A Private Affair (30 page)

And she was scared. Bad. She'd never admit it to Quinn, or to anybody else for that matter. The truth was, Nikita Harrell had a hold over Quinn that she never understood, had the ability to make him change his whole world, his outlook, his friendships. Even halfway across the country, four-hundred pages of
a book and three years later, she still had that hold. How could she ever hope to fight against that kind of power? How?

Her heart was racing a mile a minute as she held his hand while the line moved up for boarding.

He got to the entrance and she knew this was it. One way or the other.

Quinn turned to her, sensing her hesitation. His gaze held on to her. And he kissed her, a fleeting but gentle kiss.

“I'll be back, Maxie.”

“I know.”

She smiled that smile that he loved, that little toothpick gap winking at him.

And then he was gone.

She stood against the railing, not sure for how long, watching the planes come and go, knowing that one of them was his, just as she had three years earlier, when he'd called during those early morning hours and said he was on his way.

When he'd stepped off that plane and she saw him coming down the gangway, all the years, the emptiness, slipped away. They hugged each other and laughed, just like old times. She didn't ask him why he'd come, or how long he was staying. She didn't want to know.

He'd rejected her offer to stay with her and checked into a hotel until he found an apartment through the same realty agency that had located her town house. It was only then that she knew this wasn't just a short visit.

She didn't know what he did with his days, and didn't ask, knowing that he'd tell her whatever he wanted her to know. What she did know was that he was going through a healing process, a taking stock of himself and his life. And that took time.

They spent their free time together and some afternoons and evenings, too, sitting out in the back of her town house, soaking up the sun, talking, listening and just being Q and Max. They shopped together, looking for things for their respective residences, combing the streets of San Francisco for just that perfect somethin' somethin'.

Then the letter came. And everything changed.

She'd just gotten in from work and was totally worn out. All she wanted was a quiet night, a hot bath and bed.

She'd slowly climbed the stairs and went into her bedroom, tossing her purse and briefcase onto the cushiony chair by her bed. Stripping out of her clothes, she dropped them in a heap and headed for the bathroom. Just then the phone rang.

She had a good mind to let the answering machine pick up, but whoever it was she'd probably have to call back, anyway.
Might as well get it over with,
she'd thought.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Max. It's Q.”

“Hey, yourself.” She sat down, a soft smile on her face, feeling her body slowly uncoil. “Whatsup?” She wiggled her toes.

“You busy tonight?”

“Maybe,” she teased. “Depends.”

He heard the smirk in her voice and couldn't help but smile. “I wondered if it would be cool if I came over. There's somethin' I want to run by you…ya know…”

There was something in his voice that put her senses on alert. There was never any formality between them. He'd never asked to come over before, and neither had she.

“What's wrong, Q?”

She didn't hear anything but his breathing.

“Q?”

“Is it cool, Max?”

“Yeah…sure. Come on by.”

“Thanks. See you in about an hour.”

She'd taken a shower instead of her desired bath, changed clothes, and then found herself pacing, her thoughts driving her up the wall. Something had shaken him. Bad. She could tell by the vacant tone in his voice. And she was chewing her gum so hard and fast her jaws were beginning to ache.

When the doorbell suddenly rang, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She ran to the door and pulled it open.

The whites of his eyes were red. His smooth face looked drawn, as if he hadn't slept in days. His usual overpowering aura seemed to have dimmed, like a bulb that wasn't bright enough for a room.

Her stomach muscles tightened. “Quinn, you're scarin' me. What's the matter?”

He dipped his head and stepped inside, brushing past her and into the living room. He sat down on the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him.

She sat on the love seat, opposite him, her heart in her throat.

He dug in the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a thick white envelope and handed it to her.

She blinked, took a breath and opened the envelope, noticing the New York address and Sean's law firm's name.

Slowly she unfolded the pages.

She couldn't read any more through the haze of her tears. Her hands shook as she refolded the letter.

“Just a bunch of numbers, Max. Written off and filed away. That's all Lacy was to them. Her…whole…life. Shit! I thought I could handle it…Max…I…”

Then she saw them trickle slowly down his cheeks. Her heart nearly stopped beating. And her insides rushed up to her throat. She'd never seen him cry. Not even at the funeral. Not even when they put Lacy in the ground. And her own tears fell as she went to him, wrapping him in her arms, shushing away the pain, holding on to his shudders, making them her own.

