After settling into the room, they got the quilt out and pored over it some more.
Next to the Flying Geese was a pattern she identified as the Drunkard’s Path. Its patch was made up of two intersecting lines that zigzaged across its square.
Saint read aloud, “The drunk’s pattern told the runaways not to travel on a straight line so slave catchers and the dogs would have a harder time tracking them. Based on their African heritage, slaves believed evil traveled in a straight line.”
He raised an impressed eyebrow. “Never knew that.”
Narice noticed that the raised eyebrow seemed to be a signature move. “Neither did I.”
They were seated on stools at the long white counter that divided the small kitchen from the main living area and served as a place to eat.
Saint read a little further and said, “According to this, what we have is a sampler quilt. One that has a bunch of different patterns on it. Many were used as maps.”
Narice looked down at her father’s midnight blue-and-black creation and marveled at the effort that must have gone into making such a beautiful work. “So, we’re not crazy. This is a map.”
“Yep.”
“Wow. When he told us to use the quilt, he wasn’t kidding.”
“No.”
She ran her palm slowly over the soft fabric surface. “This had to have taken some time to do—look at how intricate the patterns and stitches are. I wonder when he started it.” She also wondered if he’d been scared? Had he already been threatened or pressured? Thinking about him made her mood gently slide to blue.
Saint saw the sadness descend upon her like clouds bringing shadows. It was time to do something else. “Hungry?”
She shook her head. “Not right now. If it’s okay with you, I think I’m going to take a catnap. Give me about an hour, then I’ll be ready to eat.”
“Okay.”
She slid from the stool and headed up the stairs to her portion of the suite.
When Saint heard her door close, he turned his mind to dinner. He didn’t really want to risk eating out, so he picked up the phone and called the desk. Under normal circumstances if a guest made arrangements in advance, the housekeeping staff would stock the room’s refrigerator and cabinets with groceries, but since Saint hadn’t made arrangements, he figured the promise of a hundred-dollar tip would do the trick. It did. One hour later, the lady manager arrived with enough food to keep Saint and Narice fed for their stay. The bags were set on the counter and the manager took her tip. Before she left, however, Saint said, “Some friends of mine might drop by. They like surprises and gags and they especially like posing as Federal agents. If they show up, will you call me?”
The blonde said, “Sure will.”
Saint gave her another twenty. “Thanks.”
She smiled like Marilyn Monroe. “No, thank you,” and she exited.
A pleased Saint closed then bolted the door.
Narice came downstairs at 7:30. Saint, standing at the stove, noted that she looked rested and that she’d changed into a dark blue, clingy-looking top that had long sleeves and a scoop neck that was discreet yet sexy enough to catch a brother’s interest. On the bottom half she wore a pair of jeans that showed off her curves. She was dressed very casually but with the gold heart hanging from a chain around her neck, her hair fixed, makeup on, and the thin gold bracelets on her wrist, she looked like an elegant million bucks.
“What’re you cooking?” she asked. “Smells good.”
He found the scents of her perfume just as pleasing. “Broiled salmon, fried corn, salad, and yeast rolls. Sorry, they’re frozen but no time for real ones.”
Narice croaked “You make yeast rolls—from scratch?”
“Yep. Gran cooked for rich folks all of her life. No way you could be around her and not learn something. Sarita and I are great cooks.”
“The secret-agent chef. What else can you make?”
He pulled open the oven door to check on the salmon. “I do a mean prime rib. My German chocolate cake ain’t bad either.”
“You do not make German chocolate cake.”
He turned to her. “Why would I lie about something like that?”
Narice realized he was serious. Nope, she didn’t know much about this man at all. “Where’d all this food come from?”
After he told her about the delivery, she said, “Well, cook on my brother. I can’t wait to eat.”
Unlike many men Narice knew, he appeared comfortable in the kitchen. Brandon, her ex, had been a good cook too, but Narice had rarely been home in time to sample his efforts. She turned her mind away from those bittersweet memories and refocused her attention on Saint. Lord, he was handsome; the face, the build, the way he moved. He was dressed in his usual black turtleneck and black jeans, but this set looked fresh. It was her guess, he’d showered while she was upstairs sleeping. The dark glasses were in place and the beard still made him look like an outlaw, but the magic coat was on one of the living room chairs. Thank goodness. She doubted the health department would clear it as a proper food preparation garment.
He looked her way and said, “There’s wine over here chilling. Pour yourself some.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
The kitchen was small. As she reached for the bottle sitting in a saucepan filled with ice her body brushed against his and the heat of the contact was like a slow sear. “Excuse me,” she whispered, hastily, trying to pretend she’d felt nothing.
“No problem.”
Their eyes met and held. The last twelve hours had been hectic ones; there hadn’t been time to further explore their unspoken attraction to each other; they’d been too busy with cockroaches. Now, however, they were alone and admittedly curious about each other.
He stepped back over to the stove and took the top off the corn. He stirred it with a large spoon, then scooped a small portion onto the spoon’s tip. “Here, taste this.”
Narice hesitated for a moment but walked the two steps to where he stood.
