by Francis Ray
Lucian
Miranda plopped down in her chair, both notes clutched in her hand. Once again she had to make a decision, and this time there would be no going back.
Miranda had avoided talking to Lucian since he’d left New York. Instead of calling, as she had in Dallas, she’d sent thank-you notes for the chocolates that he’d sent daily. When he’d returned from his jog Saturday morning he’d found a message on his answering machine. Her voice had been brisk and businesslike. The event at Elizabeth Bass’s home had been a success. The visiting dignitary wanted both of the outfits Miranda had modeled.
There’d been no mention of them as a couple. He’d called her at work and at home. If he managed to get her on the phone she was always too busy to talk. It was almost an exact repeat of her brush-off when they were in college.
“Worried about tripping over your feet and embarrassing yourself?”
Lucian glanced around to see Devin and four of the other bachelors from the People spread already on the sidewalk in front of LaMier’s. “I’ll leave that up to you.” He got out, then went to the limo pulling up behind them to help his mother and grandmother out. His father and grandfather slowly followed. Only their love for their wives and grandson could have gotten them here.
“It won’t be so bad, Dad, Granddad,” Lucian told them. “You can see firsthand how the catering is handled.”
“Seems a high price to pay for what we have to sit through,” his grandfather said, gray-haired and handsome at seventy-eight.
“You tell him, Dad.” Lucian’s father was a carbon-copy younger version of his father. At fifty-five his black hair had just begun to turn gray.
“Would it help to know that the waiter has special instructions to serve you scotch and lobster salad?” Lucian asked, knowing they were his father’s and grandfather’s favorites.
“Smart boy you have there, son,” his grandfather said.
“Just like his grandfather,” his father said.
His mother, beautiful as always, shook her head. “If you two could stop patting each other on the back, we have a fashion show to attend.”
“I’m more interested in seeing the designer,” his grandmother said. Like her grandson, Devin, she never minced words.
“So am I,” Lucian said, taking her arm. “Let’s go find her. Devin, please check to see that the caterers have everything in place.”
“You got it. But afterward, models, here I come.”
Miranda felt a prickling sensation and knew before she turned that she’d see Lucian. She didn’t expect to see the two couples with him. She recognized them immediately.
Acting as if he were used to the hustle and madness of models getting ready, Lucian led his parents and grandparents around a rolling rack of clothes. “Hi, Miranda. I’d like to you meet my parents and grandparents.”
Still in somewhat of a daze, she shook their hands. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Not as pleased as I am to meet you,” his grandmother said.
“A showing is always exciting,” Miranda said.
The robust woman waved the words aside. “I’m talking about you.”
Miranda blushed.
Lucian’s mother stepped forward. “We’re hoping that you’ll join us afterward for dinner.”
Miranda moistened her lips and tried not to look at Lucian. “Thank you, but I’m not sure.”
Lucian’s mother gently touched Miranda’s unsteady hand. “Please think about it. We’d all like to get to know the woman who inspired such a unique idea for a new collection of chocolates.”
Miranda’s head whipped up and around toward Lucian. “You told them?”
“He certainly did,” his father said. “Couldn’t stop talking about it.”
“Or you,” his grandfather added. “Although I can see why.” He nodded his gray head. “Boy always did have good taste and a sharp mind. Got both from me.” He winked at his wife, who blushed. “That’s why it was easy to leave him in charge.”
Miranda knew her mouth was open and snapped it shut. She’d never met a more open or likable group of people.
“Caterers all set.” Devin strolled up with four broad-shouldered, handsome men. “We’re ready for duty.”
Someone whistled. Miranda wasn’t sure if it was her man-hungry hairstylist or one of the models. She couldn’t blame whoever it was. Together the men were quite impressive.
“Ms. Collins, is everything ready? The women saw the models and are becoming a bit restless.”
Miranda turned to see the store manager and Winston Carter, CEO of LaMier’s. Talk about pressure and a golden opportunity. Introductions were made.
