The Edge of Midnight

  “Ah, I finally get to meet your little wife,” Faye stood, and the rose pink dress shimmered like a starry night. Her striking five-foot-ten-inch height matched Chandler’s height well.

  Sarita took instant offense at the condescending tone, and responded coolly, “Pleased to meet you.” Sarita then told Chandler, “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  “No, stay,” he responded. “This won’t take long.”

  Faye’s chin rose, and her eyes darkened, but she composed herself just as quickly. “Shall we sit?” she asked, as if this were her home. “I want to hear all about how you got him to the altar.”

  Sarita wasn’t buying Faye’s fakey-jakey smile. The anger radiating from behind Faye’s light brown eyes made it clear she hated Sarita’s guts.

  Ten

  Faye resettled herself elegantly in the big recliner, while Myk and Sarita sat side by side on the soft black leather couch. Sarita drew up her shoeless feet, as if wearing sweats instead of a designer gown, and cuddled close to Chandler’s side. He swung an arm out to surround her, and she made herself comfortable.

  Myk smiled down at Sarita’s unexpected show of docility. To demonstrate his pleasure he placed a soft kiss on her lips. Afterward, he reluctantly returned his attention to Faye. “Now, where were we?”

  Faye was furious. She wanted to reach over and snatch Sarita out of his arms, but Faye was above such ghetto drama. “You know,” she told Sarita, “Myk’s marriage surprised everyone. How long have you known him?”

  “A while.” Sarita had no intention of telling this woman any more than that.

  Faye wasn’t satisfied. “How long is a while? A week, a month, a year?”

  Myk answered, “It doesn’t matter, Faye. That’s not why you’re here.”

  Anger flashed across her beautiful face, then faded. “I’m not trying to be nosy, Myk,” she reassured him with a deep-throated laugh. “I mean after all, a month ago you and I were shall I say, quite tight, so a little curiosity is natural on my part—wouldn’t you think?”

  Sarita rolled her eyes.

  Myk wasn’t in the mood for prolonging her visit. Back at the reception he’d told Faye that his relationship with Sarita was none of her business. The only reason he hadn’t shown Faye the door already was the knowledge that he’d have to deal with her all over again on Monday. At least when Sarita defied him it was over a principle. Faye’s only principle was a dollar sign.

  Faye had to admit the meeting was not going the way she’d planned. In spite of the angry words she and Myk exchanged at the reception, she still refused to believe it was over between them. It suddenly crossed her mind that maybe he was just pretending to do this in order to keep his little ghetto queen from learning the truth. That had to be it. She decided to overlook the way he kept rubbing his finger idly against the edge of her jaw as if he’d been doing it for a lifetime. “Well, Myk. Now that I’ve met Shaniqua, I really think we should conduct our business in private.”

  Myk could hear Sarita growl softly in response to being called out of her name. He leaned down and brushed his lips against her ear, “Settle down, warrior princess.”

  She smiled up at him, but whispered back, “If she calls me that again, it will be on.”

  Chuckling in response to the threat, Myk told Faye, “We aren’t going to be discussing anything she can’t hear so hurry up. I want to take my wife to bed.”

  Faye’s responding voice was cold, “Fine.” Faye hated the way the bride’s eyes slowly slid closed as he continued his innocent stroking. It brought back the memories of those same sure hands on her own skin: Not that she’d enjoyed doing the wild thang. Faye only tolerated sex; it mussed her hair and made men sweat all over her, but she put up with it because it usually got her what she wanted. “These have to be paid,” she stated. The these referred to the fat stack of bills in her manicured hand.

  As the two former lovers discussed Faye’s financial obligations, Sarita looked on silently, amazed. Furriers, jewelers, rent, car notes, hairdressers, florists, and credit card statements. You name it, Faye owed it.

  Faye added finally, “And if they can all be paid by the end of the month, I’d much appreciate it.”

  Myk replied emotionlessly, “Leave them on the table.”

