by J. J. Murray
“Um, you’d better rest while you can,” I say.
She squeezes my hand. “Don’t you worry about me, Jack. I am primed and ready.”
But she’s thinking about—
Aren’t you?
I smile.
“What are you smiling about?” Diane asks as the plane pulls away from the terminal.
I lean close to her ear. “The night and the morning to come.”
“Mmm,” she says.
We like the sound of that.
Yes, we do.
The flight to Charlotte is uneventful and actually arrives a few minutes early. When we head through the tube into the terminal, Diane slows almost to a stop. “It feels so good to stretch my legs.”
I try to picture the map of the airport in my head. The international terminal is…“We’ll just, um, go this way.”
You have less than twenty minutes, Jack. Tell her!
I take her hand. “Um, I know a shortcut.”
“To where?” she asks.
I would have asked the same thing. Tell her!
“Diane, do you have your license with you?”
“Yes. What, are we renting a car?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Tell her!
“What’s going on, Jack?”
I drop the carry-on bags and take both of her hands.
So she doesn’t try to run away.
Shh.
“Diane, there’s been another change in plans. There is no tour.”
“What?”
“Well, actually there is a tour, only it doesn’t involve books.”
Except for The Kama Sutra.
Oh yeah. Except for that.
Diane shakes her head and blinks repeatedly. “What are you telling me, Jack?”
“The only tour we’re going on is the grand tour called marriage, and if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss our flight to Jamaica.”
Her mouth drops open.
I turn her gently. “We need to run that way as fast as we can, okay?”
She nods.
“Ready?”
She nods again, and then we…run—
Haul ass, book, bolt, jet—
To the international terminal, where we hear “Last call…” as we near the counter. I slap our boarding passes on the counter, the attendant checks our IDs, and we run through the tube into the plane. Diane turns right in to the coach section, but I pull her back.
“Um, I got us first-class seats,” I say.
Her mouth drops open a lot more than I remember, Jack.
She’s so fun to surprise!
After we sit in the most comfortable seats and gulp two glasses of some really fine champagne, she finally finds her voice.
“Are there going to be any more surprises?”
I nod.
She looks at her empty glass. “I’m going to need another one of these.”
Don’t let her get drunk.
This statement, from you?
You want her completely sober for—
I know, I know.
I ask for another glass of champagne once the plane levels off, and Diane sips this one, smiling and…giggling?
She’s drunk.
She’s happy.
Okay, she’s a happy drunk.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she says. “Where are we going anyway?”
“Jamaica,” I say.
Diane growls. “Where in Jamaica?”
“Some place…Jamaican?”
She squeezes my leg. “Tell me.”
We like her squeezing our leg. Don’t tell her.
I don’t intend to.
“It’s a surprise,” I say.
She giggles again! “All this has been a surprise.”
And there are more surprises to come….
Yup.
61
Diane
I’m buzzing. First class. Sweet champagne. A smooth flight. Jack’s hand under my hand so the world can see my ring. A soft pillow. No idea where we’re going only that we’re going to Jamaica….
To get seriously busy.
Oh, and get married, too.
And no amount of squeezing Jack’s leg or whispering in Jack’s ear will get him to reveal all his secrets. But that’s okay.
But then I realize…“Jack, what if our bags don’t catch up to us?”
“We, um, won’t need any clothes for a few days, right?”
And that sets me buzzing again, until I remember…“Jack, I only have shoes, toiletries, and my make-up and hair stuff in the carry-ons. You don’t have a single thing.”
“I know.”
And that sets me buzzing until we land, because once I take his clothes off—and hide them somewhere, of course—he won’t be able to leave the room, not that I could either. I could…Hmm. At least my hair and make-up would look good as I walk around in my high heels….
“Jack,” I whisper as we leave the plane, “is this one of those clothing-optional places?”
He kisses me softly on the lips. “It can be.”
I may never stop buzzing!
Inside the terminal, I see a short black man in a dark uniform holding a sign that says, “Mr. and Mrs. Browning.”
“Is that for us?” I ask. I mean, who else would it be for?
Jack nods and approaches the man. “I’m Jack Browning, and this is the future Mrs. Browning.”
“We’ve been expecting you,” the man says in beautiful, cultured English English. “I am Paul. Do you have many bags?”
Jack shakes his head, showing him my two carry-on bags. “Just these.”
“Follow me,” Paul says, and we trail behind him to…a taxi? I was expecting a limo. But once we’re moving through the tropical night, I know why we’re not in a limo—the roads are barely wide enough for this taxi.
Not that Jack lets me look out the window much. We make out and touch and squeeze all the way to…Firefly Beach. It’s too dark to see much, but I do see a skinny pink Victorian house and lots of palm trees teeming with coconuts.
Paul opens my door, and I step out. “Thank you, Paul.” I smell a mixture of hibiscus, oleander, and the sea, delightful bougainvillea hedges brightening the night.
“A pleasure,” he says, and he backs away to Jack, who pays him…a lot of money. How long were we in the taxi? I was too busy to notice the passing of time.
