The elevator chimed softly, interrupting Kemi’s thoughts, and both brothers reached for Harry’s luggage. When the doors slid softly open, the men stepped forward. The two women inside faced each other, their conversation intense, and when the doors opened, they moved together—right into the two men.
Akemi stepped to the side, just enough to avoid crippling Julia. Collision averted, he still caught an enticing whiff of her spice-tinged cologne.
Harry dropped everything when the tall woman hit his chest. Opening his arms, catching the woman, he had the impression of warm curves, but it was the brush of her cheek against his that made him hold her close.
Nice. Julia stepped nimbly out of bumping range and smiled an apology to the heroic looking man with the sweep of inky hair.
Oh, can I get a break? Bianca almost bawled just before she looked up into concerned eyes that almost broke her heart. Flirtation tried to ambush resolve, but she’d made a promise to herself, and she remembered it as her eyes met his. Slowly separating herself from the stranger, she looked away first.
Her mumbled apology mingled with his as he stepped away from her. His lips curved, and he stole another bit of her heart when they moved like dancers against each other and then away. Their steps turned them, first closer, then apart, as he stepped into the elevator.
He’s carrying luggage and so is the man with him. Maybe he’s going to stay a while…The thought lingered as the doors closed between them.
“Do they live here?”
“What?” Harry blinked, his attention pulled from the elevator door.
“Those two women. Do they live here?”
“I walked in with you, I don’t know any more than you do.” Harry pushed the penthouse button and hoped his brother would let the matter drop. When Kemi raised his brows and waited, Harry knew there would be no stopping him. “I’ve been in Japan for the last six months. How would I know?”
“You looked at the tall one as if you knew her. Or maybe she looked like someone you’d like to know.”
“What if I did?”
Kemi rolled his shoulders, his expression stoic and proud. “Then maybe you could get to know her, and I could get to be the uncle of some very good-looking kids.” He thumped a hand to his chest. “I would be the apple of our honored mother’s eye. Just think of the joy it would bring if I sent you back to Japan with a wife and grandchildren.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Harry kept his eyes straight ahead. “I don’t think love is in my future.”
“You’re overdue for true love, my brother; perhaps ai is just around the corner for you.” Or a few stops up on an elevator.
CHAPTER 6
Bianca tucked her copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution under her arm and closed the condo door behind her. Barefoot and in her pajamas, she headed for the sofa and settled into her morning routine. Newspaper and coffee every morning, checking the classifieds for a job.
Pulling the classified section free, she folded the pages back and then ran a finger down the column. Feeling overdue for a lucky day, she creased the page and concentrated. Looking for a job that would pay a living wage, enough to hold the line on her ever-mounting debt, and doing it every day, had gotten old. She had done it for each of the ten days she’d been in the condo, and hadn’t gotten a single interview. Dozens of query letters and résumés had been forwarded, and again, nothing—not even a courteous form letter of rejection.
Annoyed, Bianca took another sip of coffee. Surely, there’s one job I can do; one in the whole city of Atlanta. Pulling her feet up under her, she flattened the newspaper against her knees and tried to ignore the despair creeping into her soul.
Looking for the bright side, she told herself things were not all bad. She hadn’t heard anything else from KPayne or his attorneys. Work had begun on Vive la Reine. Thank goodness for Julia and small favors.
The check from the insurance company lay on the small table in front of the sofa. The payout was more than she’d expected but less than she needed to fully cover Vive la Reine’s debt. Beside the check lay the folded police report. Officer Ruiz and Detective Keyes had finally concluded she hadn’t staged the robbery, and their clearance had satisfied the insurance investigators.
Looking away from the check that was spent before it was cashed, she returned to the classifieds. Stopping at the column headed ‘Customer Service,’ she saw what could only be called the answer to her prayers. Kin Kura International was looking for a sales associate with experience in museum-quality jewelry and antiques.
