A Kiss of a Different Color

by Bettye Griffin

  Excerpt from Say My Name

  by Angie Daniels

  (the SINFULLY SWEET Series)

  ONE

  “Would you like some company?”

  Would I? Goodness! For a second there I thought tall, dark and chocolate would never ask.

  “Yes, if you’d like,” I said, trying to sound like it was no big deal, when in reality spending the evening together could possibly become the most important moment of my entire life.

  Logan smiled and kissed my lips, sending goose bumps down my arms as I watched him climb out of his fully loaded Range Rover. I sat back against the butter soft seat and ran my tongue along my painted lips while my stomach bubbled with excitement. The evening was going better than I had imagined. We’d had dinner at my favorite Italian Bistro, followed by a horse-drawn carriage ride through the cobblestone streets of downtown St. Louis. For a first date, what more could a sistah have asked for?

  I tried to remain calm, but I was already planning the next six months of our relationship, all the way up to the very moment Logan would drop down on one knee and confess his undying love for me while holding a beautiful five-carat platinum diamond ring in his hand.

  Giggling, I waited for him to come around to the passenger side and open the door for me, the way a gentlemen should. Yes, indeed. Logan was definitely everything a woman wanted in a man—money, looks, and charm. Did I mention he had money?

  Last month, in Forbes Magazine, his father’s software corporation was reported to be worth more than eighty million dollars. Carson Cambridge’s health hadn’t been the best, which meant Logan, who served as CEO, was next in line. Naturally, behind every successful man was a beautiful wife, and that’s where I would come in. Before I let Logan leave, I planned to show him everything I had to offer.

  I don’t know how long I sat there daydreaming before I was startled by a knock on the glass. I jumped, then looked through the window to see Logan standing outside my door.

  “Why aren’t you getting out?” he asked.

  Is he for real? Biting my tongue, it took everything I had not to comment as I reached for the door handle and opened it. So much for being a gentleman. I climbed out and convinced myself it wasn’t important, then swayed my hips provocatively up the sidewalk towards my deluxe condo, my shoes clicking with every step.

  There was nothing like looking fabulous, and I knew it, with a five-hundred-dollar weave that hung loosely around my shoulders. I was showcasing all my sweet curves in a black silhouetting dress that stopped mid-thigh and dipped daringly between my large breasts. On my feet were strappy high-heeled come-fuck-me shoes.

  I sashayed to the door, stuck my key in the lock, then stepped aside so Logan could enter first. The look in his eyes told me he was impressed with everything he saw, mainly me.

  “You’ve got a nice place,” he replied after a quick sweep of the spacious room. Gleaming wood floors, a large spacious room and expensive contemporary furnishings.

  “Thank you. I can—” Before I could answer, Logan snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me to him. I let myself go slack, unresisting, and moaned when he brought his lips down over mine. Oh, my. He would have been a fabulous kisser if it hadn’t been for his tongue that was licking me like he was part man, part puppy dog. And then there were his teeth.

  If he bites my tongue with those sharp fangs, I swear I’ll bite his ass. “You got me so hard I can’t wait to be inside of you.” Moaning, he cupped my ass and pulled me against his arousal. “I’m planning to give all of this to you.”

  Lucky me. What I wanted to asked was, all of what? Because it didn’t feel like he had more than four inches to work with. Logan started rubbing and touching and I reminded myself of his wealth and the fabulous life we’d have together. Within minutes I felt my body heat up and I was turned on. Money does that to me. Or maybe it was because I hadn’t had sex in almost three months. I’d been waiting, saving myself for the perfect man.

  Ever since we’d met at a fundraiser a week ago, I’d had a feeling Logan was that perfect somebody. I couldn’t wait to show him off at my sister’s wedding next weekend. Jeanna was going to be so proud of me.

  His hands reached for the buttons on the front of my dress, and I didn’t object as he released one right after the other. My eyes were glued to his, staring deep into their chocolate depths. The fabric dropped onto my carpet and I quickly kicked the dress away, not caring where it ended up, then stepped back and propped a hand to my slim waist so he could see everything I had to offer.

  The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable. “Christina…you’re beautiful.”

  I grinned. Not that he was telling me something I didn’t already know. What woman wouldn’t be gorgeous standing in a red satin bra and matching low-ride panties with a pair of red Manolos on her feet?

  I sauntered toward him and he pulled me into his arms and swept his tongue across my lips, leaving them sopping wet. “So beautiful,” he murmured. He slid a hand up to my breast and cupped it a little too eagerly. “Play your cards right and you won’t ever want for anything ever again.”

  That was the plan.

  He brushed a thumb across one hardened nipple and smiled triumphantly when I gasped. “That’s it, baby. Give yourself to me.” He massaged my breast slowly. “You want me?”

  I pulled back slightly and stared up into his face. “Yes, Logan. I want you.” And everything you have to offer.

