The Blackstone Promise

by Rochelle Alers

What he wanted to tell her was that it wasn’t okay, not when he wanted to touch her, make love to her. The realization that he wanted to make love to Veronica Johnson had shaken him to the core earlier that morning. It had been years since he’d awakened, hard and throbbing from an erotic dream. The dream had been so vivid that he’d sat up gasping, his body moist and her name on his lips.

  And he had yet to discover what had drawn him to Veronica other than her startling natural beauty. She was older than he was, yet he didn’t view her as a mother figure. In fact, she was nothing like the other women he’d been attracted to in the past. There was a strength about her that did not lessen her femininity.

  He’d found her composed, confident—until now.

  “Are you ready to go back?”

  Veronica forced a smile she did not feel. She wasn’t ready to get back on the bike—not until she was back in control. “Not yet. I’d like to stay and enjoy the scenery.”

  Kumi nodded, extending his right hand. He watched Veronica staring at his outstretched fingers for a long moment, then trustingly placed her smaller hand in his. He closed his fingers around hers, tightening slightly before he floated down to the grass, gently pulling her down to sit beside him. They sat, shoulders only inches apart, staring out at the picturesque panorama of the Great Smoky Mountains rising in the background. A massive oak tree provided a canopy of natural protection from the fiery rays of the sun.

  Pulling his knees to his chest, Kumi wrapped his arms around his denim-covered legs as he replayed the eerie scene they’d just experienced over and over in his head. He could still hear the fear in her voice when she’d pleaded with him not to hurt her. Had he held her that tightly? Had he not known his own strength?

  He stood six-two, weighed two hundred and ten pounds and had been trained to bring a man to his knees with a single blow. But each time he’d touched Veronica it had only been in gentleness and protection.

  His expression hardened as he considered another possibility. Had she ever been hit by a man, been a victim of domestic violence? And had that man been a boyfriend, or even her late husband?

  Why, he wondered, had she waited two years after her husband’s death to take up residence in North Carolina? Whom or what in Georgia prompted her to spend the summer in another state? What or whom was she running from?

  He’d asked her to tell him of her fear and she had refused. That meant he had to wait—wait for her to feel comfortable or trusted him enough to perhaps open up to him. He wanted and needed her to trust him, because he knew he couldn’t continue to see her and not touch her. Not when all of his sleeping and waking moments were filled with the images of her shimmering silver hair, delicately defined feminine face and her temptingly lush body.

  He would give himself three months. It was now late May, and he had secured reservations to return to Paris mid-September. If his relationship with Veronica Johnson remained the same, he would return to Paris—with memories of her and what might have been.

  Veronica turned her head slightly, staring at Kumi’s profile. His expression was impassive; he was so still he could’ve been carved out of stone.

  A refreshing mountain breeze filtered through the leaves of the tree, cooling her moist face. Her gaze swung back to the valley. The view was magnificent. She wished she’d had a sketch pad. Even though some of her art instructors had labeled her drawings as immature and amateurish, that hadn’t stopped her from attempting to capture images on a blank sheet of paper. Pulling her knees to her chest, she executed a pose similar to Kumi’s, willing her mind blank.

  They sat side by side in silence for more than twenty minutes until Veronica raised her hand, trailing her fingertips over his forearm. Kumi jumped as if she’d burned him and placed his hand over hers, tightening his grip when she attempted to pull away from him.

  “I’m ready to go back now.”

  She was ready and he wasn’t. He’d enjoyed sitting with her, her closeness, while marveling in the panorama of the landscape. At no time had he felt the need to initiate conversation. Veronica offered him what he’d sought most of his life—a quiet, healing, calming peace that made him want to stay with her forever.

  Releasing her hand, he stared at her, his eyes dark and unfathomable. “Are you certain you’re ready?” Are you ready for me? his inner voice asked.

  Veronica’s gaze lingered on the curve of his beautifully shaped mouth. “Yes.”

  Kumi went completely still. There was something about his expression that made it impossible for her to look away. Something undeniably magnetic was building between them and binding them together. She felt drugged by his clean and manly scent as he lowered his head.

  He came closer and closer; she was unable to move because she did not want to. Shivering despite the heat, she inhaled his moist breath the instant his lips brushed against hers, the touch as soft as a butterfly’s gossamer wings.

  He kissed her without touching any other part of her body. The warmth of his mouth, the slight pressure of his lips pressing against hers ignited spirals of ecstasy throughout her body. The fingers of her left hand grasped long blades of thick grass, pulling them from their roots. Kumi’s kiss sang through her veins, heating her blood.

  As quickly as it had begun it was over. Kumi pulled back, leaving her mouth burning with a lingering, smoldering fire. Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated with a rising passion as she stared at the man sitting inches from her.

  Kumi smiled once he noted her soft, moist, parted lips. She hadn’t kissed him back, but more importantly she hadn’t pulled away or panicked, either. He’d risked everything, kissing her when less than half an hour before she’d pleaded with him not to touch her.

  “You asked me not to touch you, and I didn’t. But you never said I couldn’t kiss you.”

