You Called Me-ARE and Apple epub (4 page)

Sucking on the candy, she started to stand and Jonathan held up a hand to stall her movements. He collected his teacup and saucer from the table slid hers closer to her along with the tiny teapot and headed across to the kitchen. Rinsing them he placed them in her dishwasher closed it to lean along the counter, after tearing off a paper towel to dry his hands, his face somber.

“Your car is in your parking spot in the carport, and,” picking up the familiar amber prescription bottle. “The doctor left you enough antibiotics until you can get to your personal doctor. You’ve had two already, I wouldn't take another until you’re turning in for the night.”

She blinked at his striking good looks and hidden domestic side. “Mr. Blakemore,” she said pushing the covers aside.

“Before you scream or pull out a blade, I’ll leave you to your life.” He tossed the paper in the trash and grabbed his coat, shrugged it onto his shoulders then rattled the keys in his pocket. “Kenya, if you find you need a ride home again...my card is in your car,” and strode across the six feet of tile floor to the door.

“Mr. Blakemore,” Kenya stuttered, eyeing her purse. She had to offer him something for his trouble, but all she had on her was forty dollars. His gloves cost more than forty dollars. He turned the front door knob and the only words to come to mind she said, in a sighing whisper. “Thank you.”

Jonathan turned and something gentle poured over her from his eyes. “Stop going to work sick. Good night, Kenya.”

“Claiborne...”she added for what reason became a question for later.

“Ms. Kenya Claiborne,” he said, and his eyes showed sincerity around the fine lines at the corners. That simple show and knowing he'd taken care of her all this time made her refusing to go on the trip something she needed to think seriously about.

She rose from the sofa came around to stand beside the chair he'd sat in resting her arm on the high back. “Jonathan…”watching him slip a hand into his front pockets and stare at her, she wanted him to stay but why? “I don’t know you. You can’t expect me to just agree to go away for the weekend because there’s children involved.”

Why were his lashes so long? She could see them from across the room.

“Your keys are on the counter up here. Good night, Ms. Claiborne.”

“I just…I can’t help you.” Jonathan picked up an umbrella from the ceramic vase she kept behind the door. “It’s still raining?” he asked glancing at the window then back to him.

“For two days now.”

“Two days.” Twisting she crossed to the window pushed the blinds over the sofa back and her shoulders dropped. Kenya caught the glow from the street lights out front. “How long have I been asleep?”

“All day,” he offered. “Your friend Randall stopped in, went to change his clothes but said the forwarding service put your call from your cell, into the subscriber listed below his on their list. My company is listed below his and your name got put into the wrong file.”

She moved back to the couch flabbergasted at the simple error that put her into this man's care. “His cell is company issued and the calls go to a switch board...I'm sorry you got mixed up in all this,” she offered, smoothing a hand over what had to be frazzled hair and bit her  lip. The sofa dipped as she sank down propping her elbow on her knee. She couldn't believe all this transpired because of a botched call. Now she sat staring at this guy who was making no attempts at opening the door. He just stood there staring at her and she realized neither one of them wanted him to leave. She’d lost her train of thought. What were they talking about? Oh yeah, “I've never heard of that happening before, with the call.”

“It happens,” he said as if it wasn't the first misrouted call he'd ever received.

She jerked upright, her job, her boss, she hadn't called in her boss would flip out. “I’ve missed two days of work. I need to call my employer. Reinhart never accepted excuses well and not showing up for work placed a black mark on Kenya's profile.

Jonathan said hesitantly, “Cedric, the driver that received the call, picked you up Saturday night. Kenya...you work seven days a week?

“I went in Saturday for a few hours to assist another department in testing some files for a new account.” This guy didn't miss a beat. “I work midnights, and my shift starts Sunday night.”

“So you get one day off a week.” He frowned and it actually looked painful the way his entire body hunched forward.

“I work ten hour shifts, four days a week,” she corrected, “It's why in the elevator I said four days is a week’s vacation.” Kenya looked around for her phone. Out of habit, she’d kept it on her side table.

He nodded toward the counter. “I set it up here in the charger. You were looking for your phone, right?” She nodded. “It needs about another thirty minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“So you’ll be off next weekend, only losing one day at work. I think you can help me. It's not for another week, Ms. Claiborne.”

