They both mean business—in the boardroom and the bedroom
Setha Melendez will do anything for her family. When an explosive scandal threatens those she loves most, her protector turns out to be the one she least expected: publishing magnate Khouri Ross of the Ross Review. And Setha knows it’s only a matter of time before their two fierce, powerful families collide.
With multimillion-dollar contracts at stake, neither family is willing to back down. It’s going to take the coolheaded Khouri and Setha to find a middle ground. Problem is, just being near each other spikes their desire to the boiling point.
Khouri can’t resist letting Setha get under his skin. With her passionate touch and free spirit, the sexy heiress has a straight shot to his heart. Now that she’s his, he won’t let her go. Not for business, not for family. And especially not for the unknown danger targeting her.
“I never eat when I get on a cooking kick.”
“Well, hell, that’s no fun. Come out with me.”
“No, I um…no.” She couldn’t decide whether she wanted her hands in or out of the denim capris she sported.
“Is that because there’s someone you’re trying not to upset?”
She opened the refrigerator door and then closed it. “There’s no one.”
“Does he know that?”
Setha blinked and turned from the refrigerator to study him curiously. “What are you talking about?”
Khouri maintained his spot along the counter. “You’re starting to offend me. Turning down all my invitations.”
She resumed wiping down the countertops, starting with the one nearest him. “You’ll get over it,” she grumbled.
“Don’t be so sure,” he said, moving from the counter and turning her against it.
He’d moved so quickly, she’d barely had time to register the change in her position. The only thing registering then was his mouth on hers. He delivered the kiss thoroughly, enticing her tongue into the sultriest of duels. Infrequently, he curved his tongue over and around hers and then traced the even ridge of her teeth, which coaxed her to do the same to him.
“What are you doing?” She barely formed the words when he finally let her up for air.
“Giving you what you wanted earlier.”
Books by AlTonya Washington
Kimani Romance
A Lover’s Pretense
A Lover’s Mask
Pride and Consequence
Rival’s Desire
Hudson’s Crossing
The Doctor’s Private Visit
As Good as the First Time
Every Chance I Get
Private Melody
Pleasure After Hours
Texas Love Song
ALTONYA WASHINGTON
has been a published romance novelist of contemporary and historical fiction for eight years. Her novel Finding Love Again won the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Multicultural Romance in 2004. In addition to teaching a community-college course entitled Writing the Romance Novel, she works as a senior library assistant, resides in North Carolina and is currently working to obtain her master’s in library science. Writing as T. Onyx, AlTonya releases erotic romance. Her latest release with the Harlequin/Kimani label was the January 2012 title Pleasure After Hours. She will release the twelfth installment in her popular Ramsey/Tesano series, A Lover’s Hate, in 2012.
AlTonya Washington
Texas Love Song
Dear Reader,
You’ve decided to embark upon a mystery and witness the unfolding of a romance. Texas Love Song is a fitting title for this story. The relationship between Khouri Ross and Setha Melendez was crafted to possess the beauty, longing and desire of the ballads we adore. Khouri and Setha come into each other’s lives amid dark circumstances, which are the key to a mystery that affects their families.
It was challenging and rewarding to craft a complex suspense within the allure of a love story. Those of you who know my work know that I delight in mixing these elements. It was also very exciting and quite fitting to create larger-than-life characters who hail from the bold state of Texas. I hope you’ll enjoy the effort and tune in for its companion piece, His Texas Touch, in August. Please email your thoughts to [email protected].
Blessings,
Al
Love and thanks to my family for being so patient
when I spend so much time writing.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Prologue
She could’ve celebrated the loss of those killer pumps had she lost them anywhere besides a dark alley. Unfortunately, it was either lose the shoes or give herself away to the creep who’d been following her all night. She knew of course that he’d been stalking her much longer than that.
Setha Melendez gave another quick glance across her shoulder and felt momentary ease when no shadow passed in her line of sight.
Son of a b, she hissed silently, wisps of dark hair fluttering beneath her nostrils as she inhaled deeply to catch her breath. She cursed her pursuer again for involving them in this when it had nothing to do with them. None of it had been their fault.
Setha grimaced; those words sounded naive even though they’d been spoken silently in her head. There was one thing she’d learned at an early age. In the Melendez family, it was one for all and all for one. If one was despised, they all were.
Her quick breather reached its end when the clatter of a rolling bottle caught her ear. The sound had come from the far end of the alley. Setha cast a last, longing look at the awesome pumps and then figured she’d better get a move on. She prayed whoever found her discarded shoes had more fun wearing them than she did.
* * *
“Jumpin’ ship already, man?” Bose Osmond grinned at his boss’s older brother.
