Deborah Walker-Maxwell entered the office seconds later, a pained expression distorting her attractive features. She sat down on a love seat and closed her eyes. “How many does that make?” she asked.
Kumi stared at his sister. The strain of trying to get the B and B ready for opening was beginning to wear on her. The puffiness under her large dark eyes was the most obvious sign. Deborah, the only daughter of Lawrence and Jeanette Walker, was also the most ambitious.
A very successful interior decorator, Deborah had resigned her position at one of the country’s leading design firms to go into business for herself. At thirty-eight, she’d taken her life savings, purchased the abandoned dilapidated property and with her contractor-husband, Orrin Maxwell, had begun renovating the former showplace to its original elegance.
Orrin had replaced the floors, walls, hung wallpaper and installed light fixtures, while his wife visited estate sales, antique shops and the many North Carolina furniture makers for furnishings. Each room now had its own name and personality.
“He was the eighth one.” Kumi’s tone mirrored his disappointment. He shook his head. “You advertised for chefs, yet you’re getting cooks. There’s a big difference in a short-order cook and a graduate from a culinary school.” So far he’d filled one position—pastry chef.
Tears filled Deborah’s eyes. “What am I going to do? We’re opening in eight weeks.”
Rising to his feet, Kumi moved to sit beside her. Dropping an arm over her shoulder, he cradled her head to his chest. “I’m going to contact several culinary schools and ask for their recommendations. A recent graduate would be provided the perfect opportunity to showcase their talent and training. If you’re not fully staffed by the time you open, then I’ll act as executive chef.”
Deborah smiled up at her brother through her tears. Large dark eyes so much like Kumi’s crinkled in a smile. “How can I thank you? I know you’re losing millions of francs—”
“Euros,” he corrected, interrupting her.
“Okay.” She laughed. “Euros. You’re still losing tons of money not working because you’re here helping me out. I’m going to make it up to you, Kumi. I swear I will.”
He placed a forefinger over her lips. “No swearing, Debbie.” Lowering his head, he removed his finger and brushed a light kiss on her cheek. “If I was worried about losing money I never would’ve agreed to help you and Orrin.”
He’d taken a four-month leave from his position as executive chef at a five-star Parisian hotel to help his sister. He loved Debbie enough to put his own plans on hold for her. She’d always been there for him when they were children. She was the only one who’d protected him from Dr. Lawrence Walker, who punished her for her insubordination, but it hadn’t seemed to matter to her. She simply spent the time in her room either building dollhouses or reading.
Kumi stared down at Debbie. She’d been a pretty girl, but she was a beautiful woman. She looked just like their mother: petite and delicate with cinnamon-colored skin, large dark eyes and a quick smile. In marrying Orrin Maxwell, she’d rebelled against her parents’ wishes. Orrin hadn’t been the college graduate their parents hoped she would marry. When Debbie decided to devote herself to her career rather than start a family, she once again shocked her parents.
“When are you going to settle down?” Deborah asked Kumi.
“I have settled down. I have a career and I own a home.”
“Not that settling down. When are you going to get married?”
He glanced over her head, his gaze fixed on a massive armoire concealing a television and stereo components. “I don’t know, Debbie. Perhaps I’m not cut out for marriage.”
“Are you seeing someone?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Don’t you ever get lonely? Don’t you miss home?”
“I work too many hours to get lonely.” Four days of the week he worked at the hotel. On his days off he often catered private parties. “And don’t forget that France is my home now.”
Her fingertips grazed his smooth-shaven jaw. “Have you ever considered moving back to the States?”
He exhaled audibly. “The first two years I spent in Paris I thought about it a lot. I used to wander the streets all night, while spending my days in museums staring at the same painting for hours. When the money I’d earned in the marines began to run out, I got a job in a restaurant. I waited tables and eventually found myself helping out in the kitchen. I discovered I had a knack for cooking, so I enrolled in a culinary school. The rest is history.”
A slight frown furrowed Deborah’s smooth forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me this in your letters? You always wrote that life in Paris was perfect, and that you were wonderful.”
“It was and still is wonderful, Debbie.” What he wouldn’t say was that anything was wonderful as long as he didn’t have to interact with his father. At that time exile was preferable to exclusion.
Removing his arm, he pushed to his feet and extended his hand. She placed her hand in his and he pulled Deborah up in one strong motion. “I’m going out. I’ll see you later.”
She stared at his broad back under an expertly tailored jacket. “Are you coming back for dinner?”
Smiling at her over his shoulder, he said, “I don’t know.”
And he didn’t know. Right now he felt as jumpy and finicky as a cat. It was a restlessness he hadn’t felt in a long time, and he knew it had something to do with Veronica Johnson. They weren’t scheduled to see each other again until Sunday, but he did not want to wait another three days.
He was scheduled to interview two more candidates the following day, and he shuddered at the thought. His only confirmed hire was a pastry chef, and he still needed someone to oversee the sautéed items, and one who would be responsible for pasta and accompanying sauces. The B and B was designed to have a full-service kitchen for dinner, which meant it would need at least four assistant chefs.
