The Edge of Dawn

by Beverly Jenkins

  Saint said, “I don’t care who he’s tied to as long as he’s found and stopped.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Narice knew that there were a lot of twenty-and thirty-something women who were tech masters, but someone Portia’s age was a rarity and Narice was impressed. How had Saint and Portia met? Why did Portia have such animosity towards Ridley? Was it because Ridley was responsible for Saint’s imprisonment? Narice’s questions were stacking up like rush-hour traffic on the freeway.

  Portia asked Saint, “So where do we stand on the Eye?”

  Narice thought, We?

  As a result of the conversation that followed, Narice learned that Portia knew all about the Eye, but Saint spent the next thirty minutes bringing her up to speed on the most recent developments: like the bomb in the Grand Rapids garage, their visit with Uncle Willie, and the high-speed chase in Ann Arbor. Portia didn’t know about the quilt, though. Narice showed it to her and Portia seemed moved by the beauty. “This is phenomenal. And your father did this before he was killed?”

  “Yes.” Narice then told her about the symbols and what they meant.

  “So, it’s like a treasure map?”

  “Yes, in a way.”

  Portia ran her palm over the fabric. “Your father was very talented. A man with such creativity didn’t deserve such a terrible fate.”

  “I agree.”

  Portia looked up at Narice. “He’ll be avenged. You’ll see.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Portia stated firmly, “No, he will be.”

  Narice didn’t argue. An unexpected yawn escaped Narice then. It had been a long day.

  Saint could see her tiredness. He wanted to take her upstairs, put her in a warm tub, and hold her while she slept. The fantasy took him by such surprise, he had to mentally shake himself to remember what he’d been about to say. “Ready to crash?”

  Narice nodded. “Yeah. I’m dead.” And she was. Now that she’d had an opportunity to relax, she could feel fatigue slowly creeping up and taking over.

  “Portia will show you where you can sleep.”

  “Thanks.” In reality, she wouldn’t have minded cuddling in bed with him, but she buried that thought.

  Saint didn’t want her to leave. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “See you in the morning.” Narice gave him one last backwards glance, then followed Portia and the dogs back into the hallway.

  The room Portia took Narice to was upstairs on the second floor. It was large and old-fashioned. Starched white curtains covered the windows that ran the length of the back wall. There was a big four-poster bed made of brightly polished cherrywood. A matching nightstand stood beside it. A sit-down vanity with a big wooden mirror stood against another wall. The hardwood floors and a ceiling fan also caught Narice’s eye. “This is nice.”

  “I like it in here, too. There’s a bathroom through that door. Has a shower. Towels are in the cupboard. Is there anything you need?”

  “No. You’ve been very kind.” Narice put her suitcase on top of the bed spread then undid the zipper. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Almost seven years. We bought this place together.”

  “Really,” Narice replied looking over at Portia.

  Portia’s dark eyes danced with amusement. “It’s not what you think. He and I are the best of comrades, and that’s all. I needed a place to live and so did he. It turned out to be an ideal investment.”

  Narice didn’t want to admit how relieved she felt hearing Portia define her relationship with Saint. “I just can’t see him as a farmer.”

  Portia laughed. “He couldn’t either, at first. Now I think he enjoys being out here in the quiet. Helps him heal.”

  Narice wondered what kind of healing Portia was referring to, and realized she now had more questions than ever about the mysterious Saint. She yawned behind her hand. The questions would have to wait for another time, though. Right now, all she wanted was a shower and some sleep. “What time is rise-and-shine around here?”

  “Usually seven A.M.,” Portia replied, “but we’ll let you sleep in.”

  Narice replied gratefully, “Thanks.”

  “You get some rest. And Narice, thanks for bringing him home.”

  In light of what she’d seen and heard over the last few days, all Narice could say was, “You’re welcome.”

  After Portia’s departure, Narice took her shower. Done, she dressed herself in a pair of blue silk man-style pajamas she’d picked out at Myk Chandler’s in-house department store. Her crawl into bed was interrupted by a knock on the door. She answered, “Yes?”

  “It’s me.”

  Narice couldn’t help it. His voice made her smile. She climbed off the bed and went to the door feeling like a sixteen-year-old.

  She opened the door and found him standing on the other side. The magic coat was gone. He was dressed in all black and the shades hid his eyes.

  Saint knew he didn’t really have a reason to be standing at her door, but he’d convinced himself it was because he wanted to make sure she was okay. In reality he just wanted to see her. “The room okay?”

  “Yes. Portia told me I could sleep in in the morning.”

  Saint could smell the freshness of her skin and the scents she’d used in her shower. “Portia lies, a lot. I clang the breakfast bell at six.”

  Narice shook her head. “It’s four now. I am not getting up at six.”

  “Not even if I make you whipped cream?”

  The words touched her like she imagined his kiss would; deep, dizzying. She remembered him declaring he’d wanted to make love to her; not that she’d taken him seriously, but she did remember. “That’s a very tempting offer,” she admitted softly, “but, no, not even for whipped cream.”

  His smile stroked her. “You make it hard for a brother to please you.”

