A Private Affair (13 page)

“What do you mean?”

A half smile curved his lips. “I think you know. We'll talk.” He stepped out of the door and closed it behind him.

“Damn,” she whispered, staring at the closed door.

 

“Hi, Nick. It's me, Nikita.”

“Hey, how are you?”

“Not bad.” She ran her fingers through her locks. “Well, actually, I have a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

Nikita explained that she needed a lead on an entertainer for an article in the magazine.

“Hmm. Would a phone interview work?”

“Sure.” Her hopes spiraled.

“I'll make a few calls and get back with you. Are you comin' down tomorrow night?”

“I was planning to.”

“I should have something for you by then.”

“Great. Thanks, Nick.”

“No problem.”

“Nick? Um, have you heard from Quinn?”

“He just left. Mmm, maybe about twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh, thanks.” She absently hung up the phone. She hadn't heard from Quinn in several days and didn't know why. Quinn was like night and day. At times he seemed caring, thoughtful, almost romantic in his own cool way. At others he was remote, distant, as if a deep sadness weighed down his spirit. Almost as if he turned inward, shutting the world out.

She looked at the stack of mail and unread manuscripts. She pulled one from the pile and began to read just as the phone rang.

“
Today's Woman.
Good afternoon.”

“Hey, baby.”

The air stopped midway in her chest. “Quinn.”

“Yeah, Quinn. How are ya?”

“Kind of busy at the moment,” she answered, her tone tight and curt.

“That's too bad. I'm outside. I was thinkin' of stealin' you for a coupla hours. But since you're busy—”

“I haven't heard from you in days, Quinn, and you call out of the blue and want me to stop what I'm doing and hang out with you?” Ooh, she really wanted to run to the window, but couldn't, silently cussing Ms. Ingram for not investing in a cordless phone.

“Yeah, somethin' like that.” He grinned, peeking up at the window hoping to get a glimpse of her, knowing that she had that pretty little honey-dipped face of hers all puffed up. “But hey, I hear ya. You got things to do. So why don't I pick you up after work? Maybe we can do a little somethin' somethin',” he crooned in that sexy tone that made her blood run hot and hotter. “What time you gettin' off?”

She fought back a smile and tried on her indifferent voice. “Four-thirty.”

“I'll be out front. Think about that somethin' somethin' you wanna do.”

“I certainly will, because you have some making up to do.”

“That's the best part.” He chuckled. “Later.”

Nikita held the phone to her breasts, a big Kool-Aid satisfied grin on her face. Then she dashed to the window just in time to catch a look at his black BMW zooming down the street.

She looked at her wall clock. One-thirty. The end of her work day couldn't come fast enough. She had things to do to get ready for her date with Quinn.

 

Quinn exhaled deeply and hung up his cell phone. Adjusting his shades, he shifted the Beamer into drive and pulled into the flow of traffic heading uptown.

Yeah, he'd been lax, he knew it. But sometimes the real side
of his life took a front seat. He'd just make it up to her, that's all. He wasn't used to answering to anybody, anyway. Didn't have any intention of starting now. But there was something about Nikita that made him wanna do the right thing—do things differently. Still, there was a big piece of him that was tied to the life he'd made—it was all he knew. Change was hard. He wasn't sure how much of it he wanted.

He turned onto Sixty-first Street and was surrounded by the towering buildings that made up Lincoln Center. He pulled up to a meter and dropped in a quarter, looking at one of the imposing buildings. ASCAP.

So this was the spot where Nick handled his
real
business. He'd asked him to drop off a package and deliver it to his manager. Yeah, right. He knew he had to have something going on. Things were too straight at the club. It was the same deal with Remy, except that Remy handled his business in the back room. Nick bumped up a step and handled his with a bit of class. He looked around and spotted the bubbling fountain across the street, the rows of outdoor cafés, all the folks dressed in designer suits, carrying briefcases. Yeah. He nodded, heading toward the building. Perfect front.

