The Edge of Midnight

  Sarita still considered Saint a traitor of the worst kind, but she couldn’t deny the statement. She would and had moved heaven and earth to keep the Lambert Center open. When the furnace died the previous winter, she’d gotten out the phone book and called every furnace company in the county until she found one willing to do the work for free. It had taken her two days, but she’d found someone. When she was informed in the spring that her small programs would no longer be funded by the state, she’d taken a three-hour bus ride to the state capital and personally knocked on the doors of any legislators who’d give her a minute of their time. It turned out to be a futile trip, her center had been given the ax anyway, but she’d tried. Her people and the center meant a lot to her, but how did her commitment to them give him control over her?

  He made it clearer. “By owning the building, I own you.”

  She wondered if he’d been born that arrogant, or if the attitude had come with his wealth. “And that works, how?”

  “Simple. I could decide to level that block and put up, say, a parking lot.”

  She was really not liking this man. “And how do I keep you from putting up this—parking lot?”

  “By agreeing to the original proposal to marry me.”

  She stated the obvious. “You don’t want to marry me.”

  “No, I don’t, but I can’t just let you walk out of here.”

  “Why not? I don’t care what you do in your spare time.”

  “Someone else might though.”

  She leaned in and promised earnestly, “Look, I won’t say anything.”

  Myk steeled himself against the honesty in her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Either agree, or the building’s padlocked.”

  Sarita wanted to leap across the table and shake him until sundown, but instead she made herself stay calm. “Why in the world do you still want to do this?”

  Myk had asked himself the same question many times over the past few days. The answer he kept coming back to was that he could kill two birds with one stone. He definitely needed a wife, and at this point, because of the problems she presented, the very unsuitable, Sarita Kathleen Grayson would have to do. He could hardly marry another woman and have this firecracker locked up in the house, too. “I’m trying to keep you alive. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “Gift?” she echoed throwing up her hands. “You lock me up for three days, take my clothes, threaten my people, and I’m supposed to be grateful? What planet are you from?”

  “As rich as I am, most women would kill to wear my name. Here”—He tossed her another sheaf of papers—“your prenuptial agreement.”

  Caught totally off guard, again, Sarita croaked, “Prenuptial agreement?” She tried to focus in on the terms, but the words on the paper swam before her eyes just as the lease had done a minute earlier.

  He told her emotionlessly, “It says that all you will receive after the divorce is the fifty thousand Saint told you about initially.”

  Sarita felt as if she were on a runaway roller coaster, and she wanted off. “You still haven’t explained to me why you want to go through with the marriage.”

  “Because I need a wife, and you’re it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. You have all this money, and you can’t find anybody else willing to play your wife?”

  “I don’t want anyone else.”

  The power in his eyes pulsed through her like the low hum of an electrical current. She studied him. There had to be a way to make him reconsider. “The rich are supposed to marry the rich. Do you know how poor I am?”

  “I do. I know all about you.” He picked up a folder from the floor, opened it, and began to read aloud. “Sarita Kathleen Grayson. Born February 19, 1970. Both parents killed in a bus accident in 1976. Raised thereafter by Pearl Watson, maternal grandmother. Also in the home were two great granduncles—Nathan and Victor Grayson. They were twins?”

  She nodded tightly.

  He read on. “It says they were locksmiths.”

  Again, she nodded. So he knew a few biographical details. So what? He’d read nothing so far that indicated he knew all about her.

  “You had your first brush with the law at age fourteen.”

  Her startled eyes flew to his face.

  He continued, “You picked the padlock on a police impound lot and stole a car.”

  “Wrong. I picked the lock, yes, but the car belonged to a friend’s mother. And we didn’t steal it. It was stolen from her first. The police recovered it on the westside with the thieves still in it and impounded the car as evidence.”

  “Why didn’t you and your friend just wait until the police released it?”

  “Do you know how long it takes to go to trial in this city, even back then? Alva’s mother needed the car to get to work. The city had it in the impound for six weeks.”

  He paused a moment to study her defiant face. He thought she must have been a handful growing up. “The court put you on probation.”

  “Yes. The judge said he understood why I took the car, but he couldn’t condone my methods. He gave me a year’s probation. He also told me my court record would be sealed. How’d you get your hands on it?”

  The handsome face across the table offered no clues and not a hint of guilt or shame.

  An angry Sarita turned away. How had he gotten information that was supposed to be legally inaccessible? She knew he was related to the mayor, but did Chandler’s money and influence extend even to sealed court documents? Apparently so.

  “I assume your guardians punished you for this prank?”

  She gave him a withering look, and asked sarcastically, “What’s it say in your report?” She’d no intention of telling him she’d received the last and worst whipping of her then-fourteen-year-old life. Her uncles were solid, taxpaying citizens, and they’d been furious that she’d broken the law.

  Myk couldn’t help but admire her spirit, even if she had tried to kill him. He also noted that not even her anger could mar the brown sugar beauty of her face. Her skin appeared to be as soft and blemish-free as the fabric of the gown she was wearing. Her small but fully ripe lips drew his attention again and again, and the fire-breathing mahogany eyes only enhanced her features. Anyone seeing her would never doubt her ability to attract and hold the attention of a man like him, and that, too, fit right into his plan.