  The phrase, “please you” made her heat rise, but she set it aside and told him truthfully, “You’ve been keeping me out of harm’s way. That pleases me more than all the whipped cream in the world.”

  Saint smiled down. “Then I’ll go with that.” He wanted to raise his hand and slowly trace the shape of her jaw. Forcing down the urge, he said instead, “Sleep tight.”

  Narice could feel her body responding to his unspoken call. Her nipples had tightened and a warmth was spreading out from her thighs, reminding her again how long it had been since she’d been with a man. “You, too.” Reluctantly, she backed up and then shut the door softly.

  Saint was left standing there looking at her now closed door. Portia passed him in the hall on her way to bed and cracked, “Not accustomed to being on this side of the door are you?”

  He smiled.

  “I like her. She’s classy and she’s smart. Try not to mess it up.”

  “Go to bed,” he told her with a grin. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She lifted herself on her toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Glad to have you home. Don’t stay up too late.”

  He gave her a squeeze then went to his room.

  After taking his shower, Saint picked up the phone by the bed. The line was a secure one so calling and checking in with Myk and Sarita wouldn’t compromise them or him. He talked to Sarita first, and then to his brother.

  Saint asked, “Any repercussions from harboring a known fugitive?”

  Myk laughed. “No. I got a few calls asking if I’d seen you. I just told them no. Simple lies are always the best. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” Saint caught him up on the events since leaving Detroit.

  Myk said, “Well watch your back. I forgot to tell you the full manual on Lily is in the glove box along with the registration and authorization from GM giving you permission to drive their test vehicle. Is it still in one piece?”

  “Barely.”

  Myk’s resulting silence made Saint chuckle. “You’re so easy to get. The Caddy’s fine. You go on back to bed. I’ll check in when I can.”


  “I’m holding you to that.”

  “Good night, big brother.”

  “Bye, Saint.”

  Saint set the phone back into its cradle, then while the women slept, he and the dogs went back downstairs to check out the Caddy. He found the manual just where Myk said it would be. He read a bit then said to the dogs, “Hey listen to this. The windows are one and half inches thick and bulletproof.”

  Jess watched him intently. James was asleep.

  “It says the body panels are kicked up with bullet-resistant steel panels.” Saint looked down at Jess and asked, “I wonder what the difference is between bulletproof and bullet-resistant?”

  Jess didn’t seem to know either, so Saint read on. “Let’s see. She can face down a .44 Magnum, a 9mm submachine gun or an Uzi, but we’re on our own against rockets or grenade launchers. Hmm. Guess we’ll stay away from those. The undercarriage and gas tank are armored, too.”

  Jess yawned and stretched out beside James. “You sleepy, too?” Saint asked her. “We’ll head up in a minute. I need to see what else the Caddy is packing.”

  Saint read about the communications systems, and how to deploy the four on board missiles. By the time he came up for air an hour had passed. He yawned and stretched. Tired, he stuck the manual back in the glove box, woke the dogs, and the three of them climbed the stairs for bed.

  The next morning, Narice awakened to a room filled with sunlight. She felt refreshed and rejuvenated from the deep uninterrupted sleep. As she left the big bed and headed to the bathroom, the hardwood floors felt cool under her bare feet.

  She took care of her morning needs and dressed. Today’s outfit was a sleeveless white linen shell worn over beige lightweight drawstring pants. On her feet were a pair of brown leather short-heeled mules that showed off the red paint on her toenails. Hair and light makeup came next, followed by hoops for her ears and a thin gold chain for her neck. She looked at herself in the mirror and liked what she saw. In her head she could hear her daddy saying, “Narice, when you look good, you’ll feel good.” She sent a prayer of thanks up to his spirit. A knock on her door made her look over. “Come in.”

  It was Saint carrying a tray loaded down with what appeared to be breakfast. “I was hoping to catch you in bed.”

  It took her a moment to get her bearings because he wasn’t wearing the shades. Nothing stood between her and those devastating green eyes, and she couldn’t decide which man was more overwhelming, the one with the shades or the one without. She finally responded to that loaded statement. She flirted back, “I’ll bet you were. Maybe next time.”

  “Guess, I’ll take this back then.”

  “Hey! Get back here. If that’s my breakfast. I want it.”

  He faced her and for a moment said nothing, just drank her in. Only then, did he say, “Good morning, Narice.”

  She held his eyes. “Good morning. Did you get some rest?”

  “Yes.”

  Narice wasn’t sure she believed him. Up close she could see the weariness in his golden face. “Did you bring enough for two?”

  “Yep. Let’s eat on the porch.”

  He set the tray on the edge of the vanity table, then crossed the room to the windows. He pulled back the curtains to reveal the French doors that centered the glass wall.

  Once the doors were thrown wide, sunlight entered unencumbered along with a cool breeze. Narice walked over and was surprised to see a porch attached to the room. It looked out over a small tree-lined stream that ran the length of this side of the house. She leaned over the edge and looked out. To her left and right were acres and acres of open land. Below her, a path had been cut between the house and the stream but the rest had been left wild and natural. Birdsong filled her ears as did the quiet hiss of insects. “This is fabulous,” she whispered in awe.

