A Private Affair

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

A Private Affair
Donna Hill

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Acknowledgments

My sincere thanks and appreciation to all of my readers who have supported me throughout the years. I feel blessed that A Private Affair is getting a second life and that my beloved character Quinten Parker will reach into your hearts once again. Be sure to collect the entire trilogy—A Private Affair, Pieces of Dreams and Through the Fire—love stories that will stand the test of time. Thank you all so much! Enjoy.

Contents

BOOK ONE

PART ONEQuinn

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

PART TWONikita

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

PART THREEMaxine

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 28

BOOK TWO

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

BOOK ONE

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Quinn poked his head around the partially open bathroom door, shouting over the steam and rush of water. “I’ll check ya later, ’round midnight.”

Lacy parted the opaque shower curtain, shouting over the surge of water. “Not again, Quinten. You just got in. I thought you were staying for dinner. Maxine’s coming over. When are you going to eat?”

Quinn chuckled deep in his throat. “Chill, sis. I’ll grab a little somethin’.”

She snatched the curtain shut. “Yeah, but what?” she grumbled, her question full of cynicism. She worried about her twin brother, more than she’d ever let on. The reality was, all they had was each other. And living in the heart of Harlem, New York, with its available drugs, rampant gang wars and random shootings, reiterated their oneness all the more. She also knew that no amount of haranguing would keep her brother off the street. The lure, the mystery, the danger and excitement, were his mistresses. He couldn’t seem to get enough and kept going back for more. She knew Quinn had so much more to offer than just protection for local “businessmen.” If they could just get out of the neighborhood, he stood a chance of surviving. They stood a chance.

“Later! Tell Maxie I’ll catch her another time,” he called, shutting the door behind him.

Lacy threw up a silent prayer for her brother’s safe return, a proven ritual of her deep spirituality. They had to get out of this neighborhood, she vowed again. Quinn had no desire to move, and she’d promised herself she’d never leave him behind. But maybe when he saw the duplex apartment she’d found on the border of Greenwich Village he’d change his mind. The landlady was willing to hold the apartment for two more weeks. That’s all the time she needed to get the rest of the money. “Two more weeks.” She sighed, shutting off the water. “Just two more weeks.”

Quinn sauntered down the semi-darkened avenue, assuming the rhythmic gait of the hood, his shoulder-length dreadlocks swinging to the hip-hop beat of his stride. He’d opted to walk this balmy spring night in lieu of driving his black BMW 750i. He needed to see and feel the pulse of the street, from the boom boxes that blared the outrage of inner-city life to the sweet-funky smell of greasy fried chicken, shrimp lo mein and chopped barbecue that wafted from the every-other-corner fast-food joints, Caribbean roti shops and Hispanic bodegas.

By rote he gave the barest rise of his chin in a show of cool acknowledgment to the rows of regulars who sat, posed, slumped, leaned, stood and harmonized along the stretch of Malcolm X Boulevard. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes.

As he continued toward his destination he wondered if his mother was holed up in one of the numerous tenements with yet another dude. His teeth clenched reflexively at the vision. He hadn’t laid eyes on his mother in more than ten years. She’d walked out on him and Lacy when they were only sixteen. “Ya’ll grown now,” she’d said. “And can take care of yo’ selves. It’s my time now.” She’d turned, walked out of the door and they hadn’t seen or heard from her since.

Even now, after all those years, Quinn still felt that bottomless emptiness in the pit of his stomach that burned like old garbage in the cans that kept the homeless warm. He felt some irrational guilt, that his mother’s abandonment was somehow his fault. He’d tried to fill the void with everything from hurt to anger. He tried to fill his need with the warmth and brotherhood of the street. But the emptiness persisted. Lacy, on the other hand, had turned to the familial nurturing of the church, and the healing force of the Lord.

Stopping in front of B.J.’s, the local bar, grill and everything in between, Quinn pushed open the scratched, blacked-out Plexiglas door and stepped into the smoke-filled room.

“Whatsup, brotherman?” greeted Turk, the bartender. “Whatcha tastin’?”

“My usual. Jack on the rocks.” Quinn slid onto the well-worn wooden stool and perused his surroundings. The place was packed as usual for a Friday night. Women in all their finery lounged in various vogue positions to catch the eyes of available men on the prowl, their perfumed bodies cutting through the stench of stale cigars, cigarettes and body heat.

“Here ya go.”

“Thanks, brotherman.” Quinn absently raised his glass to his lips and took a quick swallow of the smooth amber liquid, its fire warming him. “Boys in the back?”

“Whatcha think?”

Quinn nodded, slapped a five dollar bill on the bar and headed toward the gray steel door.

“Luck to ya, brother,” Turk called, wiping up the ring that Quinn’s glass had left behind.

The small back room was even stuffier than the front. Smoke billowed like cumulus clouds, hanging over the tight, dark room like a canopy. One lone seventy-five watt bulb hung above the round, green, felt-covered table, casting grotesque shadows against the cracked and peeling lemon yellow walls. Sweat, perfume, Old Spice, cheap liquor and moldy carpet odor all blended together into one unique aroma. It was all an acquired taste, the boys in the back always joked.

Smalls, the bouncer, who was about the size of a Sumo wrestler and obviously nicknamed as a joke, expertly patted Quinn down, then gave his customary caveman grunt and hooked thumb over his shoulder, indicating that it was all right for Quinn to enter.

Several pairs of eyes momentarily locked on his approach, then quickly returned to the aces, queens and kings that beckoned them, daring them to make a move. Quinn spotted Sylvie, the hostess of sorts, and signaled her with a crook of his finger.

Sheathed in a tight-fitting red rayon dress, Sylvie strutted across the hardwood floor, leaving little to the imagination in her wake. Her heels clicked in perfect syncopation.

“Quinn,” she cooed, looking up at his smooth, chiseled face, her full, red-painted mouth pouting seductively, as if waiting to be kissed. “What can I get ya, sugah?”

Quinn’s dark eyes were shadowed by long lashes as his lids slid partially downward. The right corner of his artist-drawn mouth curled. “Remy set for the pick up? Time is money,” he added, giving her the benefit of his dimpled smile.

“Follow me, lover. They’re…just…about…ready.”

Quinn slung his hands into the pocket of his Versace jogging pants, his Nike-sneakered feet moving soundlessly behind Sylvie’s undulating form. She knocked twice on the brown wooden door, turned the knob and entered.

Remy, Charles and a face he didn’t recognize were seated around a long table, counting and stacking Washingtons, Hamiltons and Franklins into neat rows of dead presidents.

“Be witchu in a sec,” Remy acknowledged, briefly looking up from his task. He tilted his head in the direction of the young boy. “Dis here is T.C. He gonna run wit you tonight. I want you to school ’em on da route and da ropes.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I ain’t no damned nursemaid,” he grumbled, his ire directed at T.C., who seemed to shrink under the scornful gaze. “Send him with one of the other runners. I ain’t got time for no baby-sittin’.”

Remy’s ink black face hardened as if suddenly tossed into quick-drying cement. “He goes wit you. You knows da street and the connections better than anyone. And, more important, ‘they’ knows you. Brothers see T.C. rolling wit you, they’ll give him his props. Understood?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Quinn reluctantly conceded. “But he better pay attention.” He threw T.C. a withering glance, then leaned his muscled frame nonchalantly against the doorjamb. His gaze slanted back in T.C.’s direction. The kid looked to be no more than seventeen. Quinn sighed inwardly—just about the same age he was when he started to build a rep for himself with Remy as his tutor.

Over the years Quinn had been elevated from errand boy to principal courier, responsible for the money transport between five of Remy’s clubs. His cut was substantial for the safeguarding of the nightly takes. That took trust and nerves of steel. Trust—that he wouldn’t run off with the goods—and nerves of steel when situations got dicey, as they did on many occasions.

As much as observers believed that Quinn had ice water for blood, he was anything but cold. Unfortunately, in his world there was no room for the soft of heart. So he played the role: hard, untouchable, unattainable, dangerous. The one person with whom he could truly be himself was his sister, Lacy.

Lacy didn’t laugh when she read one of his rhymes, or when he played tunes off the top of his head on the antique secondhand piano. She’d just sit there all dreamy-eyed and listen with a pretty smile on her face. Lacy believed in him, believed that he could go places. “Do something worthwhile with your God-given talents,” she always preached. Sometimes she made him almost believe in himself, too.

His mouth twitched as he fought back a smile. Lacy, the dreamer, the idealist. What could he possibly do with a twelfth-grade education? He frowned, marring his smooth mahogany brow. Through the years the two personas who made up Quinn Parker had merged, one nearly indistinguishable from the other. Sometimes even he didn’t know where one began and the other ended.

A thud near his feet pulled him back. He looked down to see two black duffel bags, packed to near bursting.

“Take my ride. It’s out back,” Remy said. He tossed Quinn the set of spare keys, then came from behind the table. He walked up to Quinn, clapping him roughly on the shoulder. He leaned close to his ear. “And take it easy on da kid. That was you once, remember?” Remy moved back, his gold front tooth sparkling against his skin of midnight.

“You never stop remindin’ me.”

Remy laughed loud and hard. “Dat’s to keep you humble.”

“Yeah, right. Come on, man,” he called to T.C. over Remy’s short salt-and-pepper head.

Quinn eyed T.C. up and down as they made their way to Remy’s Lexus 400. His Tommy Hilfiger jeans were barely held up on poke-you-in-the-eyes hip bones, proudly displaying the red, white and blue waistband of his Fruit of the Looms. His Air Jordans flopped on his feet, for lack of tied shoestrings. Quinn slowly shook his head.

“Yo, man, when you gonna get you some clothes that fit?” T.C. checked out his outfit. “What? All the brothers dress like this. These pants cost—”

“Yo, check this. All the brothers don’t dress like that. Only the ones who don’t know no better. Where’d that style come from?” he challenged.

T.C. shrugged and tried to look defiant, cutting his eyes up and down the length of Quinn’s hard-packed body. He chewed his gum a little faster.

“From those fools who go busted and tossed in the joint. That’s where. They can’t wear no belts, so their pants are always saggin’. Can’t wear laces in their kicks, so they’re always gapped open. That’s who you wanna represent? Not with me, my brother. Do what you want on your own time. When we rollin’, pull up your pants and tie your shoes. The joint is one place I don’t wanna go. And I don’t wanna be reminded of the possibilities every time I look at you.”

“Yo, man, don’t nobody tell me what to do.”

“Yeah. Well, guess what? I just did. Now get in the car, or find yourself somethin’ else to do tonight. Didn’t ask for no company, anyway.” Quinn opened the door, slammed it behind him and started the engine.

T.C. stood there debating what to do and Quinn slowly eased the car away while he was thinking. T.C. ran alongside the car, struggling to hold up his pants while knocking on the window.

“Yo, man, hold up! Whatchu doin’?”

Quinn pulled the car to a stop and lowered the window. “Make up your mind yet?”

T.C. looked around, shuffled his feet for a minute, and then pulled up his pants.

Quinn unlocked the passenger door.

By the time Quinn returned to his apartment on 135th Street, it was nearly 3:00 a.m. He hoped that Lacy was asleep, because if she wasn’t he was sure she’d stick her head out of her apartment door as soon as she heard his key turn in his lock. Lacy thought it was ridiculous that they should live in two different apartments, but as much as Quinn adored his sister, he needed his privacy. At least with this arrangement he had the best of both worlds: his privacy when he needed it, and the comfort and nurturing of his sister just a few steps away.

The door creaked on its hinges as he slowly pushed it open. The sound unconsciously caused his heart to beat a bit faster, and he had to stifle a chuckle. Like a kid sneaking in after curfew, he imagined that at any second the lights would come blazing on and irate parents would descend upon him: “Where you been, boy? Can’t you tell time? Get to your room and don’t come out.”

