Across town, tall red-haired Faye Riley returned to her expensively furnished town house apartment after her weekly workout at the local gun range and set her duffel bag on the floor by the armoire that served as her gun cabinet. Target shooting was an unlikely hobby for a former debutante from Virginia, but Faye’s mother, one of the nation’s first female cops, had insisted her daughter learn. She wanted her daughter to grow up independent and strong; Faye just wanted to be kept by a man who was independently wealthy.
Faye put away her gear, locked her piece in the armoire, then shuffled through the envelopes left by the mailman. She scanned them all with a jaundiced eye. Bills, bills, and more bills. She would just have to talk to Myk again. She still didn’t believe their relationship was over—after all, hadn’t that little Nigerian, Obari, let her charge the blue fox stole the other day? If Myk had been serious about breaking up, her account would have been closed, but since it hadn’t been…
What’s this? she wondered, coming across a small ivory envelope at the back of the stack. She turned it over. It was addressed to her but curiously there was no return address. Using an ivory-handled letter opener, she slit the flap and found another envelope inside and lifted it free. The original name and delivery address had been heavily blacked out, but in the left corner she spotted the Chandler Works logo. Had Myk finally come to his senses? Maybe he was throwing a party, she thought excitedly. If so, the glorious blue fox would make for a grand entrance.
She opened the second envelope and inside was an elegantly engraved card. The florid gold words read: “Mr. and Mrs. Mykal Chandler respectfully request your presence at a reception honoring their recent marriage….” The card went on to announce the date, time, and place, and an enraged Faye hit the roof. “He can’t do this to me!”
That Myk Chandler hadn’t been man enough to tell her to her face made it even more galling and humiliating, having to find out like this—and she shook the card furiously for emphasis—like everyone else, was the lowest slap of all. She threw the invitation across her pink-and-gold living room. Once word of his marriage got out on the vine, Faye’s friends would laugh themselves sick. They’d warned her not to count her chickens too soon; a man with Chandler’s wealth and power would not be hooked by just a pretty face, but Faye had been confident that her beauty and Southern belle ways would get her what she wanted because it had always been that way. So in response to the warnings from her friends, Faye had turned up her nose and continued to plan and build upon the likelihood of becoming Mrs. Mykal Chandler, even though he refused to grovel at her feet like all the other men in her past or put up with her shit as he so eloquently phrased it. She wanted to marry him because he was fine, rich, and had a lifestyle she felt born to. She had no intentions of working herself to death like her mother, only to retire on a pension that was never enough.
But this, she raged inwardly while pacing the plush carpeted floor, this marriage of his changed everything: the jewelry she’d been itching to buy, the full-length sable she’d been coveting at Obari’s, the dinner parties, she’d planned on throwing. Everything had changed, and she didn’t even know the gold digger’s name. “Well, I’m sure as hell going to find out!”
She snatched up her cordless. Using a sculpted bloodred nail, she angrily tapped in a number. Somebody somewhere had to know the details, but an hour of calling proved her wrong. No one she talked to—and she’d talked to everyone she could think of—knew anything more than the information stated on the invitation.
Faye went over and picked it up off the carpet. She had no idea if the person who’d mailed it to her was friend or foe, nor did she care. All that mattered to Faye was that she had an invitation, and whether Myk wanted her to attend or not, she was going to his reception Saturday, and she was wearing her new blue fox.
On Saturday morning, Myk clicked off his cell phone and put it back in his shirt pocket. He’d been talking with Drake about the details for that night’s reception and about Sarita. Sarita. Her name was as lyrical and sensual as she. If Myk weren’t careful, his attraction to her was going to roar past his defenses, and all hell was going to break loose. Admitting that she’d gotten under his skin didn’t help matters, nor had dreaming about her last night.
He got up from his desk. Deciding he needed a walk outside to clear his head, Myk left his room and headed for the kitchen.
He assumed she was in her bedroom, but found her outside, seated on the long bench built into the plank walk leading down to the small dock. The October wind was blustery and cold, but she wasn’t wearing a coat.
He walked up, and asked, “Trying to catch pneumonia so you won’t have to dance with me tonight?”
Her eyes flashed with amusement. “No, but it’s worth considering.”
He wanted to sit beside her but chose to stand. “You should go get a jacket or something.”
“I’m okay. I was on my way back inside in a minute anyway. Just wanted some fresh air. I’ll bet it’s real peaceful out here in the summer.”
“It is.” He watched her look around at the setting. “Lily put in the rosebushes behind you, and she picked out all the shrubs and trees.”
In the spring the walk down to the water was alive with the pale blossoms of the flowering trees Lily had insisted he plant, and each year the area grew more lush. The hypnotic call of the river and the shade offered by the trees made the spot a perfect place to sit and relax.
She stood. “I’ll head back so you can be out here alone.”
“You don’t have to leave.”
Their eyes met.
He removed his jacket and handed it to her. “If you stay, you have to put this on.”
Sarita took the jacket from his hand and silently shrugged into it. It was way too big, but it still held his warmth and scent.
Seeing her in his coat gave Myk a thrill, but he kept his face free of any emotion. He looked out toward the river. “Tell me something about Sarita Grayson I don’t know.”
