Queen of His Heart

by Adrianne Byrd

  “How about a couple of mojitos?” she offered, peeling herself out of his arms. At least there were mint leaves in those.

  “Sounds good to me,” Richard said, swatting her on the butt.

  Jalila jumped, but clamped her teeth together as she waltzed over to the bar.

  “Damn, gurl,” Richard said, glancing around. “This all you?”

  “It’s all me.” She boasted. She loved her Mediterranean villa with its sweeping canyon view. It was spacious and elegant and dotted with colorful paintings by her favorite artists.

  “What do you do again?” He pivoted around on the hardwood floor.

  Figures. He didn’t hear a word I said all night. She drew in a deep breath. She really needed that drink now. “I own and operate a day spa off Rodeo.”

  “How much you pulling down to afford something like this?”

  What the hell? “Oh, I do all right.”

  “Sheeeit,” he continued, touching the leather couch and picking up expensive knickknacks around the room. “I know this place gotta be costing you a pretty penny in this town.” He glanced back at her. “Where do I submit my application for a sugar momma?” Clearly, he was trying to pass the comment off as a joke, but there was an unmistakable glint of seriousness in his eyes.

  She chuckled but didn’t find the question the least bit funny. A few minutes later, she handed him his drink.

  “Thanks, baby,” he said, accepting the glass with a wink.

  Jalila gulped down her liquid courage and then returned to the bar for a second round. This time she doubled up on the rum.

  “Where’s your bathroom?” Richard asked, setting his own empty glass down and removing his jacket.

  “You’ll have to use the one upstairs,” Jalila informed him as she moved toward the stereo. “The one downstairs is being renovated. Once you get to the top floor, just go straight down the hallway. It’s the last door on your right.”

  “Be right back.” He winked.

  “I can hardly wait.” She plastered on a fake smile. Jalila watched as he jogged up the stairs and once he was out of sight, she picked up the rum bottle and took a couple of chugs straight. “Idris Elba. Idris Elba,” she chanted, but her usually active imagination was having a hard time fitting the handsome actor’s face onto Richard’s shoulders.

  Instead of selecting Teddy Pendergrass as Richard had suggested, Jalila had to go with her magic man, Maxwell. If his Urban Hang Suite couldn’t close this deal, then she would just need to hang it up. The bass line of the opening track instantly put a smile on her face. At the same time, the rum started to hum oh so nicely through her veins. She was definitely back in action.

  But by the time the intro to the third song poured through the speakers, she wondered what was taking Richard so long. On the fourth song, she got up from the couch and decided to go upstairs to check on him. The bathroom door was open, but Richard was nowhere to be seen.

  Jalila frowned. What did the guy do—jump out of the window?

  Thump.

  She turned. The sound was coming out of her bedroom. Stealthily, Jalila followed the sound. Her heart hammered inside her chest. Seriously, how well did she know this guy? What if she caught him trying to steal her blind? What was she going to do—wave a finger at him? Maybe she should go for backup?

  But of all the scenarios that played in Jalila’s head, she was totally unprepared to find Richard’s grown butt sitting in the center of her walk-in closet, taking long, deep sniffs of her beloved Prada shoes.

  “What in the hell?”

  Richard’s head snapped up. Guilt changed his face from dark brown to damn near cranberry-red. “I, uh—”

  She blinked, trying to process what she was seeing.

  He tried again. “I was just, uh—”

  “Out,” she thundered, pointing in the direction he needed to take.

  “Whoa, hold up.” He jumped to his feet. “I know this looks bad.”

  “You’re sniffing my shoes!”

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “So a brotha got a little thing for women’s feet. And c’mon. You’ve been teasing me all night in those pretty scandals with your red-tip toes peeking out.”

  Jalila looked down at her neatly pedicured feet.

  “Woman, the things I want to do to those toes,” he said, practically salivating.

  “Out!” She tried to suppress a shudder of disgust.

  “C’mon now. It’s not like I’m a freak or nuthin’. Don’t knock it until you try it. Let me just wash your feet and—”

  “I said get out—or is all that head fat making you hard of hearing?”