No lights came on. There were no parents waiting. There never had been. He flipped on the light switch and closed the door. Tonight, though, he would have welcomed having someone there. He would have even settled for one of Lacy’s lectures about the vagrancy of his life. He needed to feel cared about, especially tonight, and he couldn’t seem to shake the feelings of melancholia. Working the spots and talking with T.C., he’d seen himself as he was years ago, eager, hungry and willing to please, to be accepted, to be one of the boys. Sure, he’d paid his dues over the ensuing years. He’d earned a reputation, a degree of respect from his peers. He had a decent crib, fancy ride, designer clothes and enough women’s phone numbers to last him two lifetimes. And it all added up to zip. Outside Harlem, outside the security of the hood, he was nothing and nobody. This was his world. What else could he ever hope to be: the writer and musician that Lacy always talked about? Not in this world. Not in this reality.

Pulling off his jacket, he tossed it on the kitchen chair, then noticed the sheet of pink paper on the table with the familiar scrawl.

Hey, bro,

I know you didn’t eat anything worth the time it took to fix it. Dinner is in your oven. Don’t let me find it there in the morning. Max was here. She asked about you, though Lord only knows why. Get some rest.

Jesus loves ya and so do I.

Lacy

Quinn smiled and folded the piece of paper. The light was on.

It was about noon Saturday when Quinn bounded down the stairs of the apartment building and smacked into Maxine Sherman, who was coming through the door.

He felt her lush softness crush against the length of him, then bounce away with the force of their collision. His arm snaked out and grabbed her around the waist, halting her descent back down the stairs. “Sorry, babe. You all right?”

Maxine felt as if the wind had been sucked from her lungs, and it had nothing to do with their near calamity.

She smiled up at him. Her dark eyes sparkled. “I’m fine. I just need to watch where you’re going,” she teased. She begged her heart to be still. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” She could feel his warm breath graze her face.

Quinn took a short step back and released his hold. “Have some folks to meet. What about you? Lacy’s not here. She’s pulling the early shift at the hospital.”

She tapped her forehead with her palm. “Oh, I completely forgot.” She shifted her purse from her right hand to her left. She took a quick look at her feet, summoned her courage and looked up into Quinn’s penetrating gaze. “Mind if I walk with you?”

“Naw, not really. Actually, I was takin’ my ride.” He smiled, and her world seemed momentarily brighter. “Sure, come on. We ain’t hung out in a while.”

“So, how you been, Max?” Quinn asked, pulling the Beamer into the early morning traffic. The scent of rich leather mixing with the sounds of the rap group RBL Posse blaring from the speakers enveloped them. “Still at the bank?”

“I’ve been okay, I guess.”

“You guess?” He turned toward her and smiled.

Maxine ducked her head and grinned. “What I mean is, things are just so-so. Nothing spectacular. And yes, I’m still at the bank. But I don’t intend to stay there forever. I’m studying Travel and Tour at the community college. I’ll have my own travel business one day.”

“Hmmm. That’s all good. I know it’ll work out for you,” he said, though he couldn’t see how. But then again, things were different for women—better. Black women definitely stood a better chance of getting out and making a real life. As a black man he didn’t even stand a good chance of catching a New York City yellow cab in Harlem. He had yet to meet a black man who owned his own business through legal means.

“Where’s your man? I know there’s got to be somebody takin’ care of all that,” he teased, moving away from the topic that haunted him.

She hesitated, weighing her response. “There’s no one special.”

“Fine thing like you. Brothers must be crazy not to snatch you up.”

“Humph. That’s what I keep saying,” she rejoined.

“The right dude’ll come along and sweep you off your feet just like in those romance books that you and Lacy love to devour.” He chuckled at the thought.

Maxine poked him in the arm. “Very funny. Those books are good. There’s a lot more to them than folks like you give them credit for.”

“Yeah, right. You tellin’ me those blond-haired, blue-eyed devils could tell you ’bout lovin’ a man? What do they have in common with us? Arr-nold, pretty boy Tom Cruise, De Niro?”

“First of all, love is a universal thing, Q. Color has nothing to do with it. We all feel it and we all want to experience it with the right person. Besides, the new wave of romance novels that we read have black characters, showing black men who are about something, and the women. At least in those books it’s a place where we can read about black people in a positive light. Not like how we’re always played in the news and on TV. I know you think they’re corny, but they have a lot of reality in them. They’re about people just like you and me. About them struggling to get their relationships together while dealing with life. Just because they’re about love don’t mean that there’s nothing to them.”

Quinn turned his head and looked at her profile for a long, silent moment, maybe seeing Maxine for the first time. She was no longer a skinny little girl with braces and knock-knees. She was all grown up, smart, hardworking and a real beauty. And seemed as if she had a head on her shoulders. She was Lacy’s best friend, and like a second sister to him. When they were kids he’d chased her up and down 135th Street, trying to pull her long hair. He would hide in Lacy’s closet, then jump out and scare them witless when Maxine spent many a night. He’d seen her with her unpressed hair standing on top of her head when she woke up in the morning and teased her about the lumps of sleep in the corners of her eyes. That all seemed like another lifetime, when things were simple. Looking at her now, fine as she wanted to be, he wondered when she’d changed from the skinny little pain in the neck to the woman she’d become. Yeah, some man would be real lucky to have Maxine Sherman as his woman.

Chapter 2

I Don’t Wanna Cry

Quinn was sprawled out on his sofa, just about to take a quick nap before his evening run, his belly full from yet another one of Lacy’s lip-smacking meals, when the downstairs doorbell rang. Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned. He was in no mood for company. He’d turned his phone down and his beeper off earlier just to have a little peace. He’d been working on a short story that he wanted to share with Lacy when she got back from wherever she’d gone, and hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. Maybe if he didn’t answer they’d just go away. Then he realized that his lights were on, that with his apartment facing the street anyone could just look up and see that he was home.

The bell pealed again. He practically threw himself off the couch. Maybe Lacy forgot her keys again—he hoped. He crossed the room in long, smooth strides, pulling his locks away from his face as he leaned toward the intercom.

“Yeah.”

“It’s me, man, T.C. Buzz me.”

Quinn pressed his head against the cool wall and expelled a silent string of damns. It was rare that he ever allowed any of his “associates” into his crib. This was his refuge, a place to cleanse himself of where he’d been. He didn’t want to dilute it by bringing the outside in. He could count on one hand the number of men and women who’d ever crossed his threshold. He guarded his privacy, and everyone who dealt with him knew it. Obviously nobody had schooled T.C.

He pushed the talk button, said, “Come on up,” then pushed the button marked DOOR. The telltale buzz hummed through the control panel.

Turning, he retraced his steps and snatched up his discarded sneakers from the floor and the red T-shirt he’d worn earlier from the back of the couch, then took them both into his bedroom and shut the door. Returning, he took a quick look around, picked up Walter Mosley’s Gone Fishin’ and Ecstasy, a black romance novel by Gwynne Forster—which he’d sneaked from his sister just to see what they were like (it was actually pretty good)—and returned them to the bookcase. One lesson he’d adopted from his sister was cleanliness. He kept his place so immaculate that women who’d paid him visits always thought he had a woman living with him. He took one last look around and spotted his notebook, which contained all of his rhymes and short stories. He grabbed it and slid it under the couch just as T.C. knocked on the door. No point in giving anybody the opportunity to be nosy. Besides, if word ever hit the street that he wrote poetry, there wouldn’t be a hole deep enough for him to hide in.

With great reluctance he opened the door. “Whatsup?” T.C. sauntered into the room, taking in the decor. Black leather furniture, situated on clean-enough-to-eat-off floors, dominated the living area, which was separated from the cool, cream-colored kitchen by hanging ferns and standing banana plants at either end of the archway. A six-foot bookcase was filled with hardcover and softcover books. The state-of-the-art stereo system, encased in smoked-glass and chrome, pumped out the soulful sounds of Marvin Gaye’s “Distant Lover.” The scent of jasmine came from a stick of incense.

T.C. turned toward Quinn. “Nice crib.”

Quinn gave him a short look and stepped down into the living room. “You sound surprised.” He changed the radio station from R& B to all rap. The intangible words and driving beat vibrated in the background.

“Naw. I ain’t mean it like that, man,” T.C. stammered. He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I just meant, you know…living ’round here, you just don’t figure—”

“To see people livin’ halfway decent. Ain’t that what you meant?”

He shrugged again.

“You sittin’ down, or what?” He indicated the six-foot couch with a toss of his head. “Want a brew?”

“Sounds good.”

Quinn’s mouth curved into a wry smile. He opened the fridge and pulled out one beer and a can of Pepsi, which he kept around to mix with rum. He handed the Pepsi to T.C., who started to open his mouth in protest until he looked up and caught Quinn’s stern expression and arched eyebrows. “I don’t give alcohol to minors,” he said simply. “Whatever you do in your spare time is your bizness.” He popped the top of the beer and took a long, ice-cold swallow. Beads of moisture hung on the can. “Even in this game you need to have some ethics.” He looked pointedly at T.C. “Don’t ever forget that, kid, ’cause when you do you stop being human.”

T.C. popped the top, gave Quinn a curious look, then nodded his head. He took a long swig of his Pepsi, tapping his foot to the beat.

Quinn plopped down in the matching recliner, flipped the switch and leaned back. The clock on the facing wall showed nine-fifteen. He wondered where Lacy was. Maybe it was one of her church nights. The last time he’d set foot in a church he’d prayed for his mother’s return. She never did, and he never went back. Pushing the thoughts aside, he turned his attention to T.C. “What’s with the visit? You ain’t running with me tonight.”

“Yeah, I know. I just wanted to…you know…say thanks…for the other night. I mean, I know you didn’t want me hangin’ around with you…so…thanks.” He took a quick swallow of soda to hide his discomfort.

Quinn held back his smile. He remembered all too well how he’d felt on his first run: the rush of adrenaline, the eagerness to please. “Where are your folks, kid?”

“Around. I have six brothers and sisters. My mom waits tables. Don’t know where my pops is. I’m the oldest,” he added, and Quinn could hear the note of pride in his declaration.

He already knew the rest: oldest male in the house became the man of the house, and the man of the house had to take care of himself and his family by any means necessary. It was the tale of the inner city.

“You still in school?”

He nodded. “I graduate in June.”

“Just make sure that you do,” Quinn warned, suddenly seeing himself in T.C.—if he’d had the chance to start over.

They talked about this and that, their favorite athletes, which team was going to win the NBA championship, and the characters in the neighborhood.

“Did you hear about the shoot-out on Riverside?” T.C. asked.

“Naw. I been holed up in here all night. What went down?”

“The usual.” T.C. shrugged, already jaded by the circumstances of life. “Cops got into it with some brothers. It got ugly and shots got fired. Coupla dudes got popped. Some girl, too, with a stray.”

It was a story so typical you almost didn’t pay it any attention, Quinn mused, shrugging off the sudden chill that surprised his body. “Where’d you say this was?”

“Down on Riverside, couple of blocks from that big church. They still had the area all taped off when I left a couple of hours ago.”

Quinn nodded absently, took another swallow of his beer and a quick look at the clock. Ten forty-five.

“Hey, gotta roll. My moms is working late and I promised I’d make sure the kids were in.”

Quinn grinned. “Then you better get steppin’.” They both stood. “Hold on a minute, I’ll walk out with you.” He went into his bedroom and changed clothes. He didn’t have to be at B.J.’s until eleven-thirty. He had time.

The three block stretch of Riverside was completely blocked off from traffic. Police cars and ambulances crowded the street. Swirling blue and red lights dotted the night sky. He spotted the meat wagon and immediately knew what that meant. From the look of all the uniforms that blanketed the street, the unfortunate victim was a cop. Guiltily, he released a sigh of relief.

Quinn was directed by a beat cop to move on. He made a wide U-turn and headed back down the way he’d come, passing a Channel 7 Eyewitness News van headed for the scene.

Quinn stepped on the accelerator. He’d catch it on the news.

Quinn arrived at B.J.’s a little early and was surprised not to see Turk behind the bar. He kept walking and stopped in front of the gray door, to be met by Smalls.

All eyes turned to him when he entered, but this time instead of refocusing on the poker game the stares remained fixed on his face.

He strolled past the gambling table, ignoring the odd looks. Halfway across the room, he spotted Sylvie heading in his direction. Her usual sunny smile was missing, her butterscotch face a portrait of sadness. When their gazes connected her eyes widened in surprise. An unnamed fear coupled with a rush of adrenaline snaked its way through his veins.

