eyes. Gotta be a homeless person wandering the streets—the giant ski parka, jeans, well-worn boots, the bag, the wool hat pulled over his…her? ears, but especially the way he/she stood there and talked to him or herself.

The guy was probably going to sleep in the house once Zach left. At this stage in the construction, Zach didn’t particularly mind, but in a couple of days, he was going to have to secure the place to protect the remodeling and tools from vandals.

But right now, he needed to concentrate on working with a lethally sharp saw.

MARNIE SHOVED her hands into her pockets as she watched the man work. His corded muscles were nicely defined by the T-shirt. His jeans did some nice defining, too. Very nice.

Surprisingly nice. Marnie wasn’t in the habit of noticing nice things like that. Hmm. This was a habit she should cultivate. What kind of trance had she been in the past few years? Oh, Barry had been nice looking in his own way but there was something about this guy…something elemental and real—talk about projecting, but who cared?—that appealed to Marnie.

What type of girlfriend would a man like that want?

Emboldened by the concealing whine of the saw, Marnie decided to ask him. “Hey, you. Yeah, you—big, strong, musclely construction guy. So what’s a girl gotta do to be your girlfriend?”

The pitch of the whine lowered as the saw bit into the wood. Marnie admired the shape of the man’s arms. A girl generally didn’t see arms like that in the computer field.

“You’re probably the short, tight skirt, big hair and makeup sort, aren’t cha, Big Guy?”

Big Guy responded by turning so Marnie had a better view of his chest. “Whoo-hoo! You know, for you, it might be worth it. A girl could get lost in those arms. And I’ll bet you’d never ask your girlfriend to paint or pound nails and then buy her a lousy sandwich. You’re probably a simple man with simple needs.”

Marnie suddenly had some of those same needs. What a coincidence. She and the construction guy had something in common. She could work with common needs.

“And I bet you don’t have a whole lot of brains to get in the way of those needs, do you? Nope. Not you. But you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking brains are overrated. Men with brains just think about the same things anyway, so what do they need brains for?”

Marnie shifted her bag to her other shoulder and shoved her hands back into her pockets. She should get going, but it felt good to shout out her frustrations with the male population to an actual man. The fact that he wasn’t Barry and couldn’t hear didn’t matter at all.

“Yeah, you’re just the kind of guy I could go for, if only…if only you’d turn around so I could see whether or not you’ve got a cute butt.”

There was silence. An all-encompassing silence. A silence that had begun midway through her last sentence. A silence into which the words “you’ve got a cute butt” rang out clearly. Irrevocably.

Humiliatingly.

She should run. Fast. Now.

She should, but she didn’t.

The construction foreman, aka Big Guy, pulled off the clear safety goggles as he straightened and ran his fingers through sunstreaked hair. He gave her a cocky grin. “Thanks.”

Marnie’s face was so hot, she was surprised little clouds of steam weren’t rising from her cheeks. “I was just—I didn’t say—there was more to the sentence!”

“How much more?”

“What I said was, I wished you’d turn around so I…could tell…” Not helping. Not helping.

He inclined his head and obligingly turned around.

Oh. My. Gosh. First of all, he actually turned around. Second, he really did have a cute butt.

Now what was she supposed to do? Because eventually, Marnie knew he would turn back—the way he was this very second—and she would be expected to say something. Under the circumstances, she supposed witty and profound was out.

“Well?” he prompted. He had just the sort of voice she expected a manly man—and what was construction work if not manly?—would have.

Marnie swallowed. “Very nice, thank you.”

“Nice?”

She nodded.

“Not cute?”

“Oh! Yes! Yes, of course it’s cute.” She was not having this conversation. She simply was not. This was an alternate universe and the construction worker with the cute butt was just a figment of her imagination.

A figment that was walking over to the sidewalk. She should say something that didn’t involve body parts. “You’re doing great on the house.”

What a wonderfully insightful remark. So far, he’d torn everything off the front, so who knew if he was doing a good job or not?

“Thanks.” He came to a stop a careful distance away from her and proceeded to subject her to an unabashedly thorough scrutiny. His gaze flicked over her hat, dwelt on her face and lingered questioningly on her puffy ski parka. Then, of all things, he studied her shoes and narrowed his eyes on the black canvas pouch containing her laptop. It wasn’t a normal laptop case because Marnie didn’t particularly want to advertise that she was carrying an expensive piece of computer equipment when she walked through the neighborhood.

