by Janice Sims
She took his hand and led him farther inside, pausing to close the front door. Turning back around, she said, “Welcome to my African-Greek-inspired oasis.”
As he walked down the couple of steps that led from the front door into the foyer, he looked up at the high ceiling. Hanging from the ceiling was a chandelier with crystals that produced a golden light. “African-Greek-inspired?” he said, curious as to why she’d described the house that way.
As they walked past the foyer into the great room, Desiree said, “The Greeks built their homes in an open style so that the air flow would keep them cool in summer. The Africans, who also had to build with hot weather in mind, built houses that would allow them to breathe in hot, humid climates. I love the open concept, so when you walk in you have a line of sight straight through the kitchen, the great room and to the back door. Most days I don’t have to run the air conditioner. I can just open my front and back doors and the air circulates throughout the entire house, cooling it.”
Decker was impressed. He’d simply chosen his loft because it was big and modern, giving no thought whatsoever to the environment. Desiree was already being a good influence on him.
The whole house had either tile or hardwood floors. She took him upstairs and showed him her bedroom. He had to admit that he got a little turned on after seeing the size of her bed. It was large enough to accommodate him. This, he knew, was wishful thinking. He didn’t expect to be invited to her bed anytime soon. “I live in a loft,” he said. “For some reason I think of houses as places where families live.”
Desiree was showing him the guest room, a large room down the hall from her bedroom, which had its own bath. “I used to think that way, too,” she said. “But I woke one morning, still single at twenty-nine, and said to myself, What am I waiting for? I earn my own money. I’m perfectly capable of buying a house, an investment, instead of paying rent every month. So I went out the next week and started looking at houses.”
“Oh, I own my loft,” Decker was quick to say. “It’s more of a bachelor pad than it is a home, though. You’ll understand when you see it later.” He gestured around them. “I don’t have your homey touch. This house feels welcoming.”
The furnishings were a mixture of contemporary with a smattering of antiques. The combination lent an air of sophistication and comfort at the same time.
“I’m sure your space feels welcoming to your guests,” Desiree said.
“You’ll see soon enough,” Decker said. “Are you ready to go?”
Desiree let go of his hand and hurried back down the hallway to her bedroom. “Just let me put on some shoes and grab my purse.”
* * *
Decker was right, Desiree decided after spending five minutes in his loft. This was a spaceship. The loft had plenty of room and was ultramodern. The kitchen was a chef’s dream, with all the bells and whistles: the latest stainless-steel gas range, fridge, dishwasher, soft-close drawers. The colors were monochromatic. Desiree wondered what Decker had against a little color. The place was very clean, almost sterile. But it lacked warmth. On the other hand, it was the perfect man cave. And it probably fit his needs just so. Wasn’t a home supposed to be designed to suit those who lived in it? And it was obvious his home was designed specifically for him. Because he liked to cook, the kitchen was outfitted for ease of movement in that space. A large balcony, complete with a top-of-the-line gas grill and comfortable patio furniture, was the ideal place where a man could prepare his favorite meal of steak and potatoes. And the living room was tricked out with the latest electronics—a big-screen TV on the wall and an expensive stereo system replete with wireless speakers. Any man would love to live here.
“Feel free to have a look around,” Decker had said a few minutes ago when they got here. “I’m going to put the steaks on the grill.”
“Want some help?” she’d asked, hoping he’d say no so she could look around on her own. She couldn’t help it. She was a snoop, albeit a harmless one. She’d never stoop to going through his medicine cabinet, for example. She just wanted to see how he lived without his being there watching her reaction.
So now she was walking through his house while he was in the kitchen preparing the steaks for the grill. She strolled into the living room and went to check out the CDs on the shelf near the stereo. She smiled when she saw what a neat freak he was. The loft itself was very clean, thanks to a cleaning service, no doubt.
However, that wasn’t the only thing that told her he was a bit of an obsessive when it came to order. His CDs were alphabetized, whereas her CDs were shelved in no particular order. Sometimes it took her several minutes to locate a favorite CD. With Decker’s, all she had to do was think of an artist’s name, then look in the section that began with the first letter of his/her last name. Curious about his taste in the blues, she went to the K section. Sure enough, he had several B. B. King CDs. She doubted he owned any of Koko Taylor’s albums, so she went to the T’s. He had one Koko Taylor CD, but it was a collection of her greatest hits. Desiree put it in the player, and the rough, soulful voice of the late, great blues singer began belting out “Born Under a Bad Sign.”
She closed her eyes and swayed to the music, feeling the sensuality of the beat infuse her body.
She started when she heard Decker say from behind her, “I like that. Who is it?”
She turned to face him. He was wearing an apron with Kiss the Cook on it, along with the image of a pair of juicy red lips.
“I’m not surprised you don’t know who it is,” she said as she walked into his open arms. “You only have one of her CDs. Have you ever listened to it?”
His gray eyes squinted in concentration. “Mmm, let me see, is it Etta James?”
Desiree gave him a disgusted look. “Not even!”
“Sarah Vaughn?”
“Your blues education is sorely lacking. Sarah Vaughn was a jazz singer, one of the best!”
