The Edge of Midnight

by Beverly Jenkins

  After dinner, the orchestra slid into a thumping old-school set, and folks took to the dance floor as if they really were at a cabaret. Sarita loved to dance, and her shoulders began to move in response to the music’s call. She turned to ask Chandler if he would dance with her, but, at that moment, a phone began to beep. He automatically reached into the pocket of his coat and placed the phone to his ear. “Yeah.”

  Sarita sighed. Next she knew, he was saying to her, “I need to take this.”

  He and the mayor shared a look, and the mayor replied, “Have one of the officers take you to my office. You’ll have some privacy there.”

  Myk told the person on the other end, “Okay, give me the number and I’ll call you back in five minutes.” After committing the number to memory, he hung up, then said to Sarita, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  A real bride would have given her groom hell for leaving the reception to answer a phone call, but Sarita knew Chandler would take the call regardless of how she felt, so in response, she nodded her approval distantly, then turned back to the dancers.

  Myk could tell by the tightness in her jaw that she wasn’t real happy about him leaving, but it couldn’t be helped.

  While the party continued, he discreetly left the ballroom. With escort in tow, he headed upstairs to Drake’s office. He knew better than to conduct NIA business on a cell phone. They were notoriously susceptible to all kinds of electronic eavesdropping, but the line in Drake’s office was clean and secure, and it was swept every few days to make sure it stayed that way.

  Myk thanked the officer for the escort, then slipped into Drake’s office and closed the door behind him. The small Tiffany lamp on the desk gave the shadowy room a soft glow and enough light for Myk to see by. He picked up the desk phone and punched in the memorized number he’d been given by Saint.

  When the band segued into its next tune—one that everyone knew called for the Electric Slide, Sarita grabbed the mayor’s hand, and said, “Come on, Your Honor. It’s hustle time.”

  The beauty of the Electric Slide is that partners aren’t needed, so Sarita and Drake joined the four horizontal lines of dancers who, once they got the rhythm synced up, stepped through the familiar moves in unison. Sarita grinned. This was the first real fun she’d had in days. The mayor grinned back. When the line turned, neither of them missed a beat. As always, there were a few people in the way; stepping to the left when they should’ve been going to the right, or vice versa, but the dancers flowed around them as best they could. Soon, most of the people in the ballroom were in line, and in step, and everyone, including Sarita and the mayor, were hustling up a storm.

  When the music ended, everyone on the floor happily applauded the musicians and themselves. It had never crossed Sarita’s mind that rich people would throw down like this, but they had. Little gray-haired ladies dressed in diamonds and gold had rocked next to news anchors and athletes decked out in their own versions of diamonds and gold. Even the waitstaff had joined the lines, and no one seemed to mind.

  “So,” mayor asked as he escorted the smiling Sarita back to the table, “what do you think of the reception?”

  “Mr. Mayor, you throw a hell of a party.”

  When they reached their seats, Sarita didn’t want to admit it, but she was a bit disappointed to see that Chandler hadn’t returned. It must have shown on her face, though, because the mayor said, “The call had to have been important; otherwise, he wouldn’t’ve left.”

  Sarita shrugged nonchalantly. “A brother has to do what a brother has to do.”

  “Myk’s a good man.”

  Sarita didn’t respond.

  When Chandler still hadn’t returned after thirty minutes, Sarita could tell by the whispering behind hands and the questioning looks that the groom’s absence hadn’t gone unnoticed by the guests. She had no idea how long the event was supposed to last, and as more and more faces began turning her way for guidance, she leaned over to the mayor.

  “He’ll be back,” was all he had to say.

  Sarita tried to keep the frustration from coloring her voice, “Do you know who he’s talking to, then?”

  He didn’t respond.

  Sarita had seen the speaking look the brothers had exchanged when the call came in, and it made her believe Drake knew way more about what was happening than he was willing to admit, but she didn’t pursue the matter any further.

  Sarita shared a few more dances with Drake, some up tempo, one slow, then was approached by some of the men in attendance who wanted to dance with the bride, too. She gladly accepted, and allowed them to escort her out to the floor. Whatever Chandler was up to: good, bad, or ugly, Sarita knew she had to make things appear as innocent and normal as possible. Her fate was too intertwined with Chandler’s to do otherwise.

  By the time she stepped onto the floor with her fourth partner, a player for the local NFL team, Sarita was having a ball. She’d danced a waltz with Judge Wade Morgan, ballroomed with the next two men, and now she and her fourth partner, a cute star receiver for the local NFL franchise, were doing a mean Harlem Shake on the crowded dance floor.

  When it was over, Sarita gave him a smile and thanked him for the fun. He smiled back, and they joined the crowd in applauding the musicians. That done, Sarita turned to have him lead her back to her seat. In the same motion her eyes strayed innocently to the head table. Seeing the standing Chandler watching her with eyes that seemed to burn the distance between them, caught her so off guard she stumbled. Her partner reached out to catch her. Luckily, she didn’t hit the floor. Apologizing to him, she steadied herself. When she looked toward the table again, Chandler had taken a seat and was talking to the mayor. She fumed inwardly. How dare he be able to reduce her to a stumbling idiot with just a look from across the room!

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” the athlete asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  She reached the table without any further mishaps. After she took her seat beside Chandler, her dance partner commented, “Quite a lady you got there, Mr. Chandler.”