Quinn took the elevator to the eighth floor and stepped into music history. For a moment, he was thrown off. He was expecting…he didn't know what…but it wasn't this.

All along the pristine white walls were photographs of music greats for decades—Lena, Sarah, Quincy, Celine, The Count, Prince, The Temptations, Whitney, Toni, Sinatra and countless other faces he couldn't even name. Music, not the dental office kind, but the real deal, floated seamlessly through the air.

Groups of seating areas were filled with young kids and their parents, older teens, and other groups of kids who were passing jokes between them and sheets of paper that looked like musical notes. He could tell that the cases sitting at their feet held instruments. What was this place,
really?

He walked a little farther down the hall. Gold and platinum records encased in glass held places of honor on the walls.
Whatever this place was, it was phat.

“Hi. I'm Simone. Can I help you?”

He blinked away images of himself framed and covered with glass hanging on the wall. “Yeah. I have a package from Nick Hunter.”

The young woman's face brightened. Her contact-lensed hazel eyes widened. “You're a friend of Nick's?”

“Somethin' like that.” And then for some reason he wanted her to know. “I play with his band.”

“Really?”

“Just started. Play piano.”

She flipped her shoulder-length weave over her shoulder and tilted her head to the side. “Good luck. His band is fabulous. I have all of his CDs.”

Quinn smiled. He handed her the package. “This is for Paul Conner.”

“Let me buzz him for you. I think he's still in with the accountants. Why don't you have a seat?”

Moments later, a tall, rather slender man with just a hint of a pot belly came out of one of the rooms. He wore no jacket, with the sleeves of his bright, white shirt rolled halfway up his light brown arms.

He stuck out his hand. Quinn spotted his Rolex. “You must be Mr. Parker. I'm Paul, Nick's business manager.”

Quinn shook his hand. “Nick wanted me to drop somethin' off for him.”

“Signed contracts,” he said offhandedly, his thick mustache quivering as he spoke. “He's told me a lot about you. He said you're a gifted piano player. Ever play with a band before?”

“Naw. I mean, no.” He shrugged. “Just for myself, mostly.”

“Well, if you hang in there with Nick, a lot more than just yourself will be hearing your music. Nick has been responsible for launching quite a few careers. I always told him if he ever wanted to get out of playing there was definitely a spot for him as a talent scout.” He chuckled. “If you have a few minutes, I'll show you around.”

“Sounds good.”

“We do a variety of things around here, Mr. Parker.”

“Quinn.”

“Quinn. We give music classes, seminars on the business of the music industry. A lot of the managers and accountants meet here to discuss their clients, knock out contract deals, make sure everything is on the up-and-up.”

He showed him some classes that were in session, the music rooms and studios. If Quinn didn't know better he'd swear he'd just seen Nick Ashford and his wife, Valerie Simpson, walk across the corridor ahead of them.

“Was that—?”

“Yes, it was. They're here quite a bit. They do a lot of the lectures. Sometimes they even write their music here.”

Returning to the reception area, he chuckled. “Well, that was the fifteen-cent tour.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Maybe your picture will be up on these walls one day.”

“Naw.” He smiled.

He slapped him on the back. “Think positively. Anything can happen if you put your mind to it. Fifteen years ago, Nick never thought he'd be where he is today. He was just another street hood with no dreams of a future. Found an old saxophone in an alley one day,” he said, shrugging, “and the rest is history.”

“No sh—no doubt.” Maybe there was a lot more to Nick than he thought. No wonder they connected.

Paul looked at him and grinned.
Nick Hunter all over again,
he thought. All he needed was some guidance and some polish, and if he was half as good as Nick claimed, he could have a real future ahead of him. He hoped seeing this side of things would give him some inspiration.

“Well, Quinn, it was a pleasure meeting you.” He stuck out his hand. “Hope to see you again.”

“Yeah. Thanks for the tour.”

“Any time. Maybe you might want to think about taking one of the classes. Simone can give you a schedule, if you're interested.”

Quinn nodded.

