by Donna Hill
Her soft gaze moved slowly over his face, reacquainting herself with his handsome features and all the anxiety that she’d had about what she’d seen dissipated. “I’m glad you did. Want to come in for a minute?”
He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Believe me, baby, if I did we could forget about dinner.”
Her face flooded with heat. She bit down on her lip. “Oh,” she finally breathed. “Um, well, what time did you want to have dinner?”
“How’s eight-thirty? Will that give you enough time? There’s a late set jazz cruise. Showtime is ten. We can have dinner on the deck.”
She beamed, feeling suddenly giddy inside. “Sounds great. I’ll be ready.”
Maurice stroked his thumb across her bottom lip and the pit of her belly fluttered in response. “See you then.”
Layla bobbed her head, brushed by him, thrilling at the feel of his chest brushing against her bare arm, and went inside.
The corner of Maurice’s mouth lifted ever so slightly. There was something special about this place and definitely something special about Layla Brooks. He started off toward his cottage. Maybe he would ask her about the party. But why hadn’t she said anything to him about it?
Chapter 19
Layla was thrilled out of her mind when they boarded the ship and she discovered that Dexter Brown, protégée of Wynton Marsalis, was the headliner for the evening and that they had front row seats. It took all of her home training not to start squealing like a teen groupie and jumping up and down.
“You knew?” she cried, and squeezed Maurice’s hard biceps.
He grinned. “Yeah. Thought you might like that.” He helped her into her seat that faced the stage. He maneuvered his chair next to hers.
“And these seats…” She put her purse on the table. “How did you manage them?” She couldn’t stop grinning.
“Dexter and I have played together at a few jam sessions overseas. He told me he was in town and got us the seats.”
Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t get the words to come out.
Maurice put his forefinger under her chin and gently pushed it up.
“You know Dexter Brown? You’ve played with him?” she finally stuttered.
He nodded slowly with an almost smug grin on his face.
She gave a quick shake of her head. “Wow. I mean, when you said you played, you were so low key about it. But you really play, play.”
He shrugged his left shoulder.
“What else don’t I know about you?”
He pursed his lips. His gaze drifted away for a moment then settled back on Layla’s expectant expression. “There’s a lot I want to tell you.”
The rising sound of applause halted their conversation as Dexter took to the stage and opened with his classic hit “Come Sunrise.”
Maurice reached over, took Layla’s hand and brought it to his lips. He placed a featherlight kiss on her knuckles.
Layla’s heart thumped and the dark, hungry look in his eyes set her blood on simmer. What this man could do to her with a simple look totally unnerved her.
A waitress stopped at their table and took their drink and dinner order.
Maurice bobbed his head to the music while he idly ran his thumb lazily across Layla’s hand sending shivers through her with every caress. She shifted in her seat even as she wondered what he wanted to tell her.
Halfway through the set, Dexter addressed the enthusiastic audience. He thanked them for coming out and promised to play all of his hits, but he wanted to acknowledge a friend of his, a war veteran and an accomplished pianist.
Layla felt Maurice stiffen when Dexter called out his name and asked him to join him onstage.
Maurice waved his hand “no,” and shook his head, but Dexter and the audience insisted.
“Go, go…” Layla urged. “Please.” She squeezed his hand.
His gaze tightened and sucked her in. “For you,” he murmured and a shiver ran up her spine. Maurice drew in a deep breath and slowly pushed himself up from his seat and joined Dexter and his band on the small stage. The piano player offered his seat.
“How about we do some Herbie Hancock?” Dexter said to the crowd who roared their approval. He looked to Maurice who nodded in agreement.
Maurice placed his fingers on the keys and smoothly launched into the iconic tune “’Round Midnight.” Dexter supported the lilting melody, playing beneath and between the stylized piano notes.
Layla was transfixed, mesmerized not only by the beauty of the music but by the effortless skill that Maurice exuded. His eyes were closed at points as his fingers stroked the keys, teased them, caressed them, and bent them to his will. His hard body swayed like a leaf in a gentle breeze and his expression was one of total peace.
Too soon it came to an end and Layla was pulled from the almost dreamlike state to join in the thunderous applause.
Maurice took a short bow from the piano bench then slowly stood and was embraced in a strong hug and a slap on the back from Dexter before he returned to the table.
“That was…you were incredible,” Layla said in awe.
His dark eyes sparkled and he couldn’t hold back the smile that easily lit up the room.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
“You can really play.”
He chuckled and lowered his head. He reached for his glass of bourbon and took a refreshing swallow.
Layla leaned back in her seat, still beaming with the pride of knowing him and having experienced the magic of his playing. Oh those magic fingers.
Maurice and Layla couldn’t keep a conversation going between them for the balance of the evening. Everyone that passed their table for the rest of the night stopped by to congratulate him and ask if he had a CD that they could purchase. Maurice was gracious to them all as he accepted their accolades but disappointed them with no CD on the horizon.