“I’m looking forward to this and the continuing association with A Chocolate Affair,” Mr. Carter said.
Lucian’s father and grandfather flanked him. “We appreciate the opportunity to showcase the best with the best,” his father said.
“The only way to go is first-class,” Lucian’s grandfather agreed. “Shall we take our seats?”
Lucian’s father and grandfather enjoyed a good time, but they were also shrewd businessmen. “Ready, Miranda?”
“The men haven’t practiced,” Miranda said, worried.
Lucian tenderly palmed her anxious face. “They could escort and charm women in their sleep. Take a look.”
Miranda turned to see the men surrounded by a cluster of women. “We go on first.”
Lucian extended his arm. “Let’s show Devin and the others how it’s done.”
There was such a reckless challenge in his voice and in his face that she laughed. “Let’s.”
Miranda had a ball. From the moment she looped her arm trustingly through his, the butterflies in her stomach settled. The customers enjoyed the imported chocolates, the stylish clothes, and the gorgeous men. Two women almost came to blows over the last dress in their size. Devin and one of the other bachelors stepped in to separate the two. When it was finally over, the store manager had a huge grin on her face, and Mr. Carter was in the corner having an intense conversation with Lucian’s father and grandfather.
“You have set the standard by which all other trunk shows will be judged,” Lucian said, sliding his arms around her waist.
“Lucian,” she said, looking around to find his mother and grandmother beaming at them.
“Yes?” He nuzzled her neck.
She fought to keep her thoughts clear, then saw something that snapped her spine straight.
“Miranda, may I see you?” her mother asked sharply.
Lucian stepped to one side, but he didn’t release Miranda. “Mrs. Collins.”
“Miranda,” her mother repeated.
Miranda’s heart clenched. This was the moment she had known was coming, and dreaded. “All right. Everyone should have cleared out from the back.”
“Don’t do this,” Lucian pleaded.
“I have to,” she whispered.
Smiling triumphantly, her mother followed her into the back. “How arrogant of him to think you’d choose him over your own mother.”
“Were you this bitter before Daddy asked for the divorce?”
“Realistic. You’ll do well to be the same.”
Miranda was already shaking her head. “I can’t live without love. I tried.”
Her mother frowned at her. “What are you talking about? Get your bag and let’s go.”
“No.” Miranda whirled, and Lucian was there.
“I love you, Miranda. I want you to marry me.”
Rude laughter filled the room. “You can’t possibly think she’d throw away everything for you.”
Lucian came further into the room and held out his hand. “I signed a contract for space in the Dallas Market Center for you to have a design studio and showroom in Dallas. You can commute back and forth to New York as long as you feel it’s necessary.”
“You wasted your money. Miranda, let’s go.”
Lucian’s hand didn’t waver. “The swan chicks hatched. They’re waiting for
you to see them. I’ve stocked up on chocolate-raspberry syrup. The pastry chef should have samples for the M collection by next week. How about Saint-Tropez for our honeymoon?”
“The man sounds delusional. Come on, Miranda. We’re going.”
“Where?” Miranda asked, not moving.
“Home, of course,” her mother said, sounding irritated. “I’ll drop you off on my way.”
“I almost forgot. Tonight is your bridge night.”
“Why are you acting so strange?” her mother wanted to know.
“Giving up someone you love is hard.” Miranda picked up her purse.
“You’ll get over him,” her mother said dismissively.
“I won’t have to.” Miranda took Lucian’s hand and held on as tightly as he was holding hers. “I love Lucian. I always have and always will. I never knew I could be as happy as I am with him. For the first time since Grandpa and Grandma died, I know how it feels to be loved unconditionally.”
Her mother stared at her in disbelief. “He only wants to use you.”
“He only wants to love me, Mother. I know that with every fiber of my being.” Miranda took a deep breath. “I want you in my life, but I can’t be the way you want me to be. I won’t shut Lucian out of my life to please you. I don’t want to grow old and bitter as you have, collecting things, afraid to love anyone, even your daughter.”
