Her last gynecological visit revealed that there hadn’t been a drastic drop in her estrogen level, so she wasn’t what doctors had referred to as perimenopausal. What the doctor hadn’t known was that she hadn’t experienced any sexual desire since a college student attempted to rape her after she’d rebuffed his advances. In other words, there never had been a sexual pinnacle for her.
A teasing smile played at the corners of her mouth, bringing Kumi’s gaze to linger on the spot. “It’s a wonderful complement for champagne.”
“It has to be the strawberry shortcake.”
“Did you peek in the refrigerator?”
“When did I get the opportunity to peek in your refrigerator?” She gave him a skeptical look, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t tell me you don’t like to lose?”
Veronica wrinkled her delicate nose. “I hate losing.”
“Then I’ll let you win the next time.”
Her expression stilled, becoming serious. “What next time?”
Releasing her hand, Kumi crossed his arms over his chest. “I want to return the favor and cook for you.”
She shook her head, the silvery strands sweeping around her delicate jaw. “That’s not necessary.”
“I want to.”
“Kumi…”
“When was the last time you ate authentic French cuisine?” he said, interrupting her. “I could prepare chicken with Calvados, chicken paillard or a succulent saffron chicken with capers. If you don’t want poultry, then I’ll make something with lamb, beef or fish.” He would agree to cook anything just to see her again.
“Stop!” There was a hint of laughter in the command.
He affected a hopeful look. “Will you let me cook for you?”
“Yes. But…” Her words trailed off.
“But what?”
“Only if you let me assist you. I’d like to learn to perfect a few dishes.”
She’d totally ignored her own vow to share only one meal with the man. That was before she’d found him so charming. Besides, he was someone with whom she could practice her French.
“Agreed.” His smile was dazzling. “Next Sunday?” She nodded. “What time should I come over? Unless you wouldn’t mind coming to my place.”
A wave of apprehension swept through her. She’d once gone to a man’s home alone and had been sexually assaulted. “You can cook here.”
“At what time?”
“Anytime. I’m always up early.”
Pushing back her chair, she stood and reached for Kumi’s plate and silverware, but was thwarted when his fingers curved around her wrist. “I’ll clear the table.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said.
“You cooked, so I’ll clean up.” He gave her a warning look. “Sit and relax.”
Veronica pretended not to understand his look. “But you’re a guest in my home.”
He refused to relent. “That may be true, but I was raised to show my appreciation for anyone who has gone out of their way to offer kindness. And that translates into my clearing the table.”
A wave of heat flooded her cheeks. “And I repaid your kindness for changing my tire with dinner.”
Kumi recognized willfulness in Veronica’s personality—a trait that was so apparent in his own. “You offered to repay me by offering me money. Therefore, dinner wasn’t your first choice.”
Her eyes darkening, she struggled to control her temper. “Then you should’ve taken the money, Mr. Walker.”
He let go of her wrist, gathering the silverware and placing it on his plate. Kumi felt the heat from Veronica’s angry gaze as he stacked the plates and carried them to the sink. She was still glaring at him, hands folded on her hips, as he returned to the table to retrieve the serving dishes. What would’ve taken her three or four trips, he’d accomplished in only two.
Standing in front of the refrigerator, he smiled sweetly. “May I open it and get dessert?”
Taking a half-dozen steps, she moved over to stand near Kumi. She tilted her chin, staring up at him staring down at her. His body’s heat intensified the scent of his aftershave. It was as potent and intoxicating as the man who wore it. Her heart fluttered wildly in her breast as her dormant senses leapt to life.
What was it about this boy-man that quickened her pulse and made her heart pound an erratic rhythm?
Clearing her throat, she pretended not to be affected by his presence. “You may open the champagne.”
Kumi went completely still as he held his breath. She stood close enough for him to feel the feminine heat and smell of her body. A warming shiver of desire skipped along his nerve endings as he counted the beats of the pulse in her throat. Time stood still as they shared an intense physical awareness of each other.
“Do you have a towel?” His request broke the spell.
Veronica moved to her right, making certain no part of her body touched his, and opened a drawer under the countertop. She withdrew a black-and-white striped terry-cloth towel, and handed it to him.
He mumbled a thank-you, walking back to the table while she opened the refrigerator to remove a dish with a whipped-cream-covered cake topped with fresh strawberries. By the time she reached the table, he’d opened the bottle of champagne without spilling a drop. The only sound in the silence had been the soft popping sound of the cork as it was removed from the bottle.
Chapter Three
Veronica squared her shoulders and turned to face Kumi.
“Would you mind sitting on the patio now that the sun is on the other side of the house?”
Turning his head slightly, he smiled at her, and he wasn’t disappointed when she returned his smile. The tense encounter was behind them.
“I’d like that very much.”
“Please come with me.”