By the time the evening came to an end, Layla felt as if she’d been on the red carpet up to and including the flash of cameras that took their picture with Dexter.
Layla was still grinning as they disembarked from the boat and out into the evening. She slipped her arm through Maurice’s as they leisurely strolled back to Maurice’s car that was parked near the end of the dock.
“What an incredible evening. Thank you,” Layla said.
“Glad you enjoyed yourself.”
She looked up at him and was drawn to the inviting smile on his lips. “Very much. Now I know what life would be like with a superstar,” she teased.
He chuckled and hugged her close.
They walked slowly along the dock, enjoying the sultry breeze that blew in off the water and Layla suddenly realized that Maurice’s limp was barely noticeable. He wasn’t using his cane tonight either, and he appeared to be pain free. Inwardly she smiled but decided not to bring it up and draw attention to her observation. When his mind and spirit were cleared, whether it be through massage, making love and now she realized, through music, they compelled him to take his mind off of himself and allowed the pain to drift into the background.
“Early day for you tomorrow?” he asked when they stopped in front of his car. He opened her door.
“First client is at eleven.”
His eyes crinkled with his smile. “Good.”
Layla slid onto the delicious leather seat and Maurice shut the door behind her.
Maurice settled in the car, turned on the ignition and eased the car onto the road for the drive back.
“I ran into Lincoln Davenport earlier today.”
“Desi’s husband…”
“Yeah, real cool guy. We talked for a while. Actually he invited me to their anniversary party this weekend.”
Layla turned halfway in her seat. “You’re
kidding. I’d planned to ask you to go with me.”
Maurice took a quick glance at her. “Were you really going to ask me to go?”
The atmosphere suddenly shifted. “Ye-ss,” she stammered. “Why would you think that I wouldn’t ask you?” Her earlier doubts leapt to the forefront.
His jaw flexed. “From what I gather, these are longtime friends of yours, almost like family. I figured it was that kind of thing. But Lincoln insisted that wasn’t the case.” He made the turn out of the center of town and took the road toward The Port. “Since you never mentioned it…”
“I’d planned to…wanted to…”
“Look, it’s not a big deal. Forget it. Not that serious.” He reached for the dial on the CD player and within moments they were awash in Luther Vandross’s “A House is Not a Home.”
Layla stared out the front window, with her fingers knotted together on her lap. In a nanosecond the vibe had changed from hot to glacial. She wasn’t sure what had just happened.
The Port was visible up ahead and within moments they would be pulling up in front of her place. And then what?
“Maurice…”
“Hmmm?”
“I held off asking you to the party because to be honest from one day to the next I’m never sure what’s going on with us.”
She watched his profile harden in stages as if it was being cast in cement.
He made the turn onto the property. Her heart raced and her body grew warm with anxiety. They drove pass the main building toward the cottages. Hers was to the right but Maurice made the left at the junction in the road. She pressed her lips together to keep from asking him where he was going.
He continued beyond the spread of cottages until he reached the edge of the property that opened onto the beach. He turned the car off and rested his wrists along the steering wheel.
Layla ran her tongue across her bottom lip and waited—for what she wasn’t sure.
Maurice turned halfway in his seat to face her. “You’re right.”
“Right?”
“Yeah, about the direction that this relationship is going.” He ran his hand along his chin. “Look, in another couple of weeks I’ll be back in Brooklyn and you’ll be doing what you do.” He lowered his head for a moment.
The muscles in her throat constricted. She blinked away the burn in her eyes.
“The thing is…it’s not what I want.”
Layla’s stomach clenched. Her gaze jumped to his. What was he saying?
“But I still got a lot of shit to work out, Layla. And I’m not going to be somebody’s rebound either—on top of everything else.” He pushed out a breath then reached over and threaded a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re good for me. I know that. But I gotta be good for myself first.”
Layla clasped his hand and held it to her cheek. “Do you want to try?” she asked on a whisper and a prayer.
“Let’s see how the next few weeks go,” he offered.
“And then what?”
“We’ll see if we want to make something happen.”
She considered what he said. It did make sense. Their relationship, as it stood, was always on a short fuse. It made things exciting and unpredictable but also uncertain in a way that had her wanting to run in the opposite direction to keep from getting hurt again. He was right. He was still in the healing stage on several levels and she did need to make sure that Maurice was what she wanted and not simply someone to fill a void.
Layla released a long, slow breath then nodded her head in agreement. “All right,” she finally whispered.
The tightness around his dark eyes eased when the storm cloud of his sleek brows settled back in place. He leaned across the gearbox until he was out of focus and his lips tenderly met hers.
Her heart rose to her throat as heat moved through her veins. Maurice threaded his fingers through the back of her hair and eased her into the kiss. The fullness of his mouth coaxed hers open to accept the exploration of his tongue that was so sweet and tinged with a heady hint of bourbon.