Now, the man couldn’t expect to stare at her like that without being stared at in return, and Marnie figured she might as well stare since she’d already blown the first impression. She truly wasn’t the sort to make lewd remarks at construction workers.

At least she hadn’t been a couple of days ago.

Marnie wished that he’d say something. She wasn’t ready to try her luck again at meaningful conversation.

He drew his hands to his waist and regarded her sympathetically. “You need a place to stay tonight?”

Marnie nearly swallowed her tongue. “I—” Apparently it was very easy to become this type of man’s girlfriend. Too easy.

“You hungry?” He used his teeth to pull off this work glove, dug in his back pocket and withdrew his wallet.

He was going to offer her money.

She took a step backward. “I—I’m fine. I live with my mom in Pleasant Hill.” That sounded very sophisticated. “I’m headed to the 24th Street Mission station.” Continuing to back away from him, she hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “It’s just a couple of blocks this way. I should get going.” Giving him a quick nod, Marnie decisively strode toward the BART terminal. She was walking uphill and her shins began to tingle, but she wasn’t going to slow down.

And she wasn’t going to look back, either.

2

The Legend of The Skirt

by Franco Rossi

Act One, Scene One.

Exterior: Charming Victorian

Camera pans (unless is play) details of Victorian woodwork.

ENTER: (unless is movie, then camera zooms in through window) Handsome, with an air of superiority that he tries to hide, charismatic doorman, clearly bound for greater things.

(Note to self: decide if writing a play or movie)

A Skirt in San Francisco

A Play in Three Acts

by Franco Rossi

Act One, Scene One.

A world-renowned parapsychologist, acting as a doorman, (see above description) successfully rents his apartment to three women who will time-share during the week. The possessor of a skirt, which, legend has it, attracts men (and he must rely on legend since he is immune to the skirt), he awaits the opportunity to study the skirt’s effects firsthand.

(Note to self: keep it snappy, keep it moving)

Ms. Monday-Tuesday is a preoccupied computer programmer. Very smart, but very unaware. Nice eyes and hair—needs a trim—has no clue how to dress, presumably a good figure, but how would one know beneath the sleeping bag she wears as a coat? Wants to give city living a try and a break from long commute.

Ms. Wednesday-Thursday is looking for her father. Something mysterious going on there. Must explore.

Sadly, Ms. Friday-Saturday used to own the apartment and is attempting to get on with her life after a broken engagement.

(Note to self: take notes before writing script.)

(Additional note to self: Wear earplugs only if sitting in foyer, otherwise cannot hear doorbell.)

IT HAD BEEN several days since Zach had seen the homeless person. He hadn’t meant to scare her—he’d decided the person was a “her”—but that might be the best thing if it had sent her on home. These runaways took to the streets thinking it was a solution to their problems. Maybe in some cases it was, but that kid was too soft for that kind of life.

And then this morning, there she was again, dragging her belongings behind her. She hadn’t had the duffel when he’d seen her last week. He wondered if she’d stolen it or accepted a handout from somebody.

Surreptitiously from his perch on the ladder, Zach watched her climb the steps to a Victorian across the street and was more than surprised when that Frank character opened the door and let her in. Moments later, without the duffel, she climbed down the steps and hurried on up the street.

Zach started down the ladder, intending to check on the guy, but stopped. It wasn’t any of his business. Besides, Frank came and went all the time. If Zach didn’t see him by noon, he’d check up on him then.

In the meantime, he had some trim to finish tacking up.

Man, he loved his job. Even when things went wrong, he loved his work.

Zach had cut out thirty-six linear feet of gingerbread trim. This morning, he was tacking it between the bay window on the ground floor and the upper floor bay window, the oriel, to see how it looked.

It was an ornate pattern, full of curves and swoops and intricate cutouts because Zach wanted to show off a little bit. He hammered up the three strips, then climbed down the ladder and walked to the edge of the front yard.

