“I’m trying to educate myself! Trying to get better! Trying to grow! Why don’t you try to do the same with your free time?”
“Why don’t you stop judging people, especially me, D, and—”
“Who? Our father?” Anita popped off the sofa like a bee had stung her. “I’m tired of hanging around people who get up in the morning high, continue the day with liquor and don’t even remember the names of who they’ve slept with the night before! Do you know their names?” Anita pointed toward the bedroom door and when her brother didn’t immediately answer her, the words just rushed past her lips. “I’m tired of being around big kids— who play video games all day long, and . . . and . . . why am I even talking to you?”
“You need to go smoke a blunt and chill out is what you need to do— it’s too early in the goddamned morning for all of this,” her brother said, waving her off.
“It’s eleven-thirty, a half hour before noon,” Anita said flatly, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Whateva,” her brother said, heading back to the bedroom.
“My bags are packed and I’ve checked out— on time.”
“So . . . what’s that got to do with me?” he muttered, reaching for the bedroom door.
“You’ll be paying for what ever expenses you and Derrick ran up in this hotel— so will Pops.”
Antwan Brown turned and looked at his sister, his gaze narrowed. “It always comes down to money . . . you always trying to hang that over everybody’s head. Okay, fine, so whatchu want, you spoiled little brat? Want me to send the ladies home and drive your ass to New York right this second for your awards show tonight— is that what all the drama is about? Damn, I swear you get on my last nerve, girl. It’s not even twelve o’clock yet. If we leave here by four, we can all get up the way by seven, change, head out to the—”
“I have to be there by seven!”
“Aw’ight, aw’ight, relax. Damn.”
“I want those hussies off my tab, so what ever you ordered for them, you are paying for,” Anita said as calmly as possible. “Wherever Derrick is, and wherever Pops is, you can tell them the same thing.”
“Aw’ight, fine! I’ll pay for the dinners and the bubbly, you done?”
“No,” Anita said, folding her arms over her chest. “I have hired a legitimate limousine and security firm to pick me up in the lobby today, as well as to take me to the awards tonight— since I knew I couldn’t count on you. The label will have security when I get there, as per normal, but I’ll hire a real bodyguard, since you’re too busy.”
“Yeah,” she said, pressing her point when her brother appeared momentarily speechless. “I’ve been up for hours taking care of things I should have handled years ago. I might even hire that SWAT International, the firm that’s sending the limo, to go overseas with me on my USO tour, because I’m changing my life, and there can be no screw ups there . . . it can’t be like the disaster that was the U.S. rap tour last year. My name is still in the tabloids from that and the drama you guys got into. Never again.”
“Oh, so now we can’t go on the plush trips with you because things got a little wild in Vegas and in the dirty south? It wasn’t my fault that things got crazy in L.A., and you know that was all Derrick.”
Incredulous, Antwan stalked back toward her to get in her face. “So now we gotta stay home because I had some chicks in the spare bedroom in your suite and you might be a little late for some stupid awards show? Is that it? All because I got a little tipsy and forgot which room was which and came in here— so? Why you got beef over silly shit all the time, ’Nita? That’s probably why your man left you almost a year ago and don’t no other man wanna deal with your high-maintenance ass. Look at you,” her brother shook his head, glowering at her. “Fine as hell . . . pretty hazel eyes, nice shape, thick long hair that ain’t a weave, men falling all over you and can’t keep a man— why? Because you’re picky as hell and drive every man who gets with you crazy! You’re mad because you ain’t getting none, so now—”
“That’s not fair,” she said quietly, outrage and hurt making her voice tight as she held up her hand to make him stop hurling insults.
