Yasmin gulped

It was too soon for them to be this close. Her trepidation allayed as he caressed her back. His touch set her heart at ease. Longing melted her resolve and the only way Yasmin was ever going to get him out of her mind was to kiss him. Once she got it out of her system, she could forget him. Lifting her chin to receive his kiss, she waited anxiously for him to accept her invitation.

A bolt of electricity shot through her as their lips met. To her surprise, the kiss felt like the most natural thing in the world. She tuned out the voices around them and focused her entire mind and body on the experience. Entangled by the sheer intensity of the kiss, she lost all sense of time and place. His mouth was soft, sweet, inviting, and he kissed her as if they had all the time in the world. Yasmin liked that. He wasn’t in a rush and he wasn’t aggressive. She curved into the arch of his body, savoring the feel of his warm embrace.

Rashawn abandoned her lips and kissed the side of her neck. He touched a hand to her cheek then fingered a lock of her hair. “Nice technique, doc.”

Yasmin licked her lips. If a kiss could leave her with erect nipples and shaky legs, there was no telling what would happen if they ever made love.

He nibbled on her earlobe before returning to her lips. This time the kiss was long, deeply intense and fraught with passion.

MILLS & BOON

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PAMELA YAYE

has a bachelor’s degree in Christian education and has been writing short stories since elementary school. Her love for African-American fiction and literature prompted her to actively pursue a career writing romance. When she’s not reading or working on her latest novel, she’s watching basketball, cooking or planning her next vacation. Pamela lives in Calgary, Canada, with her handsome husband and adorable daughter.

Love T.K.O.
Pamela Yaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Do you believe everyone has a soul mate? Is there one, special person created to love you and only you? That question, posed by one of my man-happy girlfriends, got me thinking. I hope you’re not expecting me to tell you the answer, because the jury is still out on that one! But what I do know is that physical chemistry is a potent, mind-numbing drug that can’t be faked. Either you have it or you don’t!

Opposites don’t attract. At least that’s what clinical psychologist Dr. Yasmin Ohaji has discovered while counseling embittered couples for years. Overcoming the pain of losing her fiancé and the struggle of getting her private practice off the ground leaves the South African beauty little time to even consider dating again. Yet after a chance meeting with hometown hero Rashawn “The Glove” Bishop, she can’t seem to get his luscious smile and bed-me voice out of her mind. But the championship boxer is more than a set of six-pack abs and a chiseled body. He’s smart, savvy and before it’s all said and done, he’ll turn Yasmin’s quiet, uneventful life upside down! A Love T.K.O. indeed!

Happy reading and be blessed,

Pamela Yaye

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.

—Robert A. Heinlein

To my super-fine hubby, Jean-Claude: You are my real-life hero! I love you more than chocolate and there is no one I’d rather call my husband. Thank you for being patient with me and being the shoulder I can lean on.

Daniel and Gwendolyn Odidison: Not only do you spoil me (I LOVE when you come visit and cook, clean and shop!) you give great advice, support me wholeheartedly and encourage me to dream big. I love you both with all my heart.

Bettey: Where would I be without you? You’re the wind beneath my wings, the gin in my juice (ha, ha) and the best sister a girl could have. You’re my rock, and I’m a more loving, more patient and less stubborn woman because you keep me in check. Love ya!

Kenny: You’re always there when I need you and I’m proud to call you my big brother. Keep doing your thing. Your hard work and perseverance are going to pay off one day soon. Just don’t forget the family when you make it big!

Sha-Shana Crichton: You work tirelessly on my behalf and help me to become a better writer. Thank you for your honest feedback, your great suggestions and for calling to check up on me if we haven’t spoken in a while. You’re like a big sister, a friend and an agent all rolled up in one!

Kelli Martin: We haven’t worked together long, but I already respect and admire you. You’re prompt and thorough in everything you do. Thanks for all the time you put into improving the manuscript. It’s SO much better than the first draft (smile)!

To my fabulous critique partners, Donna Tunney, Sherilee Reilly and Lecia Cornwall. I don’t know where I’d be without you girls! You critique with love, force me to dig deeper and I come away from our sessions feeling even more excited about the story. I appreciate your advice and I’m incredibly thankful we found each other when we did.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 1

Yasmin Ohaji hated blind dates. Suffering through stilted conversation and dressing up to impress some man she’d probably never see again was not her idea of a good time, but when her sister had said she had the “perfect guy” for her, Yasmin had reluctantly given in. Imani had never steered her wrong and since she could spot a playboy a mile away, Yasmin had decided to give it a shot.

After playing phone tag for a month, she had agreed to meet Cecil Manning at the Laurdel Lounge. The city councilman, like most up-and-coming politicians, talked a good game, but Yasmin had her doubts about the divorced bachelor from Boston. She wasn’t pessimistic by nature, but she wasn’t expecting much to come of their date. Some good conversation and a nice meal would suffice. Anything more would be icing on the cake.

Yasmin followed the hostess past the smoky bar toward the dining area. Ignoring the tingling in her feet, she lifted her head and arched her shoulders. There was no telling who was watching and she didn’t want anyone to know the high heels were sucking the life out of her. But that’s what she got for listening to a commission-hungry shoe salesman with pretty-boy looks.

Her thick bangles jingled as she walked, drawing the attention of every single man in the restaurant. Lifting a hand to smooth her hair, she soaked up all the stares of the professional men in the lounge. Healthy smiles welcomed her, but Yasmin was careful not to make eye contact with anyone. Cecil was waiting for her and she was late.

Wanting to know exactly what she was getting into, Yasmin had done a thorough background check on Cecil Manning. Twice married, no kids, a house in South Tampa, properties in Miami and Fort Lauderdale. The son of a barber and an emergency room nurse, he had done well for himself and had a vaulting ambition to one day make it to the White House.

A dapper man in a black suit stood as she approached. A smile overwhelmed Yasmin’s mouth. Not bad, not bad at all, she thought, licking her lips. The picture she had seen of him on the city council home page had not done him justice. He was fit, lean and had medium-dark-brown skin. Yasmin liked clean-cut intellectuals and, based on his appearance, Cecil Manning could be the next president of the United States.

Smiling widely, she prepared to meet her date. If Cecil turned out to be as interesting as he was fine, she would owe her sister big-time.

“You must be Yasmin. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Yasmin thought Cecil was going to hug her or at the very least give her a peck on the cheek, but he stuck out his hand and pumped hers with all his might. He was clearly in politician mode. Handshake, smile, turn to the cameras. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said, taking her seat. “I got stuck in traffic.”

“Ten minutes, perhaps. I used the time to check in at the office. We are on the verge of passing a new bill that would ban smoking in all public areas,” he explained.

“It’s about time. I for one am sick of going out with my girlfriends and coming home smelling like an astray. It’s infuriating.”

Riotous laughter filled the room. All heads swiveled toward the sound. Yasmin turned around, annoyance written all over her face. A few feet away from their intimate table for two, a group of youths cackled like hyenas. Pitchers of beer and enormous platters of chicken fingers, potato skins and quesadillas crowded their table. The hefty guy with the hoop earrings winked at Yasmin and she snapped her head straight ahead. Embarrassed at being caught staring, she picked up the menu and perused the beverage list.

The Oliveiras had been her last couple of the day and their constant bickering and name-calling had left her physically spent. A cocktail, rich with alcohol and ice, would perk her up. But if she drank on an empty stomach she’d regret it later. When the shaggy-haired waiter arrived, she ordered something light, a lemon daiquiri.

Cecil adjusted his tie. “I am glad our schedules finally permitted us to meet.”

“Me, too. This is my first time here, but it definitely won’t be my last.” Yasmin had been surprised when he had suggested they meet at the Laurdel Lounge but had decided to reserve judgment until she had seen the place for herself. The restaurant was west of Fenwick Avenue, a few blocks north of Rakine Park, one of Tampa’s dangerous inner-city neighborhoods. The establishment had obviously not been affected by its close proximity to the crime-ridden area. All of the tables and booths were occupied, the lounge was packed, and servers shuttled back and forth to the kitchen at a frenetic pace. It was a fun, happening spot and, though the menu was mediocre at best, the laid-back atmosphere attracted plenty of hungry diners.

“How long have you been a city councilman?” she asked.

“Five years. I always knew I wanted to be a politician. My mom says when I was seven, I solicited neighbors for money so I could go to science camp. In high school, I was class president, leader of the debate team, on the student council committee and voted most likely to succeed. I graduated at the top of my class and went on to study political science at Boston University. It wasn’t easy working to put myself through school, but I did. While the other kids were partying, I was in my dorm room…”

Yasmin was just making conversation. She hadn’t expected Cecil to give her a blow-by-blow account of his life, spanning some twenty-odd years. To keep from dozing off, she sipped her cocktail and tried to listen to what he was saying, just in case there would be a test. Like the men and women she counseled, he talked until he was short of breath and only paused long enough to gather his thoughts.

Bored out of her mind, she entertained thoughts of excusing herself from the table and ducking out one of the emergency-exit doors. Cecil asked her what she thought of Mayor Keirstead’s proposed tax hike, but before she could answer, he launched into a lengthy speech about the significant downsides of the plan.

“Baby got b-b-b-ack!”

“Yeah, she’s got ass for days!”

“And I bet she knows how to work those big, juicy lips.”

Yasmin’s eyes tapered. The hood in her almost slipped out when she heard someone use the term fine-ass ho, but she forced herself to remain in her seat. Those clowns better not still be talking about me! she thought, tossing a menacing look over her shoulder. She had assumed, based on the gold chains and oversize basketball jerseys, that they were teenagers, but upon closer inspection she could tell they were all in their early twenties. Young, but old enough to know better. The stony-faced man with the tattoos on his neck said something, and everyone at the table roared.

“Clam linguine with shrimp?” The waiter set the plate down in front of Yasmin, momentarily drawing her attention away from the delinquents behind her. Picking up her fork, she ran her tongue over her lips. The tantalizing aroma of the pasta was nothing compared to the taste. Yasmin was so busy savoring the first bite, she didn’t hear the question Cecil posed to her.

“How long have you had your own practice?” he repeated, slicing his steak into long, thin strips.

“Three years.” Yasmin loved talking shop, especially now that A Better Way Counseling Services was thriving, but she didn’t want to discuss work now. Good food needed to be eaten in silence. And she had a feeling if she answered Cecil’s questions, it would give him license to make his own counseling critiques babble even more. Yasmin twirled a string of linguine on her fork, swirled it around the thick, creamy sauce, then put it into her mouth. Her eyes closed in silent appreciation of chefs everywhere.

