Authors: Donna Hill
She wrapped her arms around him. “Make love to me,” she said, her words urgent and full of need.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure.” He took her hand and led her to his bedroom.
Chapter 32
C
ynthia awoke with a throbbing headache. She could barely open her eyes against the high noon sun. She squinted against the light and it only made matters worse.
She groaned as she tried to figure out why she felt so utterly horrible. Slowly, in bits and pieces, like a movie being edited, the previous night began to take shape.
She groaned again when she thought about how many drinks she’d had. Then, how in the world had she gotten home in the condition she knew she must have been in?
Gingerly she stood and walked with great trepidation toward the window. She peered through the slats in the blinds. Parked below was her car.
She didn’t remember driving home. She glanced down at herself and saw that she was still fully clothed.
Cynthia pressed her fingers to her temples and gently massaged them, hoping to still the thumping that beat in her head like a rock band.
She was inching past her dresser on the way to the bathroom when she noticed a note propped up against the mirror.
Rest well. I hope you don’t feel too bad in the morning and that you’ll let me see you again. Lance.
His phone number and a cell number were below his name.
Cynthia stared at the note until a faint image of Lance began to take form. Had anything happened between them? She was suddenly worried. But she still had all her clothes on. Hopefully that counted for something. If she had been as inebriated as she thought, why in the world would he want to see her again?
She folded the note and stuck it in the top drawer of the dresser. Maybe after a shower and a steaming cup of black coffee her head would clear. She crept to the bathroom, careful not to rattle her head with heavy footsteps.
* * *
Dressed in a worn jogging outfit and fluffy slippers, Cynthia sipped her coffee. Yesterday had been one for the record books, she thought. It was the confrontation with her mother that had sent her to a bar—alone—to wash away her sorry mother-daughter relationship.
Why couldn’t her mother simply love and respect her for who she was instead of working so hard to make her and her life appear so worthless and insignificant?
All her life she’d desperately wanted a relationship with her mother, but it was not to be.
But there was something else bothering her, something nagging in the back of her head that had nothing to do with the receding headache, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. Whatever it was had to do with her visit to her mother’s house.
Frowning in thought, she tried to figure it out, but the answer eluded her. Maybe it would come to her later, she concluded, and tried to push the unsettling feeling aside.
Cynthia checked the time on the clock that hung above the refrigerator. It was already three o’clock. More than half the day was gone and it had been uneventful, frustrating and lonely. What she craved was company, someone to talk to.
Pushing back from the table, she returned to her bedroom and retrieved the note from Lance. She sucked on her bottom lip debating whether or not to call. She couldn’t make any more of a fool of herself than she’d already done, she thought, taking the note and walking to the phone on the nightstand.
She sat down on the side of the bed and picked up the phone. “Here goes nothing,” she murmured.
* * *
“Tell me about this investigator, Jackson,” Lincoln said as he spooned with Desiree and kissed the back of her neck.
“It’s kind of hard to concentrate with you doing that,” she said, her voice thick and soft.
“Hmm. I can give you something hard if that’s what you really want,” Lincoln said in a voice filled with need.
“Behave,” she warned without bite.
“Can’t a guy have any fun?”
She turned over onto her other side to face him. “You’ve had enough fun to last you at least until tonight.”
“That’s what you say. I’m a growing boy,” he taunted, reaching for her hand to wrap around his sex.
“Oooh, so I see.” Her lids grew heavy as she stroked him to climax and listened to his moans of pleasure. She smiled, relishing in her power to arouse him, to satisfy him.
They lay curled in each other’s arms.
“I owe you one,” he said, catching his breath.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.” She kissed his lips.
They were quiet for a while, basking in the afterglow of rediscovering each other.
This was the way it had been between them in the early years of their relationship, Desiree thought. They couldn’t wait to get at each other with a hunger that seemed insatiable at times. There had been other men in her life before Lincoln, but none who could compare to him as a lover, none who could take her to the heights she reached with him.
