Operation Prince Charming (14 page)

“Oh, Taj.” She grinned.

Taj glanced at his watch. “We have time for a quick drink before we go?”

“But we’re going to a cocktail party.”

“There’s nothing that says we can’t relax with a glass of wine first,” he said. The truth of the matter was he was hoping to delay their arrival. The more time they spent at the cocktail party, the better chance of her finding out he was a fake.

She smiled. “I guess a glass of wine would help take the edge off,” she said.

“Edge?” He took her hand. “What’s wrong?”

Erica shrugged. “It just important to me to make a good impression. I need these people to like me.”

He pulled her into a hug and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “How could you make anything but a great impression?”

An hour later, he was escorting her inside the ballroom of the downtown hotel where he’d mentally prepared himself for the cocktail party, which would be the most difficult part of the evening. Hopefully, the concert would start early.

“Taj, I just spotted the McAdamses. Why don’t you introduce me?” Erica asked.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some champagne first? After all, this is a cocktail party.”

“No, I want to meet the McAdamses,” she said, annoyance creeping into her tone.

Perspiration broke out on Taj’s palms. “The McAdamses?”

“Stop teasing, Taj. You know, Emmett and his wife, Audrey. They own the largest black bank in the region. Some of their customers are your biggest clients.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to tease you.”

Taj searched his brain, but the names didn’t ring a bell. He’d talked to a lot of people that night, mostly dipping in on strangers’ conversations, hoping Erica would take the bait.

“Just lead the way,” he said.

He had winged it that night, Taj thought. It looked as if he would have to wing it again.

Taj’s nervousness ebbed some as Erica led him directly to the portly, frog-eyed man and woman who looked as if she spent an extraordinary amount of time on the plastic surgeon’s table.

He remembered the guy, all right, Taj thought. He’d interrupted an intense conversation between him and another blowhard about golf. The two had acted as though they were discussing the solution to world peace instead of a game.

Taj turned on his pearly whites, grabbed the man’s hand, and gave it an enthusiastic shake. “Emmett, it’s good to see you,” he said, pumping the man’s limp hand.

Confusion blanketed Emmett McAdams’s features and Taj could see him struggling to place him.

“I caught the first round of the Heritage Tournament. Do you think Briggs will hold his lead?” Taj asked. “I don’t care what anybody says, that kid’s amazing.”

Relief surged through him as Taj watched the man’s face go from confusion to a wide smile, and he not only shook Taj’s hand, but slapped him on the back.

There was nothing black men of a certain age loved discussing more than African-American golfer Dixon Briggs. Even if they didn’t know
the game, they’d have their televisions tuned into golf whenever he played in a tournament.

“That so-called slump, or whatever those know-nothing sportscasters called it, is definitely over,” Emmett McAdams crowed.

Diamonds flashed before Taj’s eyes as the woman with Emmett threw her fingers in the air. Each one looked as though it was weighed down with rings.

“Oh no. Not with the golf. Once he gets started, he can’t stop,” she said.

That’s exactly what I’m counting on, Taj thought.

“Slump? That was no slump. He was just adjusting his game,” Taj said, repeating what he’d heard Emmett tell one of his friends at the previous party.

“Exactly,” Emmett said, beckoning two more middle-aged men to join the conversation.

Taj felt a nudge to his side and remembered Erica. “Oh, Emmett, have you met my date, Erica Boyd, yet?”

“Nice to meet you,” Emmett said. “You’ve got you a smart man here, Miss Boyd. You make sure you listen to him.”

“I will,” Erica said.

Taj listened to Emmett and his friends talk golf, adding a comment here and there, until their wives pulled them away to find their seats for the concert.

When they were seated, Erica looped her arm through his. “Taj, I’d like to talk to you about advising me on my portfolio,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Taj said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Erica nodded. “If Emmett McAdams thinks I should listen to you, then that’s good enough for me.”

Ali paced the living room of her small apartment. The Zen-like feel she’d tried to cultivate was totally lost on her tonight.

Two days had passed since her date with Hunter, and she missed him like crazy. She stared at her telephone and willed it to ring. When it didn’t she picked it up and punched the first two digits of his number.

She put the receiver down.

Stalking off to the refrigerator, she pulled her stash of chocolates from the vegetable crisper. How could she call him after she’d been the one to insist he needed time to heal? Hadn’t
she
been the one to say they shouldn’t make love again?

Frustrated, Ali peeled the foil wrapper off a chocolate and popped it into her mouth. What would she say to him anyway?