He walked back to his cottage, his arms swinging loosely at his sides. He was bored out of his skull. If he hadn’t been in the States, either he would be working at the hotel’s restaurant, catering a private party or relaxing in the courtyard of his modest home in the Luxembourg Quarter. In his spare time he usually prowled the corridors of a museum. And it was on an even rarer occasion that he entertained women in his home.
He covered the distance between the B and B and his cottage in less than fifteen minutes. Unlocking the door, he walked into the parlor, past a tiny kitchen and into his bedroom and changed out of the shirt, tie, jacket and slacks and into a pair of jeans, T-shirt and boots. Returning to the parlor, he picked up the keys to his bike from a table near the front door. Closing the door behind him, he headed for the Harley parked under a carport. Within minutes he was astride the large motorcycle, the wind whipping the shirt on his back as trees, cars and telephone poles became a blur.
His body pulsed with pleasure—a delightful excitement similar to what he’d felt when he’d cradled Veronica Johnson to his chest. He wanted to see her once more before their scheduled Sunday encounter.
Downshifting, he maneuvered up the steep hill to Trace Road. Once at the top he slowed until he came to Veronica’s house. The Lexus was parked in the driveway.
She was home!
Chapter Four
He came to a complete stop behind her truck, shutting off the engine. The front door stood open, and as he neared the screen door he saw the outline of Veronica’s body as she came closer.
His steady gaze bore into her in silent expectation. Come to me, Veronica. Open the door, his inner voiced implored. What he didn’t want was for her to send him away.
Kumi had registered the expression of surprise freezing Veronica’s features before it was replaced by indecision. Had he made a mistake in stopping by without calling he
r? Had he felt so comfortable with her that he’d assumed that she would open her door and her arms, welcoming him into her home and her life?
Veronica saw him, and a shiver of awareness raced through her body. She’d been thinking about Kumi, and suddenly there he was at her door as if she’d conjured him up.
She felt the heat of his gaze on her face as he watched her intently through the finely woven mesh. She felt the tingling in the pit of stomach because as she watched Kumi staring at her she saw something so maddeningly arrogant in the man standing at her front door that it rendered her motionless and speechless for several long seconds.
Struggling to maintain her composure, her eyelids fluttered. She’d wanted to see him again, but on her terms. She’d spent most of the morning working in her garden and had just come in to shower and change her clothes when she heard the roar of his Harley.
Here she was standing less than a foot away from him, only a screen door separating them, dressed in a pair of shorts, a revealing tank top and a pair of tattered running shoes.
“Good afternoon, Kumi.” Her voice was low, husky, sounding strange even to her ears.
He inclined his head, a half smile tilting the corners of his mobile mouth. “Afternoon, Veronica. I just came by to see if you wanted to go for a ride in the country.”
Her gaze narrowed. “On your bike?”
Placing his left hand over his heart, he bowed from the waist, the motion incredibly graceful for a man his height and size. “Yes. I apologize for showing up unannounced, but it would be a shame to waste this beautiful day indoors. Besides, I didn’t have your telephone number, so I couldn’t call you.”
She wanted to tell him that she’d just spent more than two hours working outdoors in her flower garden, but did not want to hurt his feelings. Despite his arrogance, there was something in Kumi Walker’s gaze that hinted of vulnerability. It was as if he was waiting for her to reject him. And she wondered if someone he cared for had rejected him, wounding him deeply.
“I’d like to go, but I’m afraid of motorcycles,” she admitted honestly.
He lifted a thick black eyebrow. “Have you ever ridden before?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know you’re afraid?”
“It’s too open. I need something around me to make me feel safe, protected.”
He stood a step closer—close enough for her to feel his moist breath whisper over her forehead through the barrier of mesh separating them. “I’ll protect you, Veronica. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.” Her golden gaze widened, and for a long moment she stared at him, giving him the advantage he sought. “Go change your clothes,” he ordered softly. “I’ll be here waiting for you.” The sight of her wearing the revealing attire tested his self-control. Seeing so much of her flesh made him feel as randy as an adolescent boy.
She blinked once. “I don’t have a helmet.”
“You can use mine.”
“What will you use?”
“Nothing.”
Veronica shook her head, a silver ponytail swaying gently with the motion. “No. I’m not going if you’re not going to wear a helmet. I don’t want to be responsible for you cracking your skull if we have an accident.”
“I’ve never had an accident.”
“There’s always the first time, Mr. Walker.”
He glared at her. “Are you using my not wearing a helmet as an excuse not to go?”
“If I didn’t want to go, then I’d just come out and say so. Go get another helmet, Kumi Walker, or get lost.”
His eyes darkened dangerously as he returned her hostile glare. He knew it was useless to argue with her. If she were afraid for herself, then it probably would go without saying that she’d be afraid for him to ride without protective headgear.
“Okay. But I’ll be back.”
