Pleasure in His Kiss

by Pamela Yaye

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, filled with sympathy.

  “Me too. My mom was my hero, and I definitely wouldn’t be the woman I am today without her.”

  “Unfortunately, I know how you feel. I lost my...”

  Painful memories of his sister, Emmanuelle, overwhelmed his mind and he lost his voice. His temperature climbed, and his limbs shook. Worried he’d succumb to grief and his knees would buckle, he dropped down in the padded armchair in front of Karma’s desk. He wanted to tell her about his sister’s death, but feared if he did he’d lose his composure. Morrison didn’t feel comfortable baring his soul to her, so he said nothing. Pretended not to notice the sympathetic expression on her face. Damn, was his pain that obvious?

  A chilling thought stole his breath. Had history repeated itself? Was his niece in grave danger? His heart stopped, and his pulse wailed in his ears like a siren. Had Reagan met the same fate as her mother? Was she... Morrison couldn’t bring himself to say the word. Was scared that if he did his worst fear would be realized.

  Standing, he straightened his bent shoulders. Coming to the salon had been a mistake. An error of judgment. He should have gone to the police station instead of wasting precious time at the beauty shop. Feeling guilty for sitting around with Karma, he hung his head. He’d never forgive himself if something bad happened to Reagan and hoped it wasn’t too late to save her. He’d legally adopted her ten years ago and she meant the world to him.

  “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. I should be at the police station.”

  Karma picked up her cell phone and glanced at the screen. “I can’t believe it’s already ten o’clock. I totally lost track of time,” she said. “Morrison, wait. Let me check the salon one more time. If Reagan isn’t here I’ll call Sergeant Garver at the Southampton police station and get his advice.”

  “I know him. We play in the same recreational rugby league—”

  Karma raised an eyebrow. “You play rugby?”

  “And lacrosse, football and golf. What can I say? I’m a sports fanatic.”

  “Not me. I hate sports, and I can’t imagine anything more boring than golf.”

  Clutching her cell phone with one hand, she tapped the screen with the other.

  “How do you know Sergeant Garver?”

  Shifting in her seat, Karma raked a hand through her hair, then flipped it over her shoulders. Morrison frowned. She was nervous. Why? What was she hiding?

  “It’s the Hamptons. Everyone knows everyone.”

  “That’s not true,” he countered. “Before today I had no idea who you were.”

  Karma shrugged. “That’s because you’re a bookworm who never goes out.”

  “I go out all the time. I enjoy eating out, hip hop concerts and sporting events—”

  Hearing voices behind him, Morrison broke off speaking and glanced over his shoulder. Reagan! Relief flooded his body. Overcome with emotion, he pulled her into his arms for a hug. For the first time that morning, Morrison smiled. But when he remembered what his niece had done, how she’d scared him half to death, he released her. One minute. That’s how much time Reagan had to explain herself, and if she lied to him she’d lose her privileges for three months. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “I was at Zainab’s house.”

  “Zainab? Who?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve never mentioned her before.”

  “Zainab Qureshi. We met a few weeks ago at the mall, and hit it off.”

  Morrison slowly nodded his head, could feel the tension in his body recede as he listened to his niece. “I know her parents. Her father, Ibrahim, is an investment baron, and her mother is a jewelry designer. Her late grandfather was not only a former prime minister of Lebanon, but also one of the most influential businessmen in the world.”

  “Really? I knew her family was stupid rich, but I had no idea they were famous too.”

  “Where did you girls go last night, and why didn’t you come home?”

  “We fell asleep watching Scream Queens, and when I woke up this morning my cell was dead and I didn’t have my charger with me.”

  “Then why didn’t you use Zainab’s cell to call me? Was it dead too?”

  “Unfortunately it was.”

  “How convenient,” Morrison drawled, wearing a skeptical expression on his face. “They don’t have a landline at their house?”

  “House? They don’t have a house. They have a gigantic, twelve-bedroom mansion dripping in gold, and it’s so fly and flashy I want to move in—”

  “Reagan, stop cracking jokes and answer my question.”