“So you heard me bouncing a coupla babes and ain’t had nobody in your bed, now this morning you come busting in my room throwing vases. You need to get your head shrunk, go get some therapy or better yet, get you some d—”
“I would have definitely preferred that you took them into your suite, the one I had paid for, but this doesn’t have anything to do with that. I got angry when I saw the bills, okay. Then I got even angrier when I looked at my watch, saw what time it was, and heard you starting up in there again when I have to be at an awards show in New York tonight— don’t get it twisted. Then I called the other rooms, trying to get my so-called driver, trying to get my father, somebody to take me back home, and couldn’t raise a soul on the so-called payroll . . . even you, my supposed handler and security guy was more concerned about getting tail than making sure that I’m back home, rested, and on point for the gig I have to do tonight— a gig that helps pay all of these bills.”
“Aw’ight, my bad, so I lost track of time,” Antwan said with a shrug. “But you ain’t have to come busting in there going off. This is all about your ego, be honest . . . because we’ve still got time to get to NYC, if you put on your makeup and stuff in the limo— how long does it take to put on a dress and some heels?”
Anita looked up at her younger brother, wondering where the love had gone, where the responsibility had gone, knowing that her mother had to be turning over in her grave. “This has to do with you all getting your lives in order, not my ego,” she said more quietly.
“You ain’t our mother!” Antwan shouted and then walked away from her.
“No, I’m not,” she said quietly, moving toward the LV luggage that she had stacked by the door.
“So, what you trying to say?” Antwan stammered, once he’d realized that this time she meant business.
“I am saying that you all have homes that were outright purchased. You all have nice cars that are paid for and insured for the year. You all have credit cards, with no balances on them— except for what ever you ran up last night. You all have closets full of really nice designer clothes, and last I remember I had left you with several thousand dollars in the bank.”
“Okay, like I asked you before, whatchu trying to say?” Her brother lifted his chin and folded his arms over his chest.
Anita nodded toward the dining room table. “There’s an envelope over there for each of you . . . it has a check for two weeks’ severance pay and a formal termination of ser vices letter. You’ll be eligible for unemployment, as my accountant made sure that we paid all of the necessary payroll deductions and I will continue your medical and dental benefits for a year— which should be long enough for you each to find a real job.”
“Severance? What? Are you serious?” Antwan’s eyes held a dangerous combination of fear and outrage.
“Completely.” Not waiting for the bellman who was on his way, Anita hoisted up her gold Louis Vuitton bag on her shoulder and then picked up a matching suit bag that held her gown and shoes before she reached for the door. She had already hired another limo and while she waited in the vehicle, the hotel staff could bring down the larger pieces of luggage, but right now she needed air.
“You ain’t doing this to us, ’Nita!” her brother shouted behind her as she slipped out of the door. “Now I know why everybody calls you Queen Bitch!”
IF THERE WAS anybody he’d do this emergency job for while home on leave, it was his best buddy, Lowell. The call had come in early this morning according to Lowell, who’d been trying ever since he’d started his security escort business to land a contract with this particularly difficult VIP— and the lady finally made up her mind when every good man that Lowell had was otherwise engaged with previously booked corporate clients.
Regardless, how did one say no to a man who’d saved your life by losing his leg,
and then had to rebuild a military career by chauffeuring and protecting spoiled CEOs and stars? Men of Delta Force were meant for so much more than this and it tortured his soul that Lowell had to choose this as a way to feed his family. Still, it was honest work and he’d honor his friend’s call to arms.
Zachary kept his gaze sweeping the hotel lobby of the Trump Plaza. This wasn’t a hardship detail though; the worst part of the job was probably going to be putting up with a megastar attitude and wearing a suit, but he’d survived a whole lot worse. Time wasn’t a problem, although he’d probably keep this off his commanding officer’s radar so it wouldn’t be viewed as a conflict of interest. He wasn’t going to let Lowell pay him; that’s what Lowell didn’t know. Besides, if he didn’t get paid then what he did on his time off was his business, as long as it was legal. It wasn’t like he was working a second job or moonlighting while in uniform.