  Sarita wondered how he could be so calm. Granted, he probably had the money to take care of the bills, but goodness. And Faye sat there as if she had every right to have them paid.

  Faye was careful not to show her reaction but she found Myk’s acceptance of the situation surprising. Maybe she’d been right after all about his not wanting their relationship to end. As far as she knew, no brother in his right mind would agree to cover so much debt without an argument, unless he was planning keep the lady around—or paying her off. She turned to Myk with panic-stricken eyes.

  Myk read the final understanding in her alarmed face, and in response explained smoothly, “From now on your bills are all your own, Faye. I’ve turned off your all your credit cards and closed down your charge accounts.”

  “But—” She caught herself; she wouldn’t beg. A month ago, she’d been so sure of her hold on him. Now? She picked up her beaded clutch, and the blue fox stole, and rose to her feet. “Then, I suppose, this is good-bye, Myk. Thanks for everything. I would say I hope you and Shaniqua will be very happy, but I’d be a hypocrite.”

  Myk didn’t feel sorry for her. She’d cost him a pretty penny during the time they’d been together, plus, she’d known the ground rules from the get.

  Faye looked over at the happy couple, not sure which one she hated most. “Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

  In the silence left behind after Faye’s huffy exit, Sarita cracked, “Well, that was a nice way to end the evening. Do you always pay the bills of the women you kick to the curb?”

  “No.”

  “Then she must have been special?”

  “Not really. She’s classy and looks good on a brother’s arm, but that’s about it.”

  “Is that all you want, is for your lady to be classy and look good on your arm?”

  Myk was certain he’d said the wrong thing, but wasn’t sure what. “Is that a trick question?”

  “No,” she said shrugging. “It just speaks to the kind of person you are, that’s all.”

  “And that means?”

  She could hear the undertone in his voice but she ignored it. “Have you ever loved any of your girlfriends?”

  Myk couldn’t lie. “No.”

  “Were they all classy and pretty like Faye?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you just have them around for show?”

  “Mostly.”

  “That’s a pretty cold statement.”

  He supposed it did sound that way, but he didn’t apologize. “With my work schedule, I don’t have time for commitment, and the women I hook up with know that up front.”

  “And they don’t mind those rules?”

  “Not when I buy them fur coats for their birthdays or take them to Antigua for Christmas.”

  Sarita studied him. “This may sound stupid and corny, but I want my man to love me for me,” she said, pointing to herself for emphasis. “Not because I look good on his arm or because I know how to toss my hair.”

  He ran a slow finger down the sleek short hair that she wore so well. “Not much to toss.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He nodded, then said, “I do.”

  “Besides, the women in my family have always had strong marriages. My great-great, oh I don’t know how many greats, grandmother came to Michigan from California in the 1870s to be a doctor, and fell in love with my many-greats-grandfather even though she had to shoot his hat off his head to get his attention.”

  Myk snorted a laugh. “What?”

  “She shot his hat off.”

  “Why?”

  “He wouldn’t let her practice medicine in his town.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she was female.”


  “So, she shot his hat off?”

  “Yep.”

  “So, you come from a long line of out-of-control women then.”

  “Yes,” she replied with pride. “We Grayson women do not play.”

  She went suddenly silent, and Myk looked down to see her eyes focused on something he couldn’t see. “What’s the matter?” he asked quietly.

  His words made her look up. “Nothing. Just realizing that I’m probably going to be the last of those out-of-control women. As far as I know, I’m the only Grayson left.”

  “You don’t want children?”

  “Yes, but I’d like a husband first. I’m old-school that way.”

  Why Myk found her confession pleasing he didn’t know. He and Drake had talked about kids a few times in the past, but having kids had always been Drake’s dream, not Myk’s. Myk was content to be Uncle Myk. “And if you don’t find one?”

  She shrugged. “Adoption maybe. I don’t know, but the biological line will stop with me.”