“Do you have any other siblings besides Imani?”

“A brother.”

“I’m an only child. I can’t say I mind, though. My parents are both retired and are helping me run my campaign. Elections are a year away but you would be amazed at all the work that needs to be done. There are phone calls to make, letters to send out, money to raise and I’m in the process of…”

Between Cecil’s nattering and the men guffawing behind her, Yasmin couldn’t enjoy her meal in peace. The quartet had been running their mouths ever since she had entered the Laurdel Lounge and, after an hour of their senseless chatter, she was losing her patience. Initially, she had paid them no mind. Their comments, though juvenile, had been harmless. But now she was finished eating, and they were still on the same topic: her. Her stylish, backless dress was daring but tasteful, sexy but classy, but that didn’t stop them from undressing her with their beady little eyes. And when the gap-toothed ringleader began making sexual references, like I-know-what-I-would-do-with-her-if-she-was-my-woman, Yasmin lost it.

Cecil was an uptight, by-the-book type of man, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t intervene. Too busy listening to himself talk about crooked city council members and archaic state laws, Cecil didn’t have the presence of mind to come to her defense.

Interrupting him midsentence, she asked, “Are you going to say something to them, or are you waiting for them to come over here and sexually assault me before you take action?”

Cecil stared down at his Frappuccino. “Yasmin, I’m sure they don’t mean anything by it,” he told her, his voice lined with apprehension. “They’re just teasing you. Ignore them and they will move on to something else.”

“Teasing?” The word shot out of her mouth like a bullet. “The guy with the gold teeth said I have a sexy mouth and the one with the hoop earrings said he’d like to take me from behind. That’s teasing?” Yasmin didn’t know why she was surprised. No-backbone Cecil was simply showing his true color: sissy pink.

“Keep your voice down. I do not want to cause a scene. Do you?”

Yasmin crossed her legs to keep from kicking Cecil in the shin. Fighting to maintain her composure, she took a deep, soothing breath and repeated words of affirmation to herself. Aloud she warned. “Do something, Cecil, or I will.”

“Sista’, look like she could give a brotha’ a real nice time,” came the booming voice of the man in the Adidas hoodie. “I could go a few rounds with ma’.”

“Me, too,” agreed the cross-eyed one. “That’s a bad-ass bitch over there.”

Something inside Yasmin snapped. Her parents had raised her to let bygones be bygones, but she couldn’t let this go. Forgetting she was an educated woman, with a Ph.D. from one of the finest schools in the country, she leapt up from her chair. Blood pumping, chest heaving and hands clenched, she charged over to their booth. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind and all of them were illegal. I’m going to kill them! How dare they talk about me like I’m a prostitute standing out on the street corner? But before Yasmin could connect her fist with a face, a broad-shouldered man stepped in front of her, obscuring her view.

“Apologize, now,” the stranger ordered. Folding his arms across his chest, he shot a murderous stare at the foursome.

The men looked warily at each other, clearly intimidated by his imposing size. Other patrons glanced over, interested in the exchange, anxious to see how the confrontation would play out. The hostess rushed to the scene, her strawberry-blond hair flapping wildly behind her.

“Is there a problem, Bishop?” she asked, dividing her gaze between her favorite patron and the black men in the booth. No one replied. Desperate to resolve the situation, she tried again. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Shrugging his puny shoulders, the ringleader stood abruptly and stepped away from the booth. “We don’t want any trouble, Bishop.”

“Yeah, we were jus’ messin’ ’round, homes,” explained the pimple-faced Latino guy. “It was nothin’. I swear.”

“She’s waiting for that apology,” he repeated. His voice was smooth, like aged cognac, not what Yasmin expected for a man of his size or stature. “You can apologize now or after we have a few words outside. It’s your choice.”

The ill-mannered men mumbled apologies, then scurried out of the dining area before the stranger could make good on his threat. The situation defused, the hostess followed them out of the dining area and the patrons resumed eating as if nothing had happened.

Rashawn Bishop turned around and felt a stab of guilt. He sympathized with the guys he had just chased out of the restaurant. It wasn’t their fault the woman in the curve-hitting dress was stunning, was it? He was ogling her, making a complete and utter fool of himself, but he didn’t avert his gaze. She probably thought he was just as corrupt as those young men were, but her photogenic smile was irresistible and he couldn’t pull his eyes away.

The look of annoyance on her face didn’t impede her beauty. She was exquisite. A Nubian princess straight from the motherland. Her mink-black skin reminded him of whipped cocoa. She had thin eyebrows, a delicate nose and the biggest, brightest eyes he had ever seen. They were as deep as the Atlantic, round and bright. Under the subdued overhead lights, her eyes glittered like diamonds. Beaded earrings dangled from her ears, a chocker graced her neck and gold bangles hung from her wrists. She had a one-of-a-kind look that made her stand out in a roomful of women who were trying too damn hard. Her vibrant, copper-brown hair was an abundance of twists and Rashawn had to fight the urge to reach out and touch them. Her locks weren’t as wild as Lauryn Hill’s, but they were just as thick. The definition and tone of her arms and her healthy figure told him she was no stranger to diet and exercise. She had the kind of body he liked, all curves, all woman.

“I’m sorry about that, Miss. They obviously don’t know better.”

Yasmin eyed her defender. The stranger had a gravity about him that intrigued her. He had to be of mixed heritage, as his skin was more beige than brown. She couldn’t see beyond his steel-blue suit, but the way his jacket gripped his shoulders and draped casually over his chest told her everything she needed to know. He had a solid upper body, a flat stomach and not an ounce of fat. He was either a regular at a fitness club or had damn good genes. Either way, he was appealing in every sense of the word. His hair was cornrowed in an intricate crisscross design. He wore a cologne that smelled like the great outdoors and reminded her of the carefree summer days of the past. Yasmin loved his goatee, the quickness of his smile and the sensual tone of his voice. Unlike Cecil, she could listen to him talk all night. He had a host of attractive physical qualities, but his dreamy baritone was definitely his greatest charm. She shattered the silence by saying, “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

“No problem. I would have done something sooner, but…” Rashawn trailed off when he noticed her date was standing behind her, scowling. “Again, it was my pleasure.” With that, he turned and stalked away.

Her eyes followed him back across the room. Two Hispanic men in dark suits were awaiting his return. When the stranger sat down and resumed eating, Yasmin wheeled around to face Cecil. The coward had the nerve to smile. Pulling out her chair, he said, “Let’s get back to our date. I think I was in the middle of telling you about the city charter rules when—”

“This date is over and don’t you dare think of calling me for another one. Since I’m not worthy of your respect, there’s no reason for us to continue seeing each other.”

“You are upset, and rightly so, but don’t let this, ah, misunderstanding ruin our evening.” Cecil fed a smile to some senior citizens sitting nearby. “Why don’t I order you another cocktail? Or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

Ignoring him, she grabbed her purse and draped her jacket over her arm. Remembering that Cecil was an acquaintance of her sister’s, she said, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Head high, she strolled out of the dining room, through the lounge and into the lobby. Cecil scampered behind her. He paused at the entrance, assured the hostess he would be back and followed Yasmin outside.

It was the end of March but the air was warm. Long streaks of wispy clouds hung in the otherwise clear sky. The street was packed with partiers looking for some action. On Saturday nights, downtown Tampa hummed with life, activity and excitement. Groups of single women, couples and university students ambled around, stopping in at clubs, bars and cafés.

Yasmin was in front of the restaurant, checking her cell phone for missed calls, when Cecil caught up with her. Stepping onto the curb, she extended her hand and signaled an approaching taxicab. Ignoring her, the driver continued down the street.

“Yasmin, what did you expect me to do?” Cecil asked, glancing around to ensure no one was listening in. “Take on four gangbangers by myself?”

“That’s ludicrous,” she said, rolling her eyes skyward. “None of them was a day over twenty-five. They were kids, Cecil. Kids. Boys who needed to be put in their place.”

His second and third apology fell on deaf ears. “It won’t look good if I return inside without you.” Jamming his hands into his pockets, his eyes pleading for understanding, he said, “I had a special night planned for us. I thought after we finished here we could have dessert at the Grand Hyatt.”

Yasmin shot him a not-on-your-life look. This would be the first and last time she went out with Cecil Manning. “Good night, Councilman.”

“Fine, have it your way.” With a shrug, he ambled away.

Rashawn glanced out the window. He had almost suffered whiplash when the dark-skinned woman had stormed out of the restaurant a few seconds earlier. When her date returned inside looking dejected, Rashawn excused himself from his table for the second time in minutes. When he got outside, the mystery woman was stepping into a taxicab.

“Let me call you another one,” he said, extending his hand. “The driver looks buzzed.”

Yasmin smiled knowingly. Puzzled, yet intrigued by where this was going, she stepped out of the taxicab and slammed the door. The driver sped off, leaving behind a trail of dust.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t give it to you.”

He gestured toward the restaurant. “What happened with your man? You break up with him over what happened in there?”

“He’s not my man. He was a blind date.” Yasmin spoke her mind as if she were talking to one of her girlfriends, rather than a man she had known all of ten seconds. “Can you believe he wanted me to ignore them? As loud as they were? My mother raised me to be a strong black woman and I’m not about to let a bunch of knuckleheads disrespect me.”

“I hear you. Looked like you were ready to rumble in there!”

Laughing, she tucked her clutch purse under her arm. “I was. Thank God you stepped in when you did, ah…” She waited for him to volunteer his name.

“Rashawn.”

She repeated his name, liking the way it sounded to her ears. It was unique, unlike anything she had ever heard and fit him perfectly. “I like it.”

“Glad you approve.”

Yasmin flirted back. “I do.”

Chasing down women wasn’t his style, but he had a feeling this Afrocentric sister with the no-nonsense attitude would be worth the chase. She glowed like an angel under the decorative streetlights, and her eyes shimmered with humor. “What’s your name, beautiful?”

“Yasmin Ohaji.”

“You’re South African.”

She didn’t hide her surprise. Very few people were able to surmise where she was from just by the mention of her name. “How did you know?”

“I read a lot about the history of the country before I traveled there.”

“You’ve been to South Africa?”