“I've never missed work like this.”

“Don’t worry. Your boss called, I told her you were sick under doctor’s care. Told her you’d call when you woke up. She sounded concerned.”

“You talked to Reinhart?” she questioned feeling her career slipping down the drain.

“Yes, sort of a deep voiced woman?” he asked. He nodded pulling a phone from his breast pocket. She hadn't heard it ring. He scrolled a finger down the face, his mouth turned up on the edges before returning his attention. “Excuse me, waiting on a call.” Shoving the phone into his coat pocket he continued, and said, “Then, yes, I talked to your boss.”

“Who did you say you were?”

The quizzical gleam in his eyes said her question amused him and Kenya blushed under the weight of his attention on her mouth.

“Was I supposed to make up a name?”

“No…anybody else know you brought me home?”

“Morgan called.”

“My sister. Oh great,” she grunted knowing her business should have made it's rounds through the family grapevine twice by now. She's either hold up in China in a human trafficking ring or working at a strip club in Budapest. Can't wait to clear up this hot mess.

“Don’t get along with your sister?”

“Not without a referee.” She paused. The thought of Morgan knowing a strange man was in her home raised the hairs on her arm. Her sister would run her in the ground about how naïve she’d been to let this guy into her home. Didn’t matter that she'd been unconscious when it happened, that would be the cap blowing off the volcano for Morgan, Kenya being sick and driving. Man, she hated her sister and that should have bothered her more... “My older sister and brother are very critical of my life. We’ve never been close.”

“Aye…”Jonathan started. “Picked up on the disapproval in her tone,” he said and his baroque surfaced as if emotion triggered the accent. Lord the man’s sensuality snuggled her body—a thick sweater.

She held her chin up. “What did she say once she heard your voice?” Kenya asked, shaking that visual from her mind.

“She was nae complimentary.” His accent hung thick in the air, an odd protection by his building anger. 

“Wait, you’ve been here by my side all this time?” rubbing a hand over her thighs the adjectives sweet and gallant replaced pervert and criminal from her mind for this man. “Thank you, Jonathan. I appreciate you staying and taking care of me like this.”

“Who’s kidnapped who now, Ms. Claiborne?”

Eyeing the teacup in front of her, Kenya slid it forward, making the ceramic rattle against one another. The amber liquid cool against the ceramic sides gave off a whiff of chamomile, one of her favorites. “Did you make this?” she asked, looking up through lowered lids. His reddish-gold brows shifted upward in question. The he did asked, “Who do you think made it?” Something showed in his features that reminded her of the picture in his home and him in knee socks. He had a mischievous nature as a boy. “Thank you. You didn’t make a good first impression pinning me to the wall in the elevator like that.”

“You liked it,” he said, followed by a wide smile knowing more than he should.

“Aroused…big difference from liking something, you can’t control visceral actions, Blakemore, they’re natural responses.”

“Really? That smile a natural response or a fake smile smoothed on just for me just now?” he taunted nodding to the grin she locked behind clenched teeth.

Following his stare roaming over her breasts, he’d changed her into a thin tank top and baggy pj’s that covered but didn’t conceal the long lines of her legs. He could see right through the thin, yellow material.

“What do you do for a living, Jonathan, undress women?” At least he’d left her bra and panties on.

He eyed his watch before settling his dark stare on her mouth. “I’m an entrepreneur, own several businesses. As far as how you got to my house, my limousine service picked you up.”

“You said earlier you were a friend of the court, which is it?”

“My drivers sometimes pick up runaways, helping them find shelter for the night if they agree to stay off the street…Why I have the title friend of the court.”

“And your driver thought I was a runaway in a Lincoln LS?”

“It's not unusual to get a call from a prostitute waking up in a stranger’s car.”

She sat stunned. She took pride in her appearance, from washing her hair routinely every Friday night down to having her teeth cleaned every six months. Close to obsessive about her appearance. She crossed her ankles, then muttered in a low sarcastic tone, “Right…he thought I was a hooker,” pausing, “If I were a hooker, Mr. Blakemore, I’d have an extra pair of stockings in my purse.”

