by A. C. Arthur
She poured them both glasses of wine as she continued.
“Tucker used to be obsessed by basketball so if I wasn’t making a hoop or a ball, he definitely didn’t want it. And Morgan, she’s younger than I am, was just starting first grade and was making her own paste-filled knick-knacks to clutter mom’s table with.”
“Are they all lawyers working at your family’s firm?” he asked when she returned to where he was still standing by the love seat and the boxes and offered him the drink.
After he took the glass and was sipping the wine, Jenise nodded. “Yes. We’re all attorneys, to my parents’ dismay.”
His brow arched. “They didn’t want you to follow in their footsteps?”
“Oh no, my mother’s not an attorney. She met and married my father the year she graduated from high school, which worked out well since Bradford Langley would not hear of his wife having a career other than being a wife and mother.”
Savian sipped his wine again and shrugged. “I guess you could say that’s a full-time job. I know my mother used to say that when we were growing up.”
Jenise felt like a total idiot. Of course Carolyn Donovan would have stayed home to raise her children and take care of her husband. From what she’d seen of the woman Jenise liked her. The way the woman’s children and husband surrounded her like a fortress to be reckoned with was probably only a fraction of the love and dedication they had towards her.
“It’s great if that’s what you were meant to be, but just because I happened to have been born female, doesn’t mean it’s etched in stone that I have to marry and have children to be complete,” she said a little too vehemently.
She took a quick sip of her wine to hide that fact.
“I agree,” he said after a few moments. “You should have the right to decide who and what you want to be. Everyone should.”
He’d set his glass on the floor and continued on with the boxes as if he were really interested in seeing everything that was inside of them. For someone who didn’t seem too thrilled about Christmas, he certainly was adamant about this.
“What about you? How did you and your siblings get along? Tell me some of the things you used to do for Christmas,” she said, sitting on the edge of the chair and looking over to where he stood.
Savian pulled out a clump of lights and began to unravel them.
“Parker was always the fun one. He could figure out something to entertain him and every other kid in the neighborhood at the drop of a dime. He played basketball in school, too, and was pretty popular with the girls as well.” He pulled a strand free, placing it in a neat pile on the floor behind him. “Regan, she’s been shopping since the day she was born. She loved Christmas but I swear it didn’t matter, that girl was always getting new stuff all year long.”
“But you didn’t like to play and you didn’t like Christmas. So, what were you like the child Scrooge?” she asked before swallowing her last bit of wine.
His head snapped up then and Jenise wondered if she’d said the wrong thing once more. She didn’t make any effort to take it back, just leaned forward to set her glass on the coffee table while she waited for his response.
“I just didn’t like a lot of fuss,” he replied finally and dropped another single strand of lights into a separate pile. “I wasn’t mean or rude, just kept to myself.”
“Even though everyone in your house was playing and having fun, you kept to yourself,” she remarked because she could actually picture him doing this.
“It wasn’t easy,” he said, working the next strands apart. “Dion and Sean would come over all the time, and when Lyra moved in with them, she would come too. Regan loved that she finally had a girl to play with. Together they were all noisy and persistent and I usually ended up playing with them anyway.”
“Did you enjoy those times?”
Savian didn’t answer. He’d finished with the lights just as his cell phone buzzed. He was frowning when he looked at her again. “Regan says they parked my truck in one of the guest spots on the first level of the garage.”
Jenise only nodded her response because she’d been enjoying their conversation and didn’t want the fact that his vehicle was now here for his use, to bring that to an end. She was both shocked and elated when he asked, “What’s your favorite Christmas memory?”
Jenise ran her palms over the tapered sides of her hair, then down the front of her blouse while she thought about his question and the fact that he had not answered the one she’d posed before he’d received that text.
“It’s not a memory yet,” she told him honestly. “I’ve always wanted to see the tree lighting at Rockefeller Center.”
He looked perplexed. “So why haven’t you just gone to New York to see it? It’s not like you can’t afford a plane ticket or can’t get the time off from work.”
“No,” Jenise said quietly. “That’s not the reason why I haven’t done it yet.”
She didn’t want to think about the reason and wanted to kick herself for even mentioning it in the first place.
“Give me that,” she said, coming to a stand and reaching her hand out in front of Savian.
He looked down at what he’d just pulled from the box then back to her before handing it over. She took the sprig in hand, looking down as she rubbed her fingers over the green leaves.
“Do you know about the magic of mistletoe, Savian?” she asked taking a step closer to him.
“I don’t believe in magic,” was his immediate response.
She rubbed her fingers over the soft red ribbon tied at the end of the bundle. “Oh but you should, Savian. You see throughout history mistletoe was reported to bestow life and fertility. It was also said to be an aphrodisiac.” She chuckled at that and chanced a glance at Savian. His eyes had grown just a bit darker until they looked almost totally brown. Funny how they could change so quickly and so drastically just because…she was holding that mistletoe.