Veronica watched him as he returned to the motorcycle, swinging his right leg over the bike in one, smooth motion. Straddling the bike, he placed the shiny black helmet over his head. Raising his chin in a gesture of challenge and defiance, he started up the engine. It took only seconds for him to go from zero to forty as he took off down Trace Road, the roar of the powerful engine fading quickly as man and bike disappeared from view.
Veronica had showered, changed into a pair of jeans, white camp shirt and a pair of low-heeled leather boots by the time Kumi returned with a smaller helmet painted in vivid shades of reds and pinks. He placed the helmet on her head, adjusted the strap and helped her straddle the seat behind him. She curved her arms loosely around his waist.
“Hold me tighter,” he said over his shoulder.
She tightened her grip, her breasts pressing against the wide expanse of his back. She wasn’t given the opportunity to inhale once he shifted into gear and maneuvered out of the driveway.
Closing her eyes, Veronica pressed her cheek to Kumi’s shoulder, certain he could feel the pounding of her heart through the shirt on his back. Her fright and fear eased as he turned off onto a two-lane highway. Five minutes into the ride she felt what he experienced each time he rode his bike—absolute and total freedom.
She was flying, soaring unfettered as the world whizzed by. Suddenly there was only Veronica, Kumi and the steady humming of the powerful machine under their bodies. A rising heat penetrated the layer of cotton covering his upper body; her sensitive nostrils inhaled the natural scent of his skin and that of the sensual cologne that complemented his blatant masculinity. She savored the feel of lean hard muscle under her cheek. There wasn’t an ounce of excess flesh on his hard body.
A contented smile curved Kumi’s mouth as he peered through the protective shield of his helmet. The soft crush of Veronica’s breasts against his back had aroused him. Shifting into higher gear, he increased his speed. Riding with Veronica was like making love. It had begun slowly, tentatively at first, but as the speed accelerated so did his passion.
Veronica Johnson had become the Harley; he’d straddled her, riding faster, harder and deeper. They seemed to leap off the asphalt, the machine eating up the road in voracious gulps. The vibration of the engine had become her body, pulsing faster and faster until he found himself sucked into a vortex of ecstasy from which he never wanted to escape.
Is that how it would be? Would making love to her be slow, methodical, parochial, then wild, frenzied and completely uninhibited?
They’d gone about fifteen miles when he slowed and left the highway, heading up a steep hill to a wooded clearing. It was where he’d learned to ride a motorcycle for the first time; he’d begun racing dirt bikes at twelve, then graduated to motorized bikes before he finally learned to handle the larger, more powerful Harley-Davidson.
He reached the top of the hill and came to a complete stop. Removing his helmet, he stared down at the countryside dotted with trees, houses and narrow, winding streams, breathing deeply. Reaching behind him, he caressed Veronica’s arm as she slid off.
Supporting the bike on its stand, he unbuckled her helmet and pulled it gently from her head. Her gleaming hair was pressed against her moist scalp. Anchoring the helmets on the handlebars, he cradled her face between his hands, his fingers curving around the column of her slender neck. He saw a shimmer of excitement in her sun-lit eyes.
Smiling, he asked, “How did you like it?”
“Fantastic.” She shrugged a shoulder. “That is once I got over the fright of going so fast.”
He tightened his grip along her delicate jawline. “Didn’t I tell you that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you?”
Her fingers closed around his thick wrists as she sought to pull his hands away from her face. A rising panic wouldn’t permit her to breathe. The image of the student seizing her throat, while pressing her against a wall as he fumbled with the zipper to his slacks, came rushing back wit
h vivid clarity, and she panicked.
“No, Kumi. Don’t—don’t touch me.”
He stared at her, baffled as vertical lines appeared between his eyes. “What?”
Closing her eyes against his intense stare, she shook her head. “Please, don’t hurt me,” she pleaded in a shivery whisper.
Kumi felt as if someone had just doused him with cold water as his hands fell, at the same time his fingers curling into tight fists.
Why would Veronica plead with him not to hurt her? He’d only touched her once before, and that was to dance with her.
He moved closer, this time making certain not to touch her. Leaning down, he whispered close to her ear, “I would never hurt you, Ronnie.”
Her breasts trembled above her rib cage, her chest rising and falling heavily under her blouse. She’d made a fool of herself; her greatest fear had surfaced the instant Kumi touched her throat—a chilling, paralyzing fear she’d lived with for more than twenty years, a fear she’d successfully repressed until now.
She wrapped her arms around her body in a protective gesture. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “It’s not you, Kumi.”
“Who is it, Veronica?”
She opened her eyes, seeing concern and tenderness in his midnight gaze. Everything that was Kumi Walker communicated itself to her: strong, protective and trusting. But could she trust him? Would she be able to tell him what she hadn’t been able to disclose to anyone in two decades? That it had been her fault that she was almost raped?
Tell him, the inner voice whispered, but she ignored it.
“I can’t tell you.”
He came closer without moving. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to tell me?”
Shaking her head, she whispered even though there was no one else around to hear them, “I don’t know.”
A sad smile touched Kumi’s strong mouth. “It’s okay, Ronnie.”
The Blackstone Promise Page 17