“Oh, Quinn. I’m so sorry.” Sylvie pressed her head against his chest and wrapped her arms around his stiff body.

He wouldn’t panic. Something had obviously happened to Remy. He would handle it. Gently he clasped her shoulders, peeling her away from him. He looked down into red-rimmed eyes. “What are you talkin’ about? Sorry for what?”

Sylvie blinked several times before realization struck. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

Just then Remy stepped from the back room and Quinn’s pulse escalated its beat. “Hey, man, you know you don’t have to be here. I wouldn’t expect you to—” He caught Sylvie’s warning look.

Quinn looked from one to the other. “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but somebody better damn well tell me somethin’—and quick.”

Remy put his hand on Sylvie’s bare arm. “Lemme have a minute with Quinn,” he said softly. Sylvie nodded and stepped aside as Remy put his arm protectively around Quinn’s wide shoulders. “Come on in da back, son, where we can talk private like.”

Quinn threw off Remy’s hold. “Talk about what?” he demanded. His heart started beating like crazy.

“Just come on, man. Come on.” Remy ushered him into the back room.

All eyes trailed the pair as they walked into Remy’s office and shut the door. Moments later, the door flew open with such force that everyone in the room flinched and held their breath. Quinn stormed out, his eyes glazed, with Remy hot on his heels.

“Quinn, wait. I’ll go wit you,” he called.

Quinn threw up his hand to halt Remy’s pursuit. “No!” There was no room for argument. Suddenly the decor, the drab, stark nakedness, the shadows, the familiar scent of the back room, overwhelmed him.

Quinn raced from the building. His mind whirled in horrified disbelief. Of course it was some macabre mistake. They were wrong. Everyone was wrong. It happened all the time.

The Beamer assumed a life of its own as it hurtled down the darkened streets of Harlem, darting in front of cars and terrifying unsuspecting pedestrians. His entire life rolled before his eyes as if projected on some sort of larger-than-life screen.

He pulled to a screeching stop in front of the precinct house. For several moments he just sat there, staring at his hands that gripped the wheel to keep from trembling. Calling on something deep inside, he forced himself to get out of the car and put one foot in front of the other.

The rest of the night was a series of nightmarish snapshots taken from a house of horrors photo album—from the drive to the medical examiner’s office to his return home, where he found himself staring at the snow dancing across his television screen.

He had watched himself mindlessly follow the short, pudgy doctor with tufts of hair protruding from his ears down the long, dull gray corridors, the effort of walking zapping his strength like the grip of quicksand. The only sound was his own heavy heartbeat, thudding like tribal drums in his ears. A thick metal door ahead swung inward to reveal a frigid, stark and sterile room with bright white walls bouncing off highly polished stainless-steel instruments and blinding him to where he really was, projecting the illusion of virgin purity. He cringed as teeth-gritting sounds of metal hitting metal played a chilly tune to the backdrop of the whir and hum of unseen machines and the snap and pop of rubber gloves, while technicians went about their business of uncovering the mysteries of death.

The motion of the doctor removing the stiff white sheet from her face flashed repeatedly like that of a high-speed camera shutter every time he blinked. Wrapped in a sheet like dirty laundry, with a tag for pick-up dangling over her exposed, pink-polished toenail. Something deep inside of him gave way, and he seemed to choke on his own air. Icy fingers of disbelief ran down his spine and he shuddered. Instinctively he reached for her, seeking the warmth and assurance he’d always known, come to expect. Her hand, it was so cold. All the life and the warmth that was Lacy was gone. Her face was just as peaceful and pretty as it had always been, except for that deep, dark, black hole in the middle of her forehead that could have easily resembled the blessing marks from Ash Wednesday.

But he kept staring at her, rubbing her hand, begging her in the silence of his heart to just get up so they could get out of there. Out of this place that was too quiet, too cold, too lifeless, with its stainless-steel tables and rubber blankets, the stench of embalming fluid more pungent to him than the odor of the back alleys. Lacy didn’t belong in a place like this. She was too full of life, too full of energy. So why was she so still? Why wouldn’t she just get up, so they could leave? Dread swept through him. He wanted to run, to scream at her to get up. But the words wouldn’t come.

So he tried to blink the vision away. But it remained, unchanged. She could have been asleep, just as he remembered from tiptoeing into her room as a kid to tug her ponytails. She’d looked as though she’d open her mouth at any moment and make one of her smart-ass remarks, like when they were growing up and everyone always said how much alike they looked. “I’m just prettier,” Quinn would say, and Lacy would remark, “But my boobs are bigger.” And they would look at each other and crack up laughing. That’s all he wanted to hear. Just hear her laugh, tell him to eat and not stay out too late. He wanted to watch her face glow with pride when she read his work or listened to him play.

He wanted to tell her how important she was to him. How she’d made life bearable after their mother deserted them. How much it meant to him to hear her words of praise, and how much he loved her.

All he wanted was for her to be asleep so he could walk across the hall and smell corn bread baking in her oven. Then everything would be all right and this sick, unspeakable torment that had infected every inch of his body would go away. His fingers dug into his palm. When had he told her he loved her?

From his eyes they fell, silently, trickling onto his clenched hands. He looked down at the unbidden wetness, blinking, momentarily confused. “Big boys don’t cry,” he could hear his mother taunt. And Lacy would whisper in his ear, “It’s all right Q. It’s okay.”

It would never be okay again.

“Comin’ home from church,” he moaned, the force of his sobs shaking his powerful body. “Church! Praying to her God. Where were you tonight? Huh? Why weren’t you watchin’ over my sister, like she said you always did? ’Cause there ain’t no God. You ain’t real. I knew that when you nevah brought my mama back. But Lacy kept believin’, ’cause that’s just the way she was. So why her? Huh? Why? She ain’t never done nothing but good. And you took her. So whatta we got now, huh—God?”

Suddenly he lurched to his feet, staggering, his legs stiff and heavy from hours of immobility. He stumbled toward the window as the hazy orange sun began its ascent above the rooftop rows of tenements and high-rise projects.

Then, as if conjured from the depths of a personal hell, the agonized wail of a mortally wounded soul screaming to end its inhumane torture ripped from the bowels of his being, as his foot crashed through the curtain-covered windows.

“N-ooo!”

The service was a blur, packed with people he’d never even known were friends. His only moment of clarity was when Maxine stepped up to the podium and sang, “You Are My Friend,” in a tribute to Lacy that rivaled Pattie LaBelle.

He could still hear the haunting power of her voice, the painful truth of the words humming through his veins as he and Maxine made their way toward home.

Maxine took periodic, countless glances at Quinn’s drawn profile. He hadn’t uttered a full sentence in days. She was afraid for him, and at the same time she needed him. She needed him to tell her that everything would be all right, to hold her and tell her they’d get through it. She was hurting, too, more than she would have believed was physically possible. But Quinn had left them behind, as sure as Lacy had. He was visible in body, but the spirit of the man was gone.

He turned to her when they reached her apartment building. His hair had come loose from the band that held it, and it blew gently across his black-clad shoulders, touched by the stirring breeze.

“You’d better go on up,” he said in a barely audible voice. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, because he knew that if he did, she’d see the hurt and the fear. He couldn’t expose that part of himself to anyone—not ever again. Big boys don’t cry. It’s okay, Q. “Listen, I gotta go,” he said abruptly. His gaze flickered briefly on her face. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. “Later.”

Maxine watched his long, bowlegged swagger until he was out of sight.

Several weeks later as Quinn was stepping out of the shower he was surprised to hear the faint ringing of the telephone. He had so isolated himself since Lacy’s death that those who knew him had backed away after repeated attempts at offers of support. That being true, Quinn couldn’t imagine who would have the heart to call just to get their feelings stepped on.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Parker?” came a voice, thin as a rail.

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Oh, thank heavens,” she rushed on. “I’ve been trying to reach your sister for days but she never seems to be home.” Quinn’s insides did a nosedive, leaving him momentarily speechless. “Such a hardworking girl, that one. It’s the main reason why I decided to hold the apartment for the two of you. She left your number on the application in case of an emergency.”

He finally found his voice. “W…hat?”

“The apartment. The one on Eighteenth Street. I’ve been holding it for weeks. She promised she’d come by with the rest of the money. When I didn’t hear from her I got worried…”

Quinn’s pulse pounded so loudly in his ears he could barely make out what she was saying. He felt as if he’d been tossed into someone else’s nightmare.

“So I need to know if you two still want the apartment. I know how desperately she wanted to move. Said you’d be a hard sell, though.” She chuckled. “It’s such a lovely place. I told her she should let you see it first, but she insisted that she wanted to take care of everything and surprise you, so you couldn’t say no.” She chuckled again.

Quinn took slow gulps of air. He had every intention of just hanging up, ending the nightmare now. But something kept him on the line and pushed words through his mouth that he didn’t know were forming.

“Why don’t you gimme your address, and I’ll come by. I think it’s about time I saw this place.”

The movers would arrive shortly. He looked around. The apartment was full of memories. All of which he wanted to put behind him.

He’d finally given in to Maxine’s insistence that they go through Lacy’s things. He’d let Max take what she wanted. He took the old second-hand piano, the one Lacy’d given him on his twenty-first birthday. He smiled, recalling the moment and the look of pure joy on her face when she saw his astonished reaction. His fingers lovingly caressed the keys. He moved away and took an accepting breath.

Boxes were packed and taped, his clothes bagged and ready. He checked the cabinets and closets for any overlooked items. He checked under the bed and behind the wall unit. He took a broom and swept it beneath the love seat and then the recliner. Satisfied, he ran the broom under the couch and was surprised to find it meeting resistance. He tried again and his notebook came sailing across the floor.

For several moments, he just stared at it. Bending, he picked it up. Remembering. He ran his hand across the pebbly black-and-white cover. One day perhaps he’d open it again….

The bell rang.

His eyes swept the room.

Time to go.

PART TWO

Chapter 3

The professor’s nasal voice continued its monotonous droning. The words blurred as if water had dripped on a penned page. The room was thick with the scent of sterility, body heat and morning breath.

Amidst it all, Nikita struggled to concentrate. She couldn’t. The drone dissolved into a dull buzz. She wanted to giggle as she pictured the rotund Professor Cronin as a huge bee—buzzing, buzzing, flitting from one student to pollinate another, dripping words of “constructive criticism” all along the way. The room grew smaller. The buzz grew louder, closer. She had to get away. Bzzz, bzzz.

She heard him demanding in his astonished nasal voice that she return to her seat, calling repeatedly to her retreating back. It was the first time she’d heard any animation in the buzz since the start of the spring session.

No one ever walked out of Professor Cronin’s anatomy class, under threat of expulsion. So at any moment she expected a firing squad to let off a round. She hurried. She wanted to run. But of course running through the sanctified hallways of Cornell University Medical School was against the Eleventh Commandment: “Thou shall not digress from proper decorum.” Or was that her parents’ commandment?

She pushed through the glass doors, greedily gulping the clean, fresh air, inhaling the pungent aroma of freshly cut grass and blossoming buds. Faster. She headed for her dorm, not quite sure what she’d do when she arrived, only knowing that she had to get there. She’d figure it out. Rebellion felt exhilarating. She smiled.

The buzz grew fainter.

Six and a half hours later, soothed by the sound of Kenny G on CD, Nikita pulled into the endless driveway of her parents’ imposing Long Island estate. For the first time since she’d signed off the Cornell campus she questioned the veracity of her hasty actions.

Several moments passed—Kenny’d G’d, Al’d Jarreau’d and Grover’d worked his magic—before she took the key out of the ignition. She released a sigh. “It’s now or never.” Never, a little voice whispered back.

Nikita slid from behind the wheel of her silver-and-black Mercedes convertible—a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday four years earlier—easing the door shut. Her honey brown eyes settled on the house.

Set on sixty acres of land, in Lattington—which was situated in the “Gold Coast” of above upper-crust suburbia—the Harrell home was the envy of many. It was an architect’s delight, of Southern, turn-of-the-century charm coupled with modern accoutrements such as tennis court, swimming pool and gazebo. Their home had been the focus of many Home and Garden, House Beautiful and Architectural Digest issues. What seemed to impress everyone most, was that the Harrells were both black and affluent. Dr. Lawrence Harrell was one of the most renowned vascular surgeons in the United States, and Professor Cynthia Lewis-Harrell was the first black woman to head the mathematics department at Princeton University. Then there was Nikita.

