Pleasure in His Kiss

by Pamela Yaye

  Karma raised an eyebrow, but wisely said nothing, knowing it would only make things worse if she told Morrison that his niece had changed her mind about becoming a lawyer and wanted to become a makeup artist instead. Karma should know. She’d helped Reagan fill out applications for cosmetology school weeks earlier, and written recommendation letters for her, as well. Unique and creative, with boundless enthusiasm, Reagan had raw, natural talent, and with the right training could one day be a household name in the makeup industry.

  The telephone rang, and Karma picked it up, feigning excitement even though she was annoyed with Morrison-I-Think-I-Am-The-Boss-Drake. Thankful for the interruption, she chatted for several minutes with the celebrity publicist and penciled her name in the leather-bound appointment book for tomorrow morning. Her schedule was jam-packed, filled with so many bookings she’d have to work through lunch, but Karma wouldn’t have it any other way. For years she’d dreamed of owning a beauty salon and, thanks to the kindness of her A-list clients, Karma was the go-to hairstylist and makeup artist in the Hamptons. I wish my mom was alive to see me today. She’d be so proud of everything I’ve accomplished—

  “Is Reagan working today?”

  Karma consulted the appointment book, saw Reagan’s name at the bottom of the weekly schedule, and nodded. “Yes, but not until ten o’clock.”

  “Good, I’ll wait,” he announced. “And, if she doesn’t show up I’m calling the police.”

  Panic streaked across Abigail’s heart-shaped face, and Karma knew they shared the exact same thought: Hell no! He can’t stay here for an hour! Karma opened her mouth to suggest Morrison go grab a coffee at the café across the street, but she thought better of it. Didn’t want him to think he wasn’t welcome at the salon. He wasn’t, especially when he was insulting her and shouting at her staff, but since she didn’t want to make any enemies in the small, tight-knit community, she racked her brain for another solution to her problem.

  Her gaze strayed to the red, high-heel-themed clock hanging above the front door. Karma didn’t have time to babysit Reagan’s uncle. She had to finish balancing the books, update her website and blog, and when Jazz showed up she wanted them to talk. Had to find out what was going on with her best friend. Karma had work to do, and lots of it, but she feared what would happen if she left Morrison in the waiting area. What if he picked a fight with someone? Or insulted her staff? Or worse, caused a scene when Reagan arrived for her shift? Left with few options, she said, “Mr. Drake, let’s speak in private. I can tell you more Reagan’s job description, and give you a copy of her monthly schedule, as well.”

  Abigail sighed in relief, and Karma winked at her, wanting the single mom to know she understood her frustrations. It was hard to find good staff, and she wanted her employees to know she supported them wholeheartedly.

  “Relax, relate, release,” Abigail chanted in Karma’s ear, gently rubbing her back. “If you need me, text me 9-1-1, and I’ll come running.”

  Karma swallowed a laugh. Her employees were the heart and soul of her business. They were her family, the brothers and sisters she’d never had, and Karma could always count on them to have her back, especially when she was dealing with hotheads like Morrison Drake.

  “I don’t want my niece working here, so consider this her two-week notice.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Drake, that’s not your decision to make.”

  “I’m Reagan’s legal guardian, and what I say goes.”

  His tone was so cold, Karma shivered, but she didn’t shrink under his withering glare.

  “Maybe at the courthouse, but not here. This is my business, Mr. Drake, and I don’t appreciate you causing a scene,” she said in a quiet voice, even though she was fuming.

  Surprise covered his face, and his eyebrows shot up his forehead.

  That’s right, she thought, feeling triumphant. This is my spot, and I call the shots around here, Mr. Bossy Pants, not you. Resisting the urge to dance around the desk, she forced a smile. “We can discuss the matter further in my office while we wait for Reagan to arrive, or you can leave. It’s your choice.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. Reagan should be doing her homework, not doing nails, washing hair and sweeping floors. She’s a Drake. It’s beneath her...”