  “Uncle Morrison, no one has a landline anymore. That’s so ’80s. We’re probably the only family in the state who still has one!”

  “This is not funny. This is serious,” he scolded. “I thought you were in danger.”

  “I was going to call you when I got here. I swear.”

  “Were Zainab’s parents’ home last night?” he asked, unsure of what to make of Reagan’s story. “Can they confirm that you were there?”

  “No, they’re at the Monaco Yacht Show and won’t be back until tomorrow. That’s why I was at Zainab’s estate last night. To keep her company.”

  Scrutinizing his niece’s appearance, he searched for anything amiss. Her short hair was styled in tight, curls, her floral romper was clean and ironed, and her open-toe sandals added height to her petite frame. “I want Zainab’s cell number, and Mr. Qureshi’s number, as well.”

  “Why? That’s so unnecessary, and embarrassing.”

  “Because I need to know the truth, and if I find out you lied to me you’ll lose your car, your cell and your allowance for the next three months.”

  A gasp filled the room. “Ouch, don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”

  “See,” Reagan said in a self-righteous voice, propping her hands on her hips. “Ms. Karma thinks you’re being unreasonable too.”

  Morrison glared at Karma, and to his surprise she glared back at him. Stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Made him feel guilty, even though he’d done nothing wrong. What was her problem? Why was she scowling? Morrison wanted to ask her to leave, so he could talk to Reagan in private, then remembered they were in Karma’s office and dismissed the thought.

  “Is your cell charged now?”

  Reagan shook her head. “No, but I can use one of the chargers in the staff room and text you their cell numbers later.”

  “Later? No. I want the information now.”

  “I can’t. I’m at work, and since Ms. Karma doesn’t like staff using their cell phones on the salon floor I’ll message you when I take my lunch break.”

  “I don’t want you working here. You should be at home studying for your midterm exams.”

  Her face fell, and panic flashed in her light brown eyes. “I—I—I can’t quit. Ms. Karma needs me. Weekends are insane around here, and the staff can use all the help they can get.”

  Karma came around her desk, and stood beside Reagan. “She’s right. We need her.”

  “Fine, you can stay, but today’s your last shift. A beauty shop is no place for a kid—”

  “I’m not a kid,” she argued. “I’m a mature, young woman who’s capable of making her own decisions, and I’m not quitting the best job I’ve ever had.”

  “It’s the only job you’ve ever had,” Morrison pointed out, surprised by his niece’s tone. Conflicted, he took a moment to consider his options. He didn’t want to make a scene by dragging Reagan out of the salon, so he decided to let her stay. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I’m staying at the salon, and there’s nothing you can say to change my mind. I’m learning a lot, the staff is incredible and Ms. Karma is a terrific mentor.”

  Karma gave Reagan a one-arm h
ug, but Morrison wasn’t moved. More convinced than ever that the hair and makeup artist was a negative influence on his niece he made a mental note to speak to his family about Karma Sullivan. His mom would know what to do, she always did. Morrison stuck out his hand. “I don’t want you disappearing again, so give me your car keys.”

  “But, I didn’t do anything wrong!” she argued. “It was an honest mistake.”

  “It’s not open for discussion, Reagan. Hand them over, or you’ll lose your cell too.”

  Reagan unzipped her shoulder bag and rummaged around inside for several seconds. Wearing a long face, she pulled out her key chain and dropped it in his palm. “I finish at six.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Morrison said, addressing Karma. “Why would you give my niece such a long shift? She’s just a kid. Did you work eight-hour shifts when you were a teenager?”

  “Yeah, I did. In fact, I worked thirty hours a week, and maintained a 4.0 GPA.”

  Reagan stared at Karma with stars in her eyes, and Morrison groaned inwardly. Damn. The last thing he wanted was for his niece to put the salon owner on a pedestal, but because of his blunder Reagan was gazing at Karma in awe, as if she’d just finished a death-defying stunt.