“It’s no wonder that eventually, around the 19th century Victorian era, I do believe, that kissing under the mistletoe became a time honored tradition. At Christmastime a ball of mistletoe tied with ribbons just like this one, would be hung. With all their strict rules and practices during that time, it was said that no unmarried girl could refuse a kiss if she stood under the mistletoe. Each time the girl was kissed, the boy would pluck one of the mistletoe berries until there was no more, and then the ball would be taken down until the next year. If the girl wasn’t kissed before the ball was taken down, she wasn’t expected to be married the following year. The kiss was a promise or symbol of marriage or admiration. When in truth, it was just a kiss. But that magic, that mystical moment when that unmarried girl was waiting expectantly for that kiss, that’s the mistletoe magic. I love that feeling so much that I always hang this same sprig of mistletoe every year.”
Jenise stopped talking at that moment. She hadn’t moved but Savian did, until he was standing directly in front of her. Her fingers still rubbed over the ribbon, the fake white berries of the mistletoe still intact.
“You hang it each year so that men will come to your place and kiss you. Do you hope they will marry you too?” Savian asked.
His words were spoken so softly, yet his facial features were so stern and serious. If Jenise didn’t already know him the way she did, she would have had no clue that he was aroused at this very moment. She wasn’t certain what did it—the tight fit of the wrap blouse she wore, the talk of their childhood, or was it actually the mistletoe? It didn’t matter, the sexual tension was there and it was rising, just the way it always did between them.
“No,” she replied. “It’s not marriage I hope for, Savian. I’m not that much of a dreamer.”
“But you do believe in magic?”
“I do,” she admitted and on instinct lifted her arm up as high as she could. Thankfully she was still wearing her four-inch heeled platform pumps so her reach extended easily above Savian’s head.
“You should try it once,” s
he told him as she leaned in closer. “Try a kiss under the mistletoe and see just how magical it is.”
He shook his head. “I’m not an unmarried girl looking to find out who admires or wants to marry me.”
“Neither am I,” she told him. “Let’s just say, I want a kiss.”
There was no movement and Jenise was not surprised. If Savian Donovan had kissed her three times in the three months she’d been sleeping with him that would be a record. It happened so infrequently that Jenise had never bothered to count. In fact, she’d never wanted to kiss him as badly as she did right now.
He still did not move, only continued to stare at her as if he were trying to figure something out. Jenise knew there was nothing to figure out or analyze, not this time. This time she was simply going to take what she wanted. She was going to reach for that mistletoe magic even though Thanksgiving had yet to arrive.
With her free hand she grasped the back of Savian’s neck, pulling him down so that her lips could touch his slowly at first, but then with more pressure. She let her lips stay still over his, watching as he blinked and she did the same. He was so resistant and so damned sexy and she wanted more. The thought slammed into her like an actual physical blow. And she kissed him harder.
She parted her lips and let her tongue meet his to stroke slowly. When he still didn’t move, she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, pressing her body up against his. He jerked instantly, as if she were fire and he were ice. Jenise continued, licking her tongue over his top lip, then pressing against the seam once more, all while her gaze stayed trained on his. His eyes were so dark there was no color visible, his body so rigid she should have been instantly turned off, rebuffed and pissed the hell off. Yet, just when she was about to pull away and spend the rest of the day berating herself for being so stupid for even thinking that she could get under this guy’s skin, he moved.
His arms slipped around her waist, pulling her even closer to him and his mouth opened. Their tongues clashed in a terrifically hot and exciting duel as he hungrily accepted her kiss.
The magical mistletoe kiss.
Jenise almost dropped that damn mistletoe to the floor when she wrapped her arms around him, leaning fully into the kiss now. He returned the favor, sucking her lip deep into his mouth and her thighs trembled. Her eyes had closed with the fevered passion spreading through her so she had no idea what color his eyes were now and didn’t really give a damn. All she knew, all she wanted to know, was how perfect and delectable this kiss was, how it made her want…no, need this man inside her at this very moment.
Savian, however, had a totally different reaction.
He pulled away from her as quickly as he’d gone into the impulsive embrace. Taking steps away he continued to put distance between them until he was grabbing his jacket off the chair.
“I’ve got to go,” was all he said as he walked to the door and let himself out.
Jenise didn’t say a thing. She couldn’t.
She did, however, toss that stupid mistletoe across the room, not giving a damn where it landed.
Chapter 4
This was familiar.
It was stability and safety and every comfort Savian had ever experienced. He’d used the side entrance, just off the garden his mother loved as much as she did her children. There were eight foot stucco walls here and continuing in the Spanish revival style of the home, antique teak gates that had recently been fitted with new locks and links to the top-of-the-line alarm system. Savian had used this entrance as a way of checking the security of his parents’ home.