Khouri Ross returned the grin while shaking hands with Bose who was one of the seven bouncers at his sister’s club. “I’ll leave you and your colleagues to it,” he said, casting a weary hazel stare at the bodies packing the three-story brick building. “Never been a fan of love songs.” He shrugged.
“Understood.” Bose nodded solemnly from his perch guarding the club’s back entrance. “Rocky says she’s tryin’ to soften the club’s image.”
Khouri chuckled. “In this neighborhood?”
Bose joined in on the laughter at Raquel Ross’s expense. The chuckles shaking his large frame ended on a sigh and he scratched the smattering of whiskers covering his chin. “So how’s Avra doin’?”
“Still mean.” Khouri shook his head at the mention of his older sister.
“Still fine?” Bose’s question was laced with interest.
The look on the man’s face instilled more laughter in Khouri. Amusement crinkled the corners of his translucent stare. “You’re a glutton for punishment, B.”
Bose raised one hand as though he were about to t
estify. “What can I say? A woman like that can make a man do anything.”
“Hmph. Don’t I know it,” Khouri groaned while patting his sagging dark jeans for keys. It was because of Avra that he’d been checking up on their little sister and her club that night. While he was most definitely a protective older brother, he’d have rather spent the night at his monthly poker game.
“See ya around, B.” Khouri clutched Bose’s hand for a quick shake and hug, and then left through the rear VIP entrance to Rocky Ross’s.
Khouri’s phone chimed just as he approached the black Rover bearing the personalized plates carrying his first name. There was a text from Niko Latham, one of his poker buddies. The man had wasted no time boasting about his winnings from the night and thanked Khouri for his absence.
Smirking, Khouri opened the passenger door to the Rover. Dropping down to the leather champagne-colored seat, he texted back telling Niko to enjoy his one and only win. Then he stood to ease the phone into a side pocket when he lost his balance as someone brushed against him.
Lengthy hair and a gasping sound gave him pause but didn’t slow his reflexes. He caught the woman’s forearm and held her fast.
“Calm down,” he whispered, tilting his head to get a look at her face partially covered by thick black tendrils. He could see that she was terrified. “I won’t hurt you,” he said.
The woman struggled viciously and her gaze remained fixed on the alley she’d just run out of.
Soon, Khouri’s light eyes were trained in that direction, as well. “Someone’s following you?”
“Please.” Her tugs against his hold lost some of their power. She had yet to look away from the alley.
“Let’s go inside.” Again, Khouri shifted his head to get a better look at her face—a beautiful one at that.
The woman shook her head frantically and slightly renewed her struggles against his hold.
Khouri opened the passenger door to the Rover. “At least have a seat in my car while I get some help.”
She tugged more insistently on the imprisoned arm. With her free hand, she kept a death grip on the clutch purse at her chest. Still, her eyes remained on the darkness filling the alley.
“Please?” It was Khouri’s turn to urge. He eased his grip on her wrist and motioned toward the passenger seat.
Eventually, the woman shifted her gaze. She didn’t appear any more trusting of the seat than she did of the faceless threat in the distance. When noise rose from the alleyway, she chose the lesser of two evils and took refuge in the SUV.
She’d slammed the door shut before Khouri could do the honors. She used the flaring sleeves of her mocha-colored swing dress to cover the lower half of her face. Khouri watched her slink down in the seat, appearing every bit the timid child. The windows were tinted a few shades above complete black, but she remained hunched low.
Khouri told himself to focus on the matter at hand and he reached for his phone. He was about to dial inside the club for someone to come outside, when the sound of a runner caught his ears. Eyes narrowed toward the dark alleyway beyond the club, he waited. He winced, feeling a dull pressure tighten his palms. He realized his hands were aching to reach out and instill the same fear that the man running toward him had instilled in the woman who cowered in his car.
Somehow, he resisted the urge. The hooded pursuer raced by the other side of the Rover. Silence returned to the alley as the figure ran farther into the distance.
Khouri turned, intending to help the woman from his car. Again, the woman handled the door herself. Jumping out to the sidewalk, she sprinted off in the opposite direction from her tracker.
“You’re welcome,” Khouri said to her departing figure.
Chapter 1
The Ross Review boasted offices out of Miami, New York and London. The publication was headquartered in Houston, Texas, and was the brainchild of Louisiana native Basil Ross. The man had become a household name among a host of literary circles.
At eighteen, Basil—along with his childhood friend Wade Cornelius—started the weekly publication from the laundry room next to his mother’s in-home hair salon. Back then, the magazine was geared toward Basil’s peers. Topics covered the various challenges facing the black population in ’60s-era Louisiana.