“I know what I said about giving you time to heal, but how about coming over and giving me a little sexual healing?” she mimicked.

So much for taking the high road, she thought.

Damn, conscience.

She ate another piece of candy.

A knock at the door sounded, startling her. Figuring it was someone with the wrong apartment, she peered through the peephole.

Hunter.

Ali closed her eye, and then opened it again to make sure he was really there and it hadn’t been just wishful thinking on her part.

It was Hunter, all right, making a simple gray T-shirt and jeans look like
GQ
magazine material. She glanced down at her bare feet, rolled-up jeans, and T-shirt that had seen better days and felt shabby in comparison.

Don’t be silly
, she scolded.
You’re acting like a teenager in love…
No, she couldn’t be. Ali banished the thought from head.

He knocked again.

She took a deep breath, pasted what she hoped passed for a casual smile on her face, and opened the door.

“Good, you’re home.”

He smiled and Ali felt her heart do a flip-flop in her chest.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” she said, moving aside to let him in.

“Were you busy?”

Ali shook her head. “No. What’s on your mind?”

Part of her longed for him to say he’d stopped by to beg her to put them both out of their misery and reverse her ridiculous “no sex” declaration.

Then she wanted him to sweep her into his arms, carry her into her bedroom, and make love to her until she forgot she’d suggested something so dumb in the first place.

“How are you at painting?” he asked. At her silence, he repeated. “Painting,” he said, slower. “As in helping me paint a dining room.”

Ali frowned, getting out of her daydream. “But your place looks new. Why would you want to paint it?”

“I’m painting the dining room of the house I inherited from my grandma,” he said.

“Oh, that’s right. I do remember you mentioning it,” Ali said. “You recently finished remodeling the kitchen, right?”

Hunter nodded. “So, can you give me a hand?”

Ali shrugged. It wasn’t exactly her fantasy, but it was better than scarfing down chocolates thinking about him. “Sure. Just give me a moment to find a cap.”

Minutes later, they were in Hunter’s car headed across town.

“Are you hungry? We can stop and get something,” Hunter offered.

“No, I already ate, but…” Ali hesitated. She wasn’t quite sure how to approach the subject.

“What?” Hunter glanced at her briefly, before returning his attention to the road.

“I just wanted to ask how you’ve been. I know the scene with Erica was rough, and it’s only been a few days.”

Hunter shrugged. “I’m good. I was angry at myself, mostly for not following my gut and breaking it off with her months ago.”

Ali touched a hand to his shoulder. “You don’t have to downplay it on my account,” she said. “I’ve been there. I know what you’re going through and it’s hard.”

Hunter surprised her by pulling over to the side of the road. He tapped on the steering wheel with his fingertips, before turning to her.

“Excuse me, Ali. I know you mean well, but our situations are totally different. You were in a marriage,” he said. “I was committed to someone who disappeared a while ago. My love vanished along with the old Erica. I stayed out of some misguided attempt to protect someone I cared about from herself.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Ali started.

“If you want to know what hurts, here it goes. It hurts to want you and not be able to touch you.” He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, sending a rush of heat to her core. “What’s rough is now that I’m free to be with you, I have to wait until you believe that it’s you I really want.”

Taken aback, Ali turned to face him. He
leaned across the armrest and brushed his lips against hers in a gentle kiss. Though it was brief in contact, its tenderness rocked her world.

God help her, she
was
in love.

Painting?

Hell, he didn’t need any help painting. He’d cleaned, patched, repaired, remodeled, and restored the entire kitchen himself. He’d even turned down his own father’s offer of help.

So why did he want to bring Ali here?

Hunter unlocked the door to the house and turned on the lights. He still didn’t have an answer to the question. Although he’d only known her a short while, being with her felt as natural as breathing.

Taking her by the hand, he couldn’t help noticing how adorable she looked with rolled-up jeans, her hair tucked under a baseball cap, and a slick of pink gloss on her sweet lips.

His gaze lingered on her mouth. Just one taste, he thought as he pulled her to him.

Hunter felt her arms slip around his neck as his lips descended on hers. He should have known a simple taste wouldn’t be enough. He slipped his tongue between her lips and heard her moan deep in her throat. Her cap slipped off her head, and he sank his fingers into her silky hair as it spilled onto her shoulders.

She felt so soft in his arms, her body melting into his like a second skin.

When the kiss ended, Ali still clung to him.

“I believe we were headed to the kitchen,” she said breathlessly.