Yes, she’d missed him, missed him more than she had ever been willing to admit, even to herself. The years that she had locked herself away from Lincoln and the possibility of love had changed her, made her distant and cautious with men. She didn’t want to risk her heart, or better, her body, with someone else. There were times when she’d been tempted to cross that line, but there was a part of her that inexplicably felt that she would be betraying Lincoln—even though they were apart. Silly, she mused, but it was how she’d felt. She was the reason that their relationship had been severed. She was the one who walked away from all that he offered. She’d been so afraid that he would somehow think less of her, love her less, that she would see the pity in his eyes, his loss of a family. And that was what she could not bear.
That was all behind them now. She should have trusted his love. Now she did. She would take him at his word that what he wanted was her, no matter what. With that thought to sustain her, she could deal with anything, even losing her own dream.
She kissed his cheek and his eyes fluttered open. A slow smile spread across his mouth as if seeing her was the most wonderful thing in the world to him.
“I was having the best dream,” he said in a still sleepy voice.
“What were you dreaming?” She traced his brows with her fingertip.
“Hmm, we were on a sailboat, out by The Port. The day was absolutely perfect. You had on the cutest short set,” he said, and playfully pinched her bare buttocks. “It left little to the imagination.”
“And what did
you
have on?”
“A pair of cutoff jeans and nothing else.” He smiled wickedly.
“Then what happened?”
“We sailed and talked, really talked, about our lives, what we wanted for ourselves and our future.” He looked into her eyes. “We can make it, Desi. I know we can.”
“So do I,” she readily admitted. “I know that now. I’ve been such a fool to have wasted so much time, time we can never get back.”
“None of that matters anymore, baby. The only thing that matters is now, and what we do from here on out.”
She nodded her head in agreement. “First thing tomorrow, I want to stop by Rachel’s house and pick up the paints and canvases that you bought for me.”
Lincoln propped himself up on his elbow. “Are you sure?”
“Definitely. It’s time. If there is one thing I’ve discovered in just the short time we’ve been back together, it’s that I can’t continue to live in fear or live in the past. What happened at the gallery was horrible and I’ll feel the loss for a long time. But I can’t let it cripple me and stop me from what I love to do. And I have you to thank for that. For pushing possibility in my face and making me look at it, daring me to dream again.”
“All I want, all I’ve ever wanted was your happiness, in whatever form that took. But I know you. And I know that art runs in your veins. It nourishes you like the average person gets nourishment from food and water. No matter what I did or didn’t do, I know that at some point you would have been able to cross that line yourself. You’re too tough to let life beat you down. It was all temporary.”
She grinned. “Yeah, I am kinda tough—sometimes.”
“No one on this planet can be more determined or single-minded than you. You’ve had your share of trauma and you weathered the storm.”
“What storms have you weathered?”
He shrugged slightly. “I guess my biggest hurdle was growing up in foster care after my folks passed, moving from one family to the other, never knowing when the social worker was going to come and take me to the next stop.” He laughed without humor. Desiree stroked his arm.
“I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. Coming from a big family…I know that’s why family and roots are so important to you.”
He tugged in a long breath and let it go. “I suppose so.”
She cupped his face and forced him to look at her. “That’s why I want you to be absolutely sure that staying with me and us not being able to have kids is what you really want, Lincoln. I don’t want you to regret it.”
“You’re all I want,” he said, with all the sincerity in his soul. “I’m very sure.” He pulled her close. “Now that we have that settled—because it is settled—tell me about this investigator.”
“Well, as I mentioned, I ran into Allison, an old college friend from Howard University…”
Lincoln listened, putting the pieces together in his head.
“So your friend is working on an investigative piece on insurance fraud schemes.”
“Right. And when I started talking about my situation she mentioned Jackson, the husband of another college friend, Carly.” Desiree sat up in bed. “As a matter of fact I was supposed to talk to Allison today.”
She tossed off the sheet and made a slow, teasing game of stretching her nakedness across Lincoln’s body to get the phone from the nightstand. And he took every available advantage that was boldly laid out in front of him for the taking.