“Got to run. Good luck tomorrow night.” He turned and
hurried down the hall, disappearing behind the same door he'd come out of earlier.

A bit overwhelmed, Quinn headed toward the elevator.

“Do you want a copy of the schedules?” Simone asked, holding up a thin pamphlet.

Quinn turned around and walked back toward her desk. “Thanks.” He stuck the information in his back pocket.

Waiting for the elevator he stood behind two men. One looked vaguely familiar.

“That's Nick Hunter's band,” one said, pointing to a picture Quinn had missed earlier.

Sure enough, there was Nick, decked out in black and white and surrounded by his band members.

“The man is awesome. I have to try to get my agent to get the two of us together, maybe cut an album,” the second man said.

“With you on keyboards, Herbie, and Nick on sax, it would go platinum in no time.”

Herbie? Hancock?

The ding of the elevator snapped him out of his daze. The doors opened and he stepped in. He turned and faced the front.

The trademark glasses were a dead giveaway.

Herbie smiled. “We're going up,” he said.

Quinn nodded and pressed the button for the ground floor.
Yeah. Going up.

For a few fantasy-filled moments, as he watched the little yellow light bounce from one number to the next, he saw himself again, his own gold and platinum albums hanging on the walls. The melodic voice of Sade wrapped around him.

“Anything is possible, Q, if you just put your mind to it,” he could hear Lacy say, almost the exact words that Paul had uttered moments earlier.

“Yeah. You believed, Lacy. It got you a bullet,” he whispered. He hung his head and the image vanished.

Stepping back out into the light of day, everything around him bursting with life, the possibilities seemed endless. He adjusted his shades, slid behind the wheel and pulled out.

I Apologize

“I
'll give Quinn a call and see if five is good,” Maxine said into the phone to Sean Michaels, the attorney who would be working on the case.

Maxine hung up and beeped Quinn. Minutes later, her office phone rang.

“Maxine Sherman.”

“You beep me, Max? It's Quinn.”

“Hi, Q. Listen, I spoke with the attorney. He can meet with us today at five. I'm off at four-thirty. Can you pick me up at the bank?”

He paused and thought about his promise to Nikita, then said, “Yeah, I'll be there.”

“See you then.”

As fast as she hung up, the phone rang again.

“Maxine Sherman.”

“Hi, Maxine. It's Dre.”

Her stomach did a little dance. “Hi, Dre.”

“Listen, about last night…ya know…I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize, Dre. Really.”

“I was hoping we could pick up where we left off. I could come by for you after work—”

“Well, Dre, I wish I could, but I'm supposed to meet Quinn after work. We're—”

“No problem. Hey, tell him I said hello, and uh, I'll call you…maybe tomorrow.”

“Dre, maybe we could still get together later. It shouldn't take too long.”

“We'll see, okay? Listen, I gotta run.”

Click.

“Damn.” She slammed down the phone. There was no reason for him to get bent out of shape. She and Quinn were just friends. Just friends.

 

Quinn called Nikita's office. After three rings the answering machine came on. He started to leave a message, then changed his mind. He'd said four-thirty. He'd just shoot by her job a little early and let her know what was going down. They'd have to make it later.

He replaced his cell phone and headed home to change clothes.

 

Nikita rushed out of the boutique with two shopping bags. It was already after three. She had enough time to get back to the office and change before Quinn came to pick her up. She wanted tonight to be special, to make up for lost time. She wanted him to see what he'd been missing.

Pulling up to the last parking space on the block she hurried into the office building. She was surprised to see a folded piece of paper stuck in the doorframe. She pulled it out and dug in her bag for her keys, juggling the bags.

Kicking the door shut behind her, she dropped the bags by her desk and opened the note.

“What!” She crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and threw it across the room. “Can't make it! What came up, Quinn? And what in the world makes you think I don't have anything else to do but wait on you for two and a half hours?”

She flopped down in her chair and kicked the bags away from her feet, spilling the contents on the floor. She looked at the aqua knit dress, new stockings, satin and lace Victoria's Secret underwear, and the 8 oz. Bottle of Oscar de LaRenta's Volupte.