Absently she ran her professionally manicured hands along the length of her ten-months-in-development dreads. They’d finally reached below her ears, and she couldn’t wait until they were long enough for her to vary their style. Her parents, on the other hand…

She looked up. Second-floor lights twinkled against the impending nightfall, a sure sign that she’d missed dinner and that her folks were settling down for the evening. Tradition.

Determinedly she proceeded down the cobblestone walk, careful because of her heels. The smooth stones could tell many a tale of her skinned knees and bruised elbows.

She pressed the bell and listened for the familiar beeps of the alarm being disengaged. The door swung inward.

“Niki! What on earth? Your parents didn’t say anything about you coming home,” Amy rushed on, hugging Niki to her slender frame. She had been with her family for as long as she could remember. Amy was the real power behind the well-oiled Harrell machine.

Amy released Niki and set her away. Her sharp brown eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? I’ve never known you to just come home without letting anybody know.” She peered around Nikita, looking for something that would explain the unannounced arrival. “Come in here and let me look at you.” She hustled Nikita into the house. “Are you sick?”

“No.”

“In trouble?”

“No, no. Nothing like that, Amy,” Nikita assured. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, that’s all.” She forced a smile.

“Humph. That doesn’t sound like you. Not like you at all. Your folks are upstairs and you already missed dinner,” she scolded, walking with Nikita down the Italian tile foyer.

“Amy! Who was at the door?”

Nikita’s heart knocked at the sound of her mother’s strident voice.

“It’s Nikita. She wanted to surprise us.” Amy threw Nikita a sharp look of disbelief.

Her mother, caressed by a pale peach satin lounging outfit and a cloud of Donna Karan’s Chaos cologne, floated to the top of the oak staircase. “Nikita! Larry, Larry. Nikita’s home.”

“I’ve dropped out of medical school.”

The silver teaspoon that her mother held clattered against a tiny demitasse cup. Cynthia’s gray-green eyes rounded in disbelief.

Nikita’s gaze darted across the table toward her father, who appeared to have not heard a word. The only indication that he had was the telltale flare of his nostrils.

Cynthia turned toward her husband. “Larry, for God sake, did you hear what she just said?”

“Of course I heard her. I’m not deaf. She’s obviously joking,” he continued without inflection. “Because no one for whom I’ve paid more than seventy-five thousand to finance their education would walk in here, sit at my table and tell me they’re throwing all that in my face.” His voice suddenly exploded. “She’s obviously joking!” His fist slammed down on the table, causing everyone and everything within range to jump.

Nikita swallowed hard, and for a split second she contemplated telling them yes, it was a joke. But if she did do that, the joke would ultimately be on her.

Her tone was soft, but decisive. “It’s not a joke. I’ve left medical school. I’m not going back.” There, she’d said it, and the earth hadn’t quaked and lightning hadn’t struck.

“Oh yes, you are going back,” her father spat out, rising to his feet. “And you’re going to finish at the top of your class, as you always have.” His hazel eyes blazed with barely contained fury. “After all we’ve done for you—”

Those words rolled around in her head like a beach ball out of control, and something as sharp as the sound of dry wood inside of her snapped.

Nikita sprang from her seat, leaning forward, pressing her palms against the linen-covered, hand-carved table. “What about all I’ve done for you!” She pinned her father with a defiant stare, then turned on her mother. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve done everything you’ve directed me to do. Joined all the right clubs, had the right friends—and the right color, of course. Excelled in every subject, attended the schools you wanted me to attend. Majored in a subject I hate. I was valedictorian for you. Summa Cum Laude for you, Mother, Father. What about me?” Tears of frustration burned her eyes and spilled. Her body trembled. “I can’t do it anymore. I won’t. Not…any…more.” She sat down hard in her seat and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.

“I should have seen this coming,” her father said. He pointed a finger of accusation. “Ever since you started growing those weeds in your head—”

“They’re not weeds, dammit. They’re dreadlocks, a symbol of our heritage.”

“Nikita! I will not have you use that language in this house,” said her mother.

“The only thing you just heard me say was damn? Maybe I should say it more often, so someone around here would pay me some attention.”

Her mother opened her mouth, then shut it when her husband continued his tirade.

“Weeds,” he spat, caught up in his own rhetoric, ignoring the sparring between mother and daughter. “The first step toward your demise. No upstanding young woman would be seen in public like that. I don’t know what heritage you’re speaking of,” he continued in his pompous tone. “It certainly isn’t mine, or anyone’s I know. All you need is a Jemima rag on your head to complete the look. We’ve come too far for this. We’ve worked too hard—”

“Why won’t you listen? For once. I’m twenty-five years old, and I don’t have a clue as to who I am, where I’m going, or even what I’ll do for myself when the two of you are…I need to have my own life. Make some decisions for myself. And that means not being a doctor.”

“So what do you intend to do?” her mother asked, perplexed.

Nikita took a long breath. “I want to be a writer.”

“A writer!” Condescending laughter filled the room. “Have you completely lost your mind?” he sputtered. “Writing isn’t a profession, it’s a hobby. How do you intend to support yourself? Or are you going to be another starving artist, for art’s sake?”

Nikita stood. “I knew I shouldn’t come here. But I thought it was the right thing to do.” With a pained expression she turned to her father. “I’ll find a way to repay you.” She snatched up her purse, turned and stalked away.

“Nikita.” Cynthia hurried after her. “Where are you going?”

She kept her back to her mother. Her voice shook. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll stay with Parris and Nick in the city.”

“Of course you won’t.” Her tone softened as she turned her daughter to face her. “This is your home. You stay here as long as you want. It’s obvious that you’re terribly distraught. I won’t have you driving around town half hysterical. Maybe some time off from school is just what you need. Now come along. Take a long soak. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Nikita looked at her picture-perfect mother with sad eyes. Cynthia Harrell didn’t have a clue.

That was nearly three months ago, Nikita reflected. Her twenty-sixth birthday was dogging her heels, and she still had no job. Her savings were almost depleted and she refused to ask her parents for a dime. It was bad enough having to see her father’s “I told you so” look every time they passed each other. The reality was, she had no experience or educational background to break into journalism. All she had was determination and a dream—one that she’d pushed to the back of her mind in pursuit of her parents’ dream. God, she didn’t want her parents to be right.

Maybe this interview would pan out. The woman said she was willing to train her as long as she didn’t mind playing Girl Friday in the process.

She ascended the stairs from beneath the subterranean world of New York City, finally free from the press of damp flesh. She felt like taking a shower. Looking around to get her bearings, she fished in her pocketbook for the address: 803 Eighth Avenue, corner of Twenty-first Street. At least a ten-block walk.

She looked down at her low-heeled shoes, thankful. “All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes,” she muttered.

Turning off Fourteenth Street she walked along Sixth Avenue, peeking in the antique shop windows, outdoor cafés, absorbing the laid-back atmosphere. She inhaled deeply and smiled. She was growing accustomed to exhaust fumes and the intangible aroma of leftover garbage. She turned down Eighteenth Street, intrigued by the tree-lined block and stately brownstones. Sparkling plate-glass windows gave sneak previews of crystal chandeliers or high-tech track lighting, oversize living rooms, mahogany fixtures and hardwood floors. Couples in all shades and combinations sat on stoops, or strolled down the avenues. This is a neighborhood, she thought. Not the sterile, pristine, patrolled area in which she existed. She could like it here.

A moving truck was up ahead and she wondered if they were coming or going. She walked a bit faster, her thoughts outrunning her pace. If they were moving out, she’d ask about the vacancy. If she got the job, she’d be able to pay her rent. In the meantime, she could sell her Benz…. She slowed, nearing the truck.

The double-glass and wood door at the top of the stoop was propped wide open, like a woman awaiting her lover. She looked around and didn’t see anyone. Taking a breath, she turned into the yard and was about to go up the steps.

“Lookin’ for somebody?”

She looked up into dark, haunting eyes. Her heart pounded a bit too hard. “Uh, not really. I mean, I was just wondering if there’s an apartment available.” He’s gorgeous. She cleared her throat and backed up as the lean, thoroughly masculine figure gave her a long, slow look that made her feel like he’d just undressed her, then bounded down the stairs.

“Not that I know of.” Damn, she’s fine. He towered over her—catching a whiff of sea breeze and baby powder—on his way to the van. A pulse pounded low in his groin, unsettling him with its suddenness. He turned back in her direction, his long black locks swinging across his bronze shoulders. Dark eyes held her in place for a brief moment before dancing away. “Sorry.”

She shrugged, wanting to appear as cool and unaffected as he did. “No problem.”

He leaned against the truck, his arms folded across his chest as he watched her walk away. “Good luck.” He wanted to say more, talk to her and make her stay a minute. He didn’t.

Nikita stopped and turned. Her insides seesawed when she saw him grin. It made his eyes kind of crinkle. She smiled, and his stomach clenched. “Thanks.” She continued on, with just the slightest tremor in her legs, wondering what she could have said to a man like that to lengthen the moment. Nothing.

“Nice.” Quinn hummed in appreciation as he watched her departure until she reached the corner and turned. For a moment he saw the light again.

Nikita looked up from the menu just as Parris stepped through the doors of B. Smith’s. Every head turned and murmured whispers of recognition and speculation. Parris McKay had made her debut in the music world three years earlier, taking listeners and producers by storm. She and Nikita had met even earlier, while Nikita was an exchange student in France and Parris was in search of her mother.

To those who did not know her, Parris was an elusive beauty with the voice of Ella, Mahalia, Sarah and Whitney all rolled into one. But to Nikita, Parris was just her girlfriend, the one who told her like it was, borrowed her clothes, was light enough to be accepted by her parents and brazen enough not to care. Fame hadn’t changed her one bit.

Nikita stood and they hugged, long and hard. “It’s good to see you, girl,” Nikita said into Parris’s tumble of midnight hair.

“You, too. It’s been too long, sis.”

They both stepped back assessing each other with knowing up-and-down looks.

“That’s my dress. I’ve been missing it since the last time you rolled into town,” Nikita spouted, one hand on her hip and the other pointing at the red sleeveless linen dress.

“Just wore it so you wouldn’t forget what it looks like,” Parris taunted in a quick comeback. “You’ve finally grown into those dreads. Lookin’ good, too.”

“Yeah, they’d probably look real good with that dress.”

“We’ll never know, now will we?”

“We’d better!”

They bug-eyed each other and broke into sidesplitting laughter, collapsing into their seats.

“Whew. You still have that fast mouth, Parris.”

“You just bring out the best in me. What can I tell you? Did you order?” She picked up the menu.

“No. I was waiting for you. As usual.”

“Don’t want to go changing on you. You’d be disappointed.”

“I doubt it.”

“It was that bad, huh?” Parris asked later over a mouthful of blackened salmon.

Nikita nodded her head slowly. “Worse. It wasn’t so much the scene. It was the things that were said. I’ve never seen my father that furious.”

“You’ve never had the nerve to go against him before. He was probably as stunned as you were.”

“Yeah, well the shock should be over. That was almost four months ago. Even though I started working he still barely speaks. I can’t wait to get out of there. I feel like I’m sitting on a time bomb.”

“You’re always welcome to stay with me and Nick. We’re hardly ever there, anyway.”

“Thanks, but no. I need my own space.”

“I can understand that. Just remember the offer is always open.” She shoved more food in her mouth. “Tell me about the job. I always knew you had a flair for the written word. I never could see you in the doctor getup. And your bedside manner is lousy.”

Nikita laughed. “Yeah, how about that? But the job is great. My boss, Ms. Ingram, is a real character. A throwback to the sixties, and she must be about seventy-five. But she’s determined to get her magazine out to the masses. I’m learning the business from the bottom up. Distribution, printing, layout, sales. She’s even letting me edit some stories that have come in.”

“Sounds great. How much does it pay?”

“Not enough, unfortunately. I get subsidized with hands-on training.”