She answered, “That first morning we had breakfast together you said you knew all there was to know about me.”
“I was wrong.”
The blunt statement made her go still. He glanced over his shoulder at her, held her eyes for a long moment, then turned back to the water.
Sarita’s eyes scanned his back. What could she tell him? Her eyes strayed back to the trees fading in anticipation of winter. “I’d like to plant a bunch of trees and flowers around the center.”
He turned to her. “Is that what you wanted me to know?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what you want me to say, but that’s what came to mind.” A memory rose, and it colored her voice. “My grandmother did day work for a rich man named Mr. Aronson, and he had flowering cherry trees on his property. When I was little I always begged my grandmother to take me to work with her in the spring so I could see the trees.”
“So did she?”
“Yes. At least once every year.”
Myk smiled inside. Faye would never have pined for trees or flowers; diamonds and furs were more up her alley.
“Will I ever know what this thing you and Saint are mixed up in is all about?”
That caught him a bit off guard. His eyes swept her face for a moment, then he told her the truth. “No.”
Sarita sighed her frustration. “Chandler, I—”
“Let it go,” he replied quietly.
Sarita sighed again. “Well, did you at least get a good price for my diamonds?”
“Your diamonds?”
“Yes, my diamonds.”
Myk shook his head. Would this woman ever give up? “Your diamonds are gone, so you should forget about them. Have you eaten this morning?”
“Yes, why?”
“Don’t want you to look starved for the pictures.”
“Pictures? What pictures?”
“You and I have an appointment with the brothers and sisters of the Black press this afternoon at two.”
Sarita’s shock w
as all over her face.
His eyes showed his amusement. “Go put on something classy but dazzling, and I’ll meet you at the door in say, an hour?”
Sarita still hadn’t found her voice.
“Welcome to the society pages, Mrs. Chandler.” That said, he walked back to the French doors and went inside.
By early evening, the veneer over Sarita’s nerves felt as thin as the delicate white tissue paper wrapped around the dress she would be wearing to the reception. After the afternoon’s whirlwind photo op, she wondered how body and soul still managed to be in one piece.
As far as she was concerned, Chandler had taken full advantage of the situation, knowing she couldn’t protest. Admittedly, by the time the shoot was over, she hadn’t really wanted to, but it was the principle of the thing. The pictures were going to be used by myriad magazines and news outlets. Some were small heads-only shots destined for the local papers’ Recently Married columns; others were for larger spreads in national magazines like the famous Black monthly, Spectrum. When one of the photographers asked that she and Chandler pose for a kiss, she hadn’t wanted to and hoped Chandler would ignore the request, but instead, he gently raised her chin and stared down into her eyes. The look she saw reflected there made her heart race, and she trembled with anticipation. His lips met hers gently at first, coaxing her to let him taste her fully. Sarita’s initial nervousness made her pull back slightly, but he pursued her, wooed her, his arm closing ever so slightly across her back until the kiss blended their bodies into one. The room exploded with the flashes and clicks of cameras. The photographers apparently felt the heat and began calling out encouragement. Sarita barely heard them. When Chandler finally, sluggishly, pulled his lips away, her legs and knees were weak as spring rain. Her eyes refused to open, and she swore she had the brain of a shoe box.
After the kiss, she’d tried to pull herself together and appear cool and unfazed, but that only lasted for a few moments; the press wanted more.
By the time the photographers packed up their gear, she and Chandler had shared more kisses than she could remember; each more fiery than the last.
Now, in her room, her emotions in a confused uproar, her lips still kiss-swollen, Sarita laid the tissue-wrapped dress on her bed. Remembering Chandler’s kisses and the way she’d responded to them made her want to question her sanity. She’d thought herself way past the age of being overwhelmed by a man. The wild, careening sensations churning through her body were reserved for a sixteen-year-old, not someone her age. She’d left Chandler’s arms reeling like she’d been sideswiped by a truck.
The paper wrapped around the dress would have done a mummy proud, but it finally came free. The stunning creation inside made Sarita voice a small, dejected, “Aw man…”
Like everything else he’d given her, the dress was expensive and gorgeous. Made out of what looked like yards of brocaded indigo silk, it was strapless and full-skirted, with a skinny straight-line bodice cut a lot lower than anything she’d ever worn before. There was no ornamentation. It didn’t need any. This was a rich woman’s version of a smoking gun, and just looking at it made Sarita know it would fit like a glove. Why was he doing this to her? He was like the proverbial snake in the garden, tempting her with wealth, kisses, and his no-limit credit cards. The dress hadn’t been intended for a neighborhood activist scraping out a living on the little bit of pension left to her by her deceased uncles. It had been designed for a woman a whole lot more worldly and sophisticated. Not that she couldn’t pull it off, but she didn’t want to. Her life lay on the other side of town.