“Twice.” Rashawn extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Yasmin’s heart stood still when he touched her. Her hand slipped easily into his and the heat of his touch warmed her down to her toes. The man had a magazine-worthy smile, a solid physique and he smelled positively divine.

Rashawn wanted to talk to Yasmin some more but he had to get back inside. He had some important business to discuss with a Las Vegas boxing promoter and he couldn’t afford to blow this opportunity. If he could convince Mr. Alvarez to give him a chance, he would be one step closer to a title match and all the perks that came with being a top contender. Rashawn had the drive, the talent and the motivation. He just needed a break. “Maybe we can get together next week for drinks.”

“Won’t your girlfriend, fiancée, wife mind?” she asked, prodding openly. “I don’t want to break up a happy home.”

“I’m as single as they come.”

After the night she’d had, the last thing Yasmin wanted to do was go on another blind date. Rashawn looked good, but so did Cecil. No, she was better off at home planning the charity fund-raiser than wasting another evening with a good-looking man of little substance. A taxicab pulled up and she opened the door. “Sorry, I can’t.”

“Can I at least have your number in case you change your mind?”

Yasmin opened her mouth to decline, but stopped herself. She was drawn to him, and that scared her. The smart thing to do would be to brush him off, but she didn’t feel right shooting him down. After all, he had stood up for her. If it hadn’t been for him defending her, she would still be inside listening to lewd and sexist comments. “I guess that would be okay.” Yasmin opened her purse, retrieved one of her business cards and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

Rashawn took the card. “Hold on, your home number isn’t on here.”

“I know,” she said, wearing a cheeky smile. Before Rashawn could reply, Yasmin was in the backseat of the cab, waving good-bye.

Chapter 2

Curling his body toward the heavy bag, Rashawn threw a swift uppercut punch. The sound of gloved fists pounding against leather mingled with the grunts and groans drifting in from the weight room. Tupac blared from a portable stereo, giving fighters that extra boost of energy when their bodies begged to quit. It was a paltry fifty-eight degrees outside but the high-energy atmosphere, coupled with the overcrowded gym, made Rashawn feel like he was in a sauna.

The stifling air in the Boxing Institute of Champions was inundated with testosterone, and the women sparring in the ring were anything but feminine. Not like the African beauty he had met last week. Yasmin Ohaji. Baby girl had it going on.

He liked that she had none of the vanity or arrogance often associated with beautiful women. She was real, honest, refreshing. And she had one hell of a smile. Rashawn tried not to think about her, tried not to relive their meeting, but he did. Their five-minute conversation had left an indelible impression on him, and she crept into his thoughts during his workouts.

The moment she’d stormed out of the Laurdel Lounge, he knew he had to see her again. Rashawn had always been crazy for sophisticated, elegant chicks. One look at Yasmin and he was sprung. He had been calling her office since Monday, but a week later still hadn’t connected with her. Every time he called, her terse-sounding assistant told him Ms. Ohaji was with clients and would contact him at her earliest convenience. Rashawn was hopeful she would come around because she was too fine for him not to keep trying.

Adrenaline pumping, he completed his set, then tugged off his gloves. Wiping the sweat from his face with a towel, he exited the workout area and went into the back office. Signed photographs of Muhammad Ali, Tommy “The Hit Man” Hearns and Lennox Lewis dressed the walls, papers and invoices obscured the desk and garbage flowed onto the floor. The windows were open, ushering in a healthy mixture of fresh air and sunshine. Guzzling from his ice-cold water bottle, he sunk onto one of the plastic chairs and dropped his elbows on his knees.

“You finished your workout already?”

“Already?” Rashawn didn’t bother to look up. He knew Kori Gallanger was watching him, her thin ruby-painted lips twisted in a scowl. The scent of cheap perfume, nicotine and Listerine engulfed the office like flames. “I’ve been here for six hours. Hell yeah, I’m done.”

“Boss man’s gonna be pissed when he comes back and you’re not here.”

“Oh, well. I’ve got things to do.”

Flopping down on the armchair, she steered it over to the wooden desk. “Suit yourself. It’s your funeral.”

Glancing up at Kori, he slowly began unraveling his hand wraps. “Where’s your old man anyways? He said he’d be right back.”

Shrugging a shoulder, she started cleaning the papers off the desk. “Beats me. He said he had some errands to run. Didn’t say when he’d be back.”

When the last piece of material fell away, Rashawn massaged the tenderness in his hands. He’d run, lifted weights, sparred off and on all afternoon and jumped rope until but his calves ached. Not only were his hands blistered, his feet were tender and his back was stiff. Standing, he stretched his weary arms above his head. “See you tomorrow. Tell Brody to call me.”

“Whatever. I’m not your message girl.” The ugly edge in her voice fell away when she answered the ringing telephone, “The Boxing Institute of Champions.”

Rashawn shook his head. For someone who had a mouth like a trucker, she sure knew how to turn on the charm when it was necessary. Her voice was cheerful and bright. She sounded less like herself and more like the office manager she was paid to be.

Kori finished her call and replaced the receiver. “I thought you were getting out of here. Thought you had things to do.”

“Listening to you gave me an idea.” A crafty expression came over his face as he scratched the stubble on his chin. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Why would I help you?”

Rashawn strolled over to where she was sitting, bent down and wrapped his arms around her. He had known Kori ever since junior high and, though they bickered relentlessly, he loved her like a sister. “Because we’re practically family.”

“It’s gonna cost you.”

“Name your price.”

Typing her password into the computer, she smiled at him over her shoulder. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“I don’t have all day, Kori.”

“All right, fifty bucks.”

He muttered a string of curses. “Fifty bucks to make a phone call? Are you out of your damn mind?”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Okay, okay, it’s a deal,” he said between clenched teeth. He hated parting ways with his money, especially when his savings account was in the black, but Yasmin was worth it. Rashawn met beautiful women every day, but there was something about her that appealed to him on a personal level. And it didn’t hurt that she had a body that wouldn’t quit. “I’ll bring the money tomorrow.”

“You better. Or I’ll tell my dad you’ve been shaving time off your workouts.” Feeding him a sickly sweet-smile, she patted his cheek with a bony hand. “Now, what do you need me to do, honey?”

“My husband’s an egotistical bastard who only thinks about himself. If it wasn’t for the kids, I’d kill him and bury his body in the backyard.”

Coughing, Yasmin shifted in her chair. Sophie Kolodenko, a Russian-born immigrant with a heavy accent, was by far her most colorful client. The overworked, underappreciated mother of five didn’t mince words when it came to her husband, a sometime plumber, and called him everything from a louse to a freeloader. If Yasmin hadn’t been biting the inside of her lip, she would have laughed.

“Have you told him how his selfishness makes you feel?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t listen to what I have to say.” Sophie wrung her hands in her lap, stress lines forming across her brow. “I’ve even threatened to take the kids and leave but every time I start packing my stuff, he apologizes and promises to change. A week later, he’s back to ordering me around.”

“What can Igor do to make things better?”

“You mean besides die?”

Laughing inwardly but remaining stoic on the outside, Yasmin took off her silver-framed eyeglasses and rested them on the glass table to her right. “Let’s be honest with each other, Sophie. You don’t want your husband to die. You want to know that he appreciates you and values you as a wife and a mother. Isn’t that what this is all about? Validation?”

Staring out the window, Sophie dragged her fingernails through the ends of her ash-blond hair. “I guess so.”

“Have you spoken to Igor about joining our sessions? We’ve been working together for almost three months and I think at this point it would be beneficial for him to join in. How do you feel about him taking part in this discussion?”

“I guess that would be okay.”

“Excellent,” Yasmin said, uncrossing her legs and standing. “That’s our time for today, but don’t forget to book an appointment with Niobie on your way out.”

Shrugging into her lint-infested coat, Sophie stood. “About what I said earlier—”

Yasmin put a comforting hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “What we discuss during our session is private. Don’t worry, I won’t repeat anything you’ve said to me in front of your husband.”

Relief flooded her face. She ambled over to the door, but didn’t open it. “You asked me what Igor could do to make things better. It would be nice if he said thank you. He doesn’t say thank you anymore. He just expects me to do stuff, you know?”

“Maybe you should tell him what you just told me.”

Nodding, Sophie opened the door and exited the room.

Closing her office door, Yasmin returned to her desk and sat down. Plagued by a headache all afternoon, she picked up her remote control, selected disk number five, and sighed softly when the rich, soulful voice of Anthony Hamilton eased the tension flowing through her body. Yasmin couldn’t stop her eyelids from drooping. It was if they had a mind of their own. Kicking off her shoes, she rested back in her leather armchair.

This was very quickly turning out to be the day from hell. Talking with Mrs. Kolodenko had been the only bright spot of the afternoon. First, her sister had called wearing a funky attitude. Imani had been in a mood ever since Yasmin had walked out on her favorite councilman and reminded her every chance she got that Cecil Manning was a terrific catch. Her session with the Fujiyamas had been going well until she suggested Mrs. Fujiyama foster her independence by getting a part-time job. It had taken her ten minutes to calm down her husband and another five to convince him not to cancel their remaining sessions. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the caterer she had hired for the charity fund-raiser had cancelled. It was the first time since Yasmin had arrived at the office that she had had a moment to herself, and it was long overdue.

Yasmin was singing along with Anthony when she heard someone clear his throat. Her eyes shot open. Without her glasses, all Yasmin could make out was the shape of a man. Squinting, she pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet. Where the hell was Niobie? And who was this man in her office, smelling like soap and baby powder?

Rashawn took his time appraising Yasmin. Her twists were pulled up off her face and drew attention to her delicate cheekbones. The charcoal-gray suit gave her an older, more mature look, and though he liked the way it fit her, he wished she was wearing something that showcased her sexy arms and legs. When she ran her fingers through her hair, he caught a breath of her perfume and forced his hands into his pockets. He didn’t know Yasmin well enough to touch her, but hell if the desire wasn’t crushing. “I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in. There was no one out front.”

“It’s no problem at all,” she lied, grabbing the stereo remote. But instead of turning off the CD player, Yasmin increased the volume. The music blared so loud her ears throbbed. Grimacing, she marched over to the bookshelf and jabbed the power button. Smoothing a hand over her blazer, she gave the stranger a shaky smile. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s no problem. These things happen, right, Doc?”

