Dangerous Consequences

by Lisa Renee Johnson

  Donathan stuffed his black socks into his pocket and jammed his feet into his loafers. His normally sharp mind was dull, which caused his thoughts to be slow and heavy. It felt like he had a hangover, though he’d had only two in his lifetime. His last-minute jaunt to the men’s room last night had left his opened bottle of water in Austyn’s care, vulnerable to tampering. That fucking bitch must have drugged him.

  Ten minutes later Donathan walked out of the building onto 9th and Broadway. He trolled the streets, looking for anything unusual, including the paparazzi. It was easy to brush off the made-up tabloid stories about him, but if a camera caught him stepping out of a hotel in a wrinkled Hugo Boss suit at this time of the morning, there would be no explaining away his actions to an eager freelance photographer.

  He reached 13th Street, where he’d parked his car, and eased into the confines of his black Mercedes CL65 coupe, further assessing his situation. He could still hear Austyn’s voice in his head. You’re the doctor who specializes in the art of sex. Drugging him had been her plan from the start, he realized. She had arrived at the Richmond Country Club with every intention of luring him in.

  He pulled away from the curb and didn’t stop checking his rearview mirror until he merged onto I-80 east. The highway was empty; he coasted toward El Cerrito like a vampire trying to beat the rising of the sun.

  All the way home, Donathan kept thinking about the nagging consequences of an unprotected sexual encounter. When he took the San Pablo exit, he was finally able to breathe, but he was aggravated. The images of glistening red lips and laughter mocked him. Did they even have sex? Of course they did. Right? Why else would he have been naked?

  When Donathan pulled into his driveway, his headlights illuminated a small package propped against the mailbox. He exited the car to retrieve the parcel, and then he saw her. Across the street, his neighbor, Barbara Brown, sat perched in her front window, drinking her morning coffee, a ritual Donathan saw most Sunday mornings when he went out for his morning run. He looked down at his disheveled appearance. “Shit,” he cursed softly.

  Barbara Brown waved at him, and he knew exactly what that meant: She’d run and tell everyone who’d listen about his comings and goings, and eventually that would include Sydney. Now he had two problems. He stepped back into the car, held his head with one hand, and groaned at the throbbing as he reached the house at the end of the driveway. This would all look better once he got some rest, he told himself. He would take some Tylenol, get a few hours of sleep, then find that bitch Austyn and fix this.

  CHAPTER 8

  After she called Donathan and connected with his voice mail for what seemed like the hundredth time, Sydney left the hospital. Adrenaline surging, she wanted to squash their animosity once and for all.

  In the past eight hours she’d called his cell phone at least a half-dozen times. He hadn’t picked up, nor had he responded to her messages. Last night she’d chosen to cover an overnight shift instead of accompanying him to a promotional event, and she was sure eight hours hadn’t done much for his disposition.

  She understood why Donathan had been angry, but she didn’t have the energy to rub elbows with hundreds of his aggressive fans. Her plans for last night had included pajamas, the couch, and Pleasure by Eric Jerome Dickey. Not flashbulbs and out-of-control women pawing at her husband.

  Preoccupied with her thoughts, Sydney left the building, trudged toward her rental car, and nearly bumped into a security guard—a middle-aged man with crooked teeth, bifocal glasses, and salt-and-pepper hair dripping with Jheri curl juice. He was talking with Miles.

  “I need a taxi,” Miles said. “It’s easier to use my spare key than to—”

  “Taxi, where do you need to go?” Sydney questioned, stopping next to him.

  Miles looked down at her, his dimple giving her a wink. “Home,” he said, pasting a huge grin on his face. “I left my keys inside the car last night, and after ten minutes the alarm sets itself.”

  “Sounds like a pretty smart car,” Sydney said as she peeked at her watch. She was on her way to the Oakland International Airport to pick up her cousin, Brea, whose plane wasn’t due to land for another hour. That gave her plenty of time to do Miles a favor; after all, she owed him one.