  “I know Reagan is busy with school so she only works sixteen hours a week—”

  “Sixteen hours a week,” Morrison repeated, folding his arms rigidly across his chest. “So, all the times you told me you were going to the library to study you were here, doing hair and nails? Why did you lie to me? Why didn’t you tell me you’d gotten a part-time job?”

  “Because I knew you’d get mad. You always get mad when I don’t do what you want, but I love working here and Ms. Karma says I’m talented.”

  Karma picked up a piece of paper from off her desk. “Here’s a copy of Reagan’s schedule for April, and May,” she explained, speaking in a soft, soothing voice. “Look it over, Mr. Drake. If you’re not happy with her shifts we can discuss it further.”

  “But I want to work more, Ms. Karma, not less.”

  Morrison scoffed. If I have my way you won’t be working here at all.

  “Here you go.” Karma offered him the paper.

  Morrison wanted to take the schedule and rip it to pieces, but he took the paper, folded it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “Reagan, I’ll be back to pick you up at six o’clock.”

  “You will?” she asked, the disappointment evident in her voice. “But I thought you were going out with your friends tonight.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m going, and you’re spending the night with your grandparents.”

  “Lucky me,” she drawled. “Can’t wait.”

  Morrison kissed Reagan on the cheek. “Be good.”

  “I will. Have fun at the sports club,” she said with a wave. “Take it easy on Uncle Duane. He’s a sleep-deprived dad of four, so don’t beat him too bad!”

  Morrison chuckled, but as he exited the office and marched through the salon, he wasn’t thinking about his tennis match with his brother or his game strategy. He was thinking about Karma Sullivan—the sexy salon owner with the sensuous mouth and drool-worthy curves.

  Chapter 3

  An hour after leaving Beauty by Karma, Morrison parked his silver BMW X6 at the north entrance of the Hamptons Sports Club and took off his seat belt. He grabbed his water bottle and iPhone from the center console, and exited the SUV. Starving, he’d stopped at his favorite downtown café on the way to the sports complex and ordered the All-American breakfast. He’d left the family-owned restaurant with a smile on his face, a pep in his step and a full stomach. Now Morrison was ready for his tennis match, and confident he’d win.

  A grin claimed his mouth. Duane was no competition; his brother would rather play video games in his free time, than sports, and Morrison suspected the only reason he’d agreed to meet up with him was to get out of the house. A brilliant software developer, with a hearty laugh and jovial personality, he’d quit his corporate job in the city so he could start his own business and spend more time with his family. Although he worked from home, Duane often joked about being a “househusband,” but it was obvious he adored his sons and his pediatrician wife, Erikah.

  Morrison retrieved his Nike duffel bag from the trunk, tossed it over his shoulder and activated the car alarm. The morning sun was overcast, filled with dark, fluffy clouds, and the air held the scent of rain. Approaching the outdoor tennis courts, Morrison heard balls bounce, cheers and groans, and the distant sound of pop music. The sports complex had it all, manicured grounds, knowledgeable staff and instructors, and an outdoor snack shop that served coffee, sandwiches and fruit.

  Taking a deep breath quieted Morrison’s mind, helping him to relax. He enjoyed the great outdoors, liked seeing the birds, the towering trees and the peaceful, picturesque views. Hearing his cell phone buzz, he fished it out of his pocket and read his newest text message. It was from his mom. Morrison felt guilty for not updating his family about Reagan. He should have phoned his mom from the car, instead of daydreaming about Karma Sullivan, but for some reason he couldn’t get the salon owner out of his mind.

  Morrison relived their conversation, dissecting everything Karma had said and done that morning. He was a great judge of character, could size up anyone in ten seconds flat, and he suspected Karma was a party girl who lived life by her own rules. The salon owner was a magnet, the kind of woman who attracted male attention wherever she went, the complete opposite of the females he usually dated. Still, he was intrigued by her, drawn to her. In her office, it took everything in Morrison not to touch her, and every time she looked at him he felt the urge to kiss her hard on the mouth. An hour after leaving the salon his body was still throbbing with need, but it was nothing a cold shower and a shot of Bourbon couldn’t cure.