  Myk’s eyes grazed over her lightly. “I think so.” In reality, he wanted to punch the brother in the nose. Myk was jealous, a new experience for him.

  In response to the coolness she saw in Chandler’s eyes, Sarita’s chin rose defensively. She had the distinct impression that in spite of his easygoing exterior, he wasn’t as pleased with her as he would like the athlete to believe. Knowing she had nothing to apologize for, she ignored Chandler for the moment, and said to her partner, “Thanks for the dance.”

  “Anytime.”

  He and Myk shared a look, then the man disappeared into the crowd.

  Myk watched him walk away, then said to Sarita. “We’ve time for one last dance, then we should get going.”

  Sarita almost asked where they were going, but decided it didn’t matter. She took his offered hand and stood. It also didn’t matter what he’d been doing for the last forty minutes, but she was sure people would certainly talk if the bride and groom left so soon after his return, at least folks would in her world. “Don’t you think that’d be pretty rude, us leaving right now?”

  “Nope. They’ll party without us. They’ll assume we have other plans—if you know what I mean.”

  She did. Hot embarrassment washed over her cheeks. She couldn’t look him or the mayor in the face, so she let herself be led back out onto the dance floor.

  As he took her into his arms her silence continued. Other couples dancing by to the slow song smiled, and Sarita smiled politely in reply, but that was all.

  Myk said quietly, “Did I embarrass you by referring to something that brides and grooms have been doing for thousands of years?”

  “Yes, because you and I haven’t been doing anything for thousands of years.”

  He whispered softly into her ear, “With reincarnation, hey, you never know what we might have done in the past. I could’ve made love to you a thousand years ago on the banks of the Nile—or sampled yo
ur nakedness in the mountain grasses of China…or—”

  “Would you stop?” she whispered, scandalized. She quickly looked around to see if he’d been overheard.

  He lowered his head until his lips brushed her ear. “What’s wrong? Don’t you want to hear about the love we made on the steps of the temples in Peru…or the times I took you twisting under the stars?”

  Sarita couldn’t breathe.

  “Some nights you came to my tent in the Sudan dressed in nothing but your hair and my jewels, and the heat we made was hotter than the desert wind…”

  Sarita’s legs were jelly. “Mykal, stop…”

  His lips against her ear were like a hurricane. “I haven’t even started.”

  His lips found hers, and she totally lost control. The deep possessive kiss singed her, burned her; made her wrap her arms around him and respond with passionate surrender in spite of her mind’s warnings. For the moment, she just wanted to drink him in as deeply as he was drinking from her, and when he finally released her lips, the world was spinning.

  “We aren’t supposed to be doing this…” she murmured.

  “I know. You’re everything I’ve never wanted in a woman. You’re uncontrollable, you’re hostile.” His lips teased her ear and jaw. “You’re hardheaded, stubborn. Not to mention where and how we met. But your mouth is as sweet as an island mango, and making love to you could become one of the biggest challenges in my life.”

  When she found her voice it came out ragged and soft. “This isn’t a game we’re playing.”

  “You’re wrong, baby. It’s the oldest game in town.”

  He took her by the hand and escorted her off the floor.

  Nine

  Needless to say, Mykal Chandler was a lot more man than Sarita was accustomed to handling. As she settled into the backseat of the limo for the ride to his house, her heart was still racing. She’d never had a man whisper so erotically to her before. Every inch of her body was pulsing and open. No sense in lying, he was turning her inside out. It was strictly physical. Chandler wasn’t her type. The few men she’d been with in the past had been dreamers, artists, men with fine-boned hands who gave her paintings and poems. She’d bet Chandler had never written poem in his life.

  But his words on the dance floor could have melted steel, and she could either deal with her attraction to him head-on or spend the next year running from it.

  His voice interrupted her thoughts. “Warm enough?” The jazz from the limo’s CD player floated melodically over the shadow-filled interior.

  “Yes,” Sarita answered.

  Silence settled between them for a moment, then he said, “Just so you’ll know, that phone call was from Saint.”

  That caught her by surprise. “How is he?”

  “Fine. He called to let me know Fletcher’s two party girls were found dead in St. Louis last night. Murdered.”

  Sarita shuddered.

  Because of the shadows, Myk couldn’t see her reaction, but he’d found news of the deaths disturbing, mostly because NIA had no idea who killed the women or why. Saint had been concerned too, and he and Myk debated whether to let her in on the deaths.

  “So, how does this all affect me?” Sarita asked.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On who killed them, and why.”

  Sarita supposed that made sense.

  Myk added, “So far, Saint hasn’t been able to connect their deaths to Fletcher. Some local thugs could’ve capped them, but—”

  “You don’t know for sure.”

  “No.”

  Sarita sat back against the seat, her mind working. If Fletcher’s girls were killed in connection with the diamonds, her first question was: Did they drop a dime on Fletcher’s plan before their deaths? Was someone after her now? She wished she knew how many other people, if any, Fletcher had let in on the deal they’d made that fateful night. She didn’t like not knowing. “Did Saint say when he’d be coming back this way?”

  “No.”

  “But he’ll be okay?” Sarita asked. Even though Saint was still on the top of her shit list, it was hard not to worry about family.

  “Yes.” Myk heard her concern. Saint meant a lot to her and she to him. Their bond bothered Myk for reasons he couldn’t