When I’m With You
LaConnie Taylor-Jones
Genesis Press, Inc.
Indigo
An imprint of Genesis Press, Inc.
Publishing Company
Genesis Press, Inc.
P.O. Box 101
Columbus, MS 39703
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, not known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission of the publisher, Genesis Press, Inc. For information write Genesis Press, Inc., P.O. Box 101, Columbus, MS 39703.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.
Copyright© 2007 by LaConnie Taylor-Jones.
ISBN-13: 978-1-58571-563-3
ISBN-10: 1-58571-563-8
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition
Visit us at www.genesis-press.com or call at 1-888-Indigo-1-4-0
Dedication
To the matriarchs of African-American romance whose shoulders I stand on and who opened the doors for so many to follow.
Acknowledgements
So many people have shared in this wonderful three-year journey on my path to becoming a published writer that I hardly know where to begin in expressing my heartfelt thanks.
First and foremost, I thank God for all He has given. Through Him, I received the patience, wisdom, creativity, and endurance needed to help make the dream of becoming a published romance author a reality.
To my soul mate and best friend, my husband Colin, I thank you. Thank you for your words of encouragement when I wanted to quit. I especially thank you for all the times you gathered our children and quietly took them to the park, so I could squeeze in another hour or two of uninterrupted writing.
To my children, Christian, Caelin, Colin, and Caryn who share with me everyday how proud they are of their mom, Honey, writer or not.
To Susan Malone, Karlyn Thayer, and Chandra Sparks-Taylor who helped guide me in shaping this story.
To my friend and author, Beverly Jenkins, who unselfishly gave me her time and the benefit of her experience as a published writer.
To the members of the San Francisco and Black Diamond Romance Writers chapters, thanks ladies.
Prologue
Marcel Baptiste rested his head against the shower wall, his eyes drifting shut. Relaxation washed over him as the hot water from the massaging showerhead sprayed across his face. He felt as if twenty years had been added to his life in the last forty-eight hours.
The past two days had been nonstop. He had delivered the keynote address at the annual conference for the National Automobile Association held in Atlanta. Countless meetings in stuffy conference rooms, late-night strategy sessions that, coupled with the three-hour time change, had taken their toll on his thirty-eight-year-old body. He was grateful to finally be headed home to Oakland to wrap up the bid for his newest automobile dealership.
After the soothing shower and an hour-long workout, Marcel donned a pair of jeans, a cap, T-shirt and tennis shoes. With soaring adrenaline and razor sharp concentration, he leisurely strode back to the main cabin of his Execuliner jet.
“Mr. Baptiste, we’re cruising at an altitude of thirty-seven thousand feet over the Rockies. If our tailwind holds, we should land about twenty minutes ahead of schedule.” The words from his long-time pilot, Russ Jenkins, were welcome news. Marcel decided to squeeze in more work before he landed.
Sitting down in a plush-leather seat next to the window, he grabbed the lone item atop his cherrywood desk: the proposal to fund a youth center in East Oakland. He’d read it umpteen times over the last three weeks. His desire to help the underprivileged, especially youth, had him spending every available moment he could spare considering the East Oakland Youth Center’s request. As he flipped through the dog-eared pages, he easily found the key points he’d circled. Each of them stirred his philanthropic commitment to worthy causes.
His vow to share his wealth with others was as steadfast as his commitment to accomplish his goals. His astute business ability had made his family’s business, BF Automotive Enterprises, the top-ranked Black-owned dealership in the country. Under his leadership, the company had maintained several years of steady growth and enjoyed skyrocketing profits. Three years ago, he’d launched a mammoth expansion plan throughout the nine Bay Area counties in California, expanding the BMW dealership from three to eleven. Company revenues would easily exceed the billion-dollar mark by year’s end, three months ahead of schedule.
A wrinkle etched along Marcel’s forehead as he tried to figure out how the grant writer knew he was a philanthropist. He’d always believed that generosity and publicity didn’t mix, so he’d insisted on complete anonymity in the various causes he’d funded over the years, and had gone to great lengths to ensure he couldn’t be connected to his sizeable donations.
Trailing his finger along the proposal’s edge, he closed it and placed it back on his desk. In the past five years, he had received scores of proposals, and he’d personally read them all. This one had a uniqueness he couldn’t explain. Whoever had written the proposal had lived the words they’d written. Over the years, Marcel made many decisions based on instinct alone and his sixth sense was telling him to relinquish his steadfast rule of anonymity. He wanted to put a face to the grant writer’s name.
He wanted to meet Caitlyn Thompson.
Chapter 1
Two days later – Oakland, California
“What the hell do you mean, we have a problem securing the dealership?” Seated inside his corporate office in downtown San Francisco, Marcel’s baritone voice was sharp enough to split a single strand of hair.
Ken Terrell shook his head in frustration and sighed. “Marcel, I’m just as dumfounded as you are, but someone upped our bid for the dealership.”