  Myk could just about imagine her daughter; she would be just as fine and sassy as her mama. “If you want to get married, I’m sure some brother will come along.”

  She snorted. “I doubt it. The men I hook up with always wind up wanting me to be somebody else—their mama, sister, cousin. I just want to be me, Sarita. They can’t seem to handle that though. One brother told me I was too much of a crusader to be his lady. He said I spent more time at the center than I did with him.”

  “And did you?”

  “Well, yes.” When she heard herself she quieted, then said, “I won’t apologize for helping people who need it.”

  “And you never should.”

  Sarita was glad he understood. Few men did, or so it seemed. Her goals and aspirations were always looked upon as little more than a hobby that she would grow out of eventually.

  His cell phone rang suddenly, and he grimaced. Reaching into his pocket he extracted it, and said to her, “Sorry. Excuse me a minute.”

  Sarita got up from the couch to give him some privacy. She walked over to the fireplace and stood looking into the flames. From behind her she heard him say into the phone. “Okay, hold on.” Then, “Sarita?”

  She turned.

  “I’m sorry. I need to take this. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Sarita was quite taken aback by such an abrupt ending to the evening, but kept the reaction out of her face. “Sure. Good night.”

  Tight-lipped, Myk watched her leave. As she closed the double doors behind her, he sighed regretfully, then turned his attention to the voice on the phone.

  Surrounded by the dark, Sarita lay in bed thinking about the man downstairs. Truth be told, she was glad the phone had rung when it did. Who knew what might have happened had they not been interrupted. Would he have invited her to his bed? Maybe. If he had, would she have said yes? Parts of herself answered, yes, while other parts screamed, no! In a way, she wished she could have met him under normal circumstances because then she’d have no reason to be wary of who he was. But in reality, she really knew no more about him than she had the night she shot him in the elevator. Well, she did know that he could arouse the woman inside herself with just the sound of his voice, and that he had a seductiveness about him that bordered on the magical. The only other thing she knew about him for sure was that he and Saint were mixed up in something that had cost her her freedom.

  On one level she appreciated their concerns for her safety; she didn’t necessarily agree with their temporary solution, but that was water under the bridge. On another level she wanted to know what was going on, just in case there was no cavalry around when the time came for her to fight her way out of the Alamo. Maybe if she explained her concerns to Chandler that way, he’d be more forthcoming about whatever she was embroiled in. She didn’t think so, but made a note to give it a shot anyway.

  She turned over and snuggled deeper into the bedding. When the time came for her to return to her former life, she’d miss this bed a lot. It was big enough to swim in, and the sheets and blankets were luxurious. At home, her mattress was so old and battered that the ground in her backyard was more comfortable; this, however, was heaven.

  She glanced over at the clock on the nightstand. The lighted dial read ten after one. A yawn escaped her. She had no idea how she and Chandler would act toward each other in the morning, but right now, she was too sleepy to care. Her eyes closed, and as she drifted into sleep, her last thoughts were of him and his whispered promises to make love to her beneath the stars.

  At 2 A.M., a uniformed policeman knocked on the door of the Detroit hotel room occupied by Clark Nelson. Nelson’s bodyguard let the cop in, then disappeared into one of the back bedrooms so Clark and the cop could meet privately.

  The cop didn’t waste any time. “Fishbein’s party girls were sent over by a small-time player named Fletcher Harris. He was popped the same night. Here’s the report.” He passed Clark a manila folder.

  Clark asked, “Do the cops know the girls are dead?”

  “Word just came down this afternoon.”

  “The St. Louis detectives have any leads on the shooters?”

  “No and they won’t. My crew and I made sure the hits were clean.”

  Clark was pleased to be working with someone who knew their job and did it well. The girls were dead, and that was one less issue. He reached into the pocket of his smoking jacket and pulled out a sealed envelope stuffed with the hundred-dollar bills the cop was owed for his services.

  The man took the envelope and stuffed it into the pocket of his blue pants. “You need anything else, you know how to get in touch.”