He followed her out of the kitchen, through a narrow hallway and into a screened-in, glass-enclosed room spanning the length of the rear of the house. He was completely stunned by the panorama unfolding before his gaze. Hanging, flowering and potted plants, a large portable waterfall, rattan furniture covered with colorful kente-cloth cushions and a rug made of woven straw fibers were reminiscent of a rain forest. The soothing sound of the gurgling water blended with the relaxing strains of music flowing from a stereo system discreetly hidden under a table.
Nodding his approval, Kumi said, “I feel as if I’m in a jungle.”
“That’s the effect I wanted to create.”
He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the meticulously chosen furnishings. “How long does it take for you to water all the plants?”
She placed the cake on a small round glass-topped rattan table with two pull-up matching chairs. “I don’t know yet. They were delivered yesterday.”
“You just moved here?”
Meeting his questioning gaze, she shook her head. “No. We purchased this house three years ago, ordered the furniture, but I hadn’t added the touches that would make it feel like home. I’ve been away for two years.”
He clutched the towel-covered champagne bottle tighter to his chest. “Do you plan to live here permanently?”
“I’m not certain,” she replied honestly. “What I plan to do is stay the summer and relax.”
What she did not tell him was that she needed to put some distance between herself, the Atlanta gossipmongers and her late husband’s adult children. They’d challenged their father’s will, accusing her of manipulation. Dr. Hamlin hadn’t disinherited his two sons and daughter, but had divided his estate with: one-fourth to be divided between his three children, one-fourth to Veronica and the final half to establish a scholarship foundation bearing his name for exceptional African-American undergraduate students who planned for careers in medicine.
There had been no mention of Martha Hamlin, the first Mrs. Hamlin. After the divorce, Bramwell had given Martha a generous settlement, which should’ve permitted her to continue the comfortable lifestyle she’d established as the wife of the most prominent black plastic surgeon in the country. Bramwell had established his reputation and vast wealth whenever a superstar athlete or entertainer of color sought out his specialized cosmetic or corrective surgical procedures.
However, within six months of her separation and eventual divorce, Martha found solace in her prized vodka cocktails, losing herself in a drunken haze that usually lasted for days. And whenever she was under the influence, she wrote countless checks in staggering amounts to her overindulged children.
Less than a year after Veronica married Bramwell, Martha came to her gallery, sobbing uncontrollably that she was going to lose her million-dollar home because she hadn’t paid property taxes for two years. Veronica wrote the woman a check from her own personal account. Both had sworn an oath that no one would ever know of their private business transaction.
Martha had kept her word, but of course her children hadn’t known that their father’s second wife had kept their mother from becoming homeless. None of that mattered when they verbally attacked her after the reading of Bram’s will.
Yes—she had made the right decision to close her home and leave Atlanta for North Carolina. She’d had enough of the Hamlins, their lies, harassment and assaults on her character.
Kumi stared at the thickly forested area in the distance. “This is the perfect setting for relaxation.”
“That it is,” she concurred. “We can sit over there.” She motioned to the table with the cake. “Make yourself comfortable while I get the flutes, plates and forks.”
He removed his jacket and placed it over the back of one chair. He was still standing in the same spot when she returned. A vaguely sensuous current passed between them as she moved closer. He took the flutes from her loose grip, then the dessert plates and forks. She gasped when his right arm curved around her waist, pulling her against his middle.
With a minimum of effort, he led her to the center of the room. Her startled gaze reminded him of a deer frozen by an automobile’s headlights. “Dance with me,” he whispered close to her ear. “This song is a favorite of mine.”
Veronica forced herself to relax as she sank into his comforting protective embrace. The runaway beating of her heart slowed. She recognized the instrumental version of “I Can’t Make You Love Me.”
She felt a flicker of something so frightening that she wanted to pull away. It had been twenty years since a man had held her to his body. Twenty years ago it had been an act of violence, unlike the gentle touch of the hands caressing her back through the delicate fabric of her blouse. She was frightened and curious at the same time when she felt Kumi’s hardness pressing against her thighs. She realized the strange feeling was desire. It had taken her two decades to feel desire again. And she wanted to cry because it was with a man ten years her junior.
Why now? Why not with some of the other men she’d met before or after her marriage?
Pressing her face against his solid shoulder, Veronica breathed in the masculine scent. The motion caused Kumi’s arm to tighten around her waist, pulling her even closer. Dropping his hand, she wound her arms around his neck, certain he felt her trembling.
This time it wasn’t from fear, but from a need—a desperate need to experience the passion she hadn’t felt in a very long time. The musical piece ended, and they still swayed to their own private song. She finally found the strength to lower her arms and push firmly against his chest.
Lowering his head, Kumi breathed a kiss under her ear. “Thank you for the dance.”
She smiled shyly. “You’re welcome.” She should’ve been the one thanking him. Raising her chin, she looked up at him as he stared down at her under lowered lids. She wanted to see his eyes. “Kumi?” His name was a breathless whisper.
“Oui?”
“The champagne is getting warm and the cream on the cake is melting.”
