by Nicki Night
“I’m good with whatever you’re having,” he said.
“It might take a while.”
“All right.”
Ray disappeared into the kitchen to put on the kettle. Moments later, she returned to the living room. “It’s freezing in here.” She headed for the hearth. “The fireplace is easy to work.” She proved it by pressing a button along the side of the mantel. In seconds, the lamp’s golden tint was intensified by the firelight’s gleam.
“It’s not authentic,” Ray said while studying the burgeoning flame, “but it’ll do in a pinch. You’ll be sweltering inside that coat soon,” she warned.
Barker was already removing the wool overcoat. “Authentic doesn’t always mean better,” he said.
“And you’re probably in the minority with that kind of thinking.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Ray treated herself to only a few additional beats of Barker Grant watching. “I should get back to the kitchen.” She headed there and stood before the stove while collecting herself and cooling her nerves. She could feel herself being watched soon after. She turned and found Barker in the doorway.
“I’m out of coffee,” she said.
“I’m not here for coffee.”
Her smile reflected sarcasm. “Yeah, I know.” Turning back to the stove, she hastily pulled out mugs from a small cabinet next to it. She stopped when she felt him behind her. He didn’t touch her, but Ray felt him just the same—as though his presence radiated like the sun. She turned, and still Barker didn’t touch her. Instead, he leaned close to search her eyes with his.
“I came to see that you got home safe because I didn’t like the idea of you coming up here alone. I didn’t like the thought of you being alone.”
“I’m not alone, Barker, and I’m not some sad case needing to be pitied.”
“I agree, and because you’re not is why I’m here.” He smiled, shifting a look past her shoulder. “The water’s about to boil.”
Ray could’ve cared less. Again, his words held her in a rapt state. She wanted what his eyes promised. She wanted to know if his mouth was as honey-sweet as the voice that resonated beyond it.
“Ray?” He gave a solitary nod then. “The water.”
She snapped to. The reminder, paired with the insistent whistle of the silver kettle, was successful in tugging her thoughts out of the inappropriate places they lingered. With a hasty turn toward the stove, she removed the kettle from the glowing orange burner. When she turned back, Barker was gone.
* * *
“So, who’s the photographer?” Barker was asking just over ten minutes later.
They were back in the living room with mugs of robust black tea in hand. The remote-controlled blaze across from the sofa bathed the room in comforting warmth.
Ray looked to the piece that had caught Barker’s eye. It was one of several that featured her in an array of dance poses in genres ranging from ballet to jazz. “Courtesy of Miss Jaz,” she said.
Barker smiled, regarding the large photograph above the hearth with renewed interest. “I didn’t know she was a photographer.” He referred to the late Jazmina Beaumont. The woman had been revered yet scandalized during her reign as one of Philadelphia’s most successful female entrepreneurs. Her franchise of gentlemen’s clubs had been fixtures across the nation.
Ray snuggled into her side of the long chair she shared with Barker. “She had them professionally done when she was thinking of turning the clubs into dance schools.”
Barker showed his surprise. “I thought that was Clarissa’s idea.” Clarissa David was Jazmina Beaumont’s niece and Rayelle’s oldest friend.
“Nope.” Ray sipped her tea. “Miss J had the idea years before but...well, a woman’s gotta make a living. A dance school wasn’t where the money was—at least it wasn’t there for women like Jazmina Beaumont.”
“Ahead of her time,” Barker noted.
“Very.” Ray used her mug to toast and then set it aside.
“It’s a shame.” Barker’s dark eyes continued to roam the photograph with approval and intrigue. “With you for her spokesmodel, they would’ve been turning away students at the door.”
“Hmph...sometimes, I forget that’s even me.”
The admission had Barker turning reluctantly from the black-and-white picture. It was a vision with Ray captured in a dark leotard, her shoulder-length hair wrapped around her head in a thick braid with a ringlet of small flowers artistically woven throughout.
“How old were you there?”
She shrugged. “Nineteen or twenty.”
“Unbelievable.” Barker sent another look above the hearth.
“What?” Ray paused en route to reaching for her mug.
“You could’ve taken that yesterday.”
“Ha! Don’t be fooled, Mr. Reporter. The thighs in that picture have changed.”
Barker put his mug on the mantel and turned. “I can’t tell how that’s a bad thing,” he said.
Just like that, Ray felt absorbed in the mesmerizing depths of his stare, until he broke the spell.
“So, why don’t you recognize yourself?” He smiled, watching as she worked to fix on the question.