“Why?” Marcel shot to his feet and angrily paced the length of his glass-topped desk as he listened to the explanation from his vice president of operations and second in command.
In the business world, Marcel had garnered a reputation for scrupulous fairness and unmatched ruthlessness, especially when someone told him no. His usual controlled and tempered nature was teetering on the brink of eruption at the news he was hearing. He had no reason to doubt Ken who had been with the company from day one when his father, Alcee Baptiste, started the business with one dealership. He stopped pacing and glanced over at Ken who appeared to be as frustrated as he was. But nothing Ken had said so far made any sense. How could something as simple as acquiring a twelfth car dealership create such a problem?
Marcel flung his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d heard enough bad news and sat heavily. “Listen, find out what the problem is and get back to me as soon as you can.”
“Will do.” Ken slid a folder inside his briefcase and stood. “Marcel, do me a favor and get your mind off this bid for a while, okay? Why don’t you stop by the Oakland dealership before going home?”
Marcel’s smile was flinty. “Is that an order?”
Ken stood near the door and chuckled. “No, but it’s a suggestion you would do well to heed.”
Marcel watched as Ken left and quietly closed the door. Releasing a loud groan, he swung his arm up and glanced at his gold watch. “Dammit.” It was already two o’clock, and there was no way he’d
be able to keep his three o’clock meeting with the grant writer of the proposal for the youth center, Caitlyn Thompson, when he still had more than an hour’s drive ahead of him.
He pressed the intercom on his phone with more force than intended and spoke with forced patience. “Marilyn.” Marilyn Jenkins, the wife of his pilot Russ, had been his executive assistant for the past five years and ran his office with the precision of a synchronized swim team.
“Yes, sir.” Marilyn replied in a calm, strong alto voice.
“Cancel my three o’clock.”
“You sure about that?”
Generally, Marilyn’s opposition to his directives didn’t faze him. She was one of the few people who had the balls to challenge him and win. But after the news Ken just delivered, he wasn’t in the mood to listen to logic, even if it was in his best interest. “Just cancel it.”
Marilyn cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last request, sir.”
He inhaled deeply and slowly released his breath. His tone softened to a sweet plea once he realized he hadn’t uttered Marilyn’s favorite word. “Please.”
“All right. A reschedule date?”
“Let me get back to you on that one.”
“Aren’t you the one who scheduled the meeting in the first place?”
She had him there. He picked up his Palm Pilot and carefully studied his calendar. He did want to reschedule his meeting with Caitlyn, sooner rather than later. Marilyn knew how he loathed having to cancel meetings, especially those he initiated. “How about Monday, say ten o’clock. Happy now?”
She answered in her best I-thought-you’d-see-it my-way tone. “I am now.”
All he could do was shake his head and smile. The woman had the innate ability to read him with her eyes closed. He grabbed the inventory report from the center of his desk. Tension rode his shoulders like a freight train. Rotating his neck provided some relief, but fifteen minutes later, he realized it had settled even deeper. Plus, he was still on page one and didn’t recall a thing he’d read. Sighing, he conceded his day was shot to hell. He tossed the report onto the desk and stood. Grabbing his suit coat off the back of his chair, he slipped it on. The more he thought about it, he realized Ken was right. Perhaps a visit to his Oakland-based dealership wasn’t a bad idea.
* * *
“Not now, dear God, not now,” Caitlyn Thompson anxiously cried out when her late-model BMW jerked as she approached the westbound entrance to the Caldecott Tunnel just outside the Oakland city limits. She didn’t need to spend a lot of time analyzing this dilemma. She wasn’t going to make it through.
With less than twenty feet to go before she entered the mile-long span, her car released another not-so-friendly mutter and a swirl of blue-gray smoke drifted over the front windshield. Seconds later, she smelled fumes from her tailpipe. She had about as much faith her car would make it through the tunnel as she did in men. Both registered a zero on her scale.
The car hesitated when she shifted from first to second in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, but there was little she could do about it. She couldn’t even move to the shoulder. She gripped the steering wheel with determination, pulled her bottom lip between her teeth as she got to the tunnel’s entrance, and prayed. “Oh, dear God, just let me make it through.” The car slowed and California drivers, infamous for their lack of patience, blasted their horns behind her.
On this hot Thursday afternoon, the temperature had hit triple digits. She regretted the decision to put the top up on her merlot-red convertible before starting home and would’ve made a deal with the devil himself at that moment to turn on the car’s air conditioner. Despite being mechanically inept, even she knew that turning on the air would cause the car to flat line. Perspiration plastered her shoulder-length hair to the back of her neck like Saran Wrap. She fumbled in her purse and found her mother-of-pearl comb. In between gear changes, she piled the mass of wavy, black curls on top of her head and pushed the comb through.