Jack holds his hand out to me. “Come on,” he says.
I take Jack’s hand. “Where are we going, Mr. Browning?”
“To the beach,” he says.
Now? “What for?” I mean, shouldn’t we be checking in or going to our room and ripping each other’s clothes off?
Jack squeezes my hand. “You haven’t figured it out?”
“Our room isn’t ready or something?”
He laughs. “It’s ready, and it isn’t a room. It’s a cozy cottage just a few yards from the water. We’re just not ready for our cottage.”
And that makes no sense whatsoever until we stop at the edge of the beach, kicking off our shoes. The sand is so soft and silvery. “It’s still warm,” I say, digging in my toes.
He leads me where waves sigh gently on the sand, and we look at the stars lighting up the sky, a little sliver of the moon glowing in the darkest patch. “I wish we could have gotten a later flight so we could do this at sunrise.”
Here? We’re going to do it here? This wasn’t in that sex scene. Did I print out all of it?
He steps into the foamy edge of the waves, pulling me close. Somewhere reggae plays in perfect rhythm to the surf. Well, I suppose I could do it here in this paradise, but…
“Diane, um…” He sighs. “I wanted to do this legally, but…” He smiles. “The requirements are a bit much.”
He has completely lost me.
“In order to get married here, we would have had to send our birth certificates one month in advance.”
I swallow. Am I about to—
“And I would have had to br
ing Noël’s death certificate, too, and we would have had to be in the country for twenty-four hours before we could—”
“Jack?”
“Yes, Diane?”
“You mean, we can’t…” I close my eyes. “But I thought—”
He puts his finger to my lips. “We’re in paradise, Diane, a real Garden of Eden. We have too many clothes on to be Adam and Eve, but…this is how they got married.” He looks up. “In the sight of God.” His eyes, those soft blue eyes of his, rest on mine. “They didn’t need any certificates. They didn’t need any witnesses. They only needed each other.” He squeezes my hands tightly. “Diane Anderson, I will love and cherish you forever from this moment forth, and I will do my best to be a good husband and father to our children.”
Goose bumps are leaving my body and traveling into space!
He blinks at me several times. Oh. Those were his vows! And now it’s my turn!
“Uh, Jack Browning, I will love, honor, and…” I look down. “Obey you forever.” I look up. “As long as what you ask of me is reasonable.”
He nods.
“And I will be your wife, your best friend, and the mother of your children.”
And I’m not crying, though I have goose bumps even on the tip of my nose!
“I, uh, don’t have a wedding band for you,” Jack says, “but your mother said—”
“I know what she said,” I interrupt. Lord, I’m getting to be more and more like Mama. I know I wasn’t adopted now.
He pulls my ring gently toward the tip of my finger.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t take it off.”
He stops pulling. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
I put my fingers on the ring. “With this ring,” I repeat, “I thee wed.”
We slide the ring back to its rightful place.
And we kiss, while waves of the warmest water kiss our feet. “Hello, Mrs. Browning,” he whispers.
“Hello, Mr. Browning.”
He turns us slightly toward shore. “We can watch the sunrise from our cottage if you like.”
“I’d like that.”
Then, leisurely slipping through soft sand, we walk into cottage #19, pausing on the veranda to look back at the water. “What time is it?” I whisper as Jack slides off my pants from behind me. The air feels good on my skin, and I barely feel him remove my underwear.
“Maybe…three.”
I turn and take off his shirt, looking past him to two double beds. “There are two beds, Mr. Browning.”
He smiles. “How nice of them.”
He removes my top and bra in mere seconds, and seconds later I’ve reduced him to Adam. We embrace, and though for a fleeting second I worry about someone seeing us, I don’t let go, I can’t let go, and right there with my caboose sitting on the rail of a veranda in cottage #19 at Firefly Beach in Jamaica, I thank God I have this man whom I let completely inside me for the first time in my life—
“Oh, Jack,” I say.
“Are you all right?” he whispers.
“Yes.” I pull him deeper into me. “Can we stay like this until the sunrise?” I don’t want this moment to end!
“Not if we stay out here,” he pants, little beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “You feel so good, Diane.”
Oh, God, if he only knew how good I feel in my soul at this moment. I waited twenty-five years for this man and this moment, and it was definitely worth the wait. And I wrap my legs around his back to prove it. “Take me to the bed, Jack.”
He lifts me up. “Which one?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
He carries me past the bed closest to the veranda and sits us gently between the two beds on a smooth wood floor. “Jack, what are you doing?”
“I’d rather be doing this on the beach, but…”
We’re high enough that we can see over the first bed past the veranda to the water and the stars.
“So,” he says, “we’ll just sit here, moving to the rhythm of the waves while we watch the sun rise.”
“We’ll look like prairie dogs,” I giggle.
“I love your laugh,” he says, kissing my neck. “And I love you.”
I hold him close, saying, “I love you, Jack,” riding him in rhythm to the waves as the sky turns red…then orange…then gold.
62
Jack
When are we going to get into a bed?