  The murderous thought that popped into Karma’s mind must have darkened her face because Morrison broke off speaking. “Oprah was a grocery store clerk before she became famous, Brad Pitt wore a chicken costume and Barack Obama’s first job was at Baskin-Robbins. You should be teaching Reagan to be humble, not proud and pompous.”

  “You misunderstood what I said—”

  “No, I didn’t,” she snapped, cutting him off. “I heard you loud and clear.”

  Music filled the air, a strong, infectious beat that drowned out the noises in the salon.

  “I have to take this call,” he said. “It’s my brother. Hopefully he’s heard from Reagan.”

  Recognizing the chart-topping song, Karma couldn’t resist swaying her hips to the music, and tapping her feet.

  Fishing his iPhone out of his back pocket, Morrison touched the screen with his index finger, then put his cell to his ear.

  Morrison liked Jay-Z? He listened to rap music? No way! He had a stern, no-nonsense demeanor, but hearing his ring tone made Karma think she’d pegged him all wrong. Maybe he wasn’t an uptight jerk, she thought, giving him the once-over again.

  Intrigued, Karma studied him closely. Everything about him was sexy—the way he talked, the way he carried himself, his commanding presence—but he wasn’t her type. Karma liked men with tattoos and dreadlocks, who had a wild, adventurous side. Still, there was something about Morrison that appealed to her, that made her mouth wet and her heart race. Morrison Drake was the yummiest judge she had ever met, and if he wasn’t bossy and short-tempered she’d give him her number. And more.

  Karma waited patiently for Morrison to finish his phone call, and when he did she gestured for him to follow her. He did, and as they headed through the salon, Karma noticed they had an audience. Women ogled him from behind fashion magazines, handheld gadgets and hooded dryers. Walking with Reagan’s drop-dead gorgeous uncle at her side gave Karma a dizzying rush, one she’d never experienced before and couldn’t make sense of.

  “Hey, Judge!” called a divorcée seated at the nail station. “Looking good!”

  “If I was ten years younger I’d make you my second husband!” joked a single mom.

  “Whooee!” hollered a reality TV star, her eyes wild with desire. “I’ve been a very bad girl, Judge Drake. Hold me in contempt of court in your private chambers!”

  Cheers and raucous laughter erupted inside the salon. Karma glanced at Morrison, expecting to see a broad, grin spread across his face, but it wasn’t there. To her surprise, Morrison looked concerned, not pleased that he had the attention of everyone in the salon, and Karma knew he was thinking about his niece. Had to be. That’s why he’d driven over to the salon and stormed inside. Because he was scared Reagan was in trouble.

  Feeling guilty for asking him to leave, Karma decided to do everything in her power to help Morrison find Reagan—including contacting her ex-boyfriend, Sergeant J. T. Garver at the Southampton Town Police Department. He’d broken her heart, and Karma regretted dating the cop for nine months, but she’d swallow her pride and make the call.

  Chapter 2

  Morrison didn’t like Karma Sullivan. Didn’t trust her. Sensed she was lying to him about his niece’s whereabouts, but since he didn’t have any proof of her deception he quit interrogating her. But if Reagan didn’t show up at the salon for her ten o’clock shift he was going straight to the police station. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been missing for twenty-four hours. Screw policies and procedures. Having worked in the judicial system for over a decade, Morrison knew how important it was to trust his instincts, and something
told him Reagan was in trouble.

  Considering the last time he’d spoken to his niece, Morrison tried to recall every detail of their conversation. Yesterday, he’d worked late, and as he was leaving the courthouse Reagan had called to say she was going bowling with some of her classmates. Before he could get more details, she’d hung up. Regret filled him. Morrison wished he’d taken the time to find out who his niece was with. He’d had dinner with his colleagues, then went straight home to bed. That morning, after finding Reagan’s empty room and checking the alarm, he’d reached out to her friends but no one had seen her. If not for his family, insisting that he was overreacting, he would have already called the police. Morrison hoped he didn’t end up regretting his decision.