Layla sighed softly. Her head spun from the pounding of her pulse. She would give in willingly to Maurice. She knew that deep in her soul. He was a complex, maze of a man. Every time she thought she understood him, he shifted and revealed yet another part of himself while at the same time remaining inaccessible. It was a maddening and thrilling roller-coaster ride of emotions. She didn’t want the ride to stop.
Maurice eased back and she felt as if she’d been cast out to sea—adrift. Her eyes fluttered open and searched his face.
“Your place or mine?” he asked. The deep timbre of his voice vibrated down to her toes.
“You’re asking me?” she teased.
“This time.” A sensuous grin curved his mouth.
“Yours.”
He put the car in gear. “I’m as good at taking orders as giving them,” he said, turning the car in the direction of his cottage.
Chapter 20
“Like some wine?” Maurice asked, once they were inside his place.
“Sure.” Layla strolled to the center of the living space and sat down on the padded stool at the granite-topped island.
Maurice took down two glasses from the overhead cupboard and retrieved the bottle of white wine from the wine cooler below the counter. He filled their glasses halfway and sat opposite her.
Layla studied his every moment. Even with the slight stiffness from his injury, his movements were controlled, sleek and clad all in black, darkly dangerous. She could almost see his stealthlike maneuvers in the mountains and jungles, zeroing in on his objective, or leading his team into enemy territory, barking orders and charging forward, armed and strapped. The images gave her a rush.
He raised his glass, which eased her from her daydream.
“To a great night.”
Layla tapped her glass lightly against his. She crossed her legs to quell the drumbeat between her thighs.
Maurice studied her over the rim of his glass before setting it down.
“I’ll be heading back to the city in about two weeks.”
“Oh.” She sipped her wine and savored it in her mouth before swallowing.
“Right after the Fourth.”
“Work I guess?” It was both a statement and a question.
“Gotta make a living.” He finished off his wine. “Shrink bills,” he tapped his temple, “therapy,” he rubbed his leg. “Co-pay.”
“Tell me about your father,” she said out of the blue, taking them both by surprise.
The muscles in his cheeks tightened. “My father?” He snorted a laugh. “Why?”
She shrugged slightly. “It’ll tell me more about you, the boy you were, the man you became.”
He blew out air through his nostrils and reached for the wine bottle. He refilled his glass and topped off hers. “You sound like my shrink.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“Well, you do.” He pushed up from his seat and walked over to the French doors that led to the back deck.
“I want to know you better.”
“And asking about my father is going to do that for you?” He kept his back to her.
“Maybe,” she said softly.
His broad shoulders resembled solid rock encased in soft black cotton. Layla wanted to touch him, bring him back to her, work the tightness out of his neck and the curve of his spine. She felt him slipping away. That was not her intent. She started to get up and go to him, but his distant voice held her in place.
“He was a hard man,” he said. His voice came from a long ago place.
She watched his shoulders slowly rise and settle.
“When I think about him…I try to remember a time when he wasn’t demanding something of me. If it wasn’t school, it was
sports, friends, jobs, how I dressed. Hammering, hammering.” He pounded his fist into his palm. “I spent most of my life trying to please him and live up to the impossible expectations that he had.”
She wanted to ask him about his mother and where she fit into his life but dared not interrupt him now that he was finally talking.
“My mother…” he began as if reading her mind, “she left when I was around ten. What mother leaves her child?” He briefly glanced at her over his shoulder, his dark eyes reflecting the deep, unforgotten wounds. His jaw clenched and he turned away again. He slung his hands into his pockets, his dark silhouette illuminated by the light from the moon over the water. “A part of me thought that if I didn’t please him, he would leave like my mother did.”
Layla’s heart clenched. She could barely imagine what he must have gone through. She bit down on her bottom lip.
“Stupid, huh? But that’s how kids think.”
She got up from the stool and slowly crossed the space to stand behind him. She slid her arms around his waist and rested her head against his back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He clasped her hands with one of his. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago. I’m over it.”
But he wasn’t. She could tell by the words he chose to use and how he lived his life. Of all the professions to select he decided to become a Navy SEAL, one of the most dangerous, challenging, grueling professions on the planet, cloaked in secrecy and code words. He chose a profession that didn’t leave room for error, one that demanded the ultimate best from its members. Yet, on the other hand he was a gifted pianist, a skill that left all kinds of room for improvisation and change—one part of his life juxtaposed against the other in constant conflict. She shut her eyes.
“I graduated nearly two years early, top of my class, went to his alma mater, studied finance and even landed a job on Wall Street, never took it though, much to my father’s fury.” He shook his head. “Never saw him so pissed off.” He drew in a long breath. “Moved out right after that. Bounced around, played with a few bands…met Dexter.” She felt his smile. “My father called me…while I was in Paris…he was upset…said everything was coming apart…and the only one who could help him was my uncle Branford. He wasn’t making any sense and the connection was crap. We got cut off. Next time I saw my father was at his funeral.”