But, if anybody asked, he was off-duty for six weeks and had time to kill . . . and this was just an in and out. Go in, pick up the package— one spoiled diva, deliver her to New York, drive her to an awards show, and then return her home. From there, Lowell’s other men would be off their previously committed details and could cover her building. Simple. Clean. Just the way he liked it.
Just the way . . .
Zachary’s thoughts trailed off to a dead stop. He’d seen the woman before on television and had a file pic that Lowell had sent to his BlackBerry— but seeing her in person was something entirely different. It took him a second to get his bearings before he could finally admit the fact that he’d been a man starved of the basic American pleasure of seeing a gorgeous woman maneuver on her own and uncovered in public.
Sure, he’d enjoyed the eye candy on his way home from overseas and on his way here, but damn . . . some of the garden spots he’d been in, just looking too hard at a woman could get you caught up in an angry mob, stoned, or worse, could cost an innocent woman her life.
Over the past year and a half of sensory denial, he’d learned to divert his gaze and only keep a passerby female in his peripheral vision as a potential suicide bomber. Although Anita Brown wasn’t carrying C-4, what this lady walking across the lobby had detonated was blowing his mind.
He’d expected to see her surrounded by an entourage of security and for her to be wearing some outrageous outfit. But she walked off the elevator like a normal person, alone, carrying her own bags, no makeup on, wearing jeans, a sexy orange tank top, and sneakers.
For a moment he couldn’t move. She was so naturally pretty that it didn’t make sense. Her skin looked like a piece of caramel satin— not a flaw on it . . . and her thick chestnut-brown hair was swept up in a simple ponytail. The orange color of her tank top drew him right to her rack and he was thankful for the aviator sunglasses that helped him keep a poker face as he began to walk toward her.
Instinct made him spot potential threats in the lobby. One small group of weekend gamblers started to move in on her, but then thought better of it as they caught his stare. True, it wasn’t a part of his detail; he was just the driver. But the lady’s expression seemed tense, like there was no one there for her to keep the public back. Not on his watch.
Huge designer sunglasses hid what he knew had to be a pair of drop-dead gorgeous eyes, and the entire package of her five-foot, seven-inch frame was so built that jeans on her ought to have been against the law. He felt his body begin to react, but gave it a swift mental down boy, and kept walking; he had a job to do. More importantly, her expression seemed so lonely that it made her seem vulnerable. He knew he needed to get to her before others in the lobby recognized her and then tried to accost her for autographs and invade her space.
“Ms. Brown?” he said, trying to remember to breathe. There was no way in the world that his buddy could have prepared him for her. The light scent of a delicious female fragrance instantly surrounded him, making it hard to form complete sentences. “I’m Zachary Mitchell, your driver.”
Her pretty mouth remained tight as she stared up at him and then began to fumble in her handbag for her cell phone.
“May I take that for you?”
He wasn’t prepared for her to jerk away from his reach for her luggage.
“I need to be sure you are who you say you are first,” she snapped and then whipped out her phone. She studied him as though he were a felon while she waited for the call to connect. “Mr. Lowell Johnson? Yes, well, it’s Anita Brown— tell me what this guy Zach Mitchell looks like.”
“I can produce ID for you, ma’am,” Zachary said calmly as she listened to Lowell’s description of him.
“Okay. Fine,” she said into her cell phone, but kept her eyes on him. “I’m being stalked, so I have to be careful. Thanks.” She ended the call and released a weary sigh, then glanced over her shoulder at the elevators before turning her back toward the crowd that was beginning to gather. “The bellman is bringing the rest of my bags. Just show me your ID and then get me out of here.”
He gave her space as he dug in his suit pocket for his wallet. “Here’s my driver’s license— and you’re right, you do have to be careful.”
She let out another exasperated breath. “It’s been a really rough day already . . . I didn’t want it to end with me being abducted from a freakin’ parking lot.”
“Neither do I, Ms. Brown,” he said, reaching for her luggage again. “Let’s get you to your limo and back home so you can relax.”