  “C’mon. I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Oh . . . wow, thanks,” Miles said appreciatively. “Let me grab the bag off the top of my car. I’ll be right back.”

  Cars usually didn’t impress Sydney, but the one with the small black duffel bag resting on top was sexy. It was black with tinted windows and had a high gloss that looked like it required hours of meticulous rubbing. The shiny machine looked like something from a Back to the Future or Batman Returns movie.

  Sydney stared at Miles as he maneuvered through the parking lot. He had a certain style that stirred up the laws of attraction, but as he slid into the passenger seat next to her she wondered what his shiny, attention-grabbing toy was compensating for. She hoped it was nothing catastrophic because as far as she was concerned he was perfect—for Payton.

  “Where to?”

  “Jack London Square. The Ellington on Broadway.”

  On the way to Miles’s condominium, Sydney drove down Telegraph, their conversation simple and easy. He had only been on the neurosurgery team for a couple of months, but they talked nonstop, as if they’d known each other for years. This made her plan to uncover whatever he was compensating for and whether he was right for Payton. At first she’d toyed with the idea that because he was a good-looking man, he was probably full of himself. Most men got off on talking about themselves. But then again, so did Payton.

  “Why are you smiling?” he suddenly asked.

  “Um . . . I didn’t realize I was.”

  “Yeah, you were cheesing real hard,” he teased.

  “I was?”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “I was thinking about my cousin,” she answered vaguely.

  “And why would thinking of your cousin make you smile?”

  “Well, she’s flying into town today. She’s been overseas for work, so I haven’t seen her in a while. Family always makes me smile.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m big on family, too. Just wish California wasn’t so far away from mine and the south side of Chicago.”

  “Sounds like you’re having trouble adjusting to the move.”

  Miles nodded. His eyes were dark and intense. “I guess you could say that.” He chuckled. “All I’ve seen since I moved here is the Uptown District of downtown Oakland and Jack London Square, which shouldn’t count because I live there. Mostly, I miss my daughters.”

  Bingo. It all made sense. His nonchalant attitude when she’d mentioned Payton. She’d been so busy trying to hook him up, she’d missed the obvious. Miles was married. Deflated, she stole a quick glance at his ring finger. There was no ring, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t married.

  “So, when are your wife and girls moving here? It must be hard being separated from them.”

  “Being separated from my girls is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, but unfortunately, they won’t be moving to California. I’m divorced and they live with their mother in Chicago. They’re excited about coming to visit, though. They think Mickey Mouse and I are next-door neighbors,” he said, motioning for her to turn onto 3rd Street and stop in front of a modern concrete building.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Miles jumped out of the car, hurried toward the double doors, and disappeared into the building. Sydney smiled again. Miles was perfect. He wasn’t an asshole and he wasn’t married, which was the total opposite of the losers Payton seemed to attract. His children added a small complication, but that barrier was greatly diminished because they lived in another state. Now all Sydney had to do was get Payton and Miles in the same room and the rest would take care of itself. She fished her cell phone out of her bag and checked it one more time to make sure Donathan hadn’t called her—a wasted effort—then she tex
ted Payton: Are you still coming to Napa today? Call me when you get this.

  Several minutes later Miles was back in the car.

  “Thanks,” he said, holding up a key, a little out of breath from his jaunt.

  “No problem.”

  As Sydney made a U-turn and headed back in the direction of Children’s Hospital, she became more determined that Miles was going to meet Payton today. “So when are you leaving for the conference?” she asked.

  “I’m flying in tomorrow to spend some time with my family and to catch the Bulls game on Wednesday—”

  “The Chicago Bulls,” Sydney squealed. “Me too. My husband thinks I’m crazy for going solo, but there’s no way I can go to Chicago and not see the house that Jordan built. I can’t wait.”

  Miles looked up. “Well, I agree with your husband. The United Center isn’t in the safest part of town. I have extra seats in the box. I could pick you up,” he said gently.