Yasmin retrieved her glasses from the end table and slipped them on. Now that the room was in focus, she was able to match the voice with the face, and what a face it was. Heavy eyebrows, sensuous mouth, built-to-last physique. Her usual calm deserted her as she stared at Rashawn. He was more handsome than she had remembered.

He wore large diamond studs in each ear, a wide-link chain on his neck and a platinum watch encrusted in diamonds on his wrist. A large tattoo of a cross with two daggers knitted together covered his arm. Only the strong survive was written in fine, black script. Faded blue jeans hung from his waist and his sneakers were spotless.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Yasmin said, pulling her gaze back up to his face. The man had sleepy, bedroom eyes. Eyes so deep and mysterious a woman could easily get lost in them.

“I’m glad to hear that, because it took a lot of work tracking you down.” His eyes bore down on her, robbing her of speech. “When you didn’t return my calls, I didn’t know what to think. Thought maybe you were avoiding me.”

Yasmin laughed. It was either that or confirm his suspicions.

“Nice setup you got here,” Rashawn said, noticing the framed diplomas, leather furniture and flower-filled vases. A saltwater aquarium filled with vibrantly colored fish and seashells sat against the far wall. The fish tank gave the otherwise ordinary room a much-needed punch of color. “I just bought a house in Clearwater. Maybe you can help me decorate.”

Locking a smile into place, she leaned against her desk. The man had a killer voice. It was heavy with masculinity and touched with just the right amount of sensuality. Getting rid of Rashawn wouldn’t be easy, but her last session of the day was about to start and she wanted to read over Mr. Gallagher’s file. “I wish we could talk further, but I’m expecting my next client any minute now. It’s his first time here and I want to be prepared when he arrives.”

“Cool. Don’t mind me.” Rashawn stepped back, stretched out on the tan-colored couch and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Do what you have to do. I’ll wait right here until you’re ready.”

“You’re not Brody Gallagher.”

“I know, his assistant made the appointment on my behalf.”

“I see.” Yasmin swallowed. She could do this. She was a trained professional, equipped to help clients resolve their personal issues and achieve self-awareness. It didn’t matter that Rashawn had a dreamy voice and rippling muscles. This was business and Yasmin refused to let anything stand in the way of doing her job. “I need a few minutes to get myself together and then we can begin.”

He closed his eyes and folded his hands across his chest. “Like I said, Doc, take as much time as you need.”

Yasmin was behind her desk, gathering assessment forms, when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called, glancing at Rashawn, who was still lounging on the sofa.

Her assistant came in, an apologetic look on her face. Niobie Slade had been with her from the first day she had opened the doors of A Better Way Counseling Services three years earlier, and though the twenty-three-year-old single mom still had a lot to learn, Yasmin could always count on her to be affable and efficient.

“Yes, what is it?” she asked, trying to squelch her frustration. Niobie had a penchant for see-through tops, miniskirts and stilettos and, though Yasmin had spoken to her at length just last week about her wardrobe, she had shown up today in a getup straight out of a music video. If it weren’t for all the work that had to be done for the fund-raiser, Yasmin would have sent her home. The slinky tomato-red dress was a soft, lightweight material but looked very expensive. Yasmin liked it, but not on Niobie. Her assistant was literally busting out of it. Her breasts were on display like a Ferrari in a showroom and the sides bunched up in layers when she walked. The outfit was clearly intended for a woman with height and curves and Niobie was short on one and had too much of the other.

“Sorry to disturb you, but Ms. Dubois called from Pastries and Stuff Catering. They’re booked the first Saturday in June, but when I explained it’s a charity event for inner-city children, she said they could squeeze us in,” Niobie explained, tucking a lock of golden-brown hair behind her ears. “The only catch is they can’t decorate or provide servers. We’ll have to take care of that ourselves.”

“That’s fine. I think it would be a nice touch if we had the kids serve the guests.” Pleased that things were finally starting to fall into place, Yasmin said, “Did she leave a number where I can reach her?”

“Yes. She asked that you call by five and let her know either way.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Niobie turned toward the door but stopped abruptly when she saw the man stretched out on the couch. A pudgy hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God! It’s Rashawn Bishop!” The words came out muffled, but there was no mistaking her excitement. “I’m your biggest fan!”

Rashawn sat up and swung his legs out in front of him. Seven years ago he had been an amateur boxer with only a handful of fights under his belt. Winning the Golden Gloves and then placing well at nationals had catapulted him from obscurity into the local spotlight. And after his record improved to thirty-seven wins, his celebrity had grown and offers started rolling in. Better management, more exposure and a professional debut had soon followed. These days he was recognized more often than not, and he was receiving more and more female attention. Except from Yasmin Ohaji.

“Could you autograph something for my son? He’s only seven but he already has dreams of becoming a boxer. Crazy, huh? I’m saving up so I can send Miles to one of those junior boxing camps. He’s good and I’m not just saying that because I’m his mom.”

Rashawn chuckled. “How about I swing by tomorrow and drop off an autographed picture for your boy?”

“That would be awesome!”

Yasmin cleared her throat, which snapped Niobie out of fan mode and into work mode. “Sorry for the interruption, Ms. Ohaji. If you need anything I’ll be at my desk.”

“Thank you, Niobie. That will be all.”

Waving good-bye at Rashawn, she proceeded through the open door and shut it behind her. They could hear Niobie giggling, then the sound and her footsteps faded.

“I apologize for my assistant’s behavior. It was—”

“No problem. I love meeting fans.”

“You’re a boxer? I don’t watch a lot of sports but you must be pretty popular if people recognize you.”

“I do all right.”

“How long have you been boxing?”

“Since I was fifteen. I got decent grades but I was always getting into trouble at school. My phys ed teacher took pity on me and started letting me hang out at his father’s gym. I’ve been hooked on boxing ever since I threw my first punch.”

Boxing was a violent, barbaric sport and Yasmin would never understand why someone would subject himself to such abuse. Shuffling the papers on her desk, she collected her clipboard and sat in the chair across from Rashawn. He could fill out the assessment sheets later. The clock was ticking and Yasmin didn’t want him to feel short-changed. After all, he was paying a hundred and fifty dollars an hour. “What brings you here today, Mr. Bishop?”

“You, Dr. Ohaji. And please, call me Rashawn.”

Chapter 3

Yasmin shifted in her chair, convinced the man sitting across from her liked making her sweat. Rashawn wasn’t her only male client, but he had a way of looking at her that made her feel nauseated, dizzy and nervous all at the same time. The long, steady looks, the way he wet his lips and the naughty gleam in his eyes troubled her.

Shoving aside her trepidation of being alone in her office with a man with whom she shared a sheer, almost magnetic chemistry, Yasmin made notes on her client assessment sheet. “Our relationship is strictly a patient–doctor one, so let’s stick to what brought you here and the issues you’re dealing with in your life right now.”

“Does that mean I can’t ask you out again?”

Yasmin dodged the question. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“You first.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about your educational background.”

No one had ever asked her that before. People from all walks of life came into A Better Way Counseling Services for her help, assuming everything they had heard about her was true. Yasmin didn’t know if she should be impressed or offended by his request. “I graduated from the University of Miami with a degree in psychology, then got my master’s degree in marriage and family therapy the following year.”

“I bet you got good grades. You strike me as someone who wouldn’t settle for anything but a perfect GPA.”

Rashawn was right. Proud that she had coasted through her studies and made the dean’s list four consecutive years, but not wanting to sound arrogant, Yasmin stuck to the facts. “After a brief stint working in a public health clinic, I finished graduate school and received my doctoral degree in clinical psychology.”

“A savvy, young sister with a successful practice? Impressive.”

Uneasy with the way he was staring at her, she said, “Thank you, but I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to discuss my credentials. Let’s talk about you.”

“I’m single. Never been married. No children that I’m aware of. I’m a loving, sensitive brother searching for the right woman to spend my life with.” Rashawn saw her eyes soften and chuckled lightly. Extending his arms along the couch, he said, “I’m just playing, Doc. But women love to hear that sensitive crap, don’t they?”

Yasmin refused to be pulled into the conversation. Regardless of what he thought, this was not a two-way discussion. “Why don’t we discuss your family history?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

“My mom raised me and my brothers by herself. My dad wasn’t around much, so she shouldered most of the responsibility. I have three loudmouth brothers and I’m the oldest of the brood. They have girlfriends and kids and still live in the old neighborhood.”

“What’s your ethnic background?”

“Sounds like a personal question.”

It was and Yasmin felt guilty for asking it. Her curiosity had gotten the best of her and she was blurring the lines between professional and personal interest. “You don’t have to answer—”

“I’m just teasing, Doc.” A humming sound came from inside his jeans pocket, but he ignored it. “I came to see you, so feel free to ask me anything. My mom’s half black, a quarter white and a quarter Mexican, and my dad is Puerto Rican.”

“That’s quite a mix.”

“I know. I’m always teasing her that she should work for the United Nations!”

Laughing, she loosened her grip on the clipboard. “And maybe you should be a comedian instead of a boxer.”

“Then would you go out with me?”

Yasmin shied away from his gaze. If she wasn’t careful, she’d succumb to the boxer’s advances and destroy her credibility as a respectable therapist. “Do you have a relationship with your father?”

For the next half hour, Yasmin asked Rashawn about his up-bringing, background and career. He was engaging, straightforward and humorous. Yasmin tried to remain unaffected by what he told her, but Rashawn was so easy to be with, when he asked her about growing up in South Africa, she spoke freely.

“My family came to the States when I was nine, but I still remember playing in the cornfields with my younger brother and sister. We lived in Duthasa, a remote village only accessible by car. It was tough living out there, away from the city and my relatives, but at a very young age I learned how to fish, how to climb peach trees and I could swim better than kids twice my age.”

“When was the last time you went home?”

“I’m ashamed to say,” she admitted, tapping her pen absently on her clipboard. “It’s been almost ten years.”

Rashawn shared what had led him to South Africa and Yasmin was so caught up in his story, she lost track of time. If Niobie hadn’t buzzed with Ms. Dubois on line two, they would have continued talking.

“That went well,” Rashawn said, watching Yasmin. She stood and adjusted her suit. Grinning mischievously, he imagined what was underneath the crisp polyester material. Something told him this therapist was going to be a tough woman to crack. But Rashawn loved a challenge, especially one with curves. “We should continue this conversation tomorrow night.”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“I wouldn’t be undefeated if I did.”