She kissed away his tears, tasting the saltiness on her lips,
brushing his hair away from his face, whispering over and again, “It's okay, Q. Just let it go.”

He looked at her then, really looked, beyond the little girl he used to tease, beyond the woman who had it going on, past the friend and confidante that she'd always been, to the woman his heart had been fighting for far too long, the one who had always brought peace to his mind, smiles to his face and an ease to his soul. The one he'd always turned to, no matter what. The one who gave and never asked for anything in return.

His eyes danced over her face and she looked back, knowing that his heart had finally seen inside hers.

She smiled a soft, gentle smile and nodded slowly, her hand stroking his damp cheek. “Yes, it is okay, Q.”

He cupped her face in his hands, bringing her to meet his waiting lips, and drank of what she offered.

They explored each other, slow and easy as it had always been between them. Whispers, laughter, soft moans and sighs of arousal filled the spaces, floated through the air.

As she stood before him, nude and exquisite, and led him upstairs to her bedroom, he knew that whatever had been would only be better, richer, fuller.

When they were together on the downy softness of her bed, moving to a secret rhythm, listening to the beat of their hearts, he realized that he didn't just want to satisfy her, hear her shout his name, ask for more. He wanted to make her happy, as happy as she'd always made him.

 

It seemed that she'd been waiting all her life for this moment. To give herself, her being, to the only man she'd ever loved. When she felt him enter her body, fill her and move within the wet confines of her walls, suckle her breasts, slip his tongue in her mouth when she cried out, she lost a part of herself that she'd never been willing to give up before. She'd been holding on to it, saving it, for this moment. This time with him.

There were no bridges to cross, no gaps to fill, no finding of a middle ground.

It was just
all good.

They moved into a higher level of their relationship, then, a keener awareness of each other and their needs.

Although he kept his apartment, he spent most of his time at her place, except when he closed himself off to work on the book. That was hard for her, realizing that he was pouring out his relationship with Nikita onto the pages, and she preferred not to read it—not really wanting to know, just understanding that it was something he needed to do. He'd decided to use part of the money to open a recording studio, and with the other part he started the Lacy Parker Foundation for minority kids who had an interest in music but couldn't afford lessons or instruments.

Both had taken off. The studio kept him busy and he'd even recorded his own album. The foundation had helped more than a hundred needy kids in just over a year.

And in between it all, he wrote.

And day by day, she loved him more. Even if she never said the words.

She blinked back the memories, pushed away from the window and moved toward the exit.

Walking through the airport parking lot, she recalled an old saying of her grandmother's.
“If you love someone, love them enough to let them go away. If your love is returned they'll come back to stay.”

“Hope you're right, Grandma,” she whispered.

Ain't No Mountain High

T
he spring weekend was far too short, Nikita mused, pulling her Benz into the parking garage where her new offices were housed. She handed her monthly coupon to the attendant.

Grant had definitely lived up to his pledge to take care of her. There wasn't a thing she'd asked for that he hadn't given or done.

The only thing that Grant was lacking was an ability to totally satisfy her. He wasn't an inconsiderate lover, just an unimaginative one. She had yet to feel the sparks of undeniable desire boil in her veins for Grant. Never had. But back then, that first time around, she hadn't known the difference. Until Quinn.

There was no denying that she and Quinn, physically, had fit like two pieces of a puzzle. She squirmed uncomfortably in her seat at the titillating thought. It was the other aspects of their lives that stayed in turmoil.

But, now she had Grant. Grant was good for her. And she was finally beginning to accept having someone take care of things for her for a change. And it felt good.

She supposed.

Moving toward her office, she felt that old familiar rush surge
through her veins when she looked at the gold lettering on the door.
Harrell Publishing, Inc.
Hers. Her hard work and determination had paid off.

Her heels clicked with purpose across the marble floors, the sound of a polished businesswoman who had the right contacts, the right clothes, a devoted staff and the right man. That old Virginia Slims commercial ran in her head—“You've come a long way, baby.”

Nikita opened the entrance door of the office and was thrown into openmouthed shock when a thundering round of “Welcome back!” nearly hurled her back out the way she'd come in.

For several breathless seconds, she just stood there, her hand pressed against her chest, willing her heart to be still, while her staff of ten enveloped her in hugs and kisses of welcome.

Her eyes stung and her throat felt tight. This was the last thing she'd expected.

“I…don't…know what to say.” She sniffed back impending tears.

“Just tell everyone how much you missed them so we can dig into these bagels,” a familiar voice rang out from the back of the group.