Hunter nuzzled her neck as he willed his pulse to return to a normal rate. God help him, she smelled as good as she tasted.

He dropped his arms to his sides, reluctantly releasing her from his embrace. “The kitchen is right in here.”

He led the way. Though the last place he wanted to take her was the kitchen. He wished he were taking her back to his place and upstairs to his bed, where she belonged.

But it would just have to wait until she believed in the growing feelings between them and that she was indeed the woman he wanted.

Hunter watched a look of awe cross Ali’s face as she took in the white-on-white décor. The house had been built in the 1920s and the kitchen was miniscule by today’s standards. So he’d thought the white would open it up.

“It’s beautiful,” Ali said, smoothing her hand over the exposed brick, which he’d also painted white.

“You don’t think the white’s too impractical,” he said.

She shook her head. “Not at all. It makes it seem huge, and though those windows are small it looks like it’s brimming over with light.”

Ali crouched down and touched the
indentations of the penny-tile floor. “I love the unfussyness of it, if that makes any sense.”

“It’s exactly what I was going for,” he said. “My grandma wasn’t a fussy woman. Although she’s gone, I wanted the place to still be a reflection of her.”

Ali nodded. “I think she’d be proud.”

“I’d like to think so,” he said, feeling the familiar pinch of guilt.

“So, are you planning to move in here when you finish remodeling?”

Hunter shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?” Ali asked. “You’ve put so much hard work just into the kitchen alone. Don’t get me wrong, your town house is nice, but this place has so much character. It feels like a home.”

Hunter shrugged and walked back toward the dining room. He felt Ali’s hand on his arm. “What did I say?”

“It’s not you. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Hunter shook his head. He didn’t want to get into this with his father and he didn’t bring Ali here to get into it with her.

“Well, the dining room isn’t going to paint itself,” he said.

“The painting can wait.”

Hunter turned to find Ali with both hands planted firmly on her hips. “Nothing’s wrong, Ali,” he reiterated, but she didn’t move.

He walked back to the threshold separating the dining room and the kitchen. He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “I told you, there’s nothing wrong.”

She placed her hands on his chest and raised her gaze until it met his. “Like you told me the other night,” she said, “I want to know more about the person I made love to.”

“You already know me.”

She tapped the spot over his heart. “Tell me more about your grandma and this house,” she said. “And why it’s so important to you to make it just right.”

Hunter sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Come sit on the back porch with me.”

He led her by the hand back through the kitchen and out the back door. The sun had set and the lack of moonlight made the stars glitter like diamonds against the inky night.

He sat down on the top step. Ali took a seat on the one below it and rested the back of her head against his chest.

“This backyard is huge,” she said. “Did you used to play back here?”

Hunter nodded. “And work. Grandma and I planted that row of evergreen trees separating her backyard from the neighbor’s. She thought it would look better than a privacy fence. Not that they offered much privacy then. They were barely two feet tall, but look at them now.”

Ali tilted her head up toward the top of the eight-foot trees.

“I like it out here,” she said.

“I used to love it here too,” Hunter said wistfully.

“What happened to change that?”

Hunter felt his shoulders sag as he sighed. “I was in my senior year of college and had just got home for Christmas break. I walked through the door, tossed my dirty laundry to my mom, and was ready to hang out with my friends. We’d all gone to different universities and had plans to meet up for some party.”

Ali leaned her head back and looked up at him. “I remember those days. Only my father usually had tons of his laundry waiting on me when I got home,” she said.

“Well, my father asked me to stop by and check on my grandmother. She’d missed me a lot and always looked forward to my breaks,” he said. “But I blew it off to go party. When I went by the next morning, I found her dead. She’d had a heart attack in her sleep.”

He felt Ali’s body stiffen and she pivoted around to face him.

“You can’t possibly blame yourself or feel guilty about that,” she said.

Hunter averted his gaze. “If I had come here instead of partying, I might have been able to revive her.”

“Maybe. Then again, maybe not.”

“I still feel like I let her down,” he said.

Ali turned and leaned back into his chest. “I think you let her down if you’re sad every time you think of her, and you continue to define what seemed like a wonderful relationship by one lapse,” she said. “I think you’d let her down if you continue to let this beautiful home sit empty. Either you move in or sell to a new family to build a foundation of happy memories.”

Hunter kissed the top of Ali’s head, his mind flickering briefly to images of them living here together. And sitting on this back porch together at night after they put their children to bed.

Children.

Where had that come from? he wondered, shaking off the errant thought. “Let’s go paint.”