His voice was soft with warning. “Careful, it’s a little hot.”
Feeling as if she were being stroked by his eyes, she let him feed her. The sweet, spicy taste made her moan softly with delight.
Her sounds of pleasure made him wonder if she would purr that way if he kissed her. “Like it?”
“Mmmm. More,” she purred appreciatively.
He took a clean spoon from the drawer and dug her out another little portion, then slowly fed that to her as well. It was an innocent yet sensual moment that affected them both. After she swallowed she slipped her tongue around her lips in a move Saint found so provocative and blood firing, he had to turn back to the stove. “It didn’t need more salt or anything?”
Narice’s pulse had heightened in response to being fed and it refused to slow down. “No. Perfect. Do you want some wine?”
“Yes, please.”
Narice found some glasses in the cupboard and took out two. The merlot was a well recognizable one. She poured some into each glass and handed him one, and attempted to shake off the wild sensations his nearness had a way of setting off. She raised her in toast, and said, “To the cook.”
He raised his in reply, “Thanks.”
More conscious of him than she thought safe, Narice matched his sip. Giving her a long look over his glass, he took another draw then went back to his cooking. Her senses flaring, she strolled over to the fireplace. A store-bought composite log, wrapped in red paper, sat on the metal grate waiting to be lit. The room’s blue-patterned drapes were pulled closed and with the lamps in the sitting room lit; the interior of the suite was cozy and hushed.
Narice took another small sip of her wine and said, “I know it’s July but how about a fire?”
“Sure, why not. The AC is on.”
Instructions on how to operate the fireplace safely were printed on a little metal plaque on the wall, and after reading them, Narice adjusted the flue, then using the matches provided by the motel, li
t the paper ends of the log’s wrapper. Once the flames caught, she closed the wire grate and stepped back. “How’s that?” she asked him.
He looked over. “Cool.”
Narice turned back to the fire and watched the flames slowly build. The heat made her move back a short step, but the blaze was lovely to look at. Standing there with her merlot in her hand, she realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat with a man by a fire. With the smells of the food cooking and the crackling sounds from the fireplace, the air was romantic, even if it wasn’t supposed to be.
In the kitchen, Saint knew she wasn’t deliberately tempting him, but her presence, the fire, her perfume were keeping him from concentrating on what he was supposed to be doing, which was slicing tomatoes for the salad. Even as he kept glancing her way, he had to make himself pay attention to the task at hand so he wouldn’t lose a finger to the knife’s sharp blade.
But soon all the food was done.
He called out, “Come get it.”
She walked over to the counter and eagerly took a seat.
Narice watched as he expertly removed the salmon’s crisp silver back before he set the steaming browned fillet on a platter. Next came a large bowl filled with the fried corn, then the salad, and the hot-buttered rolls. Impressed, she scanned the fare. “I may have to hire you.”
He sat down. “You can’t afford me.”
She asked teasingly, “No?”
The timbre of her voice and the look in her dark eyes made Saint’s manhood quicken. “No,” he told her. “When I cook for a lady, I don’t cook for cash.”
Narice chuckled, “Oh really?”
“Really.”
“Then I need to leave that alone.”
“Probably.”
She met his eyes. The heat of attraction was rising in the room like heat off of the salmon. “Pass me the corn, please.”
He handed her the bowl and she put some on her plate. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. Was he as good in bed as he was in the kitchen? Instinct said yes. She shook herself free of those dangerous thoughts. After adding a wedge of the salmon, putting dressing on her salad, and helping herself to two rolls, Narice was ready to eat. “Can you say the grace?”
Saint raised an eyebrow.
She eyed him back and waited, but when he didn’t respond, she said to him, “Never mind.” Bowing her head, she recited a soft, short prayer, then picked up her fork. “Thanks for dinner.”
Saint thought she was going to light into him for not saying the grace, but he hadn’t blessed his food in so long, her request caught him off guard. “I take it you’re a church-going lady.”
Narice was savoring the perfectly prepared salmon. “I am. This is good.”
“And you had doubts.”
“No, not really. You cooked breakfast for me, remember?”
“I do. Do you cook?”
“No. I don’t usually get home until after eight, so I do a lot of microwaving.”
“You need a housekeeper.”
“I need a wife.”
He smiled beneath the shades. “Did you cook for your husband?”
Narice shook her head. “No. He did most of that.”
When she didn’t say anything more, Saint studied her for a moment, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing. Since it appeared he had, he went back to his plate.
The meal continued and the silence lengthened. He looked her way a few times, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
She waved her fork, “It’s okay. Some marriages work—some fail. Mine, died.”
He studied her.
Her tone was matter-of-fact. “It was mostly my fault—well, all my fault to be truthful.”
She saw his eyebrow rise again. “Hey, this is an equal-opportunity country. Women get to wreck marriages, too.”
Saint didn’t know how to handle such candor.
“I was so set on climbing that corporate ladder, I had no time for him—didn’t care that the brother had fixed my dinner, or had a hot bath waiting for me at the end of the day. By the time I left the office and got home, the lights were out, the food was cold, and so was the water in the tub. I was a deal-making, balls-whacking bitch. So he left me.”
