Male Call. HEATHER MACALLISTER

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.

      3

      M. IS IN THE SKIRT. It was almost too easy. Of course, I shall tell her nothing of its special properties.

      It had better find someone worthy of her. We’ll be going out later for a test spin.

      ZACH DIDN’T KNOW why he chose that moment to go outside, but he was glad he did. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have noticed the pretty brunette on the balcony across the street.

      Where had she come from? After three weeks on the site, Zach had learned the rhythm of the street and recognized most of the inhabitants, but he didn’t recognize her and even at this distance, she wasn’t the sort of woman a man forgot.

      Speaking of forgetting, Zach couldn’t remember why he’d come outside. All he’d done was stare at her as she sat in a chair and looked up and down the street.

      There wasn’t much going on and not too many people were out. Most were on their way home from work or having dinner.

      Zach stood in the front doorway and watched her grab at her skirt, fighting with the wind. She was cold, because she kept rubbing her arms and he wasn’t sure, but he thought she might be barefoot.

      Why didn’t she go inside if she was cold?

      She stood and stomped around the balcony then walked over to the door and stared at it, rattled the handle, then looked around the balcony before picking up one of the prissy chairs.

      As she took a step backward, a thought whispered through his mind. She’s going to break the glass.

      “Wait! That glass might be original to the house!” He started running across the street. “Hey, wait!”

      She heard him and set the chair down just as he squeezed through cars parked bumper to bumper along the curb and stopped beneath the balcony.

      “You weren’t going to break the door, were you?” he called.

      She came to the edge of the balcony. “That was the idea.”

      “Why?”

      “Because I’m locked out. Because I am very cold and I can’t climb down and jumping would be stupid, even if my feet are numb.” She spoke slowly, as though he had no brains, but since all he was doing was staring at her and watching her mouth move, she might be justified in that assumption.

      He liked watching her mouth move. She had a great mouth, even if it was a little on the blue side.

      Though he should probably help her get inside, there was just something about her that kept Zach staring at her. Her hair was blowing every which way, which clearly annoyed her, but every time she pushed a piece out of her face, her skirt blew around. That annoyed, her, too.

      It didn’t annoy Zach, at all. He’d caught several glimpses of a fine set of legs that went with a fine set of everything else, as far as he could see.

      She gave him an annoyed look and grabbed the chair again. “You might want to stand out of the way. I wouldn’t want you to get hit by flying glass or anything.”

      Zach gave himself a mental shake. “Hang on and let me get a ladder.”

      As he bounded back across the street, he had one goal and one goal only: to get closer to the woman on the balcony.

      Talk about being hit hard. Five minutes ago, he’d been completely unaware of her existence. Now she was all he could think about. Making sure he had a small set of screwdrivers, Zach carried an aluminum extension ladder back across the street. Propping it against the balcony, he climbed toward the dark-haired woman.

      Her arms were crossed in front of her and she shivered as he swung a leg over the balcony and tried to find a place to stand that wasn’t covered in plants.

      “Here.” She pulled a pot out of the way and shivered again.

      Zach immediately took off his denim jacket and draped it around her shoulders, his hands lingering a moment on her arms.

      She looked startled before giving him a grateful smile. “It’s warm.” She hugged the jacket to her.

      Zach didn’t notice the cold. It could have been snowing and he wouldn’t have noticed. An earthquake and he wouldn’t have noticed. He was having his own private earthquake, thank you very much. Who was she and why did he care so much?

      He wanted to enfold her in his arms and hold her until she stopped shivering. And then he’d hold her some more. What was it about her that