Parris eyed her speculatively. She leaned across the table. “Tell me. Is this really what you want, or are you just doing this to be a pain in the ass to your folks? I was only kidding about the bedside-manner thing. You’d be great at whatever you did. But you know how you have your moments—breaking up with Grant, then not going away to school, having musicians as friends…”

“The truth?”

Parris nodded.

“For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to write. You know that. When I was little I saw myself standing in front of this massive desk with a huge floor-to-ceiling window behind me. And I knew I was a publisher, and that was my office. But you also know I was never encouraged in that direction. I was always pushed to fill my father’s unfillable shoes.” She paused, then looked at Parris. “I’m taking some writing courses at New York University, and I’m learning the business. I can feel it Parris, this is for me.”

“Then go for it, hon. Give it everything you’ve given to all the other challenges in your life. This time put your heart in it.”

Nikita keyed in the last page of a women’s health article on the need for mammograms just as Ms. Ingram bustled through the door.

“Niki, you’re still here? I thought you’d be long gone by now,” she said, hanging her sweater on the brass hook behind the door. The scent of lavender wafted around her, cooling the room.

“I’m almost finished. I have a class tonight, anyway. Six forty-five, remember?”

“Oh, yes. How is it going, by the way?” She crossed the small room, her footsteps muffled by the Aubusson area rug. She went to her cluttered desk, which was scarred by years of use, and sifted through the stack of mail.

“So far, so good. I love my instructor.”

“Glad to hear it.” She wagged a brown finger at Nikita. “We’ll make a journalist out of you yet.”

Nikita pushed back from the desk and stretched her arms above her head. “Ms. Lillian?”

“Hmmm.”

“I was thinking—what about adding an entertainment section to the magazine? I mean, I know the magazine is issue-and-health oriented, but I can’t imagine that your subscribers wouldn’t like to read about places in the city to go, interviews with entertainers who are in town.”

Lillian stopped her perusing of the mail and settled her hazy brown gaze on Nikita’s face. “Sounds like a wonderful idea, but who’s going to write and edit that section?”

“Well…I’d like to, if you’d be willing to give me a try. As a matter of fact, Parris McKay is my closest friend. I could easily get an interview with her, and pictures.”

“Parris McKay is a friend of yours?”

Nikita beamed. “She sure is. And she wears my clothes every chance she gets.”

Lillian laughed her weatherbeaten laugh. “Niki, if you can get an interview with Parris McKay, I’ll let you run the entertainment section anyway you want.”

Nikita popped up from her seat, darted around the desk, and closed Lillian’s lean frame in a bear hug. “Thank you. Thank you. It’s going to be great. You’ll see.”

The weather had been unusually warm for late June. The temperature had spiraled into the nineties and remained there for more than a week. For the first time since she’d returned home she was grateful for the extravagance that her parents poured into the house. The entire structure was equipped with central heating and air. All of the major rooms had their individual thermostats. She had hers on frosty.

“You must have Parris out before she goes on tour again,” Cynthia said, stepping into Nikita’s dressing room.

Nikita sat in front of the oval mirror circled by professional makeup lights and looked at her mother’s reflection. The entire top of the white-and-gold-lacquered tabletop was covered with a huge assortment of nail polishes, lipsticks, beautifying creams and ointments. She sprayed her locks with oil sheen and held back a chuckle when she saw her mother demurely turn up her nose.

“I’ll ask her. But you know how busy she is.” In actuality she didn’t want to be subjected to her parents’ monologues about how wonderful Parris’s life was, what a wonderful husband she had, all compared to Niki’s apparent non-accomplishments. Although in private they abhorred the “loose, debasing” life of singers and musicians, Parris was “different.” Sure.

“Do try. It would be so good to see her again. And tell her I said good luck with her performance tonight.” Cynthia turned and floated away. Nikita just shook her head and finished with her makeup.

Parris had said dress would be extremely casual at the club. Nick had been having problems off and on with the air-conditioning unit. Some nights it was the Antarctic, some nights the Sahara. Nikita opted for a spaghetti strap, cotton knit T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. She grabbed the matching jacket and folded it over her arm, just in case.

She checked her purse: lipstick, notepad, tape recorder, two pens and a pencil. Grinning, she felt like a real journalist. Parris had promised to give Nikita the interview for the magazine after her set. Although Nikita couldn’t imagine what Parris could tell her that she didn’t already know, she wanted to do this the right way. “And anyway, I don’t want you sneaking in any lies about me borrowing your clothes,” Parris had warned.

Taking one last look in the mirror, she flipped off the lights, grabbed her bag and was on her way.

Nick stepped out of his office, drawn by the way-down soul that cried out from the black and whites. Clear, sharp, precise and so packed with emotion it gave him pause. He stood in the shadows of the archway, mesmerized.

When the music came to its stirring conclusion, Nick applauded. Not the kind of frenzied, hurried applause of concertgoers, but the slow, rhythmic beat of hands that comes from those who have been transported.

Quinn snapped his head in the direction of the clapping and quickly pushed away from the piano. Nick approached.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t see anybody around, so I just kicked it for a minute.” He held up his palms. “I’m out.” He started to back away.

“Hold on. Hold on. I liked what you just did,” Nick said to Quinn. “Where’d you study?”

“I didn’t.” Quinn raised a brow, uncomfortable being asked about his background.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, just what I said. I taught myself. Listened to what I dug and copied it, that’s all.”

“Self-made man.” Nick grinned, cautious, seeing the feral look of one caged and ready to pounce. “I like that.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Nick Hunter. I own the place. Me and you have a lot in common.”

Quinn eased his guard down, relaxing his stance as he shook Nick’s hand. He cocked his head to the side. “How’s that?”

“Come on in my office. Let’s talk.”

“Naw, man. I got things to do.” He turned to leave.

“If you can play like that I might have a spot for you here some nights.” He waited a beat. “Interested?”

Quinn looked at him from over his shoulders, letting his eyes and his senses take in the man in front of him. Nick Hunter had the look of a man who had it all together. Money, clothes, his own business. What could he possibly have in common with him? It was only happenstance that he’d even wandered in. The heat on the street was unbelievable, and he’d ducked in to get a quick drink. Then it was as if something pulled him in the direction of the baby grand. He’d never played on a first-class piano before, and when he heard what it could do he couldn’t seem to stop himself from drowning in the music.

It’s okay, Q.

Quinn shrugged his broad shoulders and followed Nick into his office.

An hour later Quinn walked out of Nick’s office with a job, one night a week, playing piano with Nick’s band.

“Why don’t you hang out a while and get a feel for the place?” Nick offered. “It usually gets pretty packed in here by ten. Besides, my lady is singing tonight. I’ll introduce you.”

Quinn nodded. “Sounds good.”

“All right then, so I’ll see you later.”

“Bet.”

Sitting at the bar, sipping a glass of his usual, Quinn tried to make sense out of the past few hours. Out of nowhere he was now employed as a musician, no less. The idea scared him. He had a mind to just tell Nick to forget it. He didn’t have the time. But the reality was, he wasn’t sure if he could cut it. He’d never played for a soul in his life, other than Lacy. Suppose he froze up like a punk when he was up there on the stage? What if his homeys ever found out he was some nightclub piano player? What would that do to his rep uptown?

But something greater than the fear of discovery pushed against him. The need for change, the need to be recognized for something other than a hustler. Maybe there was something to what Lacy had been saying all those years. Maybe he did have talent. Nick seemed to think so.

He looked around. This was no B.J.’s. The mirrored walls reflected shiny black tables, a dance-all-night floor, bathrooms that smelled as if they were cleaned on the hour. Even the smoke from the cigarettes didn’t seem to hang on him and clog his lungs. The people who began to filter in wore suits, classy designer clothes, casual jeans with starched shirts, and jewelry that didn’t blind him from a mile away. The women looked as if they’d just stepped off the cover of Essence, not Player. The bartender’s shirt was pristine white, not a grimy Fruit of the Loom T-shirt splotched with grease and the underarm stains from failed deodorant. The music that filtered from car windows was classic R&B, not the booming sounds of hip-hop and underground rap.

He looked at his Nike sneakers, the large gold pinkie ring, and his customary oversize jogging suit. He didn’t belong here. And he was a fool for thinking that he did. Even for a minute. To have a semblance of this kind of life and living behind the privacy of his own doors was one thing. To try to live it in the open was another.

He tossed the last of his drink down his throat, paid his tab and turned on the bar stool, ready to leave—then in she walked.

Chapter 4

Quinn and Nikita

She was whipped by the time she arrived, accompanied by a first-class attitude. She’d had to walk nearly four blocks in the suffocating heat from where she’d finally found a parking space, while listening to the cacophony of “Ooh baby’s,” “Can I get wit you’s” and countless other comments she’d prefer to forget. If another fast-talking man had another one-liner for her, she wasn’t going to be responsible for her actions.

Her clothes felt as if they’d been fastened to her body with Instant Krazy Glue, and if she hadn’t known better she’d have sworn her “Secret” had been let out of the bag.

When she stepped through the door of the club she let out a silent hallelujah when a cold blast of air hit her smack in the face, lowering her body temperature to near normal. She adjusted her eyes to the semi-darkened interior, taking in the trendy patrons and classy decor.

Slinging her Coach bag onto her shoulder she threaded her way around the circular tables and walked with an easy grace toward the bar. Years of ballet classes and etiquette training were the only things that saved her from stumbling over her own feet when she looked down the length of the bar and saw him sitting there, as cool and collected as he wanted to be. And he was looking straight at her.

Lordhammercy. Now she knew what Parris meant about the unreliable air-conditioning. It was obviously busted again. What other explanation could there be for the rush of heat that closed around her like a cocoon? She felt like stripping. Her heart was hammering so fast she thought she was having some kind of fatal attack.

With as much calm as she could summon she averted her gaze, located an empty table as far away from him as possible, took a seat and prayed for an earthquake, tidal wave, something. Luckily, a waitress rescued her and brought her a quick drink of Pepsi with lemon. Heaven knows she hadn’t forgotten him—that face, those eyes, that body. Every now and then, on her lunch hour, she’d walked along his block in the hope of seeing him again. Those times she’d been prepared with some cool and engaging conversation. Right now she couldn’t even remember her own name. She slurped a sip of her drink.

When she walked through the door, he was sure he was seeing things. He blinked, and yes, it was her—that irrepressible sister he’d thought about almost constantly for the past few weeks. He took another swallow of his drink. Man, she looked damned good, just as if she belonged in a classy place like this. He didn’t want to stare, so he just kind of played it off, as if looking for somebody. He wondered if she was meeting her man here or something. Didn’t look like it. He blew it the last time he saw her, getting all tongue-tied and whatever. He wouldn’t let another opportunity to get to know her slip by.

Damn, here he comes. What was she going to do now? Mmmm. How does he walk like that, like he’s floating on some cloud?

“What if I joined you?” he asked as if he’d known her forever. “Would that be a problem?”

She looked up into those blue-black eyes and tried to focus on what he’d just asked her and not on the body that needed to be on the centerfold in Playgirl. She shrugged and gave him a half smile. “Suit yourself.” What happened to the irresponsible actions she was going to launch into the next time a guy handed her a line? But this one sounded kind of good.

She tried to ignore him by signaling the waitress.

“Pepsi with lemon,” he said when the waitress appeared.

Nikita looked at him, her eyebrow arched.

“What…I pay attention to those kinda things.” He grinned. “Jack on the rocks,” he said without taking his eyes away from Nikita. She was even finer than he remembered. The slope of her eyes, the arch of her cheeks and that clingy little T-shirt…

Dimples. She hadn’t noticed the dimples before. But he sure had them and they were sure pretty. “You’ve been watching me?” she asked, both thrilled and apprehensive.

“Yeah, for a while.” He paused and scanned the room. “You’re not meetin’ anybody.”

“How do you know that?”

He watched her slender body adjust itself, ready to show she was indignant, and felt as if he were being pulled inside of her. “Because we’ve been waitin’ to meet each other for a long time. Our last run-in was just an appetizer. You don’t think I’d forget a woman like you, do you?” He took a sip of his drink and watched her over the rim of his glass. “And I know you didn’t forget me. Tell me I’m wrong, and I’m outta here.”