  A worrying thought ran through his mind. Was Reagan hurt? Had she been in a serious car accident? Was she lying unconscious in a hospital bed? Was that why she hadn’t come home last night? His younger brothers, Duane and Roderick, thought he was blowing things out of proportion, but Morrison couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. That morning, when he’d called his family in a panic, his father, the Honorable Nathaniel A. Drake, reminded him that Reagan was almost an adult, and encouraged him to loosen the reigns. To stop treating her like a child. Morrison disagreed with his dad, told him he was wrong. Reagan was living under his roof and he expected her to abide by the rules, or else.

  “I apologize in advance for the mess,” Karma said, glancing over her shoulder as she sashayed down the hall, her long, wavy hair swishing across her back. “I share the office with my salon manager, and she’d rather surf the web than clean her desk.”

  Morrison gulped. He tried not to stare at her backside, tried not to notice how firm and plump it was, but it was hard to be a gentleman when she was walking in such a seductive way. Karma looked perfect, as if she’d just returned from an Essence magazine photoshoot, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to touch her. But since he didn’t want to get slapped, he buried his hands in the pocket of his tan, Dockers shorts and admired the mosaic wall paintings instead of her curves. Karma had the face of an angel, the juiciest set of lips he’d ever seen, and the moment she’d entered the salon she’d seized his attention. If he wasn’t worried about Reagan, he’d skip his eleven o’clock tennis game at the Hamptons Sports Club with Duane and spend the rest of the day getting to know the titillating hairstylist with the mouthwatering cleavage. Morrison loved the female body almost as much as he loved his Fantasy Football League and imagined himself closing his eyes and burying his face in her big, beautiful breasts. Just thinking about it made his mouth wet and his erection rise inside his boxer briefs.

  “Please, Mr. Drake, have a seat.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll stand.” He was polite, because it was in his nature, but he was pissed that his niece had been lying to him for weeks. And he didn’t appreciate the things Karma had said, either. Imagine, his niece throwing away a full scholarship to one of the best universities in the country to attend cosmetology school. As if! It was the most ludicrous thing Morrison had ever heard, but he chose not to dwell on Karma’s words. Booted them from his mind. She was dead wrong, and there was nothing she could say to convince him otherwise.

  “Can I interest you in something to drink?”

  Her smile was so bright it could light up Madison Square Garden, but Morrison reminded himself that Karma was the enemy, not an ally, and shook his head. Thinking about what she’d done made his eyes narrow and his jaw clench. The irresponsible salon owner had hired his young, impressionable niece to work in her beauty shop—a place where women openly talked about sex, bashed and ridiculed men, and God knew what else—and if he had his way Reagan would never step foot in the salon again.

  “Mr. Drake, sit down. You’ll be fine,” she said, gesturing to one of the printed armchairs in front of her oval, glass desk. “I don’t bite.”

  Morrison didn’t move. Stayed put beside the door, listening for the sound of Reagan’s voice in the salon. Folding his arms across the chest, he surveyed the bright and spacious corner office. Morrison had never seen so much pink in his life. It was everywhere—on the area rugs, the graphic wall art, the floor lamps and chalkboard walls. One side of the room looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone, and the other side was so clean he could eat off the floor. The office smelled of peppermint tea and cinnamon, and his mouth watered at the tantalizing aroma in the air. In his haste to leave the house, he’d forgotten to have breakfast and now his stomach was growling so loudly he’d bet Karma could hear it. That’s why she was wearing a sad smile. Because she felt sorry for him.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat or drink? The staff room fridge is packed with healthy, delicious foods, and I hate to brag but I make a mean vegetarian omelet.”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.” It was a lie—he was hungrier than an NFL linebacker at an all-you-can-eat buffet, but Morrison didn’t want to inconvenience her. Furthermore, he was at the salon to find Reagan, not to break bread with the overtly sexy owner. To keep his mind off Reagan he needed a distraction, and Karma Sullivan was it. His mother, famed interior designer to the stars, Viola Drake, always said, A wise man learns many things from his enemies, and Morrison planned to. Something was going on with his niece, and Karma was going to tell him everything he needed to know. He’d noticed a change in Reagan weeks earlier, during their college road trip, and since returning home things had only gotten worse. Reagan had dyed the ends of her hair purple, swapped her baggy shirts and sweatpants for belly-baring tops and miniskirts, and broken curfew twice.