He lifted her on top of him and nibbled her neck, then eased down until a delectable nipple teased his lips.
Desiree released a soft moan as she pressed her pelvis against his and dialed the number that she’d committed to memory. It took all of her concentration to keep her mind on the prompts of Allison’s answering machine and leave a message that made sense. She pressed the appropriate buttons and Lincoln pressed all of hers. She could barely get the words out when Lincoln pushed up inside her, making her gasp into the phone. He moved in a steady circular motion until Desiree felt as if she were on fire.
The phone fell to the floor and there was no telling what Allison would hear when she got the message.
Desiree braced her weight on her calves and forearms and took her time showing him that she could give just as good as she got.
* * *
“At some point we should get up and eat,” Lincoln said as he stretched his long limbs like a lazy panther and stood.
“I am starved. I’ll flip you for who cooks.”
He turned to her. “As a tribute to our reuniting, let’s go out and eat.”
“I knew there was a reason why I liked you,” she said with a grin.
“You wound me. I thought it was my sexy smile.”
“Not!” She got up, grabbed one of Lincoln’s shirts out of the closet and put it on. “As long as it’s no place fancy,” she said, heading for the shower. “Just someplace cozy and with good food.”
“Sounds fine to me. Don’t be too long,” he called out as she shut the door. “I remember growing gray hair waiting for you to come out of the shower.”
Desiree pulled open the bathroom door and threw a towel with dead aim that beaned him right on the head. She quickly closed and locked the door before he had a chance to retaliate.
Lincoln laughed out loud, picked up the towel from the floor and spotted the discarded phone. He picked it up, disconnected the line, then listened for the telltale beeps to indicate waiting messages. When he heard the tones he dialed his code. There were two messages, both of them from Allison.
The first one was apparent that she was having fun at their personal expense, reenacting the sounds of their lovemaking. She closed her blow-by-blow commentary with “I hope I have as much fun as you two seem to be having when my husband gets home. You go, girl! I guess I should call back.”
The second message wasn’t as fun-filled.
Chapter 33
C
ynthia was still stunned at her out-of-character move of calling Lance. Getting men was something she’d never really had a problem with; the problem was keeping them. For some reason she seemed to scare men off. She wasn’t sure if they simply had no interest in her, or if somehow her mother had gotten to them and scared them away—or worse, paid them off.
In any event, her once long dance card had dwindled. Her only real friend was Desiree. She enjoyed her company and her offhanded take on life. Desiree was down-to-earth and rarely pulled punches even when she was being polite about telling someone off. Which was one of the things that was driving Desiree to distraction—she couldn’t really tell Carl off the way she wanted to.
Cynthia couldn’t count the number of times that Desiree had stormed through the store cussing up a storm after one of Carl’s impromptu visits. He truly rubbed her the wrong way and he was totally clueless. But if he did know, he didn’t care. It was plain to anyone watching that Carl Hampton had the hots for Desiree Armstrong.
Cynthia peered closer in the mirror and applied her mascara. Carl Hampton was the kind of man her mother would love to see her with. She cringed. He might be wealthy and actually handsome, but there was just something about him that she didn’t like.
She stepped back and assessed her handiwork. Satisfied that she’d added just enough of everything, she went in search of her cream-colored sling backs. They would go perfectly with the spaghetti-strapped sheath she selected in a cool melon color. She wanted to look soft and feminine but not obvious. However, anything would be an improvement over how she must have looked last night. She stepped into her shoes just as the doorbell rang.
“Right on time. I like that.”
But as she walked toward the door her confidence began to wane. Had she been so desperately lonely that she was willing to call up a virtual stranger and take him up on his offer?
The bell rang again. Perhaps she should cut her losses and pretend she wasn’t home. She bit down on her thumbnail, a nervous childhood habit. Well, she thought, putting one foot in front of the other, desperate times called for desperate measures. She tugged in a breath, put on her best smile and opened the door.