  Typing fast, Morrison comprised a group text message to his family, letting them know he’d found Reagan, and hit Send. The complex was crawling with sports enthusiasts but he didn’t see his brother anywhere, and wondered if Duane had changed his mind about the game. Morrison played tennis three times a week, regardless of the weather, and was proud of his undefeated record. A fierce competitor with a passion for the game, he’d do anything to win, and he wasn’t going to show his brother any mercy.

  Strolling toward the tennis courts, Morrison saw children running around in circles, and a group of British nannies chatting in front of the water fountain. The women smiled and waved, and Morrison nodded in greeting. Glancing at his Gucci sports watch, he realized he was ten minutes late to meet his brother, and broke into a jog.

  “Morrison Drake in the flesh? This must be my lucky day!” shrieked a female voice.

  A brunette, in a red, lace-trimmed mesh dress, that looked more like lingerie than tennis attire, appeared in front of him, doing the happy dance. Morrison tried to move away but the woman was too fast. Pressing her body against his, she kissed him on each cheek. Her sickly sweet perfume made his eyes sting and his stomach churn.

  Morrison thought hard. What was the woman’s name again? She was one of his brother’s fiancée’s friends, and he vaguely remembered meeting her at Roderick and Toya’s engagement party last summer. After a whirlwind courtship, his brother had popped the question to the twenty-five-year-old blonde from New Hampshire, and the couple were sparing no expense for their dream wedding. Roderick was an entertainment attorney who spent money like a Saudi prince, and the last time Morrison saw his youngest brother he’d bragged about booking Adele and John Legend to perform at the September ceremony.

  “It’s so great to see you again, Morrison,” she gushed, her hand grazing his ass. “You look as handsome as ever. How have you been?”

  Put off by how loud and aggressive she was, Morrison stepped back. He wanted to run for cover but remembered he was a Drake, not a pubescent boy, and gave a polite nod. Morrison couldn’t believe how bold she was, and searched the grounds for t
he nearest escape route. “Great, thanks, and you?”

  “Better, now that we’re together,” she purred, coiling a lock of frizzy hair around her index finger. “Join me inside for a drink. I just finished my private lesson, and my Swedish instructor worked me hard this morning. I could use something cold right now.”

  Morrison wore an apologetic smile, but deep down he was glad he had plans with his brother. Being one of the most eligible bachelors in the city certainly had its perks—single women dropped off home-cooked meals at his estate on a weekly basis, and he was invited to the best parties—but he was tired of pushy females propositioning him every time he left his mansion. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have a game, and if I leave my brother hanging he’ll be pissed.”

  “I understand. Family comes first.” Batting her extra-long eyelashes, she rested a hand on his forearm and squeezed it. “I bet you’re an amazing tennis player, Morrison, so give me your number and we’ll play one day next week. I’d love that, and I bet you would too.”

  Wrong again! He recalled how she’d bragged at Roderick and Toya’s engagement party about dating a married New York senator. The brunette was the kind of woman who only cared about a man’s status, and what he could do for her, and Morrison wasn’t interested in seeing her again. Turned off by her overconfidence, and her skimpy attire, he said, “I have to go. I don’t want to keep my brother waiting.”

  “Not so fast, mister. You have something I want.” Sliding in front of him, she offered her cell phone, her eyes wide and bright. “Put your number in my cell, and I’ll give you a ring later. Maybe we can hook up tonight.”

  He opened his mouth to decline her offer, but it was Duane’s voice that filled the air.

  “Are we gonna play or are you gonna stand around shooting the breeze?”

  Morrison was so relieved to see Duane standing inside court nine he wanted to cheer. Moving with the quickness of an NFL running back, he dodged the brunette, entered the fenced court and closed the door behind him. He’d come to the sports complex to play tennis with his brother, not make a love connection. Besides, if he wanted to hook up with someone it would be a sophisticated and classy woman, like Karma. He wondered whom she spent her nights with, was curious if the salon owner had a man—