An excellent job, if he did say so himself. But the trim didn’t have the impact he’d thought it would. He tried to imagine various exterior color schemes that would highlight the pattern, but the problem was that the curves and cutouts and curlicues were too small for the scale. The intricacies of the design were lost. Maybe if he painted the house a dark color and the gingerbread white, like icing, it would work.

He was standing there imagining it when he heard a throat clear behind him and was relieved to see Franco from across the street. He was walking three dogs, yet managed the leashes in a way that told Zach he’d done it many times before.

“Would you be adverse to a comment from a layman?”

“Go for it.”

“The trim doesn’t work.”

Zach exhaled heavily. “I know.”

“It’s too fussy.”

“I prefer ornate.”

“I prefer ornate, too, but sometimes, less is more, if you know what I mean.”

Zach had meant the word “ornate,” but he let it pass.

Franco shifted the leashes to one hand and gestured up and down. “Look at the tailored lines of the house.”

Zach knew what he meant. “It’s Sticks-Eastlake style. See the square bay window? And there are still some of the original wooden strips outlining it.” Restoration was Zach’s favorite subject. “When the facade is finished, there will be more strips outlining the doors and the framework of the house and then—”

Franco held up a hand. “My point is that you wouldn’t dress a gloriously statuesque six-foot tall woman in girlish frills and lace, would you?”

“A gloriously statuesque six-foot tall woman can wear whatever the hell she wants.”

“No, she can’t.” Franco was firm on this. “She can wear the clean, dramatic lines and bold patterns and color that would overwhelm a more petite woman. Likewise, your house. Enhance. Do not detract.”

As Franco babbled about Amazons, Zach immediately saw why his previous design hadn’t worked. His curls and curves fought with the clean lines of the house. This particular style of Victorian was known for gingerbread embellishment, but clearly, it had to be the right gingerbread.

Franco had moved on to domes and turrets, equating them with hats and turbans. Zach wasn’t going in that direction, but he did have another idea for a gingerbread pattern with straight lines and spare curves.

“You’ve got a good eye,” he said to Franco.

“Yes. And I’m especially good with colors, should you find yourself in need of a second opinion.”

In spite of himself, Zach felt the edges of his mouth turn up. “I’ll keep that in mind. Hey, have you seen that homeless girl around here?”

“One sees so many.”

“I’m talking about the one you let in this morning.”

Franco’s face was blank.

“Giant coat? Funky hat? I know, that sounds like most of them.”

“Ah.” Franco raised his finger. “I know who you mean. She’s not homeless.”

Zach exhaled. “Good to hear. I thought she looked a little soft for the streets.”

“Not to worry.”

Franco and the dogs walked on and Zach got to work designing a crenelated running trim with wagon wheel spokes that would be a bear to cut out. But worth it.

OKAY. HERE IT WAS. Marnie’s first night in the Victorian apartment.

“Welcome, welcome.” Franco, her new landlord, bowed and ushered her into a jungle. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“At least on Mondays and Tuesdays,” Marnie said. “What’s with the greenery?”

“I’m plant sitting.” He gave her a sly look. “Normally, I would put them on my balcony, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

Marnie knew a hint when she heard one. “I don’t care if you put the plants on the balcony. I like plants.”

“Excellent.” Franco handed her a huge Boston fern. “Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

Marnie could hardly see around the plant, but climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment, 2B.

There were four apartments in the old Victorian, but she gathered that Franco was the only one renting his out piecemeal.

She thought it was clever of him, actually. This way, he could concentrate on his script. And he was, no doubt, making more money than if he’d rented it to one person. And, as he had told her, Sundays were his.

Franco had given her a key when she’d dropped off her suitcase and duffel this morning and now Marnie unlocked the door and stepped inside. She set the fern down by the front door and surveyed the apartment.

It was exquisitely decorated in period furniture that made Marnie nervous, but she figured she’d either get used to it or break something. Probably both. She immediately went over to the bay window, from which she could see the work going on across the street and looked for the construction guy.

He wasn’t there. She was relieved in a way, but knew that she’d have to speak to him again at some point. They were pseudo-neighbors now, after all.

It was only hours after their evening encounter last week that Marnie had realized that the man hadn’t been hitting on her. He’d been offering her help. It said a lot about him and unfortunately, something about her as well.