  Realization dawned, striking Morrison harder than a blow to the head. Now everything made sense. Why his niece was wearing fake eyelashes and jewelry to school; she was copying her boss, Karma Sullivan. And Morrison didn’t like it one bit.

  Noting the framed certificates, plaques and awards proudly displayed on the glass bookshelf, Morrison carefully admired each one. “Karma Felicity Sullivan,” he said aloud, reading the name printed on the Business of the Year award. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone named Karma. It’s a very interesting name.”

  A smirk curled her lips. “So I’m your first? I’m honored.”

  Morrison choked on his tongue. Speechless, his mouth was dry and his thoughts were muddled. He was attracted to Karma, thought she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but he couldn’t lose his focus. Had to get to the bottom of things, and to do that Morrison had to maintain his composure, not lose his cool.

  “Despite living a block away from each other as kids, my parents didn’t meet until they were adults, and got pregnant with me on their first date,” she explained. “My mom loved astrology and thought Karma was the perfect name for me. I think so too. You’d be amazed at how many compliments I get.”

  I believe it. You’re stunning. I bet men chase you down 24/7!

  “Tell me more about yourself, Miss Sullivan. I grew up in this town, so I know everyone except you. What brought you to the Hamptons, and how long have you lived here?”

  A pensive expression covered her face, but her voice was full of warmth and excitement. As she spoke about growing up in Brooklyn, her years in beauty school and her dead-end jobs after graduation, Morrison found himself impressed with her rags-to-riches story. She’d created a lucrative business through dedication, hard work and sheer willpower and he was impressed by her inner strength. Karma gushed about her family, credited her mother and grandmother for her success, and he was moved by her gratitude for her loved ones.

  “I was hired to do hair and makeup for the reality TV show Hamptons Housewives a few years back and because of the ridiculous popularity of the show I was able to quickly build my clientele,” she explained, sitting back comfortably in her leather executive chair. “I opened this salon eighteen months ago, and if everything goes according to plan I’ll open locations in Washington, Philadelphia and Chicago within the year.”


  “That’s an incredible story,” he said. “Congratulations on your success.”

  A proud smile filled her red-painted lips. “Thank you. I feel fortunate to be doing what I love. Not everyone is so lucky.”

  “I agree. I meet people every day who hate their jobs, and I can’t help but feel sorry for them. I love what I do, and I couldn’t imagine ever doing anything else.”

  “Me too! I love doing hair and makeup so much I’d work for free!”

  Like the blast from a trumpet, her laugh was loud and lively. Cultured, and well-read, Karma was a great conversationalist with a zest for life. Morrison enjoyed learning about her educational background, her beloved shop and her favorite clients. Proud of her Jamaican–Puerto Rican heritage, Karma spoke fondly of her small, close-knit family from Brooklyn.

  “Is it possible Reagan’s with her dad, or another relative and forgot to tell you?”

  “No, it’s impossible. Reagan doesn’t know who her biological father is.” Morrison didn’t know if Karma was genuinely trying to help or fishing for information, but he suspected it was the latter. Still, he spoke his mind. “Reagan has loving grandparents, aunts and three doting uncles who adore her, but if she ever wanted to track down her biological father we have the money and resources to make it happen.”

  Peering out the door, Morrison glanced up and down the hallway for any sign of his niece, but he didn’t see the teen anywhere. His fear intensified with each passing second, and if Karma hadn’t persuaded him to come to her office he’d still be pacing in the reception area, worrying himself to death. “Do you see your parents often?” he asked, admiring the photographs hanging above the couch. “Do they still live in Brooklyn, or have they relocated here, as well?”

  The light in her eyes faded. “No, they passed away in a car accident six years ago.”