Sitting up, Bianca read the ad again, her heart racing when she looked at the Peachtree Center address. Walking distance. She looked at the hours—they were reasonable. She could easily cover this job and still have time for Vive la Reine. The salary range was listed—and she could definitely live with it.
This one is mine. Bianca reached for the laptop she’d borrowed from Julia and turned it on. The computer came to life and Bianca did a fast search for Kin Kura International. Homing in on the corporate website, she was impressed. Chic, stylized swirls of rich color filled the laptop’s screen, and majestic music came from the small speakers. Delicately etched, subtly shadowed Japanese characters rose from the clouds of color, followed by the company name.
Trying to think like a company owner instead of an applicant, Bianca opened a search box. Typing in the name, she learned that Kin Kura literally meant Golden Storehouse. She flipped the screen back to the company website and learned that Kin Kura was only eight years old, a relative newcomer in the field, but with an unparalleled reputation for quality and integrity. So what would an associate do there?
She looked at the ad again and her heart fluttered. They sell jewelry. Her heart fluttered again. ‘Museum-quality?’ Does it go on display, or do people wear it?
She looked back at the beautiful pieces pictured on the website: belts and bracelets, earrings that looked like wearable art, rings based on sacred symbols, and samurai swords so intricate she could only imagine their value.
Who buys this stuff?
She clicked ‘Testimonials’ and found an impressive list of clients, making her wonder if Kin Kura employees had to be bonded. Clearly, she wasn’t going to get any answers by staring at the website, so she pulled up her résumé and quickly e-mailed it to the address in the ad. Sliding the laptop to the side, she reached for her cellphone and punched in the number for Kin Kura International.
The phone rang twice before the man answered. His voice was pleasant, his tone charming enough to make Bianca wish she could afford to sit and pass the time of day with him. But business came first, and she asked for Kin Kura’s owner by name.
“That would be me,” the amiable man replied.
And she had been about ten seconds away from flirting with him. Flustered by the close call, Bianca sat up straighter. “Mr. Jordan. I hadn’t expected to speak with you.”
“Now you’re wondering why the owner of a company like Kin Kura International is answering his own phone.” The smile in his voice came through the phone like a warm handshake. “My staff dumped me for a group celebration, and the temp hasn’t arrived. So when you called, I answered the phone. How may I help you?”
“I’m calling about the job you listed in the AJC.”
“Ah, yes.”
Silence followed the two words and Bianca was tempted to ask if he was still there. Feeling awkward and knowing silence was not going to serve her well, she plunged ahead. “Your ad says that you will accept faxed or e-mailed resumes, and that candidates should contact your office for an interview appointment. I’d like an appointment.”
Akemi listened, liking her voice—feminine, silky, and confident, glazed with a touch of New York. When he asked about her retail experience, she hedged. Her experience was with clothing, not museum-quality jewelry. He asked about her college background, and she told him she had attended NYU, but made no mention of a major or the year of graduation. In fact, it almost sounded as though she either had
no degree or had graduated by the skin of her teeth—not impressive in a city like Atlanta, where eight major colleges and universities guaranteed a pool of degreed potential employees. Tempted to blow her off, he asked if she’d read his ad.
“I did. And I looked your company up on the Internet. I was impressed.”
“By what?”
Oh, my damn! Trying to think of the answers she would want to hear about Vive la Reine, Bianca forged ahead. “I was impressed by the excellence of your merchandise and by your company’s reputation, given the length of time you’ve been in business. Kin Kura International has a stellar international reputation, and…”
“So now I know you can read,” Akemi laughed before she could finish.
Bianca didn’t know whether to join him or not. “Mr. Jordan, I’m very interested in this position. I’ve reviewed the qualifications you’re seeking, and I know that I am the person you’re looking to hire.” She held her breath and waited.
“So I should not ask you why you are the best candidate for this position?”