Her afternoon had ended in a futile attempt to secure the funding needed to keep the doors open at the East Oakland Youth Center. As the center’s executive director, part of her responsibilities included fundraising and grant writing. She did it well by relying on the skills she’d obtained working as the CEO at a corporate philanthropy foundation overseeing hundreds of grants each year. It was the first day of July, and short of a miracle, the center would close by year’s end. After receiving a call from the associate of a wealthy philanthropist who’d expressed interest in funding the center, she’d traveled to Concord for their meeting, only to learn after arriving that the meeting had been cancelled.
To say she was annoyed was an understatement. She’d driven out to no-man’s-land for what? she mused. A cancelled meeting due to an emergency? An argument with an overly secretive receptionist named Sherry who wouldn’t reveal the philanthropist’s identity? Plus, she’d skipped lunch. Her slender fingers drummed against the steering wheel.
“Yeah, I just bet you had an emergency.”
With just a few feet to go before she was out of the tunnel, the car backfired and her frustration escalated. “Darn it. What else can go wrong?”
She wasn’t sure how, but as she did in all the other difficult times in her life, she made it through. Pulling off at the first exit, she spotted a gas station a few feet away. No sooner had she turned into the station’s entrance than the engine died and the car coasted to a halt.
Caitlyn took a deep breath and peered out the front windshield to determine where the heck she was. Even with her sunglasses on, she shielded her eyes against the sun to make out the street sign above. Piedmont Avenue. The name was unfamiliar and she chewed the nail of her right index finger. “Oh, God, where am I?”
She was originally from New Jersey and had lived in Oakland for six months. The only area with which she was even remotely familiar was the two-mile stretch between her one-bedroom apartment in East Oakland and the youth center. Putting in thirteen-hour days to scrape up every dime she could for the center left little time for much else. Saturdays were spent volunteering at the center and on Sundays, she hung out with her best friend since college, Victoria Bennett.
Caitlyn saw a shadow approaching her car from behind. Instantly, her heart began to pound and her palms became clammy. Snatching her purse off the passenger seat, she frantically dumped everything out looking for a can of mace. As the shadow came closer, she locked the doors and prayed her ex-boyfriend, Cole Mazzei, hadn’t found her. Moments later, she breathed a sigh of relief when she realized the shadow was an elderly lady walking her dog.
Once her heart settled, Caitlyn picked up her wallet and counted. Two twenties and some change weren’t much if major repairs were needed. She sighed and bitterly thought about the fact she’d been forced to stop using her credit and ATM cards. Every transaction she’d made for almost three years had been cash only, another painful reminder of Cole. She didn’t even own a cell phone because she feared it would be another way for him to track her whereabouts.
“Come on, Caitlyn, think, think.”
With her head against the headrest, she released a weary sigh. She was sweaty, tired and hungry. Spotting a pay phone, she got out, went to it, and thumbed through the yellow pages. She called the first tow company she found and waited.
* * *
When the tow truck pulled up to the BMW dealership in Oakland forty-five minutes later, Caitlyn glanced at her watch, figuring the service department would close in fifteen minutes. The last thing she wanted to do was leave her car on the back of a tow truck overnight. What if someone stole it? She knew if she stuck to her budget, she had enough money to live comfortably on for a couple of years, at least. But her budget had not been designed to take on a car note.
Grateful for the cool air circulating in the empty service room, Caitlyn stood at the door swiping at the tiny beads of sweat at her temple.
“Hello.” Her greeting bounced off the walls, and her second attempt didn’t fare
much better. Since the doors weren’t locked, she knew someone had to be inside, so she walked behind the service desk and headed toward an opening. Two steps later, the heel of her right shoe caught on the floor mat. As she tried to avoid falling, a pair of hands grabbed her at the waist. Straightening, she realized that her rescuer topped her by more than a foot. He had to be six-three, if not more, because she was a half inch shorter than five feet. She was close enough to detect the citrus scent of his aftershave, but had to tilt her head back to see his face. And when she did, her mouth dropped. He was drop-dead, make-you-want-to-scream gorgeous.
“T-Thank you.” Her breath hitched from the fire of his touch and she tried to think of something else to say, but her mind went completely blank.
Beautiful eyes, Marcel’s brain registered. “How can I help you today, ma’am?”
She never took her gaze away from his smooth café-au-lait face and aimed her finger toward the door. “My car died and since you were the nearest BMW dealership, the towing company brought it here.”
He nodded. “All right. Where is it?”
Together, they headed to the door where she pointed to the tow truck and glanced up at his profile. “I know you’re about to close, but do you think you could take a look at it?”
“Not a problem.”
Marcel had made the drive across the Bay Bridge from San Francisco to Oakland in record time. Business was brisk, and once he’d settled in, he learned his service technician, Sean Richards, had taken ill around noon and left. Marcel had quickly changed out of his black linen suit and collarless raw silk shirt and put on Sean’s uniform to lend a hand. Around half past four, things had calmed down and he decided to change and head out. He’d just placed his watch on his wrist when he heard the front door open. At the sound of the soft, melodious voice that called out, he’d gravitated toward the lobby.
When I’m With You (Indigo) Page 1