Reporting from a purely militant viewpoint, the Review was of course underground in nature. Basil realized the dangers in reporting on civil inequality and racial attacks on the national, state and local levels. Still, he thrived in the knowledge of that very thing. The young publisher had made a name for himself long before he ever decided to put down stakes in Texas.
Upon visiting the Review, one would take the news floor as anything but. There was however a cool efficiency about the place. Reporters and staff toiled away at neat, high-end polished oak desks and were surrounded by glass walls in addition to windows.
Big-screen plasma TVs hung from various points in the ceiling on most every floor and broadcasted news from twenty-four-hour stations. The stations were also part of the Ross Review umbrella which, in the mid-nineties,
had been added to Basil Ross’s list of accomplishments.
While Ross Review employees were privy to an enviable view of downtown Houston, those on the other side of the glass had no clue about the goings-on of the organization inside. The underlying reason for the one-way windows was clear and spoke to the publication’s motto. Ross would reveal no “crime” before its time.
The overall effect of the eighteen-story building may have come across as cold, stark and uninviting but Basil Ross treated his employees very well. Editorial and custodial staff alike was given the utmost respect. Proof was evident in their working conditions and compensation. Basil Ross and Wade Cornelius each subscribed to the notion that a well-treated worker was an effective worker.
Aside from the drone of voices rising from the TVs, there was minimal personal chatter. Everyone was about his or her business and proud to be. Anyone privileged enough to walk through the doors of the Ross Review understood that they were walking into the environment of respect and admiration the publication waved like a banner.
* * *
Inside one of the glass-encased conference rooms, the dull rumble of laughter could be heard as the daily budget meeting began to wind down. Basil made a point of ending every meeting on a cordial note. The issues reported on by the magazine and stations were often so melancholy, smiles were hard to come by unless a story brought a criminal to justice.
Such was the case that morning. A dual effort between the crime and financial beats had yet to fully uncover the true motive behind a series of murders targeting new Machine Melendez employees.
“Follow the money, boys,” Basil was saying to his chief reporters for each beat. “You’ve already uncovered that the murders were professionally done. That costs money.” He watched David Crus and Noah Eames nod solemnly as he smiled.
“Show me you’re worth what I’m paying you,” Basil added, drawing a round of laughter in the process.
“Speaking of money,” Basil started once the chuckles began to silence. He reached for the last folder to his left and grimaced upon opening it. “I regret to announce that change will need to be made with regards to the Machine Melendez account.” Pulling the silver-rimmed spectacles from his nose, Basil focused on wiping the already spotless lenses. “Apologies for bringing noneditorial business into our budget meeting but since our two VPs are right here…”
Basil replaced the square-framed glasses and looked toward his son and daughter at the end of the table. “It’s best to get this out of the way now. I don’t want this mess fouling up the rest of my day.”
Avra Ross lowered her brown gaze while scooting down a bit in her chair. Squeezing the cup in hand, she focused on blowing across the surface of her coffee in order to cool it. She looked up when her father loudly cleared his thro
at.
“You’re gonna owe your brother big for this one, miss,” he said.
Blinking, Avra cast a quick look toward Khouri. She looked away just as quickly when he sent her a smug grin.
“You may not be so pleased when you find out what she’s gonna owe you for, sir.”
Khouri’s grin showed signs of dimming just a tad. Reclining in his chair, he stroked the light beard shadowing his face and waited.
“Too many negatives appear to be plaguing this account.” Basil perched his slender frame to the edge of the table. “Foremost is the fact that the lead execs can’t pass a civil word between the two of them.”
“The man’s a pig,” Avra grumbled, once more staring into her coffee.
Basil leaned toward his eldest child. “And you’re saying that you’ve never played nice with pigs before?”
“Not with pigs that big.” Avra smiled when laughter rumbled around the table. She cleared her throat upon noticing Basil’s dry expression.
“With that in mind, it’s time for cooler heads to prevail.” He looked from Avra who was easing down deeper into her chair. “Khouri, the job is yours.”
Khouri’s enviable, laid-back demeanor showed the slightest signs of unrest. “Dad, um.” He slanted a look toward his sister. “I don’t have a clue about what Av and her crew do over there in advertising. I’m not ashamed to say I don’t know about negotiating ad rates, either.”
“Understood, sir.” Basil smiled approvingly when his only son smirked over his use of the pet name. His expression tightened once more when he again looked toward his daughter. “But this isn’t about ad rates, is it, miss?”
Indignant, Avra set down her extra-tall coffee cup and folded her hands atop the table. “We don’t think Melendez’s proposed spots are right for the magazine,” she told her brother.
Khouri pressed a hand to the front of the gray shirt he wore. “And you think I’d know which are right?”
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