“Then I did get Etta James’s genre right? She sang the blues?”
“Yes, she was a blues singer. She and the woman singing now are my two favorite female blues singers who have passed on. My favorite living female blues singer is Shemekia Copeland.”
“I’ve got it, then,” Decker said, triumphant. “It’s Koko Taylor.”
Desiree looked suspicious. “How did you get that?”
“Last night,” he explained, “when you listed your favorite singers, you only mentioned two women—Etta James and Koko Taylor.”
“And you remembered what I said?” She was genuinely impressed.
“I remember everything you say to me,” Decker said as he bent low to gently kiss her cheek. “I remember the day we met as though it were yesterday. I remember how thrilled I was to find you at my aunt Veronica’s a few hours later, eating collard greens with her in her kitchen after Uncle Frank’s funeral.”
Desiree’s heart raced. She felt tears welling up at the sincere tone of his voice, and the sheer honesty that shone in his eyes. She was also remembering what Veronica had told her about him that day in her kitchen—that he was a good guy and that the player act was just a facade to hide his insecurities.
She now wished she had let down her guard with him then. But there was no going back. There was only today and tomorrow. For today, she was going to make up for lost time and kiss the hell out of him.
“I was so cold to you that day,” she murmured regrettably.
“You didn’t know me,” he said softly, his eyes boring into hers. “Of course you would be wary of a strange guy who kept staring at you as if he’d never seen anything so beautiful. I made a fool of myself.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said softly as she stood on tiptoe. “Because, looking back, I think you were very sweet.”
She kissed him. His arms went around her, and she felt herself being lifted off the floor in powerful
arms. Suddenly she was weightless and flying. He was gentle yet intense, the kiss deep and soul-stirring. Her body went weak. Desire, like a drug, shot through her, melting her resistance and making her nerve endings sing and moistness gather between her legs. Her nipples hardened, and when Decker let go of her and took a step back, as though he knew they were dangerously close to going too far, she knew evidence of her arousal was visible through the silken material of her bra.
His eyes raked over her body before he visibly gained control by taking a deep breath. “I’d better go check on the steaks. Don’t want them to burn.”
“Put me to work,” Desiree said, following him. “I need to stay busy.”
“You can make the salad,” he said over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, she went to the fridge to get the salad ingredients from the crisper. Taking everything over to the sink, she watched him a moment as he turned the steaks on the grill on the gas range.
She began washing the lettuce. “I’m having a hard time resisting you.”
He looked at her with those expressive gray eyes and smiled. “Imagine how I feel. I’ve been half in love with you for months. Multiply your efforts to resist me by about a hundred.”
Hearing him say that just made her want him more. She sighed and lowered her eyes to her task. “It would be a mistake to go to bed this early in our relationship.”
“I know,” he said. “That doesn’t stop me from wanting to.”
“Me, either,” she assured him.
“That music doesn’t help,” he said. Koko Taylor was singing “I’m a Woman.” It was a declaration of the power a woman wields simply because she is born a woman. Desiree had always loved that song. Listening to it made her feel powerful and extremely sexy.
“I’ll go change it,” she said, dropping the lettuce into the sink and grabbing a paper towel from the holder on the counter.
“Don’t bother,” Decker said. “Doing that won’t help. I’m still going to want you.” He smiled at her. “Let’s face it, Desi, nothing’s going to extinguish this feeling except making love to you. And the way I feel about you, even that won’t help for long because afterward I’m going to want to make love to you again and again.”
He set down the fork with which he’d turned the steaks and faced her. “But I’m not a kid who can’t control his impulses. I’ll wait for you as long as it takes.”
Desiree’s body fairly thrummed with pent-up sexual tension. However, she knew he was right. It was too early to go to bed with him. She forced a smile. “It’s a deal,” she said, then tossed the crumpled-up paper towel into the nearby wastebasket.
“Excuse me.” She walked swiftly from the room, heading to the bathroom. She needed to splash water on her face and pull herself together.
Chapter 7
Two weeks after Frederic Sawyer’s arrest, Madison told Desiree that somehow it had gotten out that it was she who had accused him of molesting her. She’d been cornered at her locker at school by several girls who made it clear that they didn’t believe her and were supporting Sawyer. They called her a troublemaker and told her she was ruining his career and tearing his family apart with her lies.
Desiree had been so angered by this that she had gone to the police station and spoken with the lead detective on the case. He assured her that no one in the department had leaked Madison’s identity to either the press or any private citizen. He suggested that Sawyer had told someone close to him, and that person had spread the rumor.
Desiree knew that was a possibility, but that didn’t help Madison. Desiree wanted to advise her to stay home from school, but she didn’t because that would be defeating the purpose of getting her to believe in herself and stop allowing anyone to exert control over her. At any rate, Madison didn’t seem unduly upset by the development. She’d looked Desiree in the eye and said, “I don’t care what anyone says or does. They won’t chase me away from school. I have a right to be there. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m trying to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”
It was one of the proudest days of Desiree’s career. Madison was growing into a strong young woman with a healthy sense of right and wrong. Frederic Sawyer, however, appeared to be a beaten man. News reports said his wife, needing to protect her children from the bad publicity, had gone on an extended visit to her parents in another state. Sawyer was so despondent he refused to speak with the public defender assigned to his case. He seemed not to care what happened to him.