If I move, I’ll, you know, again.
We’re going to get splinters.
I don’t care.
I’ll bet we’re making a baby right now.
I hope so. God, I hope so.
“Diane?”
“Hmm?”
She has incredible stamina!
I know!
“Um, Diane, honey, my butt’s asleep.”
She opens her eyes. “Do you want to take me to bed, Mr. Browning?”
I nod.
“Not until I…” And then she grinds against me just right, and I can’t hold back anymore.
At this rate, you’ll have triplets for sure!
She eases off me and climbs into the bed closest to the sunrise, and I slide in behind her, wrapping my arm around her stomach.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispers.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper.
She grabs my arms and holds on to them tightly. “Thank you.”
“I’ll bet you never expected this,” I say, snuggling closer.
“Not in a million years,” she says. “Not in a million-trillion years.”
63
Diane
No. I didn’t just say—I mean, five months ago, I hated that line. And now look at me. Look at us! I may have to make up a whole different definition of romance now.
“Jack?”
“Yes, Diane.”
“Wishful Thinking now gets two stars from Nisi.”
He drops his hand to my booty and begins to rub it oh so nicely. Here come the goose bumps. “What rating would Diane Anderson Browning give it?”
I feel him growing again behind me. Lord, thank You for a virile man. “Five stars, and if I could give it six, I would.”
“Yeah?” He pulls me closer to him. “Five? Hmm. Well, I’d better get back to work.”
“What do you mean, work? This isn’t work, is it?”
“It is for me,” he says. “I mean, if you want to have five kids, I have lots of work to do.”
“I said five stars, Jack.”
“And they will be,” he says.
And in my heart, I know he’s right.
Former boxing champion Dante “Blood and Guts” Lattanza is being featured in Personality magazine’s “Sexiest Men Alive” issue, and reporter Christiana Artis has the scoop. There’s just one hitch: she’ll have to fly to her elusive subject’s home in Canada. But once she lays eyes on Dante’s chiseled physique and sultry Italian looks, she decides it was worth every mile. Too bad his icy demeanor doesn’t match his hot body.
Since he lost his last fight ten years ago, Dante has led a reclusive life—and he never gives interviews. But he’s making a comeback, ready to prove to the world—and his ex-wife—that he can still win a championship. He gives Christiana an ultimatum: if she can perform five tasks, she can ask him five questions. And then she can be on her way. Yet Dante’s always had a weakness for beautiful black women, and seeing Christiana every day is enough to melt his defenses. Soon Christiana is an intimate part of the very story she came to write. But when the line between personal and professional gets blurred, it can be difficult to see when you’ve found the real thing…
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at
J. J. Murray’s
THE REAL THING
coming next month!
“Do you know where Dante Lattanza lives?”
The towheaded child on the wooden dock jutting off Turkey Island whizzes a long silver lure past the prow of my rented aluminum boat. “You talk funny, eh?”
It’s
because I’m from Red Hook in Brooklyn. At least I don’t say, “Eh?” after every sentence. “I’m from New York City,” I say not wanting to confuse him. “So, do you know where he lives?”
“Yeah.”
This Canadian kid is obviously more interested in catching a fish than answering questions from a black woman in jeans, waterproof Timberlands, and a red and black flannel shirt.
“Your outfit will help you blend in,” Shelley, my editor at Personality magazine told me.
“I’ll still be black in the Great White North,” I had complained, “no matter what I wear.”
Shelley only rolled her eyes. She does that a lot whenever I’m around. I think she has a wandering eye. She never seems to focus on me when I talk to her.
“Um,” I say, turning off the ten-horsepower motor and drifting toward the shore, “where exactly is Dante Lattanza’s house?”
The kid’s eyes stay glued to the lure sluicing through the water. “He lives in a cottage.”
Cottage, house, what difference does it make? “Which cottage does he live in?”
The lure flies up from the water and zips immediately toward me, missing the stern of the boat by inches, er, centimeters, or whatever archaic units these Canadians use. “What time is it?”
I ask which cottage, and he asks me for the time. “Almost four-thirty, but I really need to know…”
The kid reels in the lure rapidly, throws down his pole, and takes off up some stairs to a house, er, cottage. It looks like a house with a huge screen porch and some decking in front of another house-like section. “Where are you going?”
The kid doesn’t turn or even acknowledge me. What? Is it time for his meds? Maybe he’ll come back with some intelligence and some respect for his elders.
This is such a waste of time. I had gotten an anonymous letter last month telling me where to find the reclusive, elusive Dante “Blood and Guts” Lattanza, former middleweight champion and boxing wunderkind of the mid-1990’s until he lost two bloody brawls to better, faster, and stronger fighters. “He’s training at Aylen Lake, Ontario, from the end of August through November,” the letter said. Retired for ten years, Lattanza was making a comeback just as Personality had named him one of the sexiest men alive based on a bit part he had in a recent Rocky-rip-off called Heavy Leather. Normally, Personality magazine only chooses from the Hollywood ranks, but someone in editorial must have a crush on Lattanza.