Nikita looked up and her eyes widened, then narrowed. She pointed an accusing finger in Grant's direction. “You…you knew all along. You sneak!”

“I confess.” He made his way toward her. “But they swore me to secrecy,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“I'll pay you back later, bud,” she said, low enough for only him to hear.

She looked around and beamed. “You guys are really something. This is great.”

Monica slipped her arm around Nikita's waist. “'Scuse us a minute, Grant.” She squeezed between the couple, pulling Nikita aside. “Girl, it's good to have you back.” She ushered her toward the spread of donuts, bagels, juice and coffee. “Just want to warn you. I set up a lunch meeting with that new author I told you about. He'll be in town tomorrow, then we can talk contracts.”

“No problem, as far as I know. I'd have rather had some more
time to go over the manuscript before meeting with him. But I'll try to get through as much of it as possible between now and then.”

“You would have thought, with a novel like this, he'd have gone to one of the major houses for the big bucks,” Monica said, “but hey, don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Right?”

She was getting that funny feeling in her stomach again, as if she were on a roller coaster. She smiled faintly. “Right.”

Grant stepped up to the duo. “Listen, sweetheart, I have to get back to my office.”

Just that quickly, she'd forgotten he was there. “Oh, Grant.” She blinked. “How did you manage to get away? Those tightwad accountants are sticklers for time.”

He grinned. “I told my boss I had an appointment with the IRS.”

Monica gave him a blank look, obviously not getting the joke.

Grant's sense of humor somehow always reflected numbers or accounts in some form or fashion. It took some getting used to, and his years in the air force had only made him stiffer.

Nikita tiptoed and brushed her lips against his. “Thanks for coming, sweetheart.”

“Pick you up after work?”

“I drove in. I didn't feel like being at the mercy of a cabdriver today.”

“Then I'll see you at six. Try to be ready.”

“Very funny.” That was the one bone of contention between her and Grant. He was a stickler for time, just like that group he worked with. Often it bordered on annoying. Her thoughts had already shifted to the manuscript, and she was actually eager for Grant to leave so she could get to work.

 

After the staff had devoured the morning feast and returned to their desks, Nikita and Monica retreated to Nikita's office.

“Wow, this feels good.” Nikita sat, then leaned back against her high-back leather swivel chair, just like the one she'd seen in her little-girl dreams.

She let out a breath. “Okay, so let's have it. What's the story on the new author?”

Monica sat down, a Cheshire-cat grin on her butterscotch
face, and crossed her long legs, purposely dragging out and dramatizing the moment. “W-e-l-l, as I mentioned in the fax, about three weeks ago I got this package—no agent, just regular mail. I started to just put it aside, but when I had some time on my hands I took a peek. Let's put it this way—I started reading and couldn't stop. It's that good, Nikita. It's hot. It had me laughin', cryin' and swearin'. I've read few stories like that, written by a man, with so much passion and insight.” She shook her head. “This author has talent to the bone.”

“Can't wait to read it.”

“I'll bring it right in.” Monica popped up from her seat, went to the door and stopped. “Hey, Niki, didn't someone named Quinn work at the magazine from time to time just before I started?”

Her stomach rose and fell. She focused on her appointment book while she answered. “Yes. Why?”

“Q. J. Parker. His name is Quinten. Wouldn't it be something if it was the same guy?” She hurried out.

Her world started to spin.

Moments later, Monica reappeared with the box containing the manuscript. “Here it is. Enjoy. I have a stack of stuff on my desk to take care of. See you later.”

Nikita's eyes trailed to the box as if magnetically drawn. “Sure,” she mumbled. “Thanks.”

For several interminable moments, she just sat there staring at the covered box, teetering on the threshold of indecision. A part of her, the publisher part, was eager to read the contents. But the woman, the one who was still trying to put her life back together, hesitated. Hesitated, because if Quinn had written a book that took the reader's breath away, she didn't know if she would be woman enough to publish it. No matter what the rewards.

She turned her attention to her calendar, checking production dates for upcoming titles and reacquainting herself with appointments that had been made months ago.

She spent the next three hours returning phone calls, reviewing bills and catching up on correspondence. But her gaze and her thoughts kept drifting back and forth to the box.

“This is ridiculous.” She swallowed and tossed her pen down on her desk. She reached for the cover and snatched it open.

There, staring at her in big bold letters was
A Private Affair,
by Q. J. Parker. She inhaled a shaky breath and reached for the first page when the phone rang, a momentary reprieve.