If this was a come-on line, she didn’t care. There was just something about him. Something earthy and real, from the rich timbre of his voice, his don’t-give-a-damn attitude, to his inaccessibility. Not like the sophisticated, suit-and-tie, Ivy League men that she was accustomed to. She felt out of her league in his presence, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from wanting more and had no intention of trying. She was about to take the leap of her life.

“You’re right. I didn’t forget.”

He took her hand as if he had all the right in the world. “Quinn.”

When she looked down at the large, smooth hand that swallowed hers, then upward into his dark eyes, she was a ship at sea. Somewhere, deep inside, she knew he was her anchor. “Nikita.”

“Nice. It fits you.”

His smile was slow and easy, like a hot, lazy summer afternoon, with Mama serving cool lemonade on the porch, by the swings. You just wanted to take your time with it and make it last.

“You from around here?”

“No. I live on Long Island.” She hated how that sounded—all smug and above it all. But what else could she say?

He leaned back in his seat, cocked his head to the side, and kind of rolled his eyes up and down her body. “No doubt. Never met nobody from Long Island. So, you one of them w-a-y uptown girls.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She pulled her hand away and wrapped it around the cold glass to cool it.

“Whatever you want it to mean. You want it to mean something that’s gonna piss you off, then it will. And from the look on you face, it does. Why’s that?”

“It doesn’t piss me off, as you put it.” Defensive was not the sound she was striving for, but it came out, anyway. She took a sip of her Pepsi and tried again. “What I mean is, I like where I live. I didn’t intend to sound otherwise.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Hey, that’s cool. You’re a big girl. Feel any way you wanna.” He wanted to push her, to test her, test her sensibilities. Would she be put off by him? If he let her into his world, what would she do about what she saw?

“How’s the apartment?”

The question pulled him back from the turn of his thoughts. “Comin’ along. I’m settlin’ in.” He grinned. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to see it for yourself.”

Her stomach fluttered and she had to wiggle her toes to shake off a tingling sensation. “Who said I wanted to?”

He leaned closer across the table. “I know you do. Maybe not tonight, but you will.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself for someone who doesn’t know me from Adam.”

And then he said the most startling thing, in clear, plain English, and she wondered for a second if he were a ventriloquist. “No, I’ve known you all my life, Nikita. We’ve just waited until now to make it official.”

He was one smooth talker, there was no doubt about that. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

He grinned, and all those pretty white teeth sparkled against that good-enough-to-eat skin. Nikita was in creamy-black-chocolate heaven.

“So, you got a last name to go with that first one?”

Nikita laughed. “Yes. It’s Harrell.”

“Hmmm.” Quinn nodded. “Nikita Harrell. Sounds important. You important?” His dark gaze probed her.

“I hope so.”

Echoes of countless conversations with Lacy danced through his head. How many times had she told him that your worth, your own importance, could never be measured by the make and model of your ride, or the size of the roll in your pocket, or how many people moved out of your way when you walked down the street? He hadn’t listened.

“You hope so. That’s kinda lame, comin’ from a girl like you. Either you are, or you ain’t. Simple. Don’t think about it. If you don’t know, then who will?” She had that look again, like somebody’d just pinched her behind and she was rarin’ to slap ’em. But he didn’t even care.

“You have a very interesting way of making my words turn into what you want to hear.”

“I call ’em like I see ’em. Ain’t that what women look for in a man—honesty?”

“A little diplomacy wouldn’t hurt your repertoire.”

Quinn laughed, a deep hearty laugh, and Nikita struggled to keep the smile from her lips.

“You know you wanna laugh.” He chuckled. “So why don’t you just let go and give in to how you feel? You ever done that before, Nikita Harrell, just gave in to how you was feelin’ without worryin’ about tomorrow?”

Then, suddenly, his tone changed—softened—caressed. His eyes moved in on her and the world disappeared. It was just the two of them. His finger stroked her hand, setting off the electric currents.

It’s getting hot in here. She opened her mouth to speak, but he just put that same finger to her lips. His mouth curved up on one side.

“Don’t answer. Not now. I want that first to-hell-with-the-world experience to be with me.”

She should have gotten up. She should have run as fast and as far away from this man as possible. But his presence held her there, as surely as if he’d tied her down.

“There you are.” Parris bent down and pecked Nikita on the cheek, successfully snapping her out of her trance. “I was wondering if you were still coming.” She looked from one to the other.

Nikita blinked and smiled up at Parris. “Of course I was coming. I’ve been here a while.”

Parris raised her eyebrow.

“Oh, Parris McKay, this is…Quinn. Quinn, Parris. She’s Nick’s wife. He owns the club.”

So this was the boss’s wife. Damn, Nikita Harrell traveled in high circles. He’d seen Parris’s videos and her face more times than he could count. He stood. “Nice to meet you. I was talkin’ with your husband earlier. He said he’d introduce us, but Nikita here saved him the trouble.”

“Oh, you’re that Quinn! Nick hasn’t stopped talking about you. When do you start?”

Nikita frowned. What in the world were they talking about?

Quinn shrugged. “Probably next week.”

“Great. I’m dying to hear you play. Girl, you didn’t tell me you knew such a fabulous piano player.”

“Had I only known.”

Parris squinted as if she couldn’t see her. “Anyway, I have to run. My first set starts in an hour. Come to the office afterward, Niki. We can talk then.” She stuck out her hand to Quinn, which he took. “Pleasure to meet you. Welcome aboard.”

“Same here. Thanks.”

Parris waved, then hurried across the floor and into the back room.

Nikita set her gaze on Quinn’s don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world face. “You play piano—here at the club?”

He chuckled. “I ain’t even gotta look up the word disbelief. It’s all over your face. What’s so hard to believe?” His smile was gone. “Hard to believe a guy like me could do anything besides—what—find a short way into your pants? Everything ain’t always how it seems on the outside. Take you, for instance.” He leaned back. “Under the icy, uptown, Ms. Clean exterior, I know there’s a hot-blooded, double or nothin’, wanna-take-a-chance-with-you-Quinn woman dyin’ to get out. All she needs is somebody to unlock the garage door.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. “Oh, really?”

“Oh, yeah,” he crooned and took her hand, pulling her to her feet and in line with his body, forcing her to look up at him. “I’m gonna show you, right now.”

He led her out onto the dance floor and they flowed as one perfect unit to the moods of Whitney’s “I Believe in You and Me.” One song segued into the next, as they glided together across the smooth hardwood floor.

Although short women never held much appeal for him, this one was different, he thought. She felt perfect. She fit. Like some missing piece—of what he wasn’t sure. Nikita Harrell was no Sylvie, that was for damned sure, or anyone else like her. She was more like those women on the cover of Essence and Black Elegance. You could see ’em, but not touch ’em. Getting with a woman like Nikita Harrell was that elusive dream. Would she be his dream come true?

Nikita closed her eyes. Allowed her senses to soar. She felt him everywhere, warm, hard, large and strong. Strangely enough she felt secure, as if this man could easily keep the bogeyman away. Keep her safe—from herself. He wasn’t threatened by the foreign world she only imagined being a part of, because he lived it. Still, she felt that there was more to him than the hard, thug-like, don’t-give-a-damn, too cool aura that he gave off like an expensive cologne. Against every bit of good judgment that had ever been ground into her, she wanted to find out what was beneath the surface.

“What do you do when you ain’t hangin’ in nightclubs and pickin’ up strange men?” he said deeply into her ear.

A flood of heat roared through her body, jerking her away from her daydreaming. She arched her neck back to be able to look up at him. His eyes were crinkling at the corners. She swallowed. “I work for Today’s Woman magazine. It’s pretty local at the moment. But we’re growing.”

“Cool. What do you work at?”

She smiled. “I do everything—read manuscripts, answer phones, lick stamps. But I’ve finally gotten my big break. The publisher, Ms. Ingram, liked my idea for an entertainment section, and she’s letting me write my first article. It’s going to be an interview with Parris.”

“You got my attention. Tell me more.” He wanted to tell her about his own writings and his sister’s dreams for him. He didn’t.

The music moved from body-locking to hand-clapping, so Quinn guided Nikita back to their table.

“I’m listenin’.” He held her chair while she sat down.

Niki looked up at him for a moment, the small, uncalculated gesture reaching her. So she talked. And he did listen. In small doses, she explained about her abrupt exodus from Cornell and the tension-filled four months at home.

“So, you gotta save enough loot to get your own crib?”

“Loot?”

He grinned. “You know, Dinero, cash, money—loot.”

“Oh.” She smiled in embarrassment. “Yes, I do. And soon.”

Quinn nodded. “How long you been takin’ classes at NYU?”

“I just started this semester.”

He lounged back in his seat, splay-legged. “So now what—you’re gonna be a writer—what happens to all your doctorin’ skills?”

Nikita’s soft brown eyes slowly traversed the room as though searching for the answer, or for the words that would bring her emotions to the forefront. She looked for understanding. “It just wasn’t me,” she finally said. “I tried to make it work—”

“Because your people wanted you to,” he said, finishing her thought, “so you hung in there until you couldn’t hang no more.”

She nodded.

“Sometimes you just gotta do your own thing, ya know? Everybody ain’t gonna always understand or accept that. But you just gotta keep it real and go for yours.”

Nikita looked at him. Even through the crudeness of his words she knew he understood. When had any man she’d ever been with ever grasped what she thought and felt, or even cared enough to voice an opinion that reached beneath the surface? Her male associates had always been too concerned with their own success to show any interest in her needs or feelings. Quinn was in total contrast to what she’d imagined he would be. With a little polish he could really shine.

“What about you? What makes it real for you?”

“Maybe I’ll rap with you about it sometime.” He stood. “But I gotta be pushin’ on.”

Nikita hid her disappointment behind the glass she lifted to her lips.

His eyes crinkled as he touched her cheek with the tip of his finger. “Take it easy, Nikita Harrell.”

“You, too.”

He turned, smooth as a velvet-toned Nat King Cole album spinning on a crystal turntable platter, and, like vaporous wisps of cigarette smoke, was gone.

She didn’t know whether to be angry or insulted. He hadn’t asked to see her again, or asked for her phone number. Even though he wasn’t her type, anyway, he could have at least asked for her number, whether he called or not. Wasn’t she interesting enough? Pretty enough? What kind of woman attracted a man like Quinn—Quinn? She didn’t even know his last name.

“So, Miss Thing, what in the world was going on with you and Mr. Dark and Lethal?” Parris asked, breaking into Nikita’s meandering thoughts. She took a seat.

“Nothing.” She shrugged her right shoulder and frowned. “We were just talking. That’s all.”

“Really? Then what’s with the look?”

“What look?”

“Like you just got your little ego stepped on.”

“Not hardly.”

Parris put on her best lecturing-her-girlfriend voice, targeted and launched. “He’s not your type, Niki. Anybody can see that from a mile away. He has bad boy written all over him.” She waited a beat, then broke into a grin. “And that’s the turn on. Isn’t it?” With Freudian accuracy she continued, “The other side of life that you only get to fantasize about. The whole good-girlsdon’t syndrome is tickling your imagination, like a bird feather flicking against your nose. Only thing is, sneezing is not what you have on…your…mind…to…do.”

Nikita bit back a grin. Parris knew her as well as she knew the riffs and downbeats of her songs. Knew how to manipulate her as easily as she worked those notes up and down the scale. Parris McKay was a royal pain, and she loved her. “As usual, you’re reading way too much into this. We were just talking.”

“When you believe it, so will I.” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “Don’t look so lost, sister girl. Come back next week and you’ll see him right behind that piano,” she teased.

“Very funny.”

Parris moved toward the stage, a raised platform in the center of the room, when the MC announced her name.

“See you in a bit.”

“Parris,” Nikita hissed between her teeth.

She turned, raised her brows in question.

“What’s his last time?” Nikita asked, trying and failing to sound unconcerned.

Parris smiled. “Parker, hon. Quinten Parker.”

Chapter 5

Wishin’

Chilling on his nightly run with T.C., who’d become his regular partner, Quinn let his thoughts surf to Nikita. She was all that. A fine sistah. No doubt. Had a lot going on, and she was a writer. The first female, the first anybody, he’d ever met who actually wrote for a living. And she gave up being a doctor to try her hand at what she really wanted to do. That took heart. He dug that. Dug it a lot. Smothering a grin, he thought that maybe she wasn’t all high-toned and uppity, after all, even though he didn’t go for her type.