Girlfriend material. As if. She cringed inwardly and it was a feeling she was getting tired of.

A great huffing and puffing announced Franco’s arrival. He’d rigged a pole to hold several hanging baskets and looked like an ancient Chinese water bearer.

“I’m not doing that again!” he moaned. “We’ll just have to make more trips.”

Marnie heard the “we’ll,” but figured she’d let him get away with it this time.

Franco staggered into the bedroom. “Hurry, hurry.”

Marnie followed him and opened the French doors to the balcony.

With much moaning and groaning, Franco knelt and raised the pole.

Marnie helped him get the hanging baskets off. She watched as he arranged them on a pretty white wrought iron plant tree, then brought him the giant fern.

“That, we’ll put in the corner. All right, then. Next load.”

Marnie didn’t mind helping since she hadn’t actually thought about what she would do tonight. She hadn’t eaten and she wanted to get settled in, then maybe explore the neighborhood streets she didn’t see every morning on her walk.

Franco had allocated part of the bedroom closet to her and she understood that the other tenants of 2B would also have closet privileges. Not that she planned to leave much stuff here, but it was nice to know that she didn’t have to lug everything with her each week.

After she and Franco had brought up the rest of the plants, he offered her tea.

“That sounds good.”

“I left a few basics in the kitchen and you’re welcome to help yourself. I suppose you and the others can use boxes or labeling to keep your things straight.” Franco put water on to boil and gave her a tour of the kitchen amenities at the same time.

Marveling at the novelty of having a man wait on her, Marnie shrugged off her parka and sat at the kitchen table. Franco leaned against the counter as he waited for the water to boil.

“And now you must tell me everything about yourself.”

“I gave you my social security number. My life is now an open book.”

“I’m talking about more than good credit and your employment history. I want to know about a woman with the unusual name of Marnie LaTour, her hopes and dreams—and how she believes renting an apartment for two days a week will help her achieve them.”

Well, put that way…one second she was staring into the friendly, but inquisitive, eyes of her landlord/doorman and the next moment, Marnie had burst into tears.

Marnie couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. Long, long, ago. She supposed that since her father had died right after she got out of college, she hadn’t had much to cry about. She had a good job, friends and the San Francisco public transportation system. What was there to cry about?

This was so embarrassing. “I’m s-sorry.”

Franco calmly went about the task of making tea. “I find myself confronted by crying women on a fairly regular basis.”

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” Marnie wailed.

“Yes, you do. You just aren’t ready to tell me about it.” A cup of hot tea appeared in front of her, along with a tissue, which she accepted gratefully.

“It’s so stupid,” she mumbled, holding the tissue against her nose.

“Not if it makes you cry.”

“Crying’s stupid, too.”

Franco sipped his tea and said nothing.

Eventually, Marnie couldn’t stand the sound of her sniffing in the silence and blurted out, “It’s just that a man at work, someone I thought I liked, told me I wasn’t girlfriend material, which I knew because the construction workers never whistle at me and I don’t even know why I care.”

She sniffed. Again.

Franco clasped his hands together. “May I take notes?”

“Why?”

“I’m a student of the human condition and hope to incorporate certain stories into my scripts.”

Great. She was a human condition. Marnie held her head in her hands. “I don’t care.”

“Does it matter if it becomes a film script?”

Like it would ever be produced. “No.”

Franco went to the telephone table and returned with a pen and pad of paper and began scribbling. “Now what else is bothering you?”

“My mother is going to Paris,” Marnie threw in for good measure. She’d just found out.

Franco gasped. “And not taking you?”

“She’s chaperoning the French club. She teaches high school.”

Franco gestured dismissively. “Consider yourself lucky, then. You don’t want Paris at this time of year. Now, what do you want?” He stared at the pad of paper. “Do I understand that you wish construction workers to objectify you?”

“No! Well, kinda… Actually, I guess I just want to be the sort of woman they would want to objectify—whistle at. You know.”

“I’m getting the idea, but please enlighten me.”

And so Marnie told him all about Barry and not being girlfriend material and the construction workers and the foreman thinking she was a homeless person. Franco nodded and said “Uh-huh” and “mmm” a lot as he took notes.

