Guilty of Love (23 page)

Checking herself out in the mirror,
she admired her tight, fitted jeans, scooped neck jersey, and new
shoes as her doorbell rang. A second chime made Hallison hurry to
the door and open it.

Malcolm discharged a slow whistle as
he perused her from head to toe. He fingered her cheeks on his way
to her soft shoulder-length curls. Eventually, his thumb nudged her
face closer. She enjoyed his appraisal before he indulged her in a
slow, drugging kiss. “This evening, I’ll share you with my family.
Later tonight and tomorrow, I’ll share you with no one. You’re
mine, woman.”

***

Parke smirked. It was a miracle that
Cheney was speaking to him again. The woman moved around in Parke’s
kitchen like she lived there.

“
I can’t believe I’m inside
your house.”

“
I can’t believe you know
how to cook,” he teased her.

“
Whose fault is it if I
don’t, Mr. Macho Man? I was looking forward to sampling the African
dishes this week, but no, you told your instructor friend to let
someone else have my spot. I ought to dump this tetrazzini on your
conceited head.” Cheney lifted the six-quart baking pan overhead to
demonstrate.

“
You’re serious, aren’t
you?” Parke held up his hand to ward off any disaster.

“
Yes, you suggested that
place and then you acted like a fool.”

“
I apologize again, but it
was your hairdo that drove me to do it and those pack of wolves
acting crazy that night. You’re irresistible.”

“
Whatever. I’m only cooking
here because Grandma BB said your background check came back clean.
So there.” Cheney stuck out her tongue.

Was she aware that she was teasing
him? Parke cleared his throat. “Your neighbor is crazy.”

“
Yes, she is, so be
careful. How often do the Jamiesons have a party,
anyway?”

“
We used to have family
night every week. Now that everyone’s busy—once a month. You can
stay, you know.” He admired her casual attire, but smiled at her
polka-dot socks. Pretending to sniff the dish, Parke leaned forward
and inhaled Cheney’s subtle scent. “Man, you smell
good.”

“
You sure it’s not the food
you smell?”

“
Yep, you always smell like
sweet fruits. What’s in that stuff anyway?” Parke lifted his
eyebrow, eying the mess. “Please tell me you know what you’re
doing.”

A mischievous grin spread across
Cheney’s face. “Maybe, I’m experimenting.” They both enjoyed a
laugh before she glanced around her surroundings again. “This is a
fantastic kitchen, by the way. From what I’ve seen, your entire
house is nice.”

Parke’s phone rang just as Cheney
sprinkled Parmesan cheese on top of the dish. “You better get that
Parkay. It could be a client needing a hot tip.”

Answering, he watched her work
effortlessly around his kitchen. “Hello.” Parke mumbled into the
phone, “Mom, she doesn’t know she’s meeting any of you, so come at
seven instead of eight o’clock. I already told Malcolm
yesterday.”

“
PJ, doesn’t that poor girl
know she’s invited? If she’s like any other woman, she’ll want to
look her best and—”

“
Mom, I guarantee she won’t
want to impose. She’d never admit she’s lonely. Her family is more
hostile than al-Qaida, and her next-door neighbor is tougher than a
pit bull on steroids,” he whispered into the phone before they said
their good-byes.

Smiling, Parke couldn’t imagine not
having a close-knit family. Cheney continued to prepare dishes as
he snuck up behind her. Stupefied, he scrutinized the contents in
the pan. “I thought you said you knew how to bake a
cake?”

Nonchalantly, she glanced over her
shoulder and laughed at what had to be a grief-stricken expression.
“It’s dump cake, Parke. I don’t need milk, water, or eggs. I spread
a layer of sliced peaches, add another layer of apple-pie filling,
then dump the cake mix straight from the box on top.” She
demonstrated by leveling off the mound. “Cover with one stick of
butter slices and
viola,
a masterpiece.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It
looks more like a master mess.”

Nostrils flaring, she lifted one soft,
sexy eyebrow. “Never challenge a new millennium woman who’s six
feet. You’re likely to get slam dunked.”