  “So,” he asked, “what have you decided? Do you want the wedding ring or the padlock?”

  Sarita weighed the matter but saw guillotines everywhere she looked. She now understood what he’d meant about owning the center and, as a result, her. She couldn’t let her neighborhood be leveled. What would happen to the people? She supposed she could do worse than find herself married to this rich and powerful man, but what would be the cost? What danger would she be placing herself in by being his wife? Saint promised she’d be safe, but she wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t sure about anything right now, except Chandler’s promise to padlock her center. That she believed. Her decision made, she looked across the table at him. She hated being so powerless. “I agree.”

  “I heard you were bright.”

  She could have done without the sarcasm.

  “As I said, your center is well run. While you’re here, I’ll appoint an administrator to oversee things.”

  “Wait a minute. You can’t do that.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Did you just agree to my terms or not?”

  “Yes,” she replied coolly. “I agreed to be your wife. I didn’t agree to some suit-wearing bean counter sitting in my chair.”

  “If I want to put a suit-wearing chimpanzee in your chair, it’s my business, not yours.”

  Sarita was furious. “That’s my place and my people.”

  “Not anymore.” Myk noted the blaze in her eyes, the angry face, and the gap in her robe offering him a slight view of the valley between her breasts as she leaned in to make her point.

  Sarita swore,
“I will fight you on this, Chandler. I mean it! I’ll agree to whatever else you want, but you will not take my center from me.”

  “I already have.”

  Sarita slammed her fist on the table.

  Myk had no intentions of changing his mind. No one knew when Fletcher’s scattered crew members would be found or what tune they’d sing to keep from winding up in a grave. And Saint didn’t want her name mentioned in any of the verses. Letting her have free run of her neighborhood might place her in jeopardy. It also might result in an information leak NIA could ill afford. Too many lives and careers hung in the balance. “I’ll have Lily take you back to your room now.”

  “This discussion is not over, Chandler!”

  “Yes, it is. Later today we’ll go shopping. That should cheer you up. It works for most women.”

  “I’m not most women.”

  He stood. “Sarita, you’d be surprised just how common you are.”

  She felt slapped.

  As if cued, Lily appeared.

  Myk looked down into Sarita’s furious face. Her arms were crossed so firmly, the tight pull on the silk plainly showed the buttons of her nipples. He redirected his attention to her sullen features. “I’ll see you later.”

  She gave him her best, go-to-hell face, then followed Lily back to the gilded cage.

  Five

  At noon Sarita was still simmering over the outcome of her breakfast meeting with Chandler. Pacing the floor in her cage, she replayed the encounter in her mind again and again, trying to find a way out of the net he’d thrown over her; but he had her, lock, stock, and barrel, and there wasn’t a thing she could do. A knock on the door slowed her pacing. She called come in, and in came Lily struggling under a stack of boxes and bags that all but dwarfed her short stature.

  While Sarita stared confused, Lily set everything on the bed, and said, “I had to guess at the sizes, you’re such a tiny thing, but I think everything should fit.”

  Sarita walked over and saw boxes and shopping bags bearing the names of some of the most expensive stores around; stores she only window-shopped in on her way to the discount mart.

  “You should find everything you need,” Lily said, heading back to the door. “Hurry and dress now. He’s waiting.”

  Sarita had a million and one questions, but Lily left without a further word. Had Chandler been serious about this shopping trip? Apparently so, because in the boxes and bags Sarita found a complete set of clothes—everything from a suit and camisole, to undies, to stockings and heels. There was even makeup. For a moment she debated what to do. Did she get dressed, or did she sit in the room and play the martyr queen. She didn’t care about shopping; she didn’t care about him, but she had been cooped up in one room entirely too long. Any reason to leave it was a good one, she concluded, so she got dressed.

  Afterward, she stood before the large mirror of the low-slung vanity table. The beautiful navy blue suit had a straight slim skirt and a tailored jacket. The blouse beneath was snow-white silk and easily the softest garment she’d ever worn. Everything fit, just as Lily had hoped; in fact, the clothes fit so well they could have been purchased by Sarita personally. However, on the small pension check Sarita received each month as her granduncles’ beneficiary, she would have trouble affording even the stockings.

  In the bottom of one of the bags, she found a small velvet jeweler’s box. Inside were a pair of small sapphire studs. For many many years, Sarita’s grandmother had been the housekeeper for Mr. Samuel Aronson, then one of the country’s most famous jewelry designers. During the summers, Sarita would often help her grandmother at the Aronson house. Sometimes Mr. Aronson would invite Sarita into his workshop to show her his latest creations. Thanks to him, she learned quite a bit about stones, and as a result knew the difference between the real McCoy and paste. Her trained eye said the small brilliant sparklers mounted in the velvet box were as real as old Mr. Aronson’s smile.

  Sarita fit the studs in her ears, noting that a girl could get swept away by all this if she weren’t careful, but she planned on having no such reaction. Fancy jewelry or no, Chandler’s wealth would not make her any more comfortable with the mess she’d gotten herself into, or with him.