Desiree was also kept busy planning her parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary surprise party with her sisters. It was set for the end of July, and they were going to pull out all the stops. The biggest surprise would be Petra’s return from Africa. Her parents had no idea she was coming home.
One Saturday night in early July, about four months after she and Decker had gone on their first date, Desiree invited him over for dinner.
She set the table on the patio and put on her new pale pink sleeveless sundress that cinched her waist, with a hem that fell a couple of inches above her knees. She felt like a fifties bombshell in it. To further the effect, she styled her hair in an upswept do, and put on matching pink three-inch pumps. Hot-pink lipstick made her lips look bee-stung and highly kissable.
When the bell rang, she paused to look at herself one last time in the mirror over the foyer table before opening the door.
There was an apprehensive expression in her eyes. She knew it was because she planned to tell Decker she loved him tonight. The past one hundred and twenty days of close proximity with him, revealing their souls to each other and simply watching him interact with friends and family, as she’d been doing for more than two years now, all had served to solidify her feelings for him. He was a good man. She believed her heart was safe in his hands. Now she was going to trust him with the rest of her.
She opened the door and Decker, dressed in jeans, a short-sleeve denim shirt and black athletic shoes, grinned widely and pulled her into his arms.
Desiree experienced that excited yet secure sensation she always got when his muscular arms went around her. She inhaled the clean, freshly showered scent of him.
He lowered his head, his gray eyes looking deeply into hers. “Damn, you feel good. I couldn’t get through the day fast enough, knowing I was seeing you tonight.” Then he kissed her.
Although the word kiss, Desiree thought as his mouth claimed hers, was not descriptive enough to fully explain the metamorphosis that occurred in her body when his mouth covered hers. First, there was the anticipation of the pleasure to come. It made her start tingling all over. Then his firm, yet soft lips touched hers, and nerve endings started to sing. While the choir belted out a rousing Hallelujah, his tongue begged for entrance to her inner sanctum, which she eagerly granted. Once that was achieved, she was lost and floated on a cloud of happiness whose duration she wanted to extend to infinity.
All too soon, though, the kiss was broken off, and it always left her feeling a little sad and wanting more.
This time when they parted, she sighed contentedly, smiled and said, “I’m literally high on you.”
Decker’s smile was cocky. “I aim to please!”
She laughed and playfully punched him on the arm. “Don’t let that ego get too big. Come on, I made my mother’s oven-fried chicken.”
“Mmm,” Decker said as he followed her to the kitchen. “I love your mother’s chicken. How is the party planning coming along, by the way? Miss Virginia isn’t getting suspicious as their anniversary date gets closer, is she?”
Desiree looked back at him over her shoulder. She knew he was checking her out. He had a habit of hanging back and watching. And she loved it. It had been so long since a man showed an appreciation of her womanly charms. At least a man she wanted to notice. There were always men who flirted and tried to
get her in bed without investing any time and effort. She took pleasure in letting them know in no uncertain terms that it was never going to happen.
“Nothing gets pulled over Virginia Gaines’s eyes,” she said of her mother’s uncanny ability to avoid being surprised. “She already knows there’s going to be a party. What she doesn’t know is that Petra will be there. This year we’ll get her!”
In the kitchen, Desiree removed the pan of chicken from the oven and began putting some on a plate. “I set the table on the patio,” she said.
Decker, who wasn’t the sort of man to allow his woman to wait on him hand and foot, was getting the bowl of salad from the fridge while they talked. “Sounds good,” he said. “But I have to warn you, the sky looked a little dark when I was driving over.”
“Let’s take a chance,” Desiree said as she grabbed the salad dressing and headed out the French doors. She had already put crusty French bread and tall glasses with ice in them on the table. “Oh, would you grab the pitcher of iced tea in the fridge before you come out?” she said as an afterthought. “Or I have some chilled white wine if you prefer.”
“No, iced tea is good,” Decker said, turning to get the iced tea.
Soon they were seated at the round, umbrella-topped table. The scent of night-blooming jasmine was carried on the evening breezes, and the surrounding garden, boasting a host of spring flowers and abundant greenery, lent a calming effect to the setting.
“So, tell me how your week was,” Desiree said before biting into a chicken leg.
“Chaotic, as usual,” Decker replied. “But I’d think something was wrong if it wasn’t. I prefer to be too busy than not busy enough.”
“Any interesting new cases?” she asked.
“I’m representing a teen accused of killing his girlfriend,” Decker said.
“How do you decide to take a case like that?”
“It depends,” he said. He paused to finish chewing a mouthful of salad. “I believe everyone has the right to a fair trial, so I try not to be judgmental. But when murder is involved, the case has to satisfy two criteria for me—do I believe the defendant is innocent? Or do I believe he’s guilty, but he did it in a fit of passion or madness? If so, I’ll defend him to the best of my abilities.”