CHAPTER 2
OF ALL THE days for a tall, semisweet chocolate hunk to be her driver. Anita climbed into the backseat of the limo as the man identified as Zachary Mitchell held the door open for her and then closed it behind her.
Even the man’s driver’s license photo looked good! But now was not the time to be having a hormone flashback. Abstinence kept her mind on her money and her money on her mind. She was nobody’s fool— at least she wouldn’t be again. So what the man was fine? But he did have a swagger that couldn’t be denied. Just a look had backed up a bunch of autograph seekers.
His entire vibe was no-nonsense, and when she’d seen him coming toward her, she had to admit to herself that she’d freaked out a bit. The first thought that came to her was, if this was her stalker, she was a dead woman walking. Everything about the man seemed like he could make a swift decision kill. But then she’d found out he’d been the one sent to drive her. Anita briefly closed her eyes and tried to allow the tension to drain from her shoulders.
Now that the unsettling feeling of danger had passed she could really appreciate all of Zachary Mitchell’s many attributes. Peering through the window, she tried to get discreet glimpses of him through the darkened glass while the bellman put her luggage in the trunk. He was definitely someone who could make her go off her man-fast, she thought.
But he was her limo driver, for God’s sake. Hired help always sold your last shred of personal business to the tabloids. The finer the man, the more dangerous— because it was easy for the most sensible woman to lose perspective. She sat back with a frustrated huff and peered at Zachary Mitchell from a sidelong glance, watching him round the vehicle to put away her garment bag last. Yeah . . . he was the type who probably had a string of women, no doubt, with a build like that. Smelled too good, too. No cologne, no fancy anything, just basic male, clean-shaven . . .
She jerked her attention forward and tried to appear nonchalant when he came back to check on her and tapped gently on the window.
“Excuse me, ma’am . . .”
She pressed the window button and tried to remain bored by his presence as the darkened glass lowered. But it was impossible not to stare at his handsome face or drink in the way his full mouth moved as he spoke . . . or look at his white, white even rows of teeth.
“There is spring water in the refrigerator, juice, wine, champagne, a small salad, fresh fruit . . . in case you haven’t had time to eat. If you need me to open anything for you, just let me know before we head out on the road.”
He had a fabulous bar
itone voice that resonated in her belly, but he sounded like he was speaking from a memorized script.
“I’m all right,” she said, not looking at him.
He nodded and she raised the window. When he rounded the vehicle, she slumped back in relief, glad to momentarily be out of the man’s gravitational pull. But his stride and the way his suit fell just so from his broad shoulders made her follow the straight line of his back all the way down to his spectacular ass. She could only imagine what that glorious part of his anatomy would look like in a pair of jeans or leather pants.
She had to stop; she demanded that of herself. Most days she was all right— and simply worked herself hard enough that thoughts like the ones Zachary Mitchell conjured up simply faded into the background of her psyche. But for some odd reason, today this guy wasn’t fading . . .
Anita leaned her head back and closed her eyes, blotting out the ugly highway landscape of the Garden State Parkway. How was someone like her supposed to meet a decent guy, anyway? She hated what her ex had said . . . arrogant, smug bastard. He’d predicted this day— telling her that without him she’d be subjected to wannabe fame seekers, strivers, thugs, and groupies. That sooner or later she’d get lonely enough and horny enough that she’d make the ultimate human mistake that all stars made; she’d do somebody she wasn’t supposed to do and that would have severe career consequences. Jonathan had actually laughed in her face, casually telling her that it was still a man’s world and the double standard was completely in his favor. He could do what ever he wanted, whoever he wanted, and he’d recover; she couldn’t. She hated that he’d been right.
She swallowed hard, tasting tears of outrage and wishing that the new security company had sent over a short old man with a beer belly as her driver. Her body had betrayed her; it had to be the stress. She didn’t do out of control. Anita pressed her thighs together tightly and took several deep breaths. She hated feeling like this.