  Sydney bounced his idea around for a second, then answered yes with a sheepish grin planted on her face. This was the perfect segue for her unsolicited invitation.

  “Miles, a group of us are going up to Napa for a wine-tasting event this afternoon. How would you like to join us?”

  CHAPTER 9

  The pristine white Charger Limousine pulled into Copia’s circular driveway, coming to a stop in the passenger loading zone. Sydney checked on Donathan one last time while Brea and Miles continued to chat about her life as a music executive.

  Things weren’t going as Sydney had planned today. First, when she’d gotten home this morning, she and Brea had found Donathan wrapped in the guest-room covers, a distressed look on his face, saying he’d caught a twenty-four-hour bug and wouldn’t be accompanying them to Napa. Then Payton had responded to her previously sent text with a vague: Yes, but a change of plans . . . I’ll meet you there. Sydney hadn’t heard from her since, and if Payton didn’t show, her setup for today would be pointless.

  The driver opened the door and Brea stepped out of the limo dressed to kill in a Valentino white linen suit. She consulted her watch, then opened her Swarovski crystal–decorated clutch purse, the jewels catching the afternoon sunlight. It was early April and the California heat was unseasonable.

  “Cousin,” she said to Sydney, “finish your wine. I have to go to the dressing room to check on my artist. Here are three tickets. I’ll catch up with you all later.”

  Sydney watched from the tinted limousine window as Brea hurried toward the building and the stares of people littering the walkway, hoping to see somebody famous.

  Ten minutes later, with still no word from Payton, Sydney led the way, edging along the cobblestoned building. Once inside, she stopped at the will-call window to leave Payton’s ticket. As soon as Sydney finished the transaction, her cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me, I need to take this,” Sydney said to Miles. She stepped out of earshot and answered.

  “It’s about freaking time. Where the hell are you?” Sydney said into the phone.

  “Well, I missed you, too, pumpkin.” Payton giggled.

  “What happened? I thought you were driving up with us in the limo.”

  “Nothing happened. I was in the middle of something and decided to drive up on my own. Is that a crime?”

  “No, it’s not a crime, but may I remind you that it was your brilliant idea that we all ride up together so we wouldn’t have to assign anyone as the designated driver.”

  Sydney looked up and found Miles staring at her: a long, penetrating stare. She felt herself getting warm.

  “I know, but like I said, something came up. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine.”

  “You seem a little agitated, like you need a drink.”

  “Well,” Sydney said, continuing to observe Miles, her mind racing in a thousand directions. She watched as women took notice, drawn to his confident edge. “We’d planned on waiting until you arrived to start tasting. How long before you get here?”

  “I’ll be at least another twenty minutes. So I think you and Donathan better start without me.”

  For a second Sydney contemplated telling Payton that Donathan was home sick and Miles was a part of the we she’d been referring to, but she weighed her thoughts and quickly came to her senses. Miles was definitely a viable prospect for Payton, and if Sydney wanted this to work, she had to make sure the timing was right.

  “All right. We’ll see you in a few.”

  A jazz quintet serenaded people perched at the linen-covered tables and scattered on blankets across the amphitheater lawn.

  Miles placed his hand at the small of Sydney’s back and ushered her toward the African American Vintners, who took cover underneath canvas tasting tents stationed at the end of the winding patio. She was feeling quite comfortable with this man. As they reached the pavilion, Miles leaned forward, his warm breath kissing her ear.

  “Are you a red or a white drinker?”

  Sydney swallowed hard. “Um, I’m a white girl.”

  “Have you ever tried a Viognier?”

  “Vio who?” she responded, caught off guard by the surge of energy moving through her body. Miles leaned in close again.

  “It’s pronounced VEE-ohn-yay.”

  Sydney shook her head. “No. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s made from a very rare white grape originally grown almost exclusively in the Northern Rhône region of France, but its popularity in the States is increasing. The aroma smells like apricots and tangerines.”

  “Sounds tasty. It’s not too sweet, is it?”

  “What do you usually drink?”

  “Riesling.”