“
Really?” Within inches of
her mouth, Parke invaded her space. Cheney’s intoxicating scent
whipped around his head, and her long lashes held power over him.
He was the one who felt weak in his knees. She didn’t back away or
blink.

“
On second thought, I’ll
give you your space.” Grabbing a dishtowel, Parke rubbed at
imaginary dirt on his counter, eyeing the clock. He had to keep her
there.

“
Good idea, strong Black
warrior chief of the Diomande tribe.”

His mouth dropped open like an
unlocked gate. “You remember that?”

Walking to the sink, she bumped him
out the way. “Of course.”

“
Ouch!” Rubbing his thigh,
he feigned injury. “I see you’re using your secret weapon again,
brick house.”

She ignored him as she rinsed her
cooking utensils before placing them in his dishwasher. “Your story
was fascinating. How could anyone not remember?”

“
So you’re not fascinated
with me, huh?”

She tilted her head, thinking. “Nope,
just your family heritage.”

“
Seriously, don’t you want
all this?” He swept his hand in the air.

“
I already have all this, a
house, and a kitchen.”

“
What about a family,
children to continue your heritage, your future?”

Staring through Parke, she sighed.
“Sometimes, it’s not good to dream the impossible dream. At one
time, I wanted a family.” She erected a wall before his eyes. “I’ve
been domesticated enough today. I better head home before your
family arrives.”

Wanted a family—past tense, what
happened? Parke peeked at his watch
.
Thirty more
minutes
.
“You leave when you know a brother needs you. I
can’t remember how to make your fancy drink. I guess I’ll serve
Kool-Aid with your dish.”

Cheney rolled her eyes and sighed.
“Parfait, Parke. Three simple ingredients: soda, punch, and
raspberry sherbet.” Shaking her head, she popped him with a wet
hand towel. “You’re sad, pitiful, and slow. Give me your punch
bowl.”

They were straightening the kitchen
when the doorbell chimed, Cheney jumped. “Your family is early.”
She quickly washed her hands and untied her checkered
apron.

While she was in panic mode, Parke
strolled out the kitchen. He opened his front door to greet his
parents. Their chatty and cheerful voices grew louder as footsteps
echoed across the hardwood floor.

Jingling keys announced Cheney’s
presence. “Hello, everyone, I’m Cheney Reynolds. I live in the
neighborhood.”

Everyone stopped in their tracks.
Parke eyed his dad who was smiling. He had never seen the senior
Jamieson grin approvingly at any of his dates. To impede Cheney’s
hasty retreat, Parke made introductions. She was embraced like an
old friend.

“
Hmm, something smells
good. I know you didn’t cook,” Hallison teased.

“
The credit goes to Cheney
and her tetrazzini.”

The elder Parke rubbed his hands
together. “Then, why are we standing around? Let’s get this party
started.”

Cheney glanced at her watch. “Give it
about ten more minutes. Don’t forget to toast the almonds and
sprinkle them on top before you serve it.”

His mother looked disappointed.
“Aren’t you staying, dear?”

“
No, Mrs. Jamieson. This is
your family night. I don’t want to intrude.”

“
Intrude, please intrude,”
Hallison begged as everyone chuckled.

“
You’re very kind to offer,
but I really must go. Have a good time. Good night.” She continued
to the door and Parke didn’t follow.

When the lock clicked, his dad
whistled. “Your taste is improving, son. She’s a beauty with little
effort.”

Charlotte grinned. “And she can cook,
which means my eldest boy won’t starve.”

“
What’s that I smell
baking?” Charlotte’s eyes widened.

“
Cheney’s dump cake,” Parke
stated with unexplainable pride.

Linking his fingers with Hallison’s,
Malcolm guided her to the dining room.

His dad twisted his lips, wiggling his
bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. “Is something finally developing
between the stalker and your prey?”

Laughter exploded. Even Parke chuckled
before answering, “I’m trying, Dad.”

“
Try harder. Lose the
cockiness, and you might have a chance.” His dad patted him on the
back. “Remember, the woman you fall in love with will determine
your destiny. Don’t mess up our name. C’mon. My stomach’s
growling.”