  Grinning eagerly, Logan reached for his belt buckle. Stepping back, I licked my lips thinking about the night I had in store for him. Trust and believe, before the night ended Logan was going to be mine. I had never been so aggressive with a man before, not that I was about to enlighten him of that tiny fact.

  “You ready?” He exhaled a harsh, aroused breath.

  “Absolutely,” I answered in a low sultry voice. With a crook of my finger, I signaled for him to follow me up the stairs to my bedroom. My foot had barely touched the bottom step when I heard a knock at the door. Logan’s brow rose and he looked clearly disappointed at the interruption. Well, he wasn’t the only one. I was preparing to answer it when I heard loud pounding.

  “What the hell?” I muttered under my breath. I padded to the door, looked through the peephole and spotted a woman standing there, balancing a small child on her hip.

  “Who is it?” Logan hissed impatiently.

  I looked over my shoulder and shrugged, “Some curly-headed chick holding a little girl.” It was then I noticed his eyes grow round as saucers.

  “What?” I asked, and suddenly I didn’t want to know.

  Before he could answer, the woman pounded her fist against the door again, but this time she screamed, “Logan…I know you’re in there!”

  Swinging around, I saw the fear on his face. “Who is that?” I whispered.

  Logan was quiet for several seconds before he finally answered, “My wife.”

  “Your what?” I screamed. I don’t remember him mentioning once in any of our conversations that he was married. How come that information wasn’t available on the Internet?

  “I want my daddy!” wailed the little girl at the top of her lungs while his wife continued to pound at my door.

  In record speed, Logan zipped his pants and slipped his shoes back on. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there as he moved toward the door. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. Reaching up, he caressed the side of my face and then winked at me, like I was really that stupid and desperate. Logan had no idea. Unlike my mother, I wasn’t interested in being someone’s mistress. It was all or nothing with me. Being second was not an option.

  Suddenly I found my voice and spat, “Do me a favor and lose my number.”

  I reached for the knob, swung open the door and stared at the woman with tear-stained cheeks holding the crying child in her arms. Logan looked from her to me, and when I refused to make eye contact he finally stepped out onto the porch and scooped the little girl into his arms. Mrs. Cambr
idge gave me a triumphant smile. I watched as she laced her fingers with her husband’s, and the three of them moved out to the curb, climbed into their vehicles and pulled away, leaving me standing there with another disappointment and shattered dreams.

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  Excerpt from The Heat of Heat

  by Bettye Griffin

  Chantal, wearing a black strapless bra, matching panties, and high-heeled open toe red mules, sparingly applied perfume to her pulse points. She wanted to go by quick spritzes rather than her nose, which had been slightly numbed by the fumes from the strong chemicals she used while cleaning the restrooms. She then applied color to her lips and cheeks and rimmed her eyes with black kohl. Finally, she held her breath as she removed the net from her hair. Everything so far had gone swimmingly, but her hair was a different animal. She’d done all she could to protect it: kept her shower water tepid, ran the fan to prevent the formation of steam that would make her tresses limp and lifeless. She was now about to find out the answer to the million-dollar question: Would her hair come out all right, or would it need a time-consuming touch-up with the curling iron she’d packed?

  She held her breath as she carefully removed the netting from her hair. She hadn’t even touched it after removing the rollers from last night’s wet set this morning, just put the net over it and prayed for the best. To her joy, her shoulder-length hair had plenty of body as she combed it out, and it looked shiny and healthy.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Her little woman had been right so far. Everything had gone without a hitch. Thank heavens for Roxanne Dennison’s generosity. She really needed a shower after the grimy work of cleaning offices—including the toilets. She now felt fresh and, yes, beautiful.

  Chantal’s last action was to remove her everyday wristwatch and replace it with the gold bracelet that had a watch face nestled inside it. She checked the time. Six-twenty. Wonderful. She’d locked away her cleaning cart and the vacuum cleaner in the utility closet before showering, so all she had to do was take her garment bag and go. Sinclair wasn’t picking her up until seven-thirty. That gave her plenty of time to get a bite to eat. Their VIP tickets did include light hors d’oeuvres, but Chantal hadn’t eaten since ten a.m., and she had to have a sandwich or something to see her through.

  Trystian adjusted the knot of his tie. Funny how a fresh shirt could make him feel like a new man. He tucked the freshly folded silk hanky that matched his tie into the breast pocket of his suit coat. He’d be sure to have a good time, regardless of if he met a woman or not. He’d get to see old friends and hear great music.

  He stuffed the shirt he’d worn to work this morning into his briefcase with his papers, then locked up the office and headed toward the elevator, briefcase in hand.

  His pulse quickened at the sight of a tall, slim brown-skinned woman wearing a red dress waiting at the elevator. Shiny dark hair grazed her shoulders, not quite obscuring that her dress covered only one of her shoulders and left the other bare. A garment bag was folded over her right arm, and even from this distance he could tell she wore no band of gold around the fourth finger of her left hand. Who was she? Had she been working in this building all along? And why hadn’t he ever seen her before?