  She turned back to see if he was affected too, but he was transferring the items from the tray to a small glass-topped wrought-iron table. Next to the table were two iron chairs. The slope of the roof shaded that portion of the porch, offering a perfect place to sit and enjoy what looked to be the beginning of a glorious but hot Midwestern summer day. Narice supposed he’d grown accustomed to the glorious vista and therefore took it for granted, but she doubted she ever would.

  He was seated and pouring orange juice into her glass. “Come and get it.”

  She went to join him. He began taking tops off of dishes and showed her hash browns, bacon, eggs, and grits. Narice preferred a bowl of cereal and a toasted bagel or English muffin for her morning meal, but when a brother brings breakfast on a tray, a sister eats it; especially if he prepared the food himself.

  Saint looked at the small portions Narice was placing on her plate and a bulb went on in his head. “You probably don’t eat like this in the mornings, do you?”

  She didn’t lie, “No. Cereal, toast, juice and I’m good to go.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll eat whatever you cook.”

  He held her eyes. “A lady should have what she prefers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Narice could feel the essence of him playing over and around her like a sensual fog. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome.

  “Tell me about this house.”

  He put salt and pepper on his grits. “Not much to tell. Portia had a friend of a friend who knew the owner. Government foreclosed on the place. Portia made the owner a very generous offer and he took it.”

  “It’s very peaceful.”

  He looked around, then nodded his agreement. “I didn’t think I’d like being out here in the sticks, but coming back always feels good.”

  “How long have you been away?”

  “Almost six months. I was in Belize before hooking up with you.”

  “Belize?”

  “Yes. Grave robbers looted an archaeological dig. The government wanted the stuff back, so I helped out.”

  “What is it that you do, exactly?”

  “Exactly? This and that. I find things, lose things. I listen here, talk there.”

  “You’re being deliberately vague, aren’t you?”

  Saint told the truth. “For now, I have to.”

  “Does that mean that sometime in the future you won’t?”

  He shrugged but said nothing more. Narice accepted the answer without taking offense. The stuff he seemed to be into would probably scare her to death. “Can I ask how Portia got that scar?”

  “From her ex-husband. He thought she was having an affair.”

  Narice was appalled. “Even if she was—”

  “She wasn’t though. She needed almost thirty-five stitches to close the gash. He told her he wanted to make sure no other man looked at her.”

  “She’s still a striking woman.”

  He smiled. “Yes, she is.”

  “Where’d you meet her?”

  “In Rio many years ago.”

  “Her husband sounds like a real peach. Is he still alive?”

  “No. A Great White had him for dinner a few years back. Accident. Portia called it divine retribution.”

  Narice thought she agreed with Portia.

  Saint studied Narice across the table. The sleeveless top showed off her arms. They were firm and brown and had just enough definition to make him wonder if she lifted weights. He liked that she was fit. He liked the light makeup, the hoops in her ears; seemingly everything about her earned his approval. Now, if he could just get his attraction under control he might be able to be around her and not want to seduce her every time their paths crossed. Like now.

  Narice had been around him enough to sense when his interest in her was rising and she sensed it now. Today he was dressed like a construction worker; ragged sleeveless sweatshirt, shorts, socks, and a pair of brown hikers. Had he been working at a building site in Baltimore, sisters on their lunch hour would have been lined up at the fence trying to get a good look at him. The green eyes were heart-stopping enough—throw
in his smile and that very sexy voice…Yet, he was here with her; having breakfast, and in his own understated way, exuding such a strong male vibe that keeping herself from succumbing was becoming a full-time job.

  “So, should I court you?”

  The bluntly asked question caught her by surprise. Narice placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her clasped hands. “What do you know about courting?” she asked, her eyes skeptical, playful.

  He leaned back in his chair and checked her out. “Probably more than you think.”

  “You’re not going to want to marry me when we’re through, are you?”

  Saint’s turn to be surprised. He had never met a woman like this before in his life; she could ride shotgun for him anytime. He chuckled. “I promise, there’ll be no rings at the end.”

  “Good. Because I don’t want to get married again, and I know you aren’t interested in settling down.”

  Saint was truly blown away. “Are you this confident in bed?”

  Her eyes sparkling, she shrugged. “One man’s frigid woman is another man’s freak. I don’t have a whole lot of experience but I do enjoy myself when it’s done right….”

  Saint was so turned on by her candor, he wanted to drag her into his lap and kiss her until Halloween. “Are you always this frank?”

  “Only with men threatening to court me.”

  Saint’s smile was all male. “I’m going to eat you up.”

  “And I can’t wait,” she tossed back in her softest lioness voice.

  “Well, before we start acting like teenagers in the back seat, we should get some work done.”

  “Whatever you like.”

  Saint’s manhood rose in response and in anticipation; only discipline kept him focused on what he should be doing as opposed to what he wanted to do. So, from the back pocket of his shorts, he pulled out a folded map and a yellow marker.

  He removed some of the dirty dishes from the tabletop then spread the map over the cleaned space. The map was of the United States. Using the marker as a pointer, he showed her I-75 near Dayton. “This is where we are, and this is where we are going to wind up.” The end point was the Okefenokee Swamp in southern Georgia.