Minutes later, with a punch bowl on
the counter, Parke mixed the parfait according to Cheney’s
instructions.

Malcolm threaded his fingers through
his curly hair. “Maybe we should go to Cheney’s house and bring her
back,” he joked.

“
I like her. I get good
vibes from her,” Hallison said. “I think Parke’s
smitten.”

Leaning close, Malcolm outlined her
lips with his finger. “I know I am.”

Charlotte’s smile reached her eyes
before she turned to Parke. “You know, I think your brother has an
excellent idea. Let’s go.”

“
Go where? Wait a minute,
you plottin’ Jamiesons.” Parke stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“Cheney’s a private person who isn’t accustomed to all these warm
and fuzzy feelings, especially from her own family.”

Parke’s father held up board games.
“All the more reason to go.”

Charlotte whispered to Hallison, then
they began to pack up trays, paper plates and napkins. “If she
won’t stay for our party, we’ll take the party to her.”

A grin spread between Parke’s lips.
“Let’s go. This ought to be interesting.”

***

Cheney had enjoyed the harmless
flirtation with Parke in his kitchen, but as soon as she stepped
into her haven, her mood changed. Even a refreshing shower couldn’t
cleanse her melancholy as she recalled the smiles, laughter, and
love she’d witnessed.

Parke’s brother held a striking
resemblance to him, except Malcolm was thicker. Mrs. Jamieson oozed
with charm, classic elegance, and a warm spirit. She definitely fit
an Elaine persona—beautiful and the mother of handsome
sons.

Squatting by her bed, Cheney thrust
her hand into a basket, grabbing a bottle of lotion. She thought
about the major disconnect with her parents and siblings. She’d
hurt them. Cheney’s father drilled into her head the importance of
life, regardless of the quality. Exhausted from thinking, Cheney
closed her eyes.

As if a lightning bolt zapped her,
tears sprouted and streamed down her cheeks. Cheney covered her
face, sobbing uncontrollably. “This is silly. I don’t even know why
I’m crying.” Standing, she put on her Mickey Mouse pajamas for bed.
Still dazed, she walked into the bathroom and systematically
applied layers of cold cream to her face.

While braiding her hair, she heard a
faint ringing in the distance. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so she
ignored it. Heavy knocking replaced the doorbell. Her first thought
was Mrs. Beacon. Cheney barely grabbed her robe as she raced out of
her room and jumped two stairs at a time. Her heart pounded against
her chest with anticipation of impending disaster.

Checking the peephole, Cheney flung
open her door, annoyed. “Parke, why are you beating on my door?”
She growled before noticing his entourage. Leaning against her
doorframe, she folded her arms and waited for an explanation.
“Okay, somebody, anybody, everybody, tell me what’s going on? The
party’s not here.”

Parke leaned forward, close to her
ear. “Ah, Cheney, if you’re trying to scare the neighborhood with
that stuff on your face, you succeeded. Trick or treat.”

The man’s attractiveness always seemed
to contradict his natural sense of humor, but Parke seemed to
lighten her mood. She would never admit that, but she craved him.
Plus, the short kiss they shared was nice. Being away from him had
caused her sour mood. She ignored the mischief in his eyes and
poked her finger in his chest. “See, you don’t have good sense.”
She dismissed him and turned to his mother.

“
Mrs. Jamieson, pardon my
rudeness. I usually reserve that for Parkay.”

They cackled at his nickname. Cheney
ushered them inside before they disturbed Mrs. Beacon who might
open her door with a loaded shotgun. “So why are you all
here?”

Mrs. Jamieson, the shortest of them,
lifted her bags. “Dear, we wanted to include you in our games. I
hope you don’t mind, we even brought food, and dessert.”

Cheney’s face was starting to feel
oily from the cold cream. She couldn’t believe she was standing in
her living room and dressed in her favorite pajamas talking to
Parke and his clan. She glanced at his brother and his girlfriend.
“This isn’t making any sense.”