Yasmin raised her eyebrows, her face the picture of doubt. He talked a good game, but he was no different than any of the other guys who hit on her. “Thanks for asking, but I’m not interested in going for dinner and a movie. It’s become a cliché, don’t you think?”

“No doubt. That’s why I thought we’d do something original like drive down to the pier and spend the night checking out our great city on a boat. Ever been on the evening boat cruise?”

“No, I’ve always wanted to go but my fia—” Yasmin stopped herself midword. Returning to her desk, she fought the emotion crawling up her throat. Now was not the time to have an emotional breakdown. She had work to do and a charity fund-raiser to plan. Forcing a smile, Yasmin put a hand on the phone and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I really have to take this call.”

“No problem. Do what you gotta do.”

“I look forward to seeing you next week.”

“That makes two of us. Bye, Doc.” Rashawn strolled over to the door and tossed one last look over his shoulder before leaving.

Yasmin sat down on her chair. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to collect herself. Eric had been gone for over two years, but she felt guilty for lusting over another man. Life had been empty since her fiancé’s death, but she was finally starting to feel like her old self. Work had filled the void Eric had left and now she was near the apex of her career. After only three years of business, A Better Way Counseling Services was flourishing. Yasmin had more work than she could handle, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

The memory of better days brought tears to Yasmin’s eyes. Life with Eric. Nights at the symphony. Poetry readings at the Soul Café. Family barbecues. The night he had proposed. No, she wouldn’t betray Eric’s family or cause them any more pain. What would Eric’s parents think if they knew she was dating? Her relationship with the Iwenofus was as important to her as her relationship with her own family.

They had lost their son and brother and she had promised to help them through the ordeal. Pushing aside all thoughts of dating Rashawn and overpowering feelings of guilt, Yasmin picked up the phone and said, “Ms. Dubois, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Yasmin pulled her Volvo into the garage. Grabbing her purse off the passenger seat, she clicked the power lock button and entered the house through the side door. The elegant book-and art-filled home was in Carrollwood, an upper-middle-class neighborhood in north Tampa. Young executives and stay-at-home moms frequented the boutiques, specialty shops and five-star restaurants in the local plaza.

Flicking on lights as she strode through the main floor, she unbuttoned her blazer, shrugged it off and then draped it over one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Wanting their place to have a chic look, but not wanting to do the work herself, Imani had insisted they hire an interior designer. The sisters had sat down with renowned decorator Essence Gilbert-Clark, told her what they wanted and left their house in her hands. The end result was a stylish, urban decor with low-hanging ceiling lights, large suede area rugs and rich, vibrant paint. The open-concept kitchen, like the rest of the house, had walnut-stained flooring and plenty of bay windows ushering in natural light. Maple cupboards tinted in sable brown, granite countertops and dainty glass chairs accented the wide, luxurious space. Beyond the kitchen were a half bathroom and laundry room that led to the heated double garage.

Opening the fridge, Yasmin selected a bottle of her favorite wine. Once the pinot blanc was uncorked, she poured herself a glass, opened the back door and stepped outside onto the patio. Since Eric’s death, she had found herself more appreciative of the beauty of the great outdoors. The fresh air, the stars, the gentle passing of the night. It was in these quiet moments that Yasmin did the most thinking. Sitting down on a wicker chair, she propped her feet up on an ottoman and slowly sipped her drink.

Yasmin spotted Anna Karenina on the table, but didn’t reach for it. Tonight she just wanted to be alone with her thoughts. The extra hours she had put in at the office after quitting time had been well spent. The fifth annual Parkland Community Center Charity Fund-raiser was starting to come together. It had taken some convincing, but Yasmin had booked the caterer, wrangled up a five-piece orchestra and organized a decorating and cleanup crew. There were eighty confirmed guests and, if they wanted to break even, they had to sell another forty tickets. All she needed now was a celebrity emcee. Last year, P. Diddy had been scheduled to appear, but a snowstorm in New York had prevented him from attending. It had been a huge letdown, but the music mogul later sent a donation and enough Sean John T-shirts for all of the children at the community center.

This year’s fund-raiser had to be a success. The well-being of a hundred inner-city children and their families was at stake. If she wanted to draw more attention to the event, she had to find a celebrity guest. Nothing attracted people to an event like an actor. Or a singer. Or an athlete.

Yasmin tilted her head to the right, an idea taking shape in her mind. There was someone she could ask. Someone popular enough to draw a huge crowd and raise thousands of dollars for the center. A man so charismatic he would make female guests swoon and male guests cheer. Rashawn Bishop was a hometown boy who’d made good, and that was a story anyone could admire. The only questions now were whether he would do it and what it would take.

“Hey, girl.”

Yasmin turned at the sound of her sister’s voice. Imani stepped onto the patio, the bottle of pinot blanc at her lips. “What are you doing home? Shouldn’t you be at Dean’s?” Yasmin asked.

“He had to work late so I decided to come home and catch up on some work.”

“I see.”

“Did you have a good day?”

“You mean before or after you reamed me out?”

Imani plunked down on the chair beside Yasmin. Her long legs poked out from underneath her money-green wrap dress, which emphasized her small bust and size-six waist. Kicking off her heels, she crossed her legs and adopted a matter-of-fact attitude. “You have no right to be mad at me. You blew off one of my biggest clients. Cecil Manning is not only poised to be our next mayor, he’s making major moves in the real estate industry, as well. We have a solid business relationship and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Yasmin took a deep breath and blew it out. When it came to her sister, she had no choice but to take the bitter with the sweet. She was annoyed with Imani, but decided not to speak on it. She had come out on the patio to clear her mind, not get into a discussion about that wimp Cecil. He had been calling her office nonstop since their blind date and had even gone as far as sending lavish bouquets of roses. Unlike Rashawn, he didn’t have a creative bone in his body. Exploring the city by boat sounded romantic. Flowers? As clichéd as a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day.

Imani must have sensed her frustration, because she dropped the subject. “How are things coming along with the fund-raiser? I sold tickets to everyone in my office and all of the prospective buyers I met with today.”

“Thanks. Things are going a lot better now that I’ve booked the entertainment and found a caterer.”

“That’s great. Have you found an emcee yet? I mentioned it to Cecil and he was more than happy to volunteer. He said—”

“I have someone in mind.”

Imani took a swig from the wine bottle. “Really, who?”

“Ever heard of Rashawn Bishop?”

“That fine-ass boxer with the six-pack? Of course, who hasn’t?”

“Me, I guess.” Yasmin told her about what had happened at the Laurdel Lounge and his surprise visit to the clinic that afternoon. “He asked me out again. He said we could drive down to the pier and spend the night on one of those evening boat cruises.”

“Damn, girl! Why didn’t you tell me?” Imani asked, smacking her sister’s leg. “I wouldn’t be pushing Cecil on you if I knew you were interested in someone else.”

“I’m not interested in Rashawn. I just want him to emcee the fund-raiser.”

“You guys aren’t going out?”

Yasmin shook her head. “I can’t think about dating anyone until I’m over Eric.”

“When does this self-imposed grief period end? It’s been over two years and you’ve turned down every single guy who’s asked you out. You need to jump-start your love life and maybe this Rashawn guy is the one to help you do it.”

“Leave it alone, Imani. I’m not ready.” Her eyes watered and everything went out of focus. “I need more time.”

“Yassie, I know you loved Eric but who’s to say there isn’t someone else out there for you?”

When silence settled over the patio, Imani put the bottle of wine on the table, stood and headed back into the house. Returning with her laptop under her arm and a can of tuna and a spoon in the other, she said, “I know how much you like to look people up on Google, so let’s check out this Rashawn guy together.” While she waited for the computer to load, she opened the tuna and ate it straight out of the can.

Light flooded the patio as the computer came to life. Yasmin watched her sister type Rashawn’s name into the search bar, convinced this late-night investigation wouldn’t garner any useful information.

“Imani, don’t waste your time. I’m not ready to start dating, and even if I was, it wouldn’t be with someone like Rashawn Bishop. He’s pierced and tattooed and he’s a boxer, for God’s sake! He doesn’t even have his college degree.” Shifting in her chair, she averted her gaze. He was all wrong for her. He looked like a player, like the kind of man who lied, cheated and dogged women out. But, Yasmin knew that wasn’t true. Rashawn had stood up for her and only a gentleman would do that.

“Bingo!” A picture of Rashawn, bare-chested and glistening, filled the eighteen-inch screen. His Web site was loaded with pictures, newspaper articles and had expensive, high-powered graphics. Imani leaned forward, her nose practically touching the monitor. She read his bio out loud and shared any information she thought would interest her. “I’d go ten rounds with him any day!”

Yasmin didn’t doubt the truth of her sister’s words. Imani was in a committed, long-term relationship, but her gutsy style and carefree spirit attracted men in droves. “And what about Dean? What would you tell him?”

“Please, he’d probably ask if he could watch!”

Yasmin laughed, her narrow shoulders shuddering. Imani and Dean took spontaneity to a whole new level. They’d tried it all, strip clubs, bondage, threesomes, and still managed to maintain a healthy, committed relationship. Yasmin would never advise a female client to fulfill her man’s every wish or sexual fantasy, but Imani and Dean’s arrangement worked for them, period.

Imani tapped a manicured nail on the screen. “According to his bio, he just turned twenty-seven. You found yourself a hot young boxer! Way to go, Sis!”

“I didn’t know. I thought he was my age,” she protested, peering at the computer screen. Yasmin never would have guessed he was five years younger. He was mature, responsible and had an air of authority about him. Definitely not the average twenty-something guy. “I don’t care how old he is. Like I said, he’s not my type.”

“Don’t be so quick to write him off, Yassie. You know my motto. Keep an open mind and jump at every opportunity that comes your way. Before meeting Dean, I went out with anyone who asked. Why not? It’s a free meal, a chance to get dressed up, and half the time, decent conversation.”

“I’ve never looked at it that way,” Yasmin admitted. As usual, her sister had given her something to think about. No one said she had to marry the guy.

Imani turned away from the computer screen, the expression on her face a serious one. “Give it some thought, Yassie. You never know when love may come knocking.”

Chapter 4

Parkland Community Center was located in downtown Tampa. Drug addicts and prostitutes frequented the area, often scoring crack across the street from where toddlers played. At-risk youth under eighteen enjoyed computer classes, tutoring, group and individual counseling and job-readiness training. The center consisted of conference rooms, learning centers, a cafeteria and a full-size gymnasium. Parkland Community Center was an integral part of the neighborhood, but the twenty-five-year old building was falling apart. The roof had pot-size cracks, concrete crumbled from the walls and the floors were colored with stains.