  Downstairs, Myk expected Sarita to be intimidated by the expensive clothes. But when she entered the room, she literally knocked his socks off. For a woman whom reports said didn’t own a dress or a skirt, she exuded an aura of sophistication and elegance that seemed natural. She was wearing his sapphires in her ears and a familiar, chin-raised iciness on her perfectly made-up face. To his surprise and satisfaction, she looked as if she’d been bred for the role he wanted her to play. The straight skirt emphasized the firm and surprisingly long brown legs. The heels added height to her five-foot-one frame. The color on her lips made them even more lush. He approved of how well she’d cleaned up.

  Sarita read neither approval nor disapproval on his dark face. All she saw for sure was him motioning her in the direction he wanted her to go, so she did. The small expensive handbag on her shoulder matched her blue suit and shoes. The purse had nothing in it, but it gave her hands something to hold on to.

  He led her out through the kitchen to the house’s attached garage and over to a beautiful black sports car. Sarita shivered from the chilly October temperature. He opened the door, and she got in.

  He got in on the driver’s side. Myk couldn’t help but notice her shivering. “The heat will be up in a minute,” he told her, adjusting levers and dials before putting the car into gear.

  She didn’t acknowledge his statement, she was too busy hugging herself and praying that the promised heat would soon start pounding her sheer-hosed legs. She’d kill for a pair of jeans.

  “Do you want my coat?” he asked backing the sleek, French import out of the garage and down the driveway.

  She shook her head. “No.” The day was as gray as her mood.

  He stopped the car at the foot of the drive and paused a moment to take in her averted profile. He and Lily had forgotten about adding a coat to the items purchased for her to wear. The oversight would be remedied first. The last thing he needed was for her to get sick; he wouldn’t put it past her to induce pneumonia intentionally just to pay him back. He slid the stick into gear and drove away from the house.

  The car roared down into the city’s belowground expressway system, merging easily with the fast-paced Detroit traffic. To Myk, the silence in the car was like a third passenger. “There’re some CDs in the glove box. Help yourself.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Myk mentally shrugged. He supposed there’d be no pleasing her, at least no time soon. He really wished Saint had hooked him up with a nice docile woman instead of this fire ant. According to the reports compiled on her, she was a true crusader, a relic, a throwback to the days when people actually cared about the less fortunate and committed their lives to making a difference. He wondered if she knew she was about thirty years too late, and that those who’d battled in the trenches back then no longer seemed to care. Most of the activists of that day were now more concerned with tax cuts, private schools, and whether to buy one German sports car or two; the less fortunate no longer fit their lifestyle. He supposed the men and women of NIA were relics, too, probably the only thing he and Sarita had in common.

  When he pulled the car into the mall’s valet parking lane, Sarita tried not to gape at the surroundings. This was the mall. It opened last summer with much media pomp and circumstance, and catered to the area’s wealthiest citizens. Inside were stores with branches in Palm Springs and on Rodeo Drive, stores where you could get massaged after a long day of flashing your gold card, or easily spend enough in a day to feed a family of four for a year. It was a mall where people like Sarita had about as much business being as a goat had being in school, as her uncles used to say; but as the uniformed valet came to her door and opened it, she stepped out as if she’d been shopping in such places all her life.

  Stop number one turned out
to be the small, exclusive shop of a highly distinguished furrier. While Myk walked over to greet the owner, a Nigerian named Andrew Obari, Sarita waited a few feet away. She wondered why Chandler had come there, but was sure if she asked him, he’d tell her to mind her own business, so while the two men continued to talk, she took a slow, disinterested walk around the mirror-filled salon. Her hand trailed over the fine array of light and dark furs, and not even her bad mood could deny their beauty. Her eyes lingered over a full-length number the color of a chocolate night. Beneath her hand it felt soft and luxurious. It was plush enough to take on any Michigan winter. A coat dreams were made of, she thought wistfully, but not for a woman like herself.

  “Do you like this one?”

  She startled at Chandler’s voice. He’d come up behind her so silently.

  “It’s nice,” she replied.

  He startled her even more by taking the coat from the rack, removing the hanger, and handing her the fur. “Here, try it on.”

  “No.”

  If this was his idea of humor, Sarita didn’t find it very funny; she didn’t need to be reminded how poor she was, and in angry whispers told him just that.

  The few customers in the shop were discreet enough not to stare openly at the beautiful young woman in blue and the tall handsome man in the black suit, arguing over the coat.

  Sarita soon sensed the interest of the other customers, so to halt the show and shut Chandler up, she put on the coat. He made her turn and face the mirror.

  Draped in the elegant sable, Sarita viewed herself in the mirror. She had the eerie sensation of looking at someone she didn’t recognize. The rich dark color matched her eyes. She’d never tried on anything this fabulous, ever.

  “Well?” Myk asked.

  His voice brought her back to the present, and she looked up. “Well, what?”

  “Well, do you want it?”

  She took off the coat and handed it back. She wondered what his problem was? “Of course not. I can’t afford anything like this.”