She sat tapping her foot for a good five minutes. Fuming. Hadn't seen him in days. Calls finally, then puts her on hold until later.

The phone rang.

She snatched the receiver off the hook.

“Today's Woman.”
She knew she sounded like she hated her job, but she couldn't help it.

“Nikita? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, Ms. Ingram. Uh, no. I just…banged my knee against the desk.”

“Do be careful. Are you all right?”

“Yes. I'm fine.” She tapped her foot a bit faster.

“I just wanted you to know I won't be back in the office until Monday. And I also wanted to find out how the next issue was coming.”

“I laid the last story out this afternoon. Just the entertainment section needs to be done, and it'll be ready for the printer.”

“Have you found someone?”

“I have a good lead. I should know something by tomorrow night,” she said, hoping that Nick would come through.

“Wonderful. Well, dear, you have a good weekend. And don't stay too late. I know how you can overwork sometimes. Get out and enjoy yourself.”

“I will.” She smiled, the tightness in her chest beginning to ease.

“See you first thing Monday.”

“Bye, Ms. Ingram.”

She pushed out a long breath. The heck with Quinn. She was going home, much as she didn't want to.

The phone rang again.

She rolled her eyes.
“Today's Woman.”

“Niki, sweetheart.”

Her spirits sank even further. “Hi, Mom.”

“I just wanted you to know that we've invited the Colemans over for dinner tonight. Grant is home on leave from the air force, and I thought it would be wonderful if the two of you saw each other before he left again, maybe make some plans to get together.”

Grant.
Would her misery today never end? She and Grant Coleman had a thing before he joined the air force. He'd wanted marriage. She'd wanted—what, she didn't know, but it wasn't marriage. Grant took it badly, hounding her for months. He called every day, until it got to the point where she didn't want to answer the phone. When he finally went off to the Philippines, the calls stopped. Then the letters started. She'd stayed in a state of guilt for nearly six months after their breakup, and her mother didn't miss an opportunity to tell her what a big mistake she'd made.

The letters finally stopped about a year ago. And she hadn't heard from or seen him since. Now he was home.

A part of her wanted to see him, see how he was. Then there was another part that was afraid it would lead to other things. Things she didn't want to indulge in—not now.

“I have plans tonight, Mom. I was going to stay in the city.”

Cynthia frowned. “I thought Parris was on tour.”

“She is. But I have a spare key to her apartment.”

“Where's her husband?”

“He's here.”

“And you're going to be staying in their apartment—alone—with her husband?”

“Yes.”

Cynthia drew in a quick breath and expelled it in a rush of words. “That is entirely inappropriate, Nikita. I insist that you come to your own home. No decent young woman would spend the night alone with someone else's husband.”

Her temples began to throb. “Who is it that you don't trust, Mother, me or Nick?” she snapped.

“Nikita!”

“I'll be fine. I'll see you tomorrow evening. Late. Give my apologies to the Colemans and say hello to Grant for me.” She hung up before her mother could reply.

She squeezed her eyes shut and wished the pounding away.

“Looks like you'll get the booby prize after all, Quinn.”

Snatching up her bags, she marched off to the bathroom, briefly wondering how Grant looked these days.

 

Maxine's long legs, encased in sheer black, paced the pebbly gray concrete in front of the First Trust Bank building. Harried workers walked around her and into her on their way to their end-of-the-day destinations.

Her lime green DKNY two-button suit hugged her curves like a long-lost friend. She peered over her shades to check out oncoming traffic.

No sign of Quinn.

The Tower clock showed 4:45.

Didn't men know that the longer they made you wait, the more time you had to think of the things they'd done that ticked you off?

She dug in her purse for a stick of gum. Since giving up smoking several months ago, she'd resorted to gum chewing and candy sucking. The last thing she needed was to gain weight by eating to replace the smoking urge, so now she just chewed every time she was edgy—on the verge of reaching for a cigarette. Like now. Her dental plan was in full force and a new set of teeth would suit her any day over the “Big C.”