She very carefully lifted the dress free of the paper and raised it so she could see it better. Chandler had been almost right about its resemblance to the gown she’d worn the night before to dance with him, although her arms, shoulders, and neck would be even more bare. She would be expected to act as if she dressed this way all the time. She would also be expected to be butter in Chandler’s arms. For a moment, she let herself contemplate just how it might feel to give in and enjoy the warmth of his mouth trailing hot across the bare planes of her shoulders, the edges of her throat. Scandalized by the daydreaming, she shook herself back to reality and decided to get ready.
Downstairs, Myk, dressed in a black-and-white evening tux, checked his watch. His driver and friend, Walter McGhee would be there with the car in about forty minutes. It was six-thirty, and the festivities were supposed to jump off at eight. It gave them plenty of time to get to the reception. He was so anxious to see her, however, he had to force himself not to go up to her room to see if she was dressed.
He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Why he was so uncharacteristically nervous was beyond him. He was acting as if this reception was the real McCoy instead of just a way to cover his ass. He hoped the ruse worked. The sooner he could get her settled in and return to his NIA duties, the happier he’d be. He had tonight to get through though.
A half an hour later, the sound of rustling silk broke the silence. He turned, and there she stood in the doorway. She was so breathtakingly beautiful he didn’t know where to settle his eyes first. The gleaming roundness of her bare shoulders; the soft brown breasts rising above the low neckline; the way the indigo silk hugged her torso; all of it made him granite hard, and he had to take a deep breath to bring himself back under control. “Wow…”
It was all he could say. Once again, Sarita Kathleen Grayson-Chandler had knocked his socks off. “You look fantastic….”
“Thanks.” Sarita was trying to act cool and nonchalant, but she was so nervous it was a wonder she hadn’t shaken to pieces. She knew she looked good, though, and it pleased her that he thought so, too, but she had the rest of the evening to get through, and she already knew how unpredictable he could be.
“I opened some champagne.”
She shook her head and declined. “No thanks. I’m not much of a drinker.”
“No problem,” he replied quietly. He poured himself a flute and nursed it alone while she perched hesitantly on the edge of the leather sofa. He lingered over the drink in much the same way his eyes lingered over her in the beautiful dress.
After a few more moments of heated silence, Myk set the flute down, then said, “Excuse me for a minute.”
When he left the room, Sarita let out her breath. All she could think about was his vivid gaze. How in the world was she going to keep him at arm’s length tonight when deep down inside parts of herself didn’t want to? A woman would have to be dead not to be affected by all that he was, and Sarita was very much alive. She’d been celibate by choice for the last year, and Chandler’s raw sexiness was making her realize just how long it had been; but sleeping with him would only make this mess even more complicated, so she planned to follow her grandmother’s age-old advice: Keep your panties up and your dress down!
Chandler came back into the room a few moments later. He had a small, thin, black velvet box in his hand. When he unceremoniously sat down beside her, she jumped nervously, earning a disapproving glance.
“Sorry,” she whispered in response.
Opening the box, he told her, “Take that off.”
Sarita’s heart skipped, and her hand moved protectively to the bodice of her dress. Not sure what he was intending, she backed away warily. Did he want her to take off her dress?
When Myk looked up, that was the position he found her in. He searched her eyes for the reason for her stance. It then occurred to him what the problem might be. “Not your dress. The chain around your neck.”
He made her turn, and it took him only a few seconds to release the chain’s clasp. Once he did, he lifted the chain clear and set it aside.
“Now, hold still…” he murmured.
His warm fingers returned, accompanied by the feathery weight of an ornate necklace. The painted tips of her fingers touched the circlet questioningly while he did up the delicate clasp.
Sarita rose from the couch and went over to mirror hanging over the fireplace mantel to see.
The sheer beauty of it left her speechless.
Myk came up behind her. “I should record this.”
Sarita was so focused on the blue-and-gold jewels reflected in the mirror that she didn’t hear him. “What?”
“Your silence,” he explained. “I said, I should record it. It’s rare, coming from you.”
Sarita was so overcome, she missed the point of his teasing entirely. “You can’t record silence.” Then, in a voice burning with wonder, she asked, “Are these sapphires?”
“Yes, they are.” Myk’s eyes traveled hungrily over the reflection of the blue stones nestled against her unmarred skin. “Sapphires, diamonds, and gold.”
Sarita had never worn anything so exquisite. The necklace looked like a string of small golden snowflakes. The centers were gleaming blue, the points around them sparkling diamonds. “These are real, aren’t they?”
“Of course they’re real,” Myk countered. The question might have offended him were it not for the pure awe in her voice. He added, “You know, you’re never supposed to ask a man if the jewelry’s real.”
Sarita turned slowly and looked up into his mustached face. “Says who? That’s a man you’re quoting, right?”
Myk chuckled at her dead-serious manner. “How’d you guess?”
Sarita turned back to the glass. “A woman would never say anything so ridiculous.” Once again the necklace around her neck grabbed her attention. “Do you have any idea how much these are worth on the street?”
“I’m sure you could tell me.”
His cold tone brought her up short. Of course he knew how much they were worth.
He told her quietly, “I bought those sapphires to hang above your sweet little breasts, not for you to give to your neighborhood fence.”
“You bought these for my—for me?”
“Of course they’re for you.” Myk was getting real tired of her country girl act. “Who else would they be for?”