When she did, her stomach did a funny little dance. Lance was nothing like the fuzzy image that she remembered. He was moderately tall, about an even six feet, with sable-brown hair parted on the side and the darkest blue eyes she’d ever seen.
“Remember me?” he asked, with a gentle smile.
“Yes, but trust me, this is much better.” She laughed self-consciously. “Come in.” She stepped aside and let him pass, catching a quick whiff of his cologne, which reminded her of pure clean. Nice, she thought. “Can I get you anything.”
“No, I’m fine,” he said, turning to her and sliding his hands into his pants pockets. “I didn’t really get a chance to look around last night. You have a very nice place.”
“Thank you. And thank you for bringing me home…safely.”
“Don’t mention it. I see you read a lot.” He walked toward the wall-to-wall bookcase in the open living room. “Mostly art books, I see.”
“Something I thought I wanted to be when I grew up.” She followed him into the living room.
He angled his head toward her in question. “Something you wanted to be?”
“I have a great love for art. I just don’t have the skills needed to be a real artist.”
“Hmm. It’s all very subjective, you know. One man’s trash is the next man’s Picasso.”
They laughed.
“True,” Cynthia said. “Have a seat, if we’re not in a hurry.”
“Thanks. I figured we’d play it by ear.” He sat at the end of the eggshell-colored couch. “I wasn’t really sure what you liked to eat and I didn’t want to assume.”
“That’s refreshing.”
“What is?”
“The idea that you didn’t want to assume you knew my tastes and were actually willing to wait and ask. Most men don’t do that.”
“Maybe you’ve been hanging out with the wrong crowd.”
“I’m beginning to think so.” She sat opposite him on the matching love seat. “So what do you do? I’m sure you told me, but I couldn’t tell you.” She crossed her long legs.
For a moment Lance’s gaze traveled up and down the length of her shapely calf, then focused on her face. “I’m a playwright.”
Her eyes widened. “A playwright. Wow. I’ve never met a playwright before.”
He chuckled at her reaction. “We’re a pretty ordinary bunch.”
She leaned forward. “What have you written?”
He ran off a short list of plays and she was even more surprised to discover that she’d heard of some and had seen others.
“I really am impressed.”
“Thanks.”
Now his name was ringing the right bells. Lance Freeman, the playwright, sitting in her living room. She frowned.
“I could have sworn you told me you were a shrink.” She looked at him askance.
“What I said was I listened to people for a living and you asked if that made me a shrink. I said some might say that. I do listen to people for a living. That’s how I come up with ideas for my plays and develop characters, by listening.” He stretched his arm out across the back of the couch.
“I’m not going to wind up the drunk blonde in your next play, am I?”
He chuckled. “I would never be that obvious. So…tell me about this art thing that you
don’t
do.”
Cynthia explained what had been her position at the gallery and all that had transpired.
“Wow. I remember reading about that in the paper. So what do you plan to do now?”
“I’m not sure really. A lot depends on Desiree. I’d love to continue working for her.”
“Ever think about opening your own gallery?”
“Hmm, not really. Why?”
“Maybe you should.” He stood up. “We should get going. If we get an early dinner, perhaps we can catch a movie if you’re up for it.”
“Sounds perfect.”
* * *
Desiree finally emerged from the bathroom.
“All yours,” she announced, crossing the room wrapped in a towel.
“Allison called while we were… She said she has some information for you and wants you to call her.” Lincoln handed Desiree the sheet of paper with Allison’s phone number on it. “She said she wasn’t at home but left this number and said it was important that you reach her.”
Desiree took the paper from him and sat down next to him on the bed. She reached for the phone. “Did she say what it was?”
“No, just that you should call as soon as you could. She, uh…heard us.”
Desiree made a face. “Oooh. Maybe I’ll tell her it was a movie.” She laughed and punched in the number. The phone rang three times before Allison picked up.
Desiree spoke with her for a few minutes, then looked at Lincoln. “Sure, we can meet you. Just tell me where.”