“It’s huge in here,” Rashawn commented, as he followed Niobie through the lobby. Staff and volunteers milled about, talking to kids and answering phones, and a group of people were watching Judge Mathias on the thirty-two-inch TV in the lounge area.

“Thanks for giving me a ride down here.”

“No sweat.” As promised, Rashawn had dropped by the office with an autographed picture for Niobie’s son. Yasmin had left for the day, so when Niobie had suggested they go by the community center, where Miles was playing, Rashawn had agreed. He’d left the gym early and wasn’t anxious to return.

“The kids are going to flip when they see you!”

Rashawn could hear laughter, children’s voices and the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. They entered the learning center and found teens arm wrestling, a handful of kids playing board games and girls braiding hair.

“Mom!” A chunky boy ran across the room and threw himself into Niobie’s arms. “Did you bring me something?”

“You know I did, baby.” Niobie smoothed a hand over his plump face before reaching into her purse and pulling out a king-size chocolate bar.

“Thanks, Mom!” He ripped off the wrapping paper and took a bite. Chewing, he bobbed his head to the beat of his swallows.

The last thing the child needed was candy, but Rashawn kept his observations to himself. He wasn’t a single parent and he didn’t want Niobie to think he was judging her. As a young mother, she probably got her fair share of criticism. Her son was cute, in a Nutty Professor kind of way, but it was obvious he needed more exercise and less junk food. To his amazement, the seven-year-old demolished the candy bar in three bites.

It wasn’t until Miles was finished eating that he noticed the man standing beside his mom. “Who are you?”

Yanking her son to her chest, Niobie cupped a hand over his mouth. “Miles, don’t be silly. You know who that is. It’s Rashawn “the Glove” Bishop.”

Squirming out of his mom’s arms, he said, “Are you a basketball player? Do you know T-Mac? He’s my favorite.”

“No, I’m a boxer. Your mom told me you want to be a boxer, too.”

“No way! I’m going to be a race-car driver!”

Niobie’s laugh was tinged with anxiety. “Kids. One day he wants to be a boxer, the next day he wants to be a race car driver.”

Rashawn had a feeling this trip to the community center had little to do with Miles and everything to do with Niobie. This wasn’t the first time a woman had feigned interest in his career to get close to him. Most of the time he was flattered, but what Niobie had done cool wasn’t cool.

“Hey, it’s the Glove!” shouted a squeaky voice.

Within seconds, Rashawn had a group of children around him, asking for handshakes, autographs and money. Laughing, he opened his wallet and handed a fifty-dollar bill to the tallest kid in the group. “Run up the block and get everyone a fruit smoothie.”

“Yay!”

“Thanks, champ!”

“You’re the best!”

Children raced out of the room behind the boy with the money.

“That was a nice thing to do,” Niobie said, flashing a toothy smile. She coiled a hand around his arm like a python. “Why don’t I give you a quick tour while we wait for Miles and the others to come back?”

“Sure, why not?”

Niobie showed Rashawn the facility, introduced him to staff, volunteers and parents and told him interesting pieces of information about the people who worked there, the counseling sessions Yasmin oversaw and why the fund-raiser was so important to the families who frequented the community center.

“How much do you guys need to raise?”

“I don’t know the exact figure, but I’d guess about twenty-five thousand. The center receives support from local churches and other outreach programs, but we never have enough volunteers or supplies. Not to mention the extensive renovations that need to be done. The planning committee is hoping we raise enough to…”

Boisterous applause drowned out the rest of her sentence.

“Sounds like something’s going on in the gym.”

“It’s always crazy in there when the teenagers take on staff.”

“Why aren’t they playing out on the field?” he wondered out loud. It was a sunny day and he couldn’t understand why kids would want to be cooped up inside. Rain was expected tomorrow and most residents were taking advantage of the weather while it lasted. Beyond the community center doors, people were gardening, mowing their lawns and clearing the trash off their properties.

“Too many needles and drug paraphernalia.”

Shaking his head, Rashawn opened the door and allowed Niobie to precede him into the gymnasium. Sprinting full speed toward the soccer net in a blue tank top, shorts, kneepads and sneakers, was Dr. Yasmin Ohaji. She kicked the ball and spectators cheered the impending goal. The robust goalie blocked the shot and the soccer ball sailed through the air and smacked Yasmin hard in the face. The blow stunned her temporarily, but once the ball hit the ground, she was off and running again.

Propping a foot behind him against the wall, Rashawn crossed an arm across his chest. Smiling broadly, he watched Yasmin move effortlessly around the court. The therapist was unlike anyone he had ever met. Not only did she leave every man she passed breathless, she stood up for herself, demanded respect and had one hell of a front kick. Rashawn knew a lot of professional women, but he didn’t know any who played soccer with such tenacity. Yasmin was competitive, aggressive and seemed bent on scoring a goal before the time on the scoreboard ran out.

“Ready to finish the rest of the tour?”

Caught up in his thoughts, he’d forgotten that Niobie was standing beside him.

“Maybe later.” Rashawn wasn’t leaving until he saw how the match played out. Yasmin and her teammates had five minutes to tie the game and something told him she would be the one to score the goal her team needed.

Niobie chatted beside him, but Rashawn wasn’t listening. He was focused on Yasmin and when she shot down the court toward the goal, he cheered along with the crowd. She kicked the ball to a lanky man, who outran his defender, dodged the goalie and scored in the open net. The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game and, once the teams had shaken hands, the audience filed out of the gym.

Niobie touched a hand to his forearm. “We should go. I’m sure Miles and the others are back now.”

“You go on. I’m going to hang back.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said, momentarily pulling his attention away from the court. Appreciative of the time she had spent showing him around and introducing him to the staff, he said, “Thanks for the tour. See you later?”

“Ah, okay, bye.”

Rashawn caught Yasmin’s eye. Her sweat-drenched T-shirt clung to her body, outlining each and every luscious curve. She would look good in a brown paper bag, he speculated, admiring her thick, childbearing hips. Clapping his hands, he gave her a hearty smile. “You got one hell of a kick, Doc. Who knew a therapist could play soccer like a pro? You’re going to have to teach me some of your fancy footwork.”

Smiling, she smoothed the base of her ponytail. “Don’t let the business suits fool you. I played volleyball, soccer and basketball throughout high school.”

“I thought you said you didn’t like sports?”

“No, I said I didn’t watch sports. I’d much rather play than watch, especially football. It’s a great feeling chasing someone down and tackling them.”

“Damn, Doc! I’m scared of you.” His eyes were wide with admiration, conveying just how impressed he was. “And for the record, you can tackle me anytime.”

He licked his lips and Yasmin felt her legs go weak. Not only was Rashawn handsome, he had a likeable nature and a winning smile. If she could stop drooling over him long enough to speak, she could ask him to emcee the fund-raiser. This was the perfect time. He was in a good mood and it was unlikely he would turn her down, especially once she showed him all the repairs that needed to be done. “Are you going to be here for a while? Once I get changed I’d love to give you a tour.”

Rashawn thought of telling her that Niobie had beat her to it, but decided against it. Quality time spent with Yasmin would help her see him in another light. Based on his initial observations, he sensed she was an optimistic, fun-loving woman who knew how to take care of herself. He liked that. Soft on the inside but tough on the outside. He loved the rise and fall of her voice, the femininity of her laugh and the quickness of her smile. They would get along great. All he had to do was show her he posed no harm. If she could see that he was a good guy, with no ulterior motives, she would say yes when he asked her out.

“I’d like that. But don’t change,” he said, his gaze sliding down the slant of her hips. “I like your shorts.”

A tiny, frizzy-haired black woman in a crumpled apron interrupted their conversation. “There you are, Yasmin. I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“What is it, Ms. McClure?” A gentle and caring woman, Melba McClure planned and prepared all of the meals at the community center and donated more time than any other volunteer. A retired postal worker, she was the grandmother of six, dated regularly and was a stern but loving presence. “I thought you’d be in the kitchen getting things ready for dinner.”

“I was until Mr. Santos came down with a fever. I begged him to stay until the end of the six o’clock session but he could hardly stand. His wife came to pick him up a few minutes ago.”

Yasmin’s face crumpled. “B-b-but he’s facilitating the M.O.I. session tonight! Who’s going to lead the group now that he’s gone?”

“I’ve called and left messages for Walter, Tarik and Emilio, but I haven’t heard back from any of them.”

Yasmin knew Melba was trying to help, but she secretly hoped her calls weren’t returned. Walter was a pleasant middle-aged man who spoke in a dull monotone and was known to put the kids to sleep, Tarik was a recovering drug addict, fresh out of rehab, and Emilio flirted relentlessly with the female staff. No, she would just have to chair the meeting herself. “Thanks for giving me the heads-up, Melba. Let the boys in the Men of Initiative program know that—”

“Men of Initiative? What’s that?” Rashawn asked.

“It’s a new program designed to get teenage boys off the street,” she explained. “The purpose is to help kids between the ages of thirteen and eighteen develop a positive sense of self and to set high education goals. Tonight’s was supposed to be an open forum, basically a question-and-answer period where the boys could speak freely about the struggles they’re having at school, at home and on the streets.”

“I don’t mind helping out,” he said, directing his comment to Yasmin.

Melba eyed him warily. “Normally we do an extensive background check before we let anyone around the kids, but since we’re understaffed and Yasmin will be supervising, I guess it would be okay. What’s your name, son?”

“Rashawn.”

“You’re not a drug dealer are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Don’t smoke pot, do you?”

“No.”

“Do you abuse or exploit women?”

“No. Never.”

Melba stared into his eyes to judge his sincerity. Confident he was telling the truth, she said, “Don’t mind me, Rashawn. I’m just mighty careful about who I let around these boys. As you can see we’re short-staffed and we could really use your help.” Clapping her hands together, her eyes expanded to the size of cue balls. “This is going to be swell! I can feel it in my bones. Why don’t you follow me to the kitchen? We’ll get some food into you before the session starts. Do you like red beans and rice?”

Yasmin glanced at her watch, amazed that a five-minute discussion about respect could last three-quarters of an hour. At the back of the room, away from the group, she wrote a brief outline of the goals, objectives and purpose of the Men of Initiative program. The more teens who joined the program, the more government funding the center would receive.