  She turned her head to face him as he approached, and the view helped him determine that her face looked every bit as good as her body.

  “Good evening,” he said in his most appealing voice.

  “Well, hello again.”

  Again? Trystian didn’t understand. She acted as though she knew him. But he hadn’t seen anyone who looked even remotely like h—

  Chantal saw his confusion change to uncertainty, then disbelief as recognition flashed in his eyes. It figured. He initially hadn’t been aware of ever seeing her before. What could she expect from a man who equated her with a vacuum cleaner?

  “I apologize for not recognizing you,” he said. “But you look so…different.” He knew he was staring, but she was the most appealing sight he’d seen in awhile. In casual clothes and no makeup she’d been pleasantly attractive, even with that hair net. In her dress-up attire with subtle makeup and her hair loose, she was a knockout. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “Roxanne gave me permission to use your facilities,” she said with stilted politeness. She couldn’t have him thinking she’d gone from cleaning toilets to this getup without washing up.

  Wait a minute. It shouldn’t matter to her what he thought.

  It shouldn’t…but somehow it did. Maybe it had something to do with the way he was gazing at her, with such obvious admiration.

  Trystian’s eyes just drank her in, from the flowing shoulder-length tresses to the red-painted toes that peeked through the opening at the front of her shoe, and everything in between. The long, shapely legs, her graceful neck, and particularly the bare shoulder that cried out for a man’s touch...his touch. “You look….” He groped for an adjective, settling for the simple. “Lovely.”

  “Well, thank you. You’ve made a few snazzy changes yourself.”

  He saw her eyes focusing on his soft yellow shirt and swirly tie and hanky that blended well with his pale green suit. He’d worn a plain white shirt and striped tie earlier. He almost felt like blushing under her approving gaze.

  The elevator bell rang, and seconds later, the car opened. The mysterious lady in red stepped forward, then quickly back again when a man started to wheel out a mop in a wheeled bucket. He was halfway out when his brow wrinkled in confusion at the suite directional signs posted opposite the elevator. “Oh, wrong floor. I need to go one up.”

  “We’ll catch it on the way down,” Trystian said. The mysterious woman with her sudden step backward now stood very close to him, so close that he could smell the jasmine-based fragrance coming from her pores. He knew he should step back, knew he stood way too close to her, but his captivation kept him from moving.

  He forced himself to come to his senses and took a step backward, only to feel something pulling in the area of his groin. “What the—”

  She attempted to turn, probably to see what he referred to.

  “Don’t move,” he said quickly. “Your dress…oh, man. I think it’s stuck in my zipper.”

  “Stuck!”

  “Don’t move, or else you might tear it.”

  “Well, do something!”

  “I’m trying to. Here…can you hold this?”

  Chantal took the briefcase he held out, frustrated that she couldn’t really see what was going on back there. All she knew was that if she tried to take even one step, she could feel a pull on her dress. “What the heck happened?”

  “It looks like the fabric of your dress got caught in my zipper.”

  “How could that happen?” she asked in bewilderment. “I wasn’t that close to you.”

  “Science isn’t my forte, but I’d guess it has to do with gravity. You took an abrupt step backward to avoid colliding with that bucket and were only about half an inch away from me. The material of your dress is so light and fluffy, plus it’s layered. It flew up when you moved, and when it came down…it just landed in my fly.” He sounded sheepish. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have it zipped all the way up. Probably from when I changed my shirt.”

  “Do you make it a point to go out into the street partially dressed?” she asked frostily.

  “I wasn’t aware of it until just now. It’s not like I did it on purpose. Do I look like an exhibitionist to you?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” came her reply, crisp as a potato chip.

  “It’s, uh, kind of hard to work with this,” he said as he fumbled with the flimsy material of her dress with one hand, his zipper with the other. “I don’t have a lot of space to work with, plus my fingers are large.”

  “Good Lord!” she exclaimed. “This is going to be a mess. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m going out this evening. I can’t show up with a torn dress…or one that’s got you atta
ched to it.”

  Trystian chuckled. “You know, there’s this old screwball comedy from the Thirties with Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant. They were at a country club dance, and she tore the back of her dress, so he had to walk unnaturally close behind her so no one would see her underwear.”

  “I’ve seen it,” she interrupted. “It’s called Bringing Up Baby. It was funny. But this isn’t.” She punctuated her displeasure with a heaving sigh. “Can you get it undone?”

  “I’m still trying.”

  “Do you mind if I set your case down? It’s getting heavy.”

  “Just let it fall. Whatever you do, don’t bend. You’ve got very little wiggle room.”

  “All right.” She lowered her right shoulder slightly and let go of the handle. The briefcase hit the floor with a loud clunk, followed by her garment bag, which made a softer clunk, courtesy of the heavy gym shoes she’d worn earlier.