He used the specially designed key with its uniquely coded magnetic strip, to access the door and listened intently for the faint beeping that said his access code had been accepted by the twenty-four hour security monitoring. His shoes were silent on the red terracotta tile as he moved through his mother’s rendition of a Spanish courtyard. Carolyn liked to sit out here in the mornings before the humidity became too much to bare and enjoy her first cup of coffee. It was a large space made to feel quaint and welcoming by the quatrefoil shaped fountain and koi pond at its center. The variety of plants situated in huge planters and climbing up the wall added color and ambiance.
As he approached the French doors that would lead him into the family room section of the house, Savian paused. It was just a little after seven in the evening and he’d felt as if he’d run across the country and back. His muscles ached and his temples throbbed. He felt like every minute concern that had plagued him in the last few months had crashed down over his head. He’d walked into that police station, was handcuffed, sat in that jail cell and then been released. There was no doubt his pictures—ones he’d voluntarily posed for, ones that had been sneakily obtained and, of course, the mug shot—were plastered all over the television, probably gaining more ratings than DNT’s top show. The world was talking about him, judging and condemning him when all they really knew was his name and how much money he had. They had no idea who he really was inside, none whatsoever.
Using the keypad on the side wall, Savian punched in yet another access code and entered the house. Immediately upon closing that door he inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. Closing his eyes he repeated that action, letting the savory scents of whatever his mother had prepared for dinner sift through his senses. This too was familiar and welcoming. His mother loved to cook and for as long as Savian could remember each time he entered this house it had been to the appetizing aroma of some delectable meal. Tonight, he thought with a relieved sigh, it was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn—his favorite.
Each one of them had a favorite meal that Carolyn prepared especially for her children in times of celebration and, in Savian’s case, disappointment. She’d cooked this same meal on a similar night long ago. He fought like hell to keep that memory at bay, to walk through the room full of family photos and thoughts of happier times, and not be overtaken by the eerie repeat of events.
“Hey, son,” his father’s voice sounded through all the noise and recriminations sounding in Savian’s head.
“Hi, dad,” he replied and turned to face the man that had raised him to be much stronger than he was acting.
Reginald Donovan stood at exactly six feet tall, dressed in khaki pants and a dark blue lightweight sweater. One hand was tucked in his front pocket as he stood, his dark brown eyes resting solemnly on his middle child. He’d grown grayer—Savian noticed immediately—at the sides of his short cropped hair, with the top still holding on to its majority black hue. Even his eyebrows were peppered with gray now, giving him a very distinguished look.
“Come on back. Parker couldn’t make it. But, your mother has dinner ready for you,” Reginald said.
Savian nodded. “Sorry, I’m a little late.”
He’d taken a long shower when he’d arrived at his apartment after the two-hour long ride he’d taken down through South Beach and back. Around and around this city that he called home, he’d driven in a thwarted attempt to clear his mind. When he’d finally arrived at his apartment building it was to find a couple of reporters still hanging out. Savian had parked his truck a block away, instead of driving up to the building and using the garage as he normally did. He’d walked down to the building, using his condo key to enter through the poolside doors and then slipped into the building through a private entrance.
“Nonsense,” Reginald said putting a hand on his son’s shoulder when Savian had walked up to him. “Carolyn would have held this meal for hours waiting on you.”
His father smiled as he squeezed Savian’s shoulder as a show of affection and support. Savian looked to the man that had taught him everything and managed a small smile. “She’s the best.”
Reginald nodded. “Yes, sir. That, she definitely is.”
“So you probably shouldn’t keep lying to her,” he replied without any thought to whether or not now was the right time.
“What did you just say?” was Reginald’s reply.
“Why did you and Uncle Bruce reall
y go to Houston this summer? The night of the break-ins mom and Aunt Janean were here alone. You both should have been here.” Savian was probably wrong as hell for having the audacity to stand here and question his father just hours after he’d been released from jail on a first degree murder charge, but hell, Savian figured if the rest of his life was falling apart, he’d might as well jump right into this other mess that he, his siblings and cousins had been skating around.
“I already told you Al had some papers for us to sign from the estate,” Reginald answered. His hand had already fallen from his son’s shoulder.
“Grandpa died ten years ago. His estate was equally divided between you and your brothers, everything from his shares in Donovan Oilwell to the cash he had in all seven of his bank accounts and the three houses that were eventually sold. Split evenly between the six of you. So what could have come up now that made you and Uncle Bruce run down to Houston the way you did?”
“Savian,” Reginald said. “You’ve been through a lot today. I know it feels like we’ve all been through a lot these past few months. But there’s no need for you to keep poking at something that I’ve already explained to you.”
His father was right about one thing, he had explained this to Savian when he’d asked him weeks ago. Only that explanation had never set well with him. He didn’t believe his father and that made Savian sadder than anything else that had happened to him today.
“What did you think about that email? Why do you think it was sent to every member of the family, young and old?” he asked.
“You calling me old, son?” Reginald teased, his lips tilting into a nervous smile.
“We’re tracing the sender,” Savian told him. “We’re going to find out who sent that message and why.”
Reginald sobered immediately.