He was such a good listener that Marnie even told him how she’d worried about telling her mother she’d be staying here and how her mother had misunderstood and thought she was moving out and that her mom had been so happy that now Marnie was really going to have to look for somewhere else to live. None of this had anything to do with being girlfriend material, but Marnie had thought she was helping her mother by living with her and now her mother didn’t need help anymore and it was Just One More Thing.

“I’m sorry to be such a drama queen,” she moaned, holding her head.

“Drama is my life,” Franco said fervently. “What are you going to do?”

Marnie drank her entire mug of lukewarm tea. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” Franco tapped his pencil impatiently.

She did know. “Okay, but I don’t know how.”

“Oh, hon, you don’t want that Barry creature.”

“Oh, no. But I want him to ask me out to Tarantella. I want him to beg me.”

“And you want the construction workers to whistle at you.”

“Maybe just once.”

“I could pay them for you.”

Marnie laughed, then immediately sobered. “You’re saying that’s the only way—”

“No, it was a joke. A bad one. But I did make you laugh.” He studied her and Marnie was reminded of the construction foreman’s thorough scrutiny.

“We have a lot of work ahead of us.” Franco stood.

“We?”

“You didn’t think I wouldn’t respond to your cry for help, did you? We’ll start by doing your colors.”

“What?”

“We’ll ascertain which colors are most flattering to you before we go shopping, my little Cinderella.”

“Shopping isn’t one of my favorite words. I mostly order online.”

Franco gave a world-weary sigh. He used sighs very effectively. “I shall return with my swatches. You need to change.”

“I know.”

“I meant your clothes. What did you bring?”

Marnie looked down at herself. “Uh, more jeans. Some T-shirts.”

“Do you have a white T-shirt?”

“Mostly white. It’s got the blue writing on it from the Carnahan Easter 10K Fun Run.”

“Wear it backward or turn it inside out. And let me check my costumes—”

“You have costumes?”

“Yes, I’m an actor and a playwright and sometimes due to budgetary constraints in the small theaters, one must exercise many talents.” He headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”

Marnie cleared away the teacups and unpacked her suitcase. The closet was empty, except for a large hanging bag. She hung up three T-shirts, two pairs of jeans and her pajamas and robe. She didn’t know what to do with her underwear, so she left it in the duffel, which she set on the closet floor.

“Yoo-hoo,” she heard. Marnie couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever heard a grown man say “Yoo-hoo.”

Franco was in the living room. He’d pulled a chair over to the bay window and had taken the shade off the lamps, which he’d turned on. “We’ll need to see how you look in both natural and artificial light.”

Marnie pictured the Carnahan offices. “I spend most of my day in fluorescent light.”

“How ghastly.” Franco grimaced. “I found a nice, plain, black skirt I think will fit you. Go put it on.”

“A skirt? Isn’t denim a neutral color?”

Franco pinched the top of his nose and inhaled. “Marnie, please start thinking outside the box.”

Apparently thinking outside the box meant putting on the black skirt. Fine. Whatever.

Marnie already had on the white T-shirt and now she added the skirt. It slipped smoothly over her head and settled around her hips, swirling around her thighs before brushing its hem around midknee.

Marnie couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a skirt or a dress and yet she’d been faithfully shaving her legs just the same. Now was the payoff. Who would have known?

She zipped up the skirt and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Even she, fashion nihilist that she was, could see that the black skirt was probably the most flattering thing she’d ever worn. And it fit. Maybe a little loose at the waist, but that was just lasagna-eating room.

She smoothed her palms against the material noting the thick, rich feel. She turned to the side and thought for a moment that she saw a glimmer, but when she looked closer, it was gone.

What material was this? Some kind of silk, she guessed. Good quality stuff.

“Marnie? Are you about ready, hon?”

“Coming.” With a last look at herself, she headed for the door, the skirt warmly caressing her legs as she walked. She’d taken off her hiking boots and was walking barefoot across the wooden floor. The skirt made her walk differently. She could feel it in the sway of her hips and the placement of her feet and caught herself emphasizing certain movements in order to feel the material of the skirt against her skin.

She could be on to something here.

“Come, come.” Franco gestured impatiently. “And let down the hair—oh those ends…well, baby steps…baby steps.”