Her mother’s eyes widened in shocked outrage. “I kept you from throwing away your life and this is the thanks I get? You turn on me?”
“Lucian is my life,” Miranda said quietly, her hold tightening on his hand.
“He’ll leave you with nothing,” Miranda’s mother predicted.
“You can’t leave your heart.” Lucian pulled Miranda closer to him. “I started falling in love with her the moment I first saw her. This is forever.”
Miranda gave Lucian a watery smile, then turned to her angry mother. “Mother, please be happy for me.”
“You’ve made your choice, so there’s nothing left to say.” Miranda’s mother stalked from the room.
“Mrs. Collins,” Lucian called. The older woman stopped, but she didn’t turn around. “Family is important. You’ll be family soon, and Miranda loves you. I’d like to see you at our wedding, the birth of our children. The door will always be open.”
Mrs. Collins continued without looking back.
Lucian pulled Miranda closer, felt her tremble. “I’m sorry.”
She swallowed, then lifted her gaze to him. “I’ll just have to believe that one day she’ll understand that love doesn’t have to hurt. It takes the Collins women a long time to see what’s in front of them.”
“You’re a rare woman.” He picked up her left hand, kissed it, then slid a five-carat canary-yellow diamond on her finger. “And I’m keeping you.”
Tears filled her eyes. “It’s beautiful. I love you so much and was so scared I’d lose you.”
“You don’t have to worry any longer.” He rocked her in his arms. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re my sweetest addiction, my one guilty pleasure.”
She smiled up at him. “And you’re mine. All mine.” She kissed him, thinking of the chocolate-raspberry syrup at her apartment.
National bestselling author Francis Ray is a native Texan who lives in Dallas with her husband. A graduate of Texas Woman’s University, she was twice nominated for the Distinguished Alumni Award. Ms. Ray has thirty books in print. Her awards include the Romantic Times Multicultural Career Achievement award, Emma award for single title and novella, Atlantic Choice Award, The Golden Pen, and finalist for the Holt Medallion Award. You can visit her at www.francisray.com.
A Good Man Is Hard to Count
by MARYANN REID
Part One
THE BEDROOM WAS DARK, except for a thin thread of light coming from an open window. The scent of dampened skin and coconut-scented candles, now flattened pieces of wax, clung to the walls. Chyno’s rhythmic motions were on cue with Maxwell’s sexy tune coming from the living room stereo. A cool summer breeze washed over the bed as Chyno’s hardness danced inside Savannah and she sang the words to herself.
Music always brought Savannah to another dimension as the sound of the words made love to her. Many a night she slept alone to the Quiet Storm, but tonight she had welcomed company. But Chyno didn’t know the words to any of the good songs.
“Take it slow, Chyno,” Savannah moaned, sprawled on her back with 230 pounds of Chyno on top of her. She grabbed Chyno’s wide back, slick with sweat, and knocked a candle to the ground. She walked her fingers down to the slope of his tightened behind. Her small hands couldn’t even grasp one of his cheeks.
He turned his skilled hips in a circular motion, his pelvic bone gently pressing into her. This heightened the tension she was aching to release.
Savannah kept her eyes on the broken ceiling fan, rolling them back with each pant. It was a signal that she was about to release, and she needed to get on top to do that.
But Chyno held her down. “I’m getting it the way I want it tonight,” Chyno said, moving away her wet hair, glued to one side of her face, with his teeth. When she looked into his green eyes, he closed them, shutting her out of whatever he was experiencing. The sweat from Chyno’s bald head trickled down and stung her open eyes. But she kept them open. Though she was moist and throbbing down below, she needed something more.
He seemed to know of her needs, and his mouth wandered down to her luscious pit. She reveled in the feel of his affectionate tongue and his sculpted shoulders flexing as he nestled his face deep inside her. His licks and delicate sucks creamed the apex of her thick black thighs. But still she ached for the release she wanted so badly.
As if he read her mind, he climbed back on top, slid right in, and rocked her body to the top of pleasure mountain that night. Not caring if the cops came knocking, she howled louder than a wolf at the moon. When he was through he traveled down to her dark crevice and licked his juices off. The last time a man did that, he almost killed her later. She knew what the gesture meant for a man, but she was too spent to bring it up. And he was too good to complain about it.
On Monday morning Chyno was gone, and she put another yellow sour stick in her Man Jar. Chyno was a Dominican construction worker she had been sleeping with for the past three weeks. He would come by about once a week with a trucker’s appetite and an aim to please. She gave him the color yellow because his toasted skin reminded her of fried plantains. They met on Easter weekend. She was walking by his construction site and he helped her cross a broken-up Dekalb Avenue. He was the only one wearing jeans overalls, a white hard hat, and no shirt. What caught her attention first, however, were his green eyes and chiseled jaw. He looked like a model or a Hollywood actor. And the way his beautiful greens drank her in, in her peach summer slip dress, made her nipples salute him. Not long after meeting Chyno, she met Jacques, a Moroccan lawyer, while she was lunching with a friend at a Harlem restaurant, Native. He was small by her usual standards, only five-foot-ten and 165 pounds, but highly intelligent and attentive in bed. He would come into town every few weeks on business, and feed her body eleven inches of French cordon bleu. And with that, she gave him the blue sour sticks in the jar. And up until recently there was Sohn, a sommelier at the Tribeca Grill. He was Asian, and the sex that lasted only as long as it took to eat a sour stick.
Savannah relinquished her thoughts when she marched up the steps and through the black steel door of I.S. 738 in Brooklyn. “Good morning, Ms. Savannah,” said Mr. Thomas, a fellow teacher. She smiled and passed him to go into her classroom. They’d had a “flirting thing” since her first year teaching art at the school; it was the only thing that made her feel sexy during school hours. Chasing after ten-year-olds was like playing a part-time mother. As soon as she unlocked the door to her classroom and turned the lights on, the school bell rang. It meant that she was late. She usually arrived twenty minutes early to straighten out the desks and sweep, but her mind was still singing Max
well songs. Seconds later, a swarm of boys and girls flew into class toting colorful book bags, the latest sneakers, and elaborate hairdos. Some tripped over one another, while others covered their mouths and giggled. Savannah sighed, because there was just no way to get them serious about art first thing in the morning.
“Take your time. You can’t draw with a broken arm if you trip and fall,” Savannah warned.
She walked up and down the rows with a stern look, holding her attendance book to her chest. The students listened, especially the boys, and slowed down their pace. Even at the young age of ten, most of the male population was putty in Savannah’s hands. One by one, she called each row for attendance, and so began the routine she had performed every morning for the last three years.
Right before noon the kids went out to lunch, and Savannah washed the boards to prepare for her next period to come in. She was only a few hours into her morning, but she was already tired. When she stretched her arm to wipe the top of the board, a muscle in her lower back pulled. She was still feeling the effects of Hurricane Chyno. She smiled to herself at the cost of getting some part-time loving these days.
“Need me to rub that for you?” Her classroom door closed. It was that familiar voice again.
Savannah removed her hand from the small of her back and rolled her eyes. She wished Mr. Thomas would get it over with. He was practically in love with her, she thought. The notes in her mailbox, the chocolates on Valentine’s Day, and the steady glances in the teachers’ breakroom. He should slide up behind her, grip her hips, and bend her over. He was too timid for Savannah.
Savannah slowly twisted her body around so as not to aggravate her back any further. She walked to the door and locked herself away from prying student eyes. This was her job, and if any students caught her open flirtation with Mr. Thomas, it could lead to the start of a rumor mill that would ruin her reputation. “Mr. Thomas, unless you are giving that massage right now, I have no use for it.” She loved putting him on the spot.