He’d been a sentence away from telling her about his own writing and of Lacy’s dreams for him. Somehow, he knew that she would understand, like Lacy had. But truth be told, he hadn’t picked up a pen to write a single word since her death. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to do it. Everything related to his other life was tied to his twin sister. To write again would only reinfect the wound of her loss, as would his playing at the club. And that’s why he wasn’t going to do it.

“Whatsup wit you, man?” T.C. probed, peeping Quinn’s silence. Generally Quinn pumped him for information about how he was doing in school, listened to stories about his sisters and brothers, and offered the kind of older male advice that he couldn’t find at home. T.C. had come to look forward to the evenings that he spent in Quinn’s company. Come to expect the feeling of brotherhood that they shared. Even though Quinn had to be at least ten to twelve years older, he never talked down to him, or tried to make him feel stupid when he shared his thoughts. More often than not, Quinn told him he needed to get out of this life and lifestyle while he still could, before the money got too good and it was too late. Yeah, money was part of the reason he continued to make the runs, but the real reason was that he’d come to look at Quinn as the older brother, a missing father, that he needed. He didn’t want to lose that.

“It’s all good. You playin’ Jeopardy, kid?” Quinn slid from behind the wheel and out into the flypaper night. It was the kind of evening when everything stuck to you—the air, your clothes, bugs. Even the dank smells of the street rose, wafted and clung to your skin. He cut his eyes over the hood of the car and pinned T.C. with his gaze, waiting for a response.

“Naw, man,” T.C. said, catching his breath after stepping out into the clawing night, from the cool comfort of Quinn’s ride. “My name ain’t Alex. You just seem quiet.”

The corner of Quinn’s mouth tilted in a half smile. “It’s all good, like a said.”

Quinn’s dark eyes scanned the length of 115th Street. Cars double-parked. Everything from run-down, rust-coated Chevys to this morning’s off-the-lot Lexuses. Music blasting from everything that could send out a tune. Pushed upward to their limit in the hope of catching a whiff of something, the gaping holes of wide-open windows, set against the run-down buildings, resembled the missing teeth of the pushcart pedestrians in constant search of a stray anything. People in every size, shape, color and design seemed to have been stirred up in a big mixing pot, then dumped out on the street, any which way. They were everywhere. Fish frying in week-old grease seeped out of Shug’s Fish Shack and hung around the mouths of the regular Friday-nighters gobbling down what looked to be their last supper. Gold twinkled around necks, in ears, on wrists and in mouths, as sure as the diamonds hidden in the mines of Africa.

This was his world.

He checked his left side and pulled his lightweight jacket securely over the bulge tucked neatly beneath his left arm. It was a calculated move. But necessary. Though he’d never had reason to use it in the past, everyone must know that he would and could in a heartbeat.

Quinn wound his way around and through the pockets of would-bes, could-bes and has-beens, accepting high and low fives, brotherhood hugs, the flavor-of-the-day handshake and the proverbial “Hi, Quinn” from the red-mouthed, everything-squeezed-in-so-it-could-pop-out, weaved, curled and braided hoochies who vied for his attention.

T.C. took up his post on Quinn’s left side, etching the “I dare you” glare on his sixteen-year-old face. Watching Quinn as he parted the sea of humanity, accepting his props, T.C. knew that he wanted to be what Quinn had become. He wanted the ride, the crib, the women and the clothes. He wanted the money and everything that it could buy him. In Quinn he saw all of these things and knew that if he paid attention, worked hard, he could take Quinn’s place on the street one day, or even have a territory of his own. But his mother wanted him to stay in school. “Get your education, boy. It’s the only way out of the ghetto.” Quinn even told him to stay in school, make something of himself. But he wanted that something now. Not ten years from now. Anyway, he’d probably be dead before he hit thirty. That was life.

Nikita tried to stay focused. To make the words in her head, on her tape recorder and on her notepad come to life. She’d known Parris for years. They were closer than sisters. Why was she having so much trouble making her real?

Sighing in frustration, she pushed away from her computer screen and stood up, stretching her arms high over her head and rotating her neck to get the kinks out. She stepped out of her calfskin sandals, immediately losing the added two inches that the heels gave her, and wiggled her toes. She padded over to the window, the cool of the wood tingling up her bare legs. From her second-floor perch, she could clearly see the lunch-goers, shopkeepers and local residents meandering up and down the block to their predesignated destinations. She pursed her lips and folded her arms beneath her ample breasts. One lock, weighted down by a seashell, dangled along the side of her face as she leaned closer.

Maybe what she needed to do was take a walk, get a better perspective on what she wanted to write. She couldn’t let Ms. Ingram down, not after she’d promised she’d deliver the article. It had already been a week and she hadn’t strung together one sentence that made any sense.

Be for real, sister, that annoying voice in her head whispered. She knew good and darn well what the problem was. Quinten Parker. Plain and simple. Every time she thought about writing the article, she thought about Quinn—the way his gaze rolled over her like hot lava, the way his dark eyes sparkled and crinkled when he laughed, the deep resonance of his voice that dipped down into her soul and shook it, and most of all, the way he listened and really heard her.

She’d been back to the club twice but she hadn’t seen him, and neither had Nick. She’d even walked along his block, on the other side, of course, in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. No luck.

Anyway, why was she stressing herself out over a man who obviously had no interest in her? He hadn’t asked to see her again and he hadn’t asked for her number. She didn’t have to be hit over the head. End of story.

She tossed her pencil across the desk. Humph. Bastard. He has some nerve. Who does he think he is, anyway? She had doctors, lawyers and Indian chiefs running after her—hard. They wanted her time and her number. What—she wasn’t good enough? One thing was certain, she was a flight up from those hussies she just knew he was used to.

She turned from the window and stomped back across the room, stepping into her shoes. “Well, you don’t have to worry about me worryin’ about you,” she mumbled, snatching up her purse with a vengeance. Grabbing the keys from the hook by the door, she locked the office and stomped out.

The muggy air closed in on her like a predator cornering its prey. She took a breath, adjusting her body to the change, posed for a moment while looking out at the comings and goings on the avenue—and there he was.

He wasn’t quite sure why he’d rolled up here. He stepped out of his vehicle and slid his dark glasses up the bridge of his narrow nose. She wasn’t his type. She was too damned short and too green. She didn’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’ except what she’d heard or read. Damn, she didn’t even know what loot meant. That should have been his exit cue right then. But there was just somethin’ about her. Maybe it was that innocence. The way she acted—all nervous and shy with him, not like those females who’d be ready to pop him where he stood if he said something they didn’t like. Quite frankly, he was tired of that. Tired of women who acted just as tough, just as hard, as he did. Shit, a real man wanted a woman, not another real man. And he was getting to the point where he’d like someone sweet, someone soft and feminine who could talk about something besides having babies and videos. So here he was. Now what? He wasn’t even sure how to rap with a woman like Nikita. Hey, he’d been around. He’d think of something.

He leaned against his car and waited. He hoped she’d turn up soon. Man, it was hot.

Nikita didn’t know whether she should run back upstairs before he saw her, stroll down the block as if she didn’t see him or just act as if she hadn’t noticed him and find out what he was going to do.

Maybe he wasn’t even there to see her. He did look as if he was waiting for someone, leaning against that pretty BMW, fine as he wanted to be with that red T-shirt against that chocolate skin that she could almost taste. Her mouth started to water. Could he see her, with those dark glasses on?

There she was, all decked out in a b-a-a-d lime green number that stopped just above her knees and those dynamite legs. Yeah, I see you, baby, tryin’ to act like you don’t see me. Let me make it easy for you.

He inhaled deeply, slowly removing his shades, and their gazes connected.

With practiced ease, Quinn uncrossed his long, CK-clad legs, the precision-creased sandstone linen pants flowing around them in lazy-river fashion.

She watched him glide toward her like a director calling for slow motion. Why was she holding her breath?

Quinn stopped at the bottom of the steps, placed one foot on the first step, and looked up at her. His eyes crinkled. “Whatsup, Nikita Harrell?”

She kind of smiled. “I was on my way—to get something to eat. Whatsup with you?” Did she just say whatsup?

He grinned. She sounded funny, but cute. “That’s what I’m here tryin’to find out. But in the meantime, why don’t I take you where you’re goin’? My ride’s across the street. Come on.”

“Was that a question or a command?” She arched her brow.

His dimples flashed and she felt even hotter. Quinn gave a mock bow. “It was a question, your high-ness.” He looked up at her from beneath those long lashes—grinning.

She pursed her lips as if trying to decide, knowing good and well that she was going. Finally she shrugged. “I guess.”

Purposefully, she took her time coming down the stairs. There was no way she could miss the salivating look he gave her legs, and she figured she might as well give him a bit of entertainment, show him what he wasn’t getting.

Nikita remained mute during the short ride, afraid of saying something nerdy. Quinn, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content to listen to endless unintelligible lyrics by rap artists with names that sounded lethal. She’d definitely have to do something about his music-listening habits if he planned on spending any time with her.

Then, as if he’d been reading her mind, he pressed the SCAN button and the cool sounds of pre-programmed CD 101.9, the city’s premier jazz station, filtered in all around them with a haunting ballad by Phyllis Hyman.

Nikita’s eyes slightly widened. He was just full of surprises, wasn’t he? And he even had the station programmed.

Quinn, from the corner of his eye, could see her tight little body relax, as if someone had mercifully snatched her out of a too tight girdle. He almost laughed. Instead, he just hummed along with Phyllis. Now, Phyllis could blow. Why she’d decided to snuff herself was a mystery to him. Ain’t nothin’ that bad. And he should know.

“This the spot?” he asked, slowing down in front of Zuri’s, a little outdoor café on Fourteenth and Sixth.

“Yes. This is it. There’s a parking space across the street,” she offered, pointing to a vacant spot.

“What kinda time you got—regulation one hour, or what?”

She turned her head to look at him and her heart knocked hard. Quinn had angled his body so that he faced her. His long, cottony-soft locks hung loose around his wide shoulders. Dark eyes, partially hidden by half-closed lids and sinfully long lashes, gazed back at her. The beginnings of a smile played around those luscious, can-I-get-a-taste lips.

She blinked. What had he asked her? Something about time? Oh, yeah. “I have some work to take care of at the office.” She checked her gold Cartier watch. “I suppose a couple of hours wouldn’t hurt. Why?”

Quinn chuckled, pressed his foot on the accelerator and took off. “I’ma take you uptown, for some real food. That cool with you?” She nodded, too surprised to do much else. “I wanna check you out with corn bread crumbs around that pretty little mouth of yours.”

“Very funny. You don’t think I eat corn bread?”

He slanted his gaze at her. “Do you?”

“Sometimes,” she lied. The truth was, her parents were so removed from their roots and black culture in general, that her diet growing up had been strictly European. As she grew older, she’d just never acquired a taste for “soul food.” Her dates generally took her to French, Italian and anything other than black ethnic restaurants. It was a status symbol to be able to read French menus and make reservations a week in advance to get a table. That was her world. But the possibility of entering his thrilled her little “I thought I had arrived” suburban soul.

Without further ado, Quinn jumped on the FDR Drive and headed uptown. He’d intended to give her a real culture shock, an awakening. But then he thought better of it. What if she freaked? He didn’t want to scare her off. There would be plenty of time to show her the other slice of life. Then again, maybe not.

He snatched a quick look at her, taking her all in with a blink of an eye. Small, smooth-looking hands were folded neatly in her lap, ready for a class picture or something. That compact body of hers was pressed so close to her side of the car that if she moved any farther she’d be outside. She was staring straight ahead, like she wanted to make sure she knew what was coming at her. And she was tapping that right foot like she had that shaking disease.

Naw. He couldn’t do that to her. Nikita was a lady. No doubt. Those females up on the avenue would eat her alive. Nikita was the type of woman you wanted to protect, not use to protect you. She was used to the smell of cut grass, not the stench of piss in an alley; nightclubs that didn’t have secret back rooms; meals that were served on real dishes, not on foam with the little pockets and had to be stapled closed. Damn. What was on her mind? He didn’t have any business being with her.