Counting the number of teenagers seated in the semicircle, she noticed the intense expression on each young face. Rashawn easily held the attention of his young audience. Not only did the man have a way with women, he appealed to children and teenagers, as well. Affable and laid-back, he had the type of personality people took to immediately. In the cafeteria, kids had crammed onto his bench and more than half of the adults had made their way over to chitchat. Yasmin had sat across from the charismatic boxer, in the hopes of discussing the charity fund-raiser, but every time she opened her mouth, they were interrupted by an adoring fan. Eating dinner with Rashawn had been an eye-opener. Strangers clamored for his attention and made utter fools of themselves just to have ten seconds of his time.

Yasmin watched him now, sitting in the middle of the circle. His arms dangled between his legs and he had a relaxed, carefree expression on his face. His body language suggested he was open, bare, willing to share himself with the world. And he was.

Yasmin had learned some shocking truths about Rashawn Bishop, facts that further underlined just how different they were. His father had abandoned the family when he was five, his mother had raised him and his three brothers single-handedly and had struggled to provide food and shelter. But it was the story of his life on the streets that had left her slack-jawed. He’d stolen cars, went joyriding with his crew and had a lengthy rap sheet by the time he was thirteen.

Tate, one of her favorite kids at the center, lifted his hand and waited for the discussion to die down before he spoke. “Did you ever sling rock?”

Rashawn locked eyes with Yasmin. He couldn’t read the expression on her face. Trepidation fell upon him. Was she regretting her decision to let him lead the session? Or disappointed about what she had learned about him? This was not how she was supposed to find out about his past, but he couldn’t let this opportunity to share with these teenagers pass him by. If Yasmin couldn’t appreciate the fact that he’d changed his life and made something of himself, then she wasn’t the right woman for him anyway. “I didn’t sell dope, but I used to run errands for the local drug dealer. I’m not proud of it, but I did what I had to do to survive. I was the oldest and had to help my mom take care of my brothers. Everyone else was doing it and I wanted to fit in with my crew. They were my family.”

Nods and murmurs of assent filled the room.

“In tenth grade I discovered boxing and that changed my life for the better. Boxing was my ticket out of the ’hood and I took advantage of all the opportunities afforded to me.”

“But what if you ain’t got no talent?” asked an unsmiling kid with buck teeth. “What if all you know how to do is jack cars and beat down punks for what they got?”

“I don’t believe that, Chaz. Everyone’s good at something.”

The boy shook his head. “Not me. I hate school, I suck at sports and I don’t get along with my step-dad.”

“Ever tried boxing, martial arts or wrestling?”

“Naw, that’s not my thing.”

“How do you know unless you try? You look strong, you could probably be one hell of a wrestler. “

He shrugged a shoulder. “I ain’t got money for shit like that.”

“Chaz, you can come by the Boxing Institute of Champions and work out with me whenever you want.” Standing, Rashawn said, “Anyone else want to get in shape, look good and impress the honeys?”

Chuckles broke out.

“If you’re interested in a serious workout, meet me at the gym tomorrow at three. If you’re late, I’m starting without you.”

One by one, participants stood and approached Rashawn. Some of the younger kids even hugged him. Conversation was put on hold while tables were returned to their rightful place and chairs were stacked against the wall.

As the teens trickled out into the hall, Yasmin gathered her things. She wanted to talk to Rashawn privately but he was speaking to Tate and Brandon. Remembering that she had wanted to leave a note for the health nurse regarding the new date for the next health and nutrition clinic, she exited the room.

“You’re not leaving without me, are you, Doc?”

Yasmin slowed her pace and did a half turn.

“What’d you think of the session?” he asked, as they continued down the hall.

“I think you really connected with the kids.”

“I don’t know about all that, but I hope they give some thought to what I said. Far too many kids are getting killed and it’s up to us to put a stop to it.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Deciding she would call the health nurse in the morning, she tucked a hand into her pocket and pulled out her keys. Rashawn pushed open the door, and her shoulder brushed his chest as she passed by. Yasmin felt like she’d been zapped with a stun gun. Her pulse quickened. She glanced at Rashawn and was surprised to find him watching her. He must have felt it, too, she decided, tearing her gaze away.

Outside, the sky was clear. It was quiet on Keeler Street, but Yasmin knew from experience that could change at any minute. A week earlier, a father of three had been mugged on his way to his night job. Luckily, some of the center’s volunteers had heard the commotion and come to his aid. Thanks to their bravery, he hadn’t been seriously injured.

“Bye, Dr. Ohaji.”

Yasmin turned at the sound of her name. A group of boys were standing on the curb, talking. Broken bottles, cigarette butts and food wrappers littered the sidewalk. Tomorrow she would have to ask the caretaker to clean up the mess. Waving, she smiled at the teens. “Bye, boys. Get home safe.”

“Catch you later, Bishop.”

“Bye, champ,” another hollered.

“See you next Thursday!”

Yasmin glanced at Rashawn. “You’re coming back?”

“Sure, why not?”

“I don’t know, I just thought this was a one-time thing. Mr. Santos should be back by the end of the week.”

“That’s cool. Then he can lead the discussion and I can listen in. I promised the kids I’d be back and I always keep my word.” Rashawn motioned toward the silver Volvo S80 parked beside his Mustang. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Figured as much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rashawn chuckled. “It’s safe, practical and probably gets great gas mileage.”

“You’re right, it does.” Yasmin didn’t like him teasing her, especially when his car was decades old. She guessed the coral-blue two-seater was a late seventies model, and though it was in pristine condition with chrome wheels, leather seats and flashy front and rear spoilers, it was still old. “Do you have a minute? There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Go ahead, ask away,” he told her, leaning against the bumper of his car.

“How would you feel about emceeing the charity fund-raiser? I know this is short notice, but all my calls to other celebrities have been ignored. Your involvement could mean hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars raised for the center and—”

“Oh, I get it, I’m sloppy seconds. You couldn’t get Steve Harvey or Cedric the Entertainer so you decided to ask me.”

Yasmin was caught so off-guard by his remark, she didn’t notice the twinkle in his eyes. “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she insisted, raising her voice. “If I had known how popular you are around Tampa, I would have contacted you first.”

“Sure, sure, Doc.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Why don’t we discuss this tomorrow when we have more time? There’s a boat leaving the pier at seven-thirty.” Rashawn leaned forward, his breath against her ear. “Let me take you out. You already know I’ll take good care of you.”

Yasmin resisted the urge to smile. The reference to how they’d met wasn’t lost on her. He was her knight in shining armor and she would always be grateful for what he had done that night at the Laurdel Lounge. Courage was damn sexy, and he personified the word in more ways then one. “Now’s not a good time,” she told him. “I have a lot of work to do for the fund-raiser and very little time. The program needs to be planned and I have silent auction prizes to organize.”

“We’ll brainstorm together. I’ve done this sort of thing before and it’s really not as hard as you’re making it sound.” Rashawn hoped Yasmin couldn’t see his nose growing. Aside from helping plan his mom’s surprise birthday party last year, he had never planned a major event like a charity fund-raiser. How hard could it be? As long as there was food, wine and music, it would be great.

“Why don’t we meet at the clinic?” she suggested, her tone light. He was flirtatious and straightforward, but in an unexpectedly disarming way. Going on a cruise was much too romantic and there would be other couples. The last thing Yasmin wanted was to be seduced by him in the presence of other people. Pleased that she had come up with a suitable alternative, she said, “I’ll order in some sandwiches from the deli up the block.”

“No offense, Doc, but your office is kinda stuffy. I want to go somewhere we can kick back and relax.”

“I’d be a lot more comfortable at my office.”

“Do you have a little old lady living inside you?” he joked, a grin on his lips. “If it’ll make you feel better we’ll call it a business dinner, okay?”

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I do,” he countered, his eyes beating down at her with the intensity of the sun. “I read somewhere that Puerto Rico ranks as one of the happiest places on earth. Most people live below the poverty line, the crime rate is ridiculously high and the average family survives on just pennies a day, but you know why they’re so happy?”

Intrigued, Yasmin asked, “No, why?”

“The motto in Puerto Rico is simple, ‘Don’t take life too seriously. Eat, drink and be merry!’” Signaling the end of the discussion he strolled confidently over to the driver’s-side door. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

“No!” Yasmin coughed to clear the panic in her voice. There was no reason to overreact. This was a business date. Sure, they were going to be surrounded by candlelight, champagne and soft music, but that didn’t mean she had to get caught up in the magic of it all. “I’ll just meet you there.”

Grinning, he slid into his car, revved the engine and backed out of the space. “See you tomorrow, Doc.”

Chapter 5

Yasmin spotted Rashawn as soon as she pulled into the Bahia Mar Dock. It was hard to miss him. He was surrounded by a bevy of attractive women. All weaves galore and heavy makeup, the buxom quartet resembled high-class call girls. Not wanting to give him the wrong idea about tonight, Yasmin had selected a loose, flowing blouse, slim-fitted pants and sandals. But as she watched stylishly-dressed couples exit their vehicles and head toward the boat, she had second thoughts about her conservative attire.

Once the car was locked, she walked briskly through the parking lot and joined the throng of sightseers. A slight breeze rose and with it the scent of spring flowers. Dark, somber clouds drifted peacefully across the sky. The air was thick with rain and mingled with the perfume of the sea.

Yasmin saw Rashawn glance around the harbor. His admirers were trying fruitlessly to hold his attention, but his mind was obviously somewhere else. He probably thought she’d stood him up. He wouldn’t be far from wrong. The idea had crossed her mind more than once, but blowing him off wouldn’t be right, especially since she needed his help. He hadn’t agreed to host the fund-raiser yet, but she was confident he would.

Rashawn’s face broke out into a grin when he spotted her. Mumbling good-bye to the cosmetology students, he strolled down the pier toward his date. A flabby Hispanic man acknowledged him, but Rashawn didn’t stop. Tonight wasn’t about meeting fans or signing autographs; it was about spending time with Yasmin.

“You’re late,” he said, when they were a few feet apart.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

His eyes gleamed. “I was about to come looking for you. Thought maybe you weren’t going to show.”

Yasmin looked at the beddable and willing women standing behind him. “I’m sure you would have been in good hands.”

“Hardly.” He leaned in and whispered, “They’re not my type. I like sophisticated women who know how to leave things to the imagination.”