“Imani. How are you?”

“Not so good, Ms. Harrell. My contract says that I have no input about the cover art. That's totally unfair. Suppose the artwork is horrid?”

Generally, Nikita didn't take these calls. She let Monica handle them. But Imani Angoza was a brilliant, budding novelist who needed to be handled with kid gloves. Although she loved Monica to pieces, Monica had a way of expressing her displeasure that wasn't always too subtle.

“You did sign the contract. And I know you had your attorney look it over, because she returned it to me personally before I went away.”

“But, Ms. Harrell. I—”

“Tell you what, when the cover layouts are submitted I'll call you and we'll review them together. How does that sound?”

“Great. Thank you, Ms. Harrell,” she said, finally losing the whine in her voice. “I don't mean to be a nag, but this is important to me.”

“Of course it is. It's important to me, also. I'll keep you up-to-date on the progress.”

“Thank you. I'll call you. Soon.”

Nikita smiled.
I know you will.
“Do that.”

She leaned back in her seat, resting her head against the cool leather. She closed her eyes. Her head was starting to pound, and when she opened her eyes and looked up at the antique grandfather clock that sat in the corner of her office, it was past one.

Well, she'd successfully gotten through her morning without reading one word of the manuscript. She sighed. She'd planned to cut her day short anyway, in preparation for the evening. If she left now, she'd have plenty of time to take care of her running around, read some of the contents of the box and be ready in time for Grant to pick her up at six.

She shut off her computer, packed her briefcase and tucked the box under her arm. The office had cleared out for lunch by the time she came out front. She left a note on Monica's desk.

Impatiently, she shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for the elevator. Grant was such a pain about time, and could make her entire evening an exercise in misery if she weren't ready. She didn't want anything to ruin her reunion with Parris.

They'd made plans to meet after her show for a late dinner. Just the two of them. To catch up.

While she waited impatiently at a red light, she checked her watch. Time seemed to be moving at an incredible speed today. Then, when she looked up at the street signs, she realized that she'd taken the wrong route home and had completely bypassed the cleaners. She had to pick up the dress she'd planned to wear tonight and stop at the market, which was in the opposite direction. She took a left at the intersection and sped off.

What's wrong with me? Can't seem to stay focused. Maybe it's just the aftereffects of the trip.

She stopped by the market and selected the few items that she needed to prepare a light meal for her and Grant.

Jumping back into the Benz, she pulled out into traffic and zipped around a slow-moving Caddy.

As much as she didn't want to admit it, she knew it was the resurgence of old thoughts and feelings about Quinn that were playing havoc with her emotions.

Annoyed with herself—her weakness and inability to seal her heart against memories of Quinn—she slapped away the lock with the little seashell, the one that now reached below her shoulders, and turned on two wheels onto her block.

She was almost grateful that Grant would be coming in a few hours. If anyone could put order back in her life, Grant could.

 

Nikita hung the dress in the closet, chuckling on her way to the kitchen. She knew Parris would leap at the chance to steal it from her if she wasn't careful.

“Not this time, sistah.” That dress had been pure extravagance. She'd paid nearly a month's rent for the creation.

She began gathering the ingredients for an early meal with Grant. She whipped together a pasta salad on a bed of fresh spinach, lightly seasoned with oil, just the way Grant liked it.

Yet, no matter how hard she tried, memories, visions and desires for Quinn seemed to taunt her, come to life with every blink of her eye.

Her hands had the slightest tremor as she replaced the condiments. Her heart beat a little faster when she briefly shut her eyes and imagined his scent. The assault on her senses was almost more than she could stand. What was worse was accepting how desperately she still missed him.

“Go away!” She pounded her fist against the yellow counter-top that they'd prepared so many meals on together, and lowered her head. “Go away,” she whispered.

Totally frazzled, she returned to the living room, the box with the manuscript calling out to her from the coffee table where she'd left it. She moved slowly toward it, picking up its weight and settling herself down on the couch.

She pulled off the box top and the cover page beneath and began to read….

 

Steam rolled off the New York City streets in waves, pushing intrepid strollers to seek refuge in the cool confines of cafés, malls and local bars. The heat this summer afternoon was beyond intense. But that wasn't why the folks on Malcolm X Boulevard and 135th Street would remember that day. No, it wouldn't be remembered for the heat, but for the many lives that were irrevocably changed by an ugly twist of fate.