Marnie took a seat in front of the window and for the next few hours—actually only about thirty minutes—Franco draped scarves next to her face and made her look into a hand mirror. There were three piles of scarves: those that made something about her “pop,” which she learned was a good thing, and those that made her look like a corpse, which was a bad thing. Then there was the secondary pile, the “only if it’s on sale” pile.

She was gratified that the colors in her parka made the pop pile, but Franco only shook his head. “Colors aren’t everything. However, you lucky, lucky girl, you’re a Deep Autumn. You can wear black.”

“Everyone can wear black.”

“Everyone does wear black, but not everyone should.”

Franco gathered up his scarves then presented her with a swatch sampler. “You may borrow this if you swear that you’ll use it. Also, I will give you a list of acceptable boutiques where you may shop and put your choices on hold. I’ll stop by and approve them and you can make the final purchase then.”

The nerve of him! Marnie did not remember agreeing to any of this: Franco approving her clothes, making her take swatches, for heaven’s sake. She hardly knew him. Marnie opened her mouth, then closed it. Franco seemed to be awfully sure of himself. And she wasn’t.

Marnie smoothed the skirt over her lap and remembered the way it made her feel as she walked across the room. Okay, so what was the harm in buying a few new clothes? She knew she was going to have to change her appearance and if she didn’t find anything she liked, no one was going to force her to buy it.

She gave Franco a sideways glance. Well, he just might. He handed her the swatch cards. “Thanks, Franco,” she said meekly.

Franco snapped his scarf case shut. “I have some errands to run, but in about half an hour, I’m going to Tony’s grocery. You can come with me, if you like, and I’ll introduce you to Tony.”

“Thanks, Franco, I would.”

Amazing how some silly scarves and an offer to go to the grocery store could improve her mood, but it did. Being with Franco was going to be fun.

Marnie went into the bedroom, strangely loathe to take off the skirt. She was standing in front of the mirror turning this way and that when she heard a crash from the balcony.

One of the plants. It had to be. She just hoped it wasn’t the whole plant stand.

The evening breeze had picked up and Marnie was chilled as she opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The giant fern had blown over. It needed a bigger pot to make it more stable, though Marnie guessed that when it was hanging, it didn’t matter.

She knelt and scooped up the dirt that had spilled out of the pot. A gust of wind swirled around the tiny balcony sending the hem of her skirt rippling way up her thighs and making her flash anyone who happened to be walking along the sidewalk—or renovating a house across the street. Marnie grabbed the skirt and the fern tipped over again.

There were tricks to wearing a skirt that she’d forgotten. She darted a quick look across the street but, thankfully, didn’t see anyone. The Bronco was there, so she knew the construction guy was around somewhere. Marnie cleaned up the dirt again and hooked the big fern around the balcony railing. It rolled from side to side a little, but that was better than tipping over.

Marnie stood. While she was out here, she ought to check the plant stand.

The pots were swaying, but Franco had wedged the heavy stand in a corner. Just to make sure, Marnie moved one of the matching wrought iron chairs from the little table set next to the stand.

The chair had chipped white paint and bits of rust on the seat. It looked extremely uncomfortable. Marnie couldn’t imagine anyone—even Franco—sitting in it, but from the street, the tableau probably looked very picturesque.

Another gust of wind caught her skirt and slammed the glass door shut so hard, the pane rattled. Moist San Francisco night air misted Marnie’s thighs before she could yank the skirt back down.

Good grief! The whole block had probably seen her underwear by now. Holding the skirt in place with one hand, Marnie tried to open the French door with the other.

It was locked.

She rattled the handle. She tried pulling up and turning. She tried pushing down and turning. She tried kicking, but since she was barefoot it hurt her more than the door.

Great. Now what? She could break the glass and unlock the door, assuming the lock wasn’t broken, which she suspected it was. Or she could try to get Franco’s attention.

Marnie leaned over the balcony. “Franco! Franco, can you hear me?” The front door was just beneath her.

There was no answer and Marnie remembered that Franco had said something about running errands. He’d also said something about returning in half an hour.

Okay, then. She’d give him half an hour and then she’d break the glass.

Or she’d give him until her feet went numb, whichever came first.

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