Male Call. Heather Macallister

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.