“When was this?”
“Ten years ago. I married him when I was twenty-two, fresh out of college with a basement-level job on Wall Street, but it was the Street and I was excited.” She smiled wistfully. “Had my MBA by twenty-four, found a White mentor known for liking his women brown, and I started my climb.”
“Your husband didn’t support what you were doing?”
“In the beginning yes, but after my hours at the office became longer, and our time together became nonexistent, he wanted out. I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t have wanted to be married to me either—not back then. I was raised by my daddy and his friends. I didn’t know a lot about dating or men or how a woman was supposed to—what do they call it in the Bible, cleave to your mate. I was chasing the almighty dollar, I didn’t have time to be a wife.”
She looked over at him with clear dark eyes. “So, Bran made me pay him one dollar as part of the divorce settlement. He said that’s all the marriage was worth to me.” She took a sip of her wine, then set the glass down. “Sadly, he was right. I didn’t value it or him the way I should have.”
“How long were you married?”
“Almost three years.”
“Where is he now?”
“Philly. Married to a real nice sister. They have two girls with one on the way. He’s happy and I’m glad. Lord knows, he wasn’t with me.”
“So, what made you take up teaching?”
“Car accident.”
He looked surprised.
“Three years after my divorce, I was driving home one night in the rain—pouring rain and suddenly there was a dog in my lights, just sitting in the middle of the highway. Daddy said, I should have hit it, but I swerved, spun out, went off the road, and hit a tree. Totaled my Z, and woke up three days later in the hospital. I was so bandaged up and hooked up to so many machines, I looked like Elsa Lanchester in the Bride of Frankenstein.”
Saint smiled.
“Broke a lot of bones, tore muscles. I was in the hospital for three and a half months.”
“Wow.”
“It was rough. Daddy came to take care of me for a while, but I eventually hired a nurse. Once I could move around in a wheelchair, she would wheel me out onto my deck or onto the front porch so I could get some air and sun. I found out I had neighbors,” she said with sparkling eyes. “And that the school bus came to pick up the kids at eight-fifteen every morning. I saw cardinals and robins and felt peace inside myself for the first time in a long time.”
Narice paused as the memories of those times came back. “Anyway to make a longer story shorter, I wasn’t the same person after the accident. It’s that old cliché, but it’s the truth. My father said it was God’s doing.” She shrugged. “He may have been right, but I did change. My drive was gone. I didn’t have the fire in my belly anymore, I didn’t care about cutting the big deal, so I quit the firm.”
“That took a lot of guts.”
“I never thought about it like that.” And she hadn’t. Maybe had she not been financially secure, walking away might have been harder, but at the time, the decision hadn’t cost her any sleep at all. “After that, one of my sorors invited me to volunteer at her school a couple of days a week. I took her up on the offer, and I loved it. Loved the children, their smiles, their honesty. Loved it so much I went back to school, got an education degree, and started my own place.”
“Do you regret the first life?”
“Heck, no. Well, I do regret that Brandon got hurt by it, but I’m as rich as a goddess. As the old ladies used to say, I have my own purse, and I don’t have to ask anybody if I can spend it.”
He grinned.
She told him frankly, “You sm
ile, but I tell some brothers that, and they take off running.”
“I’d think a brother would have to be pretty strong to take you on.”
“I suppose. Haven’t been many takers lately, and that’s okay, too. I have a good life. A man would just be the whipped cream.”
Saint realized she was not the china doll he’d thought her to be; she was a strong, determined woman who accepted responsibility for her actions and the decisions she’d made in her life. That she would share this part of her life’s story with him, humbled him in a way. “I can’t believe there isn’t a man in your life.”
“Hey, I’m thirty-seven years old. Brothers my age want skinny little video girls. Real women like me and my sorors scare them to death.” She paused for a minute. “I take that back. Some of the ladies I know are married to princes. The rest of us have learned to live without whipped cream.”
“I’ll make you whipped cream anytime you like.”
The words sent a hot streak through Narice that made her nipples tighten and reminded her just how long it had been. She tried to play it off. “Would you?”
Saint wanted to reach out and slide a finger over the curve of her lips; wanted to hear her moan like she did after tasting the fried corn. “Gran has a secret recipe that will melt in your mouth.”
“Never had a man offer to make me whipped cream before.”
“Never met a man like me before.”
That was certainly the truth, she thought to herself. From the slim bones in his fingers to those dangerous-looking shaded eyes, he was the most tempting male she’d ever met. He seemed to have tapped into and opened up places in her feminine self she’d shut away long ago. “You don’t have a hard time pulling women, do you?”
He met her bold question with a bold reply. “Be lying if I said I did, but I’m choosy. I stopped bed-hopping a long time ago, but,” and his voice slowed, “I do enjoy beautiful, intriguing women, and you are both.”
Narice felt his voice shimmer through her, felt his shaded eyes touch her like a hand. “I bet most women fall into your bed just like that, don’t they?”
He threw back his head and laughed.
“I’m just asking, because I’m not going to do that.”