Traffic stopped for the red light, and a car horn started blowing, catching her attention. Quinn was in the center lane.

Maxine checked the flow and dashed around a tan Lexus and a steel blue Volvo to reach his car. He leaned over and opened her door.

She hopped in, flipping her gum to the street just before closing the door.

“Hey, Q.” Damn he looked good. And why did he have to smell like that? All the time.

“Hey, yourself.” He spun the wheel and made a quick left. “Lookin' all good in your suit.”

Maxine tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth to keep from grinning like a fool. “Don't even try it, Q. You know you're late.”

“No doubt. But we'll get there. Can't have a meetin' without us,” he joked, fighting back the nervous beats that fluttered in his stomach. Talking about Lacy—it was going to be hard. Had been. The only conversation he'd had with anyone since her death had been with Max, and that ate at him like battery acid, leaving him more empty than before. He knew this was something that had to be done. Way down, he knew it. But dealing with it was another story.

“Where's this place?”

“Thirty-fifth and Madison.” She settled back in her seat and snatched a look. She wasn't sure when he looked better—in his casual, too-clean-for-you clothes, or when he was slamming like he was now in his hunter-green baggy jacket, money-green T-shirt and wide-legged pants. His Hershey's chocolate skin was so smooth it looked good enough to lick, and his black locks glistened with health.

“Can I open a window?”

“Open the window?” He looked at her, his thick brows bunching up. “The air is on, girl. Want me to turn it up?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” She dug in her bag for a stick of gum and proceeded to chew.

They rode in silence until he hit the FDR Drive. “So what's supposed to go down with this dude?” Quinn asked, his stomach getting tighter as they approached.

“They're gonna want all the info we have—ask questions—and take it from there.” She turned to look.

His large hands gripped the wheel with such force that she could see the veins pulsing. The hard line of his jaw protruded, from the flexing of his teeth. Even behind his shades she noticed the tightly drawn impressions between his eyes.

“You cool, Q?”

“Yeah, yeah. Why?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Tense vibes that you're giving off. That's all.

“It's all good, Max.” He took a breath. There was no one he could talk to about how he felt about Lacy—losing Lacy—but Maxine. She'd understand. But it was still hard, and he couldn't stand for her to see him weak and breaking down. That wasn't his role. So he kept everything sealed up inside, but sometimes he just felt like he was gonna explode if the words, the hurt, the confusion and the rage didn't find a way to come out.

The sounds of Hot 97, pulsing through the radio, with DJ Wendy Williams's intermittent chatter, kept up the conversation that they couldn't hold.

Maxine finally broke the silence. “Q, you wanna talk for a minute before we go in? I mean, I know this isn't easy…for either of us.”

He sat there for a few minutes, staring straight ahead, his hands in a death grip on the wheel. Slowly he let out a breath.

“Maybe some other time, Max.” He turned glistening eyes in her direction. “Thanks.”

She covered his hand with her own. “You know I'm always here for ya, Q.”

“Yeah.” He nodded and put the car in park. “Come on. Let's get this done.”

 

The law offices of Michaels and Phillips, a husband-and-wife team, were by no means like those on
L.A. Law,
but they had class.

He looked around while the receptionist buzzed Sean Michaels. The beige leather furniture was cool—nothing he would put in his crib, but it served its purpose. Guess there was no point in getting nothing too top-of-the-line, with all kinds of people sitting on it all the time.

The steady flow of nervous energy propelled him back and forth across the beige carpeted floor.

Nice lights. He would have chosen track, but the recessed ones were cool, too.

On one wall were photographs of Johnnie Cochran and a smiling couple. On another was the same couple, looking as if they were talking with Al Sharpton.

He had turned to look at the plaques when a tall, well-built,
Armani-bedecked man just about Quinn's height stepped out into the reception area and greeted them.

Same dude as in the pictures. High-powered, connected, Quinn decided. Maybe he
could
make something happen. He'd have to see.