“You could ask, but I would only have to repeat myself. I would have to tell you that I want the position, that I am qualified for the position, and that I am immediately available.” Or, I could just come right out and beg. Gambling, she wiped a sweaty palm against her pajama leg and waded deeper. “I’ve owned a small business, and I am precisely the kind of person I would want to represent my name and my business. You won’t find a better candidate than me. I guarantee it.”
“You’re that sure?”
“Yes, I am.” The phone burned in her sweaty palm, but she held on.
“My hands are full today,” he finally said. “Can you come in tomorrow?”
Is the Pope Catholic? “Yes!” Too eager. “Yes, certainly. What time would be best for you?” She eased to the edge of the sofa and hoped she wouldn’t be the first person he saw, because she might be forgotten by the end of the day. But, from the very bottom of her heart, she hoped she wouldn’t be the last person, either. Then he might be too tired to pay attention. And she wanted this job.
Akemi hummed lightly. “All right, Ms. Coltrane, shall we say eleven?”
“Absolutely, yes.” Bianca’s lips said yes, but her thoughts were already going through her closet. Something sedate, but not stodgy. Nothing too flashy, either. This man sold high-quality jewelry and he needed an associate, a representative with dignity and class. Like me, she thought, her confidence rising.
She ended the call and wondered how many other people had already applied for her job? What kind of experience would they bring to the table? How many of them were recent college graduates with majors like art history?
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. Not one of those other people is me, and this job is mine.
Bianca jumped when the phone vibrated then buzzed in her hand. Her first thought was that Akemi Jordan might be calling to cancel or reschedule and dread flooded her stomach. Half scared, she opened the phone, and KPayne’s name and picture flashed on the small screen. Why is he calling me?
Whatever he wants, it can’t be good. Besides, I have an interview to get ready for, and I am not trying to let him rain on my parade. The phone made the angry buzzing sound again, and she pressed IGNORE. The buzzing stopped. KPayne’s face faded and was replaced by her Prada shoe screensaver.
Kelvin, you’re on your own—you should have talked to me when you had the chance.
* * *
“Not picking up the phone.” He flipped his closed. “I know she’s there. She doesn’t know who she’s messing with,” KPayne muttered. The truth was, she didn’t know who he was messing with. But he did. And even now, rolling down the highway in the shiny black GL-class Benz, headed to a meeting with Buoy Mann, he had to admit to having second thoughts about ever getting involved with the big man.
It had all seemed so easy—in the beginning. Then there was the robbery, and now she wasn’t taking his phone calls. “Blowin’ me off like my name was Smoke, kind of like I did her, that last day.” Maybe it was true: what goes around, really does come around.
Ironic as all get out, yeah, but KPayne was not in the mood for truisms this morning. He looked over at Alin, sleeping and drooling in the passenger seat. He’d brought him along because he didn’t want to walk into this meeting looking like the Lone Ranger.
He reached over and gave the other man a shove. Eyes snapping open, Alin grunted and sat straighter. Looking out the window, he swiped a hand across his face and tried to orient himself. Seeing the look on KPayne’s face, he sniffed and pulled at his shirt, making an effort to look more presentable. “We almost there?” he finally asked.
Disgusted, KPayne said nothing. Slowing for his exit, he touched the breast pocket of his shirt. That’s where he’d tucked the check. It was a cut from his trust, an advance, he’d told the grim accountant. Ignoring the man’s disapproval, he’d spun a lie about needing the money for sound equipment. Truth was, it was going to Buoy Mann, a first installment on the money that should have come from Vive la Reine.
Damned Bianca. And she had the nerve not to answer the phone. But she’d better get my money, and I don’t care how she does it.
* * *
Wearing tennis shoes, Bianca walked to her interview. The walk was one of those economies she’d been dreading since the day she’d begun life without KPayne, but it wasn’t bad. The walk from Museum Tower to Peachtree Center had only taken minutes. Stepping onto the elevator, she pulled black leather pumps from her oversized handbag. She slipped out of the sneakers and tucked them away as the elevator reached the twenty-first floor.