He blinked as if coming out of a trance. Cradling her hand in his, he led her over to the table, pulled out a chair and seated her. He sat down, silently cursing himself for not kissing her. He’d been provided with the perfect opportunity to taste the confection of her generously curved mouth.
The next time, he mused. And there would be a next time. That she’d promised.
Veronica lay in bed Monday morning, staring up at the sheer mosquito netting flowing sensuously around the massive four-poster, loathing getting up. The feeling of being wrapped in a silken cocoon of bottomless peace persisted. She closed her eyes and smiled. The person who’d helped her achieve that feeling was Kumi Walker.
They’d lingered over dessert, drinking champagne and talking for hours about Paris, she experiencing an overwhelming nostalgia for Le Marais, Champs-Élysées, St. Germain-des-Prés, and the Chaillot, Latin, Luxembourg and Jardin des Plantes Quarters. And it was the first time in a very long time that she truly missed Paris—a city wherein each section claimed its own charm and artistic enclave.
She’d recalled restaurants, cafés, art galleries and museums she’d visited while Kumi offered her an update on each. What had surprised her was that he exhibited an exhaustive knowledge of art and architecture. Later he admitted he’d spent hundreds of hours in many of the museums his first year in Paris.
The sun had set and the late-spring night sky was painted with thousands of stars when Kumi finally prepared to leave, and at that moment Veronica hadn’t wanted him to go. She’d wanted him to stay and talk—about anything. After he left she realized she was lonely—lonely for male companionship. Lonely because she missed her husband and their nightly chats. There had never been a time when she and Bram weren’t able to bare their souls to each other. She’d been able to discuss anything with him—all except for the sexual assault that made it impossible for her to share her body with a man.
She’d met the elegant older man when he’d come into the tiny gallery she’d opened only six months before, looking for a gift for a colleague’s birthday. She’d suggested a watercolor of a seascape. Dr. Bramwell Hamlin was more than satisfied with his purchase and quite taken with the woman who’d recommended the painting.
He returned to the gallery the following month, this time to ask her assistance in helping him select artwork for his new home. She’d selected several landscapes and a magnificent still life, and a year later shock waves swept through Atlanta, Georgia’s black privileged class when Dr. Hamlin married Veronica Johnson, a woman thirty years his junior.
Veronica opened her eyes, rolling over on her side and peering at the face of the clock on a bedside table. It was ten-thirty. She hadn’t slept that late in years. Throwing off the sheet, she sat up, parted the netting and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet hadn’t touched the floor when the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver before the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Why did I have to hear it from our mother that you now live in the sticks?”
Veronica cradled the cordless instrument under her chin, smiling. “You wouldn’t have to hear it secondhand if you stopped stalking your husband.”
Candace Johnson-Yarborough’s husky laugh came through the earpiece. “Bite your tongue, big sis. You know I wouldn’t permit Ivan to go away on a three-day business trip without making him check in every hour, so what makes you think I’d be apart from him for three months?”
It was Veronica’s turn to laugh. Candace had married, what she and thousands of other Georgia black women had referred to, as the “world’s sexiest brother.” And she had to agree with her sister—Ivan Yarborough was not only good-looking but also a brilliant businessman. Ivan headed a consulting firm whose focus was setting up consortiums of small businesses in pre
dominately African-American communities. He was always a much-sought-after speaker at corporate seminars, colleges and high schools. Candace, a former schoolteacher, had resigned her position to homeschool their two sons while they all traveled together as a family.
“Bite your tongue, little sis. I’ll have you know that I don’t live in the sticks.”
“Yeah, right. Your closest neighbor is at least a mile away.”
Veronica wasn’t going to argue with Candace, who had always said she preferred living in the middle of a thriving metropolis. Her younger sister craved bright lights, honking automobile horns and blaring music. Besides, she wanted to tell Candace that Trace Road was only half a mile long.
“When are you coming to visit me and see for yourself that it’s quite civilized here? There’s even a shopping mall less than three miles away.”
“I can’t now. I have to prepare the kids for final exams. I’m calling for two reasons. One to say hello and let you know we’re back, and the other is to let you know the family reunion has been confirmed for the second weekend in August. Aunt Bette is hosting it this time.”
She wanted to tell her sister that she was going to conveniently come down with a strange illness for that particular weekend. Their mother’s sister was the most annoying and exasperating woman in the entire state of Georgia.
Instead, Veronica agreed to mark the calendar and then asked about her preteen nephews, telling Candace to give them her love.
Kumi showed the middle-aged cook to the door.
“Thank you so much for applying, Mr. Sherman. You’ll be informed of our decision before the end of the month.”
Waiting until the man walked out of the office his sister and brother-in-law had set up as their office, Kumi shook his head. He’d spent the past two days interviewing applicants, all who were more suited to cooking for a roadside café, than a full-service kitchen offering gourmet meals.
The Blackstone Promise Page 16