  Veronica studied the lean dark-skinned face, entranced by what she saw. What was it about Kumi Walker that made her feel like a breathless girl of sixteen? She thought him charming and arrogant—an arrogance that was compelling and exciting.

  “You’re right, Kumi.” Her voice was soft, seductive. “I never said you couldn’t kiss me.”

  He stared at her and then burst out laughing. Curving an arm around her waist, he stood, pulling her up with him. He did not drop his arm as he led her back to the bike. Three minutes later the wind tore at their clothes, caressed their moist flesh and sang a nameless song in their ears as man, woman and machine became one.

  Chapter Five

  Images of Kumi and the kiss they’d shared lingered with Veronica over the next two days. She’d given him her telephone number while he had insisted she keep the brightly colored helmet for their next outing. She hung the helmet on a hook in the mudroom at the rear of the house, and each time she saw it she was reminded of his broad back, trim waist and the wildly intoxicating fragrance of sandalwood mingling with his body’s natural scent.

  She’d established a habit of rising early and slipping outside for a morning walk. By the time she’d walked the length of Trace Road, the sun had risen above the peaks of the mountains, the rays penetrating the haze hovering over the deep gorges and valleys. After showering and a light breakfast of fruit, raisin toast and a cup of decaffeinated coffee, she slipped behind the wheel of her SUV, touring the mountain region and stopping in Cherokee and other small towns in the High Country.

  She spent hours in the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, studying artifacts in the art gallery and the outdoor living exhibit depicting Cherokee life in several eras, returning home with a handmade basket, mask and a wood carving from the Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual, the cooperative set up across the street from the museum.

  The last day she lingered at the Oconaluftee Indian Village, observing demonstrations of traditional skills such as weaving, pottery making, canoe construction and hunting techniques.

  The ti
ny town of Dillsboro was added to her itinerary once she boarded a steam locomotive for a ride on the Great Smoky Mountains Railway, berating herself for not bringing a camera once she realized the open-side cars were ideal for taking pictures of the mountain scenery. She returned home late Saturday afternoon, and unlocked the door to the sound of the ringing telephone. By the time she picked up the receiver, the caller had hung up before the answering machine switched on. Too exhausted to think about who may have been calling, she headed for the staircase leading to her bedroom, showered and lay across her bed completely nude, falling asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  Veronica woke up Sunday morning, completely rejuvenated. She’d left the French doors open and crisp mountain air filled the room with the scent of pine and rain. Stretching her bare arms above her head, she stared up at the mosquito netting covering the bed. Bram had hated sleeping with the netting, claiming it had reminded him of a burial shroud.

  However, she loved the drapery. It provided the protective cloaking she sought whenever she lay in bed. It made her feel as if she’d retreated to a shadowy fairy-tale world, a make-believe world in which she could sleep and shut out her fear.

  Parting the sheer fabric, she swung her legs over the side of the antique bed and headed for the adjoining bathroom. Despite the rain, she would take her walk, then return home to shower and shampoo her hair.

  If she’d been in Atlanta she would’ve worked out at a downtown sports club where she’d been a member for years. However, she found the Trace Road walk a lot more peaceful and invigorating. The solitude provided her with time to think and reflect on what she wanted to do with her life. She hadn’t decided whether she would teach again, only because earning a salary wasn’t a factor because Bram had left her with enough money to last her well into old age, providing she did not squander it.

  She owned the house her late husband had bequeathed her in Buckhead, Atlanta’s wealthiest neighborhood, and the three-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath mountain retreat in North Carolina. She’d invested the proceeds from the sale of the gallery in a risk-free mutual fund based upon the recommendation of her family’s longtime investment banker.

  Even without the money Bram had left her, Veronica Johnson was a wealthy woman. She was old Atlanta, fourth-generation and had grown up in the right neighborhood, earned the right degrees, she had held a prestigious position as an assistant college professor and had married into the right family.

  Two priceless Garland Bayless paintings, one she’d purchased and the other a gift from the talented artist, along with a velvet pouch filled with precious baubles she’d inherited from her paternal grandmother lay in an Atlanta bank vault. She’d removed the jewelry and paintings from the Buckhead residence a week before she’d closed the house.

  Despite her prestigious pedigree, a few of her more conservative relatives thought her less than proper because she’d expressed a desire to become an artist, had lived with a gay man then married another man, older than her own father. There had been a few occasions when her mother, Irma Johnson, had thrown up her hands saying Veronica was going to be the death of her. Irma had recently celebrated her seventieth birthday and was healthier and more attractive than she’d ever been.

  Veronica brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face and slipped into her workout attire. Heavy fog and a falling mist greeted her as she stepped out the back door. She doubted whether the sun would put in an appearance during the daylight hours but that was okay. She hadn’t planned any outdoor activities today because Kumi had promised to cook for her.

  “I’m coming,” Veronica called out seconds after the doorbell echoed through the house, while simultaneously, the clock on the fireplace mantel chimed twelve noon.

  Approaching the door, she spied Kumi cradling two plastic crates to his chest, smiling.