He checked her out again—lookin’ all scared, but trying to be cool. And then he knew why. He needed someone like Nikita Harrell in his life. Someone to remind him that there was a whole world that existed outside the one he found himself confined in. He needed to be reminded that there was still some goodness in the world. She could do that, and that made her special.

Yeah, that’s why he was with her. And the thought scared the hell out of him, as sure as if he’d stepped into a pitch-black room with no telling what was inside.

“You ever been to the Soul Cafe?” Quinn asked, exiting at 42nd Street.

Nikita released a silent breath when he made his exit. At least they weren’t going too far uptown. “No. I never heard of it.”

“I think you’ll like it. It’s owned by that brother on New York Undercover, Malik Yoba.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Oh, really! I love that show. I watch it whenever I can. I hadn’t heard that he had a restaurant.”

“It’s a pretty new spot.”

“This is great. Maybe we’ll see him,” she added, sounding like a schoolgirl.

Quinn slanted his eyes in her direction and smiled, seeing the look of anticipation on her face. So that’s the kind of stuff she digs. This was nothing. He couldn’t count the number of famous faces he’d either met, eaten with or seen. Everyone at one time or another came uptown to get a taste of can’t-be-beat cooking, no matter how much loot they were making.

“Yeah, may-be.”

She breathed a silent sigh of relief. This wasn’t too bad. He’d had her a little nervous at first when he just took off from Zuri’s like that. Although she really did want to see where he was talking about, she just wasn’t sure if she wanted to see it today. She’d heard such awful things—the people, the violence, the filth. All she could imagine was what she’d seen on the evening news. Then again, anyone with a grain of sense knew that the news only showed what they wanted to show. They always interviewed the most snaggletoothed, illiterate black person they could find to represent whatever the issue was for the day. She promised herself she’d keep an open mind.

“So, what nights are you playing at the club?”

“I’m not.”

“Why? I mean, I thought you were. It was set.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Oh.”

“Problem?”

She shifted for a minute under his gaze. “No. Why should it be? It’s like you told me. I’m a big girl. You’re a big boy. Right? Do what you want.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” That was easy. No pressure. He should feel relieved. Then why did he feel like somebody had just let the air out of his steel-belted radials? He kind of wanted her to ask some more questions. He wanted to explain that he’d never played for anybody besides his sister, Lacy. That Lacy was dead. That things hadn’t been the same for him since. That the time in the club was the first time he’d played since her death. He wanted to tell her that the pain was still too strong, so bad sometimes that he just wanted to disappear so he could stop being afraid. He didn’t have anybody to keep him from being afraid anymore. He wanted to tell her.

He didn’t.

Nikita wrinkled her nose. She sure hoped he wasn’t one of those trifling Negroes. Supposed to do things, make commitments and then back out. If this was any indication of how he handled his business, well—well, she just didn’t know.

Quinn took the liberty of ordering for both of them. Lunch was a combination of hot and spicy jerk chicken, peas and rice, callaloo, fried chicken fingers, a side of homemade coleslaw, not that supermarket stuff, and melt in your mouth corn bread—cooked to a perfect golden brown and served up in healthy chunks.

“How’s the food?” he asked.

“Delicious,” Nikita mumbled over a mouthful of corn bread.

Quinn reached across the table and brushed the tip of his finger against the corner of her mouth.

A bolt of electric energy shot straight through her. She went perfectly still.

Quinn smiled. “That’s what I wanted to see,” he said in a tone so low it seemed to reach down to her soul, “what that pretty mouth would look like with golden crumbs around it.”

She swallowed. “What does it look like?” she whispered in a tone to match his.

“Very tasty.” He grinned.

She bit back a smile and shifted her gaze to her plate. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

He ran his finger across her lips again and the thrill was twice as strong. She fought down a shiver.

“So what are we gonna do about that?”

She put her fork down, folded her arms on the tabletop and leaned closer. Her cinnamon-colored eyes held his. “We’re going to have to work that out, Mr. Parker. One day at a time.”

“I like the sound of that. Night and day meeting at dawn.”

“You sound like a poet.”

“Naw. Ain’t nothin’ like that at all. Classy lady like you brings out the melody in a man. Sometimes,” he added. “So don’t get no wild ideas in your head.” His eyes crinkled, and she smiled in return.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

And Quinn thought about the fact that he’d never told her his last name. So she’s been askin’ about me. Nice.

He pulled up in front of the building where she worked exactly two hours later. He turned off the engine. They sat in silence for several moments.

Now what? Should she just thank him and get out? What if he tried to kiss her? She knew she probably tasted like some kind of spice and peppers. But then again, so did he. If he tried, she was going to let him.

He unfastened his seat belt and angled toward her, draping his arm along the back of her seat. His fingers played across her exposed neck.

Uh-oh.

“So why don’t you give me your number and I can call you sometime?”

“Is that another question or a command?”

The corner of his mouth curved up in a grin. “A question, your high-ness.”

“In that case, I guess I can give you my number so you can call me sometime.” She dug in her purse, found a pen, and tore off a piece of paper from her pocket notebook and wrote down her number. “That’s the number at my office.”

He took the paper and checked out the number, then stuck it between the sun visor and the roof of the car.

“Got a man at home that’s gonna get ticked if I call you?” he teased, fishing.

“No.”

“What if I feel like hearin’ your voice after hours?”

“One day at a time. Remember?” She smiled, closed her purse and pressed the button to release the lock on her door. “Thanks for lunch.” She got out of the car, shut the door behind her and trotted up the steps, giving him one last look at her legs.

“Thank you, Nikita Harrell,” he whispered, watching her disappear beyond the door. “Thank you.”

Chapter 6

From Here to There

Once again Parris was out of town, and Nikita desperately needed someone to talk with. She sat up in bed and dialed Jewel’s number. They’d met several years earlier when Jewel’s lifetime partner, Taj, started working at Nick’s club. Although Jewel was at least eight years older, they’d become fast friends. Jewel’d had her own battles to wage when she met and fell in love with her much younger mate. She’d bucked the odds and the comments, and come out on top. Next to Parris and Nick, there wasn’t a couple more perfect than Taj and Jewel. All she could hope for was to find the same kind of happiness one day.

The phone rang three times before Jewel’s eighteen-year-old daughter, Danielle, picked up.

“Hey, Dani. It’s Nikita.”

“Hi, Aunt Niki. How are ya?”

“Just fine.” Nikita laughed. She was tickled every time Danielle called her “Aunt.” Jewel had a strict rule in her house: adults were addressed as Ms. or Mr. so-and-so, or they were inducted into the family as honorary aunts or uncles, an African practice. Nikita had opted for family status.

“How’s everything with school?”

“My second year at Howard was phat! I had a ball, and the most gorgeous men—chocolate-chip heaven with a little macadamia for variety.”

Nikita laughed along with Danielle. “Sounds good, but what about your classes?”

“Oh, those. I aced them. No prob.”

Danielle had been an above “A” student since grammar school, skipped grade levels twice and received a full four-year scholarship to Howard.

“Keep it up. I know your mother is proud.”

“She oughta be. Maintaining my social calendar and a 4.0 ain’t easy.” She chuckled.

“I can imagine. Where is the lady of the house?”

“She just got out of the shower. Hang on, I’ll get her. Take it easy, Aunt Nik. Come out and see me before I go back.”

“I’ll try.”

A few moments later Jewel’s softly Southern voice came on the line.

“Hey, girl. It’s been too long. How are you?”

“Pretty good. Just needed some girl talk.”

“In that case, let me assume the girl talk position.” Jewel fluffed two oversize down pillows behind her, crossed her legs and sat back. “All right, who is he?”

“Why does it have to be a he? Maybe I’m just calling to get your opinion on a new outfit.”

“Girl, pleeze. I know good and well you didn’t make this toll call from Long Island to Connecticut to ask me about some clothes. Unless we’re trying to devise a way to keep that thieving Parris out of our closets!”

They both erupted in a fit of laughter, thinking of all the missing items that mysteriously turned up on Parris’s long, lean body.

“Yeah, Parris thinks she’s in Paris when she shops at my house,” Nikita said, chuckling.

“I just don’t understand it,” Jewel continued. “Girl makes enough money to buy her own department store.”

“Don’t I know it. But she says it keeps her close to us because she’s away all the time. She keeps a little piece of us with her.”

“I know,” Jewel replied, sobering. “Whatever helps. I know I couldn’t lead that kind of life for all the money in the world. I need roots.”

“That’s the truth. At least she has a man who understands and accepts her lifestyle.”

“Which brings me back to my original question—who is he? And take as long as you want to tell me all about him. It’s your quarter.”

Nikita took a breath. “Well, his name is Quinten Parker…”

“So, you have nothing in common. He acts and talks like the characters in that Sugar Hill movie with Wesley Snipes. You’re not sure what he does for a living and don’t want to think about it, and you can’t wait to see him again. That about right?” Jewel brushed another coat of clear polish on her toes.

“Gosh, Jewel, you don’t have to make it sound like that.” The scenario did sound rather awful.

“If it’s not like that, then tell me what it is like. I mean, be real and tell me.”

Nikita took a long, thoughtful breath. “I know he represents everything I’ve been told to stay away from. And on the outside he seems like a real character. But beneath it all is a humanity, a sensitivity, a goodness. I can just feel it. I know this all sounds crazy, but—”

“Listen Niki, nothing is crazy when it comes to a person and their feelings. They can’t be explained most of the time. There are no real rules or regulations. Sometimes you just have to go with how you feel and hope for the best. Don’t worry about how everyone else is going to feel about your decision. You’re the only one who has to live with your choices. If I’d worried about how everyone was going to feel about me and Taj, I would have never married him, and I’d have missed out on the greatest experience of my life.

“Sister, I can’t sit here polishing my toes and tell you he’s the wrong one for you. I can’t tell you he’s the one, either. Only the two of you and time can tell.”

“Yes. You’re right. I was feeling the same way. I guess I just needed to hear my thoughts out loud. The truth is, I don’t know how it is,” she blew out in frustration. “He scares me—in an I-want-to-get-back-on-that-ride-again kind of scary. He’s not like the men I’ve dated. He’s crude, but sensual, and as much as he puts on the tough guy act, there’s something else there. Something gentle and needy.”

“The only advice I can offer is to go slow. And be sure of your reasons for getting involved.”

“Yo, Max!” Quinn called out of his car window, simultaneously blowing his horn.

Maxine slowed her long-legged strut and turned in the direction of the familiar voice. When her gaze rested on Quinn’s smiling face, the heavy baggage of her day, of dealing with corporate backstabbing and annoying customers, seemed to slide from her shoulders. She hadn’t seen Quinn since he moved out of the neighborhood. She’d asked around and heard through the vine that he was still looking good and doing well. He’d taken some time off from working for Remy, but word had it that he was back.

Quinn pulled alongside Max and put the car in park. “Hey, baby. Long time. Lookin’ good.”

Maxine jutted her hip and accessorized it with her hand. “You don’t look so bad yourself—stranger. Just forgot all about your friends.” She adjusted her shoulder bag. “How you been?”

He shrugged and half smiled. “Awright. Hangin’ in. Where you headed?”

“Home. Where else?” she joked.

“Get in. I’ll take you.”

“That’s what you better have said,” she teased.

Quinn broke out laughing and realized that he actually missed seeing her.

Maxine slid in next to Quinn and all the months without seeing him slipped away. His scent, those delicious dimples and that cool arrogance. Damn, she’d missed him.

“So what’s been happenin’, Max? I been kinda out of touch, ya know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Their gazes touched in silent understanding.

“I finished that course I told you about,” she said, moving away from the painful memories. “Got my certificate and everything.”

“Congrats, baby. Knew you could do it. No doubt. We gonna have to celebrate,” he grinned. “What you wanna do? Name it, you got it.”

“No shit?”

Quinn looked at her and burst out laughing. “Yeah, no shit.” He’d forgotten how regular Max could get when she wanted to. “So, what’s it gonna be? Your call.”

“You know what I’d really like to do, Quinn?”

“What?”

“I’d like to see your new place. See what you’ve done with it.”

Quinn nodded. “Cool. Here we go.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.