“…Said the man with the harem,” she teased, raising her eyebrows.

Rashawn took her hand, pressed it to his chest and said, “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“My heart skipped a beat.”

Yasmin melted like an ice cube in the sun. Rashawn definitely had a way with words. On the drive over, she had told herself nothing was going to happen between them, but deep down she knew something would. Rashawn wasn’t her type, but she was drawn to him.

It was his sensual bedroom tone, his sexy swagger and his killer smile. Or maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t be more different from the men she usually dated. Eric had been a plastic surgeon, owned a lavish six-bedroom home and had a fleet of luxury cars. Rashawn was from the inner city, made his money beating his opponents to a pulp and drove a Mustang. But God help her if she didn’t want him. When he was around, she had that walk-on-water feeling and was short of breath. Like now.

“You’re lookin’ good, Doc. Real good.”

“Thanks. I hope it’s not cold tonight because I forgot my jacket in the car.”

His eyes sparkled with lust. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you warm,” he promised, admiring her classy outfit. Rashawn liked how Yasmin had a different look every time he saw her. She kept him guessing and it didn’t matter if she was wearing a dress, a business suit or gym shorts, she always looked sexy.

“You know what we should do?”

“No, what?”

“Kiss now, so we’re not thinking about it all night.” Resting a hand on her lower back, he gently pulled her toward him. A whiff of her perfume tickled his nose and elicited images of them making love on a bed of roses. “One kiss, that’s all I want, but if you’d like to go further, I won’t stop you.”

Desire zipped up her spine. A wave of excitement swept over her as she leveled a hand over her stomach. His confidence bordered on arrogance but made him even more appealing. “I, um…”

“All aboard!”

The gray-haired captain stood at the portal of the boat, his hands propped on his hips like Long John Silver. Behind him was a smiling crew of both male and female stewards.

Rashawn broke the silence with a soft chuckle. “Looks like that kiss is gonna have to wait until later. Ready to go inside, Doc?”

“Can I interest you in a Bahama Breeze?”

Rashawn glanced up at the waiter. “Sure, what’s in it?”

“Coconut rum, pineapple juice and a splash of tequila. It’s our most popular drink,” he finished, setting the cocktails down on the table.

Yasmin tasted it. “This is delicious.”

“Yeah, keep them coming!”

The server pulled out his pen and notepad. “Do you need a few more minutes to look over the menu or have you decided on the ribs-and-chicken buffet?”

Rashawn and Yasmin spoke at once, drawing a light chuckle from the twenty-something waiter. “I’ll give you guys a couple of minutes to decide.”

When he departed, Rashawn put his menu off to the side. “You’ve gotta have the buffet. Ribs, chicken and three-cheese lasagna. It’s a meat lover’s paradise.”

“I’m a vegetarian. You’ll be picking me up off the floor if I eat all that food.”

“For real? What made you come to that decision?”

“When I was ten I saw a pig slaughtered on my grandfather’s farm. I quit eating meat that same day.”

“That’s brutal. You don’t mind if I have the buffet, do you?”

“Of course not. Don’t worry, I’m not one of those vegetarians who make meat-eaters feel bad.”

“Good, ’cause I’ve been dreaming about ribs all week!”

While they waited for the server to return, they discussed the Men of Initiative program. Conversation came easily and they shared the same opinion on many prevailing issues. Politics, like religion and sex, weren’t topics to discuss on a first date, but when the discussion turned to the state of black America, Rashawn couldn’t resist weighing in.

“Police brutality, racial profiling and the AIDS epidemic in the African-American community are topics that should be addressed by all of the presidential candidates but will probably be ignored. That said, I still think Senator Obama has a good chance of becoming president,” he told her, picking up a piece of rib with his hands. “Most people would rather see a black man in power than leave the country in the hands of a woman.”

Yasmin nodded. “You’re right. The United States might be the land of the free and the home of the brave, but when it comes to equality for women, we lag behind less prosperous nations.”

“We like to think we’re an elite superpower and that other countries should learn from us, but it’s often the other way around. Finland, Mozambique and the Philippines all have female presidents, but we’ve never had one in our two-hundred-and-thirty-year history.”

“Is that how old America is?” she asked. Yasmin was surprised that Rashawn knew who all of the political candidates were and the pressing issues dividing the country.

“Someone needs a refresher course on American history,” he teased.

Yasmin hid her frown behind her napkin. This was mind-blowing. If she had been standing up, she would have toppled over onto the floor. She had her doctorate. She had graduated at the top of her class. She should be the one schooling him, not the other way around. “How do you know so much about history and politics?”

“I’m a news junkie. When I was a kid my mom worked at the local TV station and me and my brothers used to hang out there after school.” Rashawn tasted his drink, a pensive expression on his face. “Mom always dreamed of working her way up from the mailroom and being the first woman of color in the anchor chair, but it never happened.”

“Do you see your dad now?”

“From time to time. Now that my career’s taken off, he comes around a lot more.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

Rashawn drew a deep breath before answering. “Hugo was only nineteen when my mom got pregnant with me. He was a high school dropout and didn’t know the first thing about taking care of a baby. No one ever taught him what it means to be a man, so how could I blame him for the mistakes he made?”

After she had peppered him with more personal questions for what seemed like hours, but wasn’t more than a few minutes, he said, “This feels like another therapy session!”

They laughed together. The ambiance of the ship, coupled with the starlit sky and the stunning view spread before them in all directions, made for a romantic setting.

“I can’t believe how beautiful this boat is. I never imagined it would be this nice,” Yasmin confessed, glancing around the dining room. Upon entering the boat, they’d followed the other passengers to the upper deck. There they’d sipped wine, admired the collection of skyscrapers and vivid blue-green water and listened to the gentle lapping of the waves. After meeting the captain and his crew, they retired to the dining room and found a table near the piano. A short, stocky man had been playing since the ship had set sail, but now the raspy voice of Michael Bolton was purring from the overhead speakers.

“I brought you another helping of ribs, sir.”

“You must have read my mind!”

The waiter replaced Rashawn’s empty plate and set down one heaping with ribs, chicken and potatoes. “Enjoy,” he said, before departing.

Shaking her head in awe, she finished what was left of her cocktail. The heat from the fireplace wrapped itself around her, warming her body. “You eat a lot. I figured you’d have a very strict diet, being a boxer and all.”

“My workouts run anywhere from four to six hours.” Rashawn picked up a slab of ribs and ripped the meat off the bones, leaving nothing behind. “I have to eat enough so I have the energy to train. I snack during the day and load up on carbohydrates and protein in the evening.” He devoured the plate of food in minutes and when the waiter returned told him it was the best meal he’d had all day.

Yasmin watched Rashawn over the rim of her glass. His deep, masculine voice, his soft eyes and athletic physique made her mouth water, but he was more than just a handsome face. He was interesting, entertaining and just plain old funny.

“I’m gonna have to skip my morning workout because there’s no way I can run five miles after eating three plates of ribs.”

“Do you train every day?”

“Yup, except for Christmas and Easter. My mom’ll kill me if I miss mass.” He rested back in his chair, watching her. “I’m having a good time.”

“Me, too,” she confessed, surprised by her admission.

“I’d like to see you again. If you’re free tomorrow night we could go bowling or shoot pool or something.”

“I can’t, I’m going to a wine-tasting party.”

“A wine-tasting party?” he repeated, clearly amused. “What’s that all about?”

“Once a month, my friends and I get together and sample various wines. It’s really an excuse to gossip and get drunk, but we like to think it’s cultured and high-class.”

Rashawn liked beer better than wine, but he would sip Merlot and discuss fashion trends if it meant spending more time with Yasmin. If he was going to pull this off, he’d have to educate himself on the different flavors, textures and aromas. He’d stay up all night if he had to. It was a small price to pay for having another date with this beautiful appealing woman. “Is this thing just for the ladies or can fellas come, too?”

“It’s a good mix of singles and couples. Actually, my best friend is hosting tomorrow. She just moved into her new place so it’s more of a housewarming party.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

Yasmin didn’t know how she felt about Rashawn meeting her friends. Katherine could be a snob sometimes and her pretentious, upper-middle-class colleagues weren’t any better. But how could she tell Rashawn she didn’t want him to come because she was scared he wouldn’t fit in? Sure, he was well read, but what did he know about Wall Street, trust funds and vacationing in the south of France?

Rashawn must have sensed her inner turmoil, because he said, “Two dates in one week is too much, huh? Getting sick of me already, Doc?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I want you to come, I just don’t think you’ll have a good time. We’re a pretty boring group and—”

“Let me be the judge of that. Besides, it’s not about anyone else, it’s about being with you.” His eyes revealed nothing, but there was no mistaking the heat in his voice.

Yasmin didn’t know what she was doing. Inviting Rashawn to the party was a bad idea. He was a twenty-seven-year-old boxer from the inner city. What would he talk about with a room full of executives, doctors and millionaires who lived in gated communities? But instead of dissuading him from coming, she heard herself say, “It starts at seven o’clock.”

“Cool.” Wiping his mouth with his napkin, he pushed back his chair. “Do you want anything else?”

Her stomach rebelled at the thought of more food. Yasmin stole a glance at the dessert table. Guests were sampling cakes, pies and other high-calorie treats. The strawberry shortcake looked tempting, but Yasmin wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if she overindulged. The fund-raiser was weeks away and she had a designer gown to fit into. “No, thanks. I’ve had enough for one night.”

“We should walk off some of this food.” Rashawn punctuated his sentence with a smile. He wanted to be alone with her. Her eyes sparkled under the soft lights and the more time they spent together, the more she impressed him. “How about we take a stroll around the deck?

“But we haven’t discussed the charity fund-raiser yet.”

“No, problem. We’ll talk outside.” Rashawn directed his eyes to the back of the room. “Let’s get out of here. Rhythmically challenged people are starting to dance.”

Giggling, Yasmin allowed him to help her to her feet. Swayed by his smile, she took the hand he offered. It was a simple gesture, but one that made her feel warm and tingly inside. Eric thought hand-holding was juvenile. According to him, professional people didn’t act “common,” but being this close to Rashawn was as natural as breathing.

Brushing past a burly man in a high cowboy hat, Yasmin cast a bemused glance at the couples “dancing” to Miami Sound Machine. “You sure you don’t want to stay? I’d love to see you out on the dance floor.”

Rashawn grinned. “And I’d love to have you in my arms.”

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