  “H-hold up now,” he stuttered.

  “Now your funky breath makes perfect sense. You’ve been running around sucking on people’s toes.” She stormed off. “Ughhh!”

  “Yo, baby. Wait up.” He charged after her.

  Downstairs, Jalila grabbed his jacket and shoved it at him.

  “Aww, baby. It’s no big deal. Let me stay and show you what you’re missing.”

  Jalila marched to the back door. “How about you take your big butt home and suck your momma’s toes?”

  “Damn, baby. That’s cold.”

  She opened the door. “What the hell ever. Kick bricks!”

  Woof! Woof! Grrr! Cujo rushed into the house, his long legs galloping straight toward Richard.

  Richard took off running. “Aw, hell!”

  Jalila folded her arms and watched the comedy unfold. Unfortunately, Richard escaped the house, but not without Cujo tearing the seat out of his pants. Surely that was worth a doggy biscuit.

  Chapter 3

  “I hate this town!” Keenan Armstrong swore and slammed down his office phone. “Hack actors, whiney writers and crazy directors with God complexes are running this business into the ground.”

  Nitara Murphy, Keenan’s longtime coproducer and business partner, laughed as she dropped into the leather chair before his desk and crossed her jeans-clad legs. “You’re starting to sound like a scratched DVD. You love this town and you know it. We both do.” She snatched the hair clip from the back of her hair and allowed her rich ink-black hair to tumble free, hanging past her shoulders like an exotic curtain. “We’d be lost if we couldn’t tie a knot in someone’s chain on a daily basis or suffer from a bleeding ulcer at least twice a year.”

  A brief smile spread across Keenan’s thick sexy lips but then disappeared the next second when he groaned and plopped his head back against his large leather chair. “I don’t know, Nitara,” he huffed. “We’re in for a rough season. Network TV ratings are tanking across the board. The three pilots we shot over the summer all crashed and burned, and now I’m having a hard time getting the suits over at ABC even to take my calls.” He shook his head and exhaled slowly. “At this rate we might actually go into the season without a show in the lineup. I can’t remember the last time that happened.”

  “Five years ago,” Nitara stated, giving her nails a quick glance-over.

  Keenan’s glare cut across the table.

  “What can I say? I keep tabs on things like that. Besides, I told you, scripted drama is out. Scripted reality TV is in. Reality shows are the new programming of choice and they’re cheap to make.”

  “Trash,” he sneered flippantly.

  “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” she sing-songed.

  Unaccustomed to sitting for long periods of time, Keenan unfolded his six-foot-six frame and pushed himself out of his chair and began pacing the office. It was an old habit that often annoyed his partner. “Maybe it’s time to get out of television,” he pondered aloud.

  “And do what—movies?” Nitara asked with a lilting laugh. “The movie industry is having a tougher time than we are. Outrageous budgets that directors ignore, high-maintenance actors and even more whiney writers. Hell, it only takes one bomb to land you in bankruptcy court.”

  “Unlike television where you just die a slow death.” Keenan grunted.

  “Exactly. I�
��d rather live on life support than die prematurely.” She rewarded him with a sarcastic smile. “If you were honest with yourself you’d admit that you agree with me.”

  “Humph!” Keenan continued pacing.

  Nitara smiled as she allowed her gaze to drink in her partner’s profile. Even dressed in his casual black slacks and sky-blue button-down shirt, he could give the hottest male models in the business a run for their money.

  Despite their twenty-five-year friendship, Nitara sometimes still reacted to Keenan’s muscular chocolate body the same way that every warm-blooded female did: with her nipples hard and at attention and her aching clit thumping against her panties. It was shameful really.

  At times like this, when she was horny as hell, Nitara couldn’t remember exactly why she and Keenan had never been more than just friends. They’d known each other since high school, both were crazy about football (go ’49ers!) and they both held the firm belief that Armageddon was the best movie ever made.