His raised brow said she peaked his interest, something she hadn’t wanted to do. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he teased, a good relaxed look for him.

“A hooker…in a wool pleated skirt and sensible three inch heeled boots?” she accused. No hooker's strutting her stuff in plain, black, four inch, heels, those are running shoes to them. As many times as she's gone to the down town office to help, she'd seen her share of working woman and they weren't sporting anything less than five inches.

“Tell you what,” he started and crossed the room to squat down in front of her, holding her hand. “Doc says you should be fine by the weekend. Here’s my card. I’m leaving next Thursday morning at four a.m. If you don’t call me I’ll have to tell the kids they can’t go because Ms. Claiborne doesn’t trust me because I have money.”

Kenya let her jaw drop. Guilt, the oldest trick in the book and he pinned it to her like a museum name tag to a group leader.  

“Dress warm,” he warned. Before she could close her mouth, Jonathan’s lips pressed over hers in a warm caress. In her mind, she’d pushed him away, but her fingers were gripping his muscled forearms beneath the sweater. His hand cupping the back of her head pulled her closer into the kiss and stroking a hand down over her hair.

Jonathan caressed the curve of her back, bringing his face up, he murmured over her mouth, “Or I will find a way to keep you warm. I’m wasting my time pretending I don’t find you attractive, Kenya.”

Tugging the blanket over her pebbling breast, she cleared her throat and tried for composure.

“For all I know you belong to the Irish Mafia.” She waved a hand in the air and shook her head. “Go away for the weekend…I don’t think so, Blakemore.”

“Profiling now, Ms. Claiborne?”

The cushions dipped behind her as she sank back, enjoying the tease in his tone, sexy. “You thought I was a hooker.”

“Because you called for a ride, not because you’re black.”

“Then I apologize. That was rude of me.”

Jonathan said, “Apologize by showing up Thursday morning…ready to play.”

She eyed Randall coming through the door seconds after Jonathan stood. She pressed her palms to the sofa cushions straightening her on the center. She caught the pull of Jonathan’s trousers across his nice behind as he removed keys from his pocket. At the door, Jonathan tossed something disguised as a sweet wink over his shoulder. “I’m only getting one cabin.”

Wonderful. Now a bunch of kids will be sitting around, their mouths poked out because they didn’t have a female chaperone. “Can’t the court appoint a woman DA to help you, Mr. Blakemore?” She clutched the sofa pillow in her lap as if it kept her from drowning under his stare.

“Somebody on a work program?”

“Four a.m., Ms. Claiborne. We’re skiing. Dress for it.”

This fast talker standing in her home was railroading her. “No lawyers in contempt of court you can ask? Maybe the judge will let them pay off their bail by helping with the kids.”

“What did I walk in on?” Randall eyed her, dropping his things on the tiled counter then gave his attention to Jonathan. The men clasped hands, their bodies filling the space between the kitchen and the living room. There stood two perfectly good men. One she couldn’t have for professional reasons, and the other not certain she could handle even with a whip and a chair. They were like two rutting bulls fighting over a scrap of meat…with the flu…
her
.  

The bag of Chinese food and a six-pack of Vernors ginger ale had her licking her tongue over her lips. To her horror, Jonathan feasted on every swipe.

“Randall.” She needed Jonathan to leave. The man distracted her train of thought, her logic and common sense.

“Let me see you out.” Randall started to escort Jonathan to the door a mere ten feet away.

Jonathan paused and turned fully toward her, making the wool coat swing open. And it bounced against his thigh when it settled. What was so heavy in his pocket that it moved like that? She lost all concern when he winked and all the air left her body on one exhale. Never thought a man could take her breath away, she had to think in order to inhale.

“Take care of my patient. She owes me a favor and I plan to collect,” he teased and she heard a promise in his tone. It smelled of a threat of complete seduction when he came back to collect from her. 

“Kenya’s in good hands,” Randall said, wrenching her front door open to the hallway. “Don’t worry about her health, but thanks for stepping in…bringing my girl home…to me.”

Her mouth went slack. Did he mean friend and not girlfriend as in sleeping together?