In the hall, the elevator doors closing behind her, she looked around. The north tower hall was pretty much what she’d expected: lots of bright hardware and polished wood. She took few steps then stopped at the first mirror-like wall panel she found and peered at her face. Barely visible beneath carefully applied makeup, the concealer was working, covering the dark shadows she’d found there this morning. That’s what came from staying up most of the night trying to memorize details of antique Japanese ceremonial jewelry.
Lord, it’s all so much. Please just keep me from going in there and babbling like a fool.
She would have prayed more, but farther down the corridor, a door opened and a narrow-bodied woman in a tiny skirt, low-cut ruffled blouse, and very high platform-soled heels cast a final flirtatious giggle over her shoulder and stepped fully into the corridor, casting a coquette’s light-fingered wave behind her. Her shoulders rose and fell with her sigh as the door closed and she turned to walk away. Seeing Bianca, the woman threw a mass of hair over her shoulders and lifted her head higher.
Walking toward the elevator, the woman’s heavily made-up eyes assessed Bianca and she set her lips into something resembling a smile, but said nothing as she passed. Clutching a flat black leather folder to her décolletage, she pressed the elevator button, and watched Bianca from the corner of her eyes.
Competition, Bianca guessed, straightening the collar of her crisp white shirt. Glad she’d gone with the simple black suit and white blouse, she gave herself points for wearing a longer skirt, even as she wondered what the other woman’s résumé included. It doesn’t matter, she decided. Her steps grew firmer, and she walked a little faster. This job belongs to me.
Outside the showroom, Kin Kura’s name was shown on an artfully designed plaque. Pushing through the double doors and into the showroom, Bianca was immediately struck by two things—the intriguingly appointed floor space, and the similarity between the two seated women staring daggers at each other. Perched on buttery-soft leather settees set amidst soothing bonsai and a sculptured water wall, they both wore more Anne Klein than the law should allow. Rigid in their pastel-colored suits with their matching shoes and purses, they sat with their ankles crossed and their lips tight, looking like they had mayhem on their minds.
What have I stepped into? Determined not to have her mission undermined, Bianca stepped carefully past the pu
rse-gripping women, and she almost made it.
Seeing Bianca’s approach, a cautiously optimistic olive-skinned woman rose from a small carved rosewood desk and eased toward her. Her smile was nervous, and her eyes jittered between Bianca and the two intense women, who had progressed from staring to finger-shaking and hissing fast comments at each other.
Deciding her chances were better with Bianca, the woman ran her hands over the hips of her black sheath dress and tried to firm up her smile. But Bianca saw something like fear painting the woman’s face and couldn’t help wondering how two plump schoolmarmish ladies could inspire such apprehension. She didn’t have to wait long for an answer. She barely got her name out before the two little women went to war.
“Miss Linda! Miss Lena!” the woman in the black dress shrieked when the two little women jumped to their feet and began slapping at each other. “Please! Miss Lena! Miss Linda!” she begged, running toward them. Holding their faces away from each other, the women threw down their purses and let liberal blows rain between them.
I don’t have time for this! Bianca headed for the three women. Taller by several inches, she waded into the fray and pulled the two shorter women apart by their collars, separating them like schoolyard combatants. Restrained, they stopped slapping at each other long enough to aim several hearty smacks at the woman in the black dress, who cowered behind her hands.
“Stop it,” Bianca ordered Linda or Lena, then turned on the other one when she raised her hand. “You’d better not hit me,” she warned, and Lena or Linda lowered her hand and puffed resentfully. “What is this about, anyway?”
“Collectors,” black-dress lady whimpered, tucking her hair back into its formerly neat bun.
Bianca gave both women a hard shake and a stern eye when they puffed themselves up. “You’re collectors, so you think you should come in here to brawl?”
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