  “Then I think you’re going to find it very pleasing to your palate.”

  Three glasses of Viognier and an hour later, Sydney was in love and heavily buzzed. She left Miles in search of bottled water—tipsy was okay, but drunk wasn’t an option. After finding a bottle of water, she wandered around Copia, mingling her way through the crowd, and ended up next to a pair of unfamiliar faces. She hadn’t seen Brea since they’d arrived, and Payton hadn’t made her grand entrance—yet.

  Sydney gulped down the water while replaying the last hour in her mind. She’d always had an overactive imagination, one that sometimes got her into trouble, but she wasn’t imagining this: his long, penetrating stares—the heavy breathing in her ear—and he kept touching her. It might have been subtle, but Dr. Miles Day was flirting with her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Warner recording artist Jabari,” the announcer, with a high-glossed shine bouncing off his bald head, crooned into the microphone.

  Out of the corners of her eyes, Sydney noticed the multi-platinum R&B singer stroll onto the stage, clad in a wifebeater, jean shorts, Timberland boots, and fresh cornrows.

  “What the hell is he wearing?” she mumbled in total disbelief.

  * * *

  With her target in sight, Payton eased her way through the crowd murmuring, “Excuse me” and “Pardon me,” trying her best not to step on anyone’s toes as she passed.

  Brea was glowing as she extracted herself from conversation with a pencil-thin woman in full African dress and stepped forward to greet her. Ever since they’d met in college, Payton remembered Brea working hard to achieve perfection, and from the looks of things she’d gotten pretty damn close. Brea’s medium-brown eyes glimmered, the color of molten amber. She’d never seen her look prettier.

  “Oh my God! Girl, look at you,” Payton said, embracing Brea tightly, but Payton frowned once her attention shifted to the stage. “What’s up with that outfit y’all got on him? I know he’s into the ghetto-thug look, but what about dressing him for the crowd? He looks like a hot mess.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” Brea said, sounding slightly annoyed. “He was supposed to wear a simple white linen two-piece, but I’ve been fighting with him for the last forty-five minutes and couldn’t get him to put it on. Now his ass is up
there not only embarrassing himself but he’s a direct reflection on me. I’m so tired of these damn artists.”

  The sound of Jabari’s soothing and sexy voice pulled their attention back to the stage.

  “Well, at least he sounds good; let’s hope people just close their eyes and sway to the music without looking at him.”

  Brea shook her head and chuckled. “Girl, you are c-r-a-z-y.”

  “So where’s Sydney?” Payton asked, looking around the enclosed courtyard.

  “I’m not sure. She and Miles are probably—”

  “Miles? Where’s Donathan?”

  “He’s at home sick. Miles is—”

  “A doctor who works with her,” they said in unison.

  “Sydney has made it a point to tell me all about Dr. Miles,” Payton said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes upward.

  “Well, you might want to start listening because the brotha isn’t bad on the eyes.”

  “Whatever,” Payton responded. “I’m not letting your cousin play matchmaker for me anymore.” She scanned the crowd a second time and caught sight of Sydney standing next to a tall, dark, and very handsome man in his early forties. Even with all the striking people in the venue, Miles stood out.

  He was dressed in a pair of cream-colored slacks and a salmon tailored shirt that gently clung to his chest and washboard abs. A smile played around the corners of Payton’s glossed lips as she gave him another once-over for good measure. She lingered at the bulge between his legs. Miles was a man with confidence and he looked like he had a nice package. Her kind of guy. She briefly watched him being overly attentive—the perfect gentleman, but what she wanted to know was if he could get buck wild in the bedroom. Feeling a sudden rush of lust, she excused herself.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Payton grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter and sipped the amber liquid as she made her way over, careful not to damage the heels of her four-inch Louboutin’s between the cracks of the patio. Without warning, a woman scooted her chair into Payton’s path, causing her to slip, lose her balance, and stumble into Miles, a river of wine flowing freely down the front of his shirt and her silk blouse.