  After her walk she’d showered, shampooed her hair, blown it out and then curled it in tiny spiral curls that fell in seductive disarray around her face. In deference to the cloudy day, she’d elected to wear a simple linen sheath in a sunny yellow color. On her feet she wore a pair of black ballet-type slippers.

  Pushing open and holding the door, she smiled at Kumi. He wore the type of loose-fitting tunic worn by the chefs she’d viewed on the Food Network channel. He’d exchanged his jeans for a pair of sharply creased khakis.

  “Please come in.”

  He hesitated, leaning down to press a kiss to her velvety cheek. “Bonjour. I like your hair,” he said in French.

  Veronica wrinkled her pert nose. “Merci.” She peered into the crates, trying to discern what they contained. “What on earth did you bring?” she asked in English.

  His eyes crinkled attractively. Not seeing him for two days made him more attractive than she’d remembered. He looked different, and as she stared at him she realized his hair was growing out. It was a glossy black, curling softly over his scalp.

  “Lunch and dinner are in one crate, and some of my pots are in the other.” He continued to speak French, but slow enough for Veronica to understand.

  “Some?”

  He stared at her over his shoulder. “The rest are in the trunk of the car.”

  Veronica stared at his retreating back as he walked in the direction of the kitchen. He returned within minutes, going back to the late-model sedan parked behind her vehicle. He retrieved another plastic crate, shutting the trunk with a solid thunk.

  He walked back into the house. “That does it.”

  She closed the screen door and locked it, then joined Kumi in the kitchen where he’d begun emptying the crates. She stood, stunned, as he set a variety of pots and pans on the countertop. Soon every inch of counter space was taken up with cooking utensils and foodstuffs: a large aluminum bowl was filled with live lobsters, crab, clams and mussels; there was a platter of assorted cheeses; bottles of cooking and drinking wine; champagne; the ingredients for a salad; a container of bright green asparagus; and last but certainly not least a large uncooked duck. Her shock was complete when he turned out a mound of dough sealed in plastic wrap into a large ceramic bowl.

  Folding her hands on her hips, she shook her head. “Do you really expect the two of us to eat all of that?”

  “Oui, madame.”

  Kumi withdrew two aprons from the last crate, tying one around his waist. He motioned to Veronica. “Come here, and turn around.”

  She walked over and presented him with her back, suffering his closeness as he looped a strap around her neck, then wrapped the apron around her waist, tying it securely.

  Kumi wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until she pleaded with him to stop. His need to taste the sweetness of her lush mouth again was overwhelming. Resisting the urge to press his mouth to the nape of her neck, he turned and walked into the half bath to wash his hands.

  Veronica spent the next two hours exchanging French phrases with Kumi while he washed the clams and mussels, ground dried lavender blossoms, savory thyme, peppercorns and salt together to season the duck before he rolled out dough for two loaves of French bread.

  It was only after she saw him wield a knife with rapid precision as he sliced lardoons into tiny pieces before frying them in a skillet for a salad that she realized Kumi Walker couldn’t be a waiter or a busboy in a restaurant, he must be a trained chef. Moving the skillet rhythmically up and down, and then back and forth over a flame, he flipped the diced bacon, turning it with a quick flip of his wrist.

  He threw Veronica a knowing glance, winking and offering her a wicked grin. “Please check to see if the bread dough has doubled in size.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “‘I’ve been out of the country for ten years, and what I’ve missed most is a home-cooked Southern meal,’” she mumbled, repeating what he’d said to her after he’d fixed her flat.

  Blowing her a kiss, he said, “Don’t be such a
sore loser.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were a chef?”

  He shrugged a broad shoulder. “You didn’t ask.”

  He was right. She hadn’t asked. She’d just assumed he was a waiter. She’d misjudged him, believing he was a cocky young man who was so aware of his virility that he flaunted it like a badge of honor. And riding the Harley had only served to reinforce the macho image.

  She was guilty of what so many in Atlanta had done to her—misjudged her when she married Dr. Bramwell Hamlin. But she’d loved Bram—loved him enough to marry him. It had nothing to do with his social standing or his wealth.

  After checking on the fragrant-smelling dough under a towel, she returned to the stove. “It’s ready.”

  Curving an arm around Veronica’s waist, Kumi pulled her closer, handing her the skillet. “Try flipping it.”

  She took the pan, attempting to shake and turn the lardoons at the same time and failed.

  Standing behind her, Kumi grasped her right wrist. “Loosen your grip on the handle,” he said close to her ear. “That’s it. Now move the skillet back and forward over the flame while tossing the contents so that they move toward you.”

  A brilliant smile lit up her golden eyes. “I did it!”

  “Yes, you did,” he crooned, kissing the side of her neck. She went completely still for several seconds before the tense moment vanished. “When they’re golden brown, strain them and then let them drain on some paper towels. We’ll warm them up slightly before topping off the salad.”

  Veronica and Kumi moved comfortably around the large functional kitchen, baking bread and tearing leaves for a salad. He mixed herbs and spices for a dressing, while she unwrapped a square of creamy goat cheese from a layer of cheesecloth. She watched as he dropped two small lobsters, two crabs, half a dozen clams and the same number of mussels into a large pot of boiling water.