  Of course, there was that little snafu of him dating and then marrying her sister Tenetria. The marriage didn’t last long. Once Keenan made it as a big-time television producer, Tenetria had indulged in the shady side of Hollywood: too many parties, drugs, too much alcohol, and she’d capped it all off with an affair or two that had left Keenan a broken and jaded man as far as relationships were concerned.

  Too bad.

  The divorce was nasty, but Keenan had gladly written the check for half his net worth just to be able to put the whole episode behind him. Once—just once—Keenan had made the careless remark that he had married the wrong sister. Of course, it was at some glitz party and it was questionable as to whether he was sober at the time. Nitara pretended she hadn’t heard the comment, but a part of her secretly agreed.

  She and Keenan would have been perfect together. She should have grabbed him before her sister had ever gotten the chance. Instead of waiting for the inevitable disaster to hit so she could scoop Keenan up on the rebound, Nitara had impulsively proposed to her then boyfriend of two weeks, Martin. Now, Keenan was a free agent and she was the married one.

  Never let it be said that God didn’t have a wicked sense of humor.

  Keenan absently licked his lips and heat rushed up the column of her neck. Belatedly, her gaze dropped to the sparkling five-carat diamond on her finger and she was suddenly pulled back down to reality. Good Lord, I need to get my hot tail home before I do something I’ll regret. “I’m out of here.” Nitara reluctantly climbed out of her chair. “If I’m lucky I can battle my way through traffic and make it home in about two hours to start dinner.”

  Keenan laughed, causing his mountainous shoulders to quake. “Start dinner? Still passing off the local pizza parlor as DiGiorno’s?”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny.” Nitara cocked her head and massaged the side of her neck. “I’m cooking. I can cook, you know.”

  “Since when?” Keenan countered, his dark eyes dancing with mischief.

  “I’ve been loading up on episodes of Top Chef and Hell’s Kitchen. I’ve been inspired. Tonight I’m taking on my mom’s lasagna. I think I can give her a run for her money.”

  “Only if she gave you the recipe.” Keenan chuckled. “If not, you’re just going to embarrass yourself. Tenetria tried for years to get the recipe. Your momma wasn’t having it.”

  “Gee. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “A woman should know her limitations,” he said. “And yours is anything having to do with a pot or a pan.”

  Nitara rolled her eyes. “That’s what you think.”

  “Poor Martin.” Keenan shook his head, waltzed over to his desk and pulled a bottle out of the top drawer and tossed it to her.

  Nitara’s reflexes kicked in just in time and she caught the bottle. “Pepto-Bismol? Very funny.”

  “I’m just looking out for a brotha,” he said, flashing her his winsome smile.

  “You’re supposed to be my friend,” she reminded him with a pout.

  “Then as your friend I advise you to hire a cook. Mama Maria’s lasagna ain’t nothing to be messed with. Hell, to this day I still have dreams about her cooking. Tell your old man he better watch his back. I might scoop in and steal his woman.”

  Irritated, Nitara’s spine stiffened. “C’mon, how hard can it be? I’ve been eating her lasagna for thirty years.”

  Keenan crossed his arms and stared at her.

  “Thanks for the support.” She rolled her eyes.

  Keenan’s hands shot up in surrender. “My bad, my bad. If you think that you’re up for the challenge then I’m standing behind you one hundred percent. Knock him dead, girl.”

  Nitara beamed. “Great. Then I’ll bring you back a plate.”

  “Actually, I’m, uh…sort of watching my weight.”

  Her glare returned. “Go to hell,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Aww.” He walked over and gave her a much-needed hug. “I didn’t mean to hurt your itty-bitty feelings.” He planted a kiss in the center of her forehead. “There. That should make it aaall better.”

  “Get off me.” She squirmed out of his muscled cocoon. “With friends like you, I don’t need enemies.”

  Keenan’s laughter deepened and Nitara’s annoyance melted away. It was hard staying mad when he launched his charm offensive. She sighed as she headed toward the door. “I don’t care what you think. I’m going to make this damn lasagna and my husband is going to eat it and he’s going to love it or he can just fix himself a bowl of Captain Crunch.”