  Clark nodded, and the policeman left the room.

  For the first time in days, Clark allowed himself a smile. There were advantages to having cops on the payroll. Here in Detroit the number of policemen willing to do business on Clark’s behalf was small, but the few who were were good. He pulled the reports out of the file and skimmed over the details.

  Apparently the girls had talked up a storm before their demise. They’d given Clark’s man answers to all of his questions about this Fletcher Harris except how he’d known about the diamonds. Clark wasn’t really concerned about that now; his concern lay with the scattered surviving members of the Harris crew. They probably held the key to the diamonds, which is why Clark’s people were out looking for them. He didn’t think it would take long.

  At 3 A.M., Myk was still up and working. The phone call that ended his evening with Sarita had been from one of NIA’s down South government contacts. She’d called to relay the latest information on Fletcher’s two dead party girls. The autopsy had turned up some interesting but gruesome facts. The women had been worked over pretty good. Fingers were broken; some in more than one place. A large-caliber bullet was found in the kneecap of one, and both earlobes had been severed on the other. Someone had tracked them down, then gone to great pains to hurt them before eventually taking their lives.

  Myk had the contact fax him the full autopsy report. When it arrived about an hour before, the reading of if left him grim. What had begun as a side operation into the tracking of illegal African diamonds had evolved into something far more life-threatening; especially now that the next life being threatened might be that of the woman he called his wife. He thought back on the evening. Just the memories of her sitting on his lap made him hard all over again. He pushed aside the distracting remembrances and concentrated on the matter at hand. Since the night he met Sarita, NIA had been quietly trying to discover who Fishbein’s bookies had gotten the diamonds from and who Fishbein’s connection in Detroit would have been had Fletcher not sent Sarita in to mess everything up. The Chicago bookies, Russian emigrants, had been hauled in by the Feds for questioning, but the men were only talking through their lawyer, so progress was slow. At first, Fishbein hadn’t been very cooperative about describing the women either, mostly out of fear that the bookies would harm his family, but after the Federal agents promised
Fishbein protection for them, he’d loosened up enough to give the sketch artist detailed descriptions. The pictures were shown to the hotel’s security people and a make was made right away. The women worked for a local escort service and were in and out of the hotel all the time. Their names: Candy Shaw and Iris Pierce, both nineteen. The escort service’s owner swore he knew nothing about the Fishbein date, claiming the girls were freelancing that night as they did sometimes. Now, they were dead.

  It came to Myk then, that since Sarita knew Fletcher, she might also know the women. She hadn’t been questioned since the night Saint brought her there. How to ask her without revealing the essence of his own involvement was the problem, however. The lady in question was no dummy; sexy and smart, yes; dummy, no. He wouldn’t be surprised if she already knew what was going on. He ran his hand over his hair. This was not the way his plan was supposed to work. He was supposed to get a beautiful but empty-headed woman to pose as his wife, not one who seemed to grow more fascinating by the day. The phone call that ended the evening had been a godsend. Who knew where they might have wound up. More than likely his bed. Even now, he couldn’t turn off sweet taste of her mouth or the remembered feel of her soft breasts against the palms of his hands. He walked over to the bank of monitors mounted on the wall and looked in on her. The room was dark. She was sleeping. He imagined what it might be like to wake up next to her and run his hand slowly over her sleep-warmed skin. He quickly cut the picture. The reception and all its hoopla was over. He needed to go to bed. Thinking about her was becoming a habit he couldn’t afford to have no matter how much he wanted her.

  Eleven

  Sarita came downstairs unsure where she and Chandler stood after last night, but her plan was to follow his lead. She hoped seeing him wouldn’t remind her of the orgasm he’d brought her to, but the moment she walked into the breakfast room, and he turned from the windows to face her, the memories came roaring back so ferociously, she had to draw in a shaky breath to steady herself. “Good morning,” she said with a flippancy she didn’t feel. “Did you sleep well?”