Ray noticed and had to wonder if he was purposefully trying to keep her off-kilter. If so, he was damn good at it.
“Miss J always thought I could be more than what she thought I was settling for by working for her.”
“And what was that?”
“Well, she wanted to be a serious dancer. She thought I did, too. Doesn’t everyone?” Ray shifted on the sofa and shrugged. “I mean, who’d want to take her clothes off for money? It wasn’t my life’s dream, but neither was becoming renowned on the world’s stage.”
“She wanted more for you.”
“She’d already given me more. I was more from the day I met her.” Ray blinked, as though suddenly realizing where she was—what she was saying. She didn’t dare look to Barker Grant then. The man was way too easy to talk to. Which was dangerous, considering there were things she’d forbidden herself to ever speak of outside of certain circles...
Barker didn’t pry. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Ray,” he told her instead. She looked at him then, stunned. Good, he thought. It was the reaction he’d hoped for. He’d known full well that wasn’t what she’d been thinking. He knew wherever her thoughts were settled, it wasn’t a place she wanted to share with him.
“I’ve been told I can be intimidating.” Barker added a faint shrug as though he considered the idea a ridiculous one.
Though she considered herself relatively safe with him, Ray found the notion far from ridiculous. While Barker Grant was considered to be a respected journalist both at home and on the national landscape, many believed it was his looks that accounted for much of his “celebrity.”
Fierce and intimidating were natural terms that came to mind when the man was the topic of conversation. Ray had been privy to quite a few of those chats, especially following the recent case that had started with discrepancies in Jazmina Beaumont’s own franchise. Those discrepancies had culminated with the takedown of several high-ranking Philadelphia officials—thanks in part to Barker. His station, WPXI, had started putting certain key pieces in place before any real suspicions were ever conjured.
No surprise there—much of Barker’s respect stirred from spot-on instincts that had resulted in stories that had toppled big names in Philadelphia and beyond. Intelligence, instincts, to-die-for looks fringed with the unmistakable hint of ferocity and...yes, intimidation was an understandable reaction.
Ray supposed she should’ve at least felt somewhat unnerved at being alone in her apartment with a man she didn’t really know—a man who seemed to fill a room with his presence without saying a word. She supposed she should have considered the possibilities of what could happen if s
he wanted him to leave and he chose not to...she hadn’t considered any of those things. Asking Barker to leave hadn’t even registered.
“Do you want me to be intimidated?” she asked, her tone quiet.
“No.” He leaned on the wall next to the mantel. “You should ask me to go anyway, though.”
Ray refused to blink or even to swallow around the sudden lump at the back of her throat. “Why would you want me to do that?”
“Because if I stay, we’ll be here for a while, and most of that time will be spent doing what we should’ve been doing in the Bahamas. What we should’ve been doing long before the Bahamas.”
“I’m confused.” She said the words while sharing a look that expressed just the opposite. Part of her hoped they would continue along this line of discussion. The other part of her anticipated him changing tactics on her once again.
“That’s a shame.” He pushed off the wall.
Ray pegged the edge to his soft voice as resignation, and she assumed their time together had reached its end. She stood, deciding to beat him to the door. Instead, she found her path blocked and then she was taken off her feet entirely.
“Where?” he queried against her cheek.
Anywhere, the initial response came to mind silently before she reconsidered. She’d stand a better chance of keeping him longer if he were in her bed.
Desperate, Ray? a voice jibed. So what if she was? She’d damn well earned the right to treat herself, and what better treat than over six foot five inches of well-defined dark onyx muscle with a stunning brain to match.
“Around the corner—the door at the end of the hall,” she said.
“That far, huh? Will you cut me some slack if we make it as far as the hall?”
Laughter bubbled inside Ray’s chest, but was stifled by the quick deep lunge of Barker’s tongue inside her mouth. She shuddered against him, and Barker felt his sure grip weaken where he cradled her bottom.
He had bargained about making it as far as the hall, but was suddenly weighing the odds of making it from the living room. Rayelle Keats had been a fixture in his mind for too long not to have her presence now wreaking all sorts of chaos on his mind and body. He stood there with her in the middle of the warm, bright room, kissing her like they had all the time in the world. He didn’t intend to rush this. He’d meant what he’d said. They’d be there for a while.
Copyright © 2018 by AlTonya Washington
ISBN-13: 9781488082108
Diamonds for the Holidays
Copyright © 2018 by Renee Daniel Flagler
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com