  Keenan cleared his throat.

  “And not another damn word from you!”

  “What? I didn’t say anything,” he said, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

  Nitara snatched open the door. “If Martin likes my mother’s cooking so much, then he should have married her.”

  “I don’t suggest you tell him that,” Keenan warned. “He might take you up on it.”

  “Great. I’m thirty-four years old and competing with my mother for my husband’s affection.” She sighed. “I thought the whole point of my being a successful businesswoman meant that I didn’t have to be a traditional housewife. Turns out you don’t have the choice of one or the other. The more you do the more you add to your to-do list.”

  “Wait until you have children.”

  Nitara arched one delicate brow at him. “Is there something you want to tell me? You got a rug rat running around here or something?”

  “Not hardly,” he laughed, his dimples flashing, and transforming his handsomely chiseled face into something even more adorable and mischievous. “Unfortunately, you know all there is to know about me. Warts and all.”

  “Lucky me.” Nitara jumped to her feet and headed toward the door. “I’m out.”

  “If you come up with any ideas for the fall lineup, please feel free to share them with me,” he said.

  “If I do that, what will you stay up all night thinking about?” she asked sweetly and opened the door.

  “Contrary to popular opinion I do sleep.”

  Nitara glanced back over her shoulder.

  He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  Making an about-face, Nitara tossed up her arms. “I already told you, scripted reality. Stop fighting it. They’re cheap and people love them.”

  Walking back to his chair, Keenan dropped down into it and proceeded to rub his temples. From Nitara’s viewpoint it looked more like he was trying to squeeze out another idea. She didn’t see the point. They’d been having this same conversation for the past six years. The world of entertainment had changed drastically since they had gotten into the business. People no longer held movie and television stars in the same regard. In fact, it had become more of a sport, in recent years, to tear them down.

  “I got nothing,” he finally admitted. “Maybe I should go home, too,” he said wearily.

  “You’re just fighting the inevitable.” Nitara started out of the door again, but Keenan’s quick bark stopped her in her tracks.<
br />
  “If we were to do this…reality thing…” he shrugged his shoulders as if this was a vague possibility “…what kind of show would it be?”

  Nitara twirled around, not sure she should trust her hearing.

  He glanced up. “I’m not saying that I’m interested. Just…hypothetically.”

  A slow smile spread across Nitara’s face. “It’s all about romance, baby.”

  Chapter 4

  “Ladies, where have all the good men gone?” A frustrated Jalila sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed while she ranted in front of her camcorder. Her weekly chat session on YouTube was like e-therapy: a way to vent her frustrations about navigating the L.A. dating scene. Over the past year, she’d grown accustomed to the camaraderie of her subscribers. Their frequent comments and questions lifted her spirits and gave her hope and courage to keep plugging away.

  One bad date at a time.

  “The guy was in my closet, sniffing my shoes! Ugh!” Jalila squeezed her eyes shut and tried to erase the image from her head. It didn’t work. Chances were she was doomed to relive that horrible moment for the rest of her life. Then it occurred to her. “Do you know that means my shoes have seen more action than I have in two years?” Jalila lowered the camera and screamed up at the ceiling.

  Cujo padded his way into the bedroom, parked himself next to the bed and cocked his head.

  Jalila glanced over and met her loyal friend’s questioning gaze. “Don’t mind me. Momma is just horny as hell.” She picked up the camera again and flashed a smile. “Now where was I? Oh, yeah—men.” She shook her head. “I know, ladies, that we’ve talked about all this before and I totally appreciate the whole thing about bonding and singing ‘Kumbaya’ but…damn, ladies. I gotta tell you. I want a man.” She laughed at herself and then waved a finger at the lens. “And I don’t mean just any man. I need a real man. You all know what I’m talking about.”

  Cujo barked and swished his tail across the hardwood floor.

  Jalila rolled her eyes. “Hush, you got out of the yard last week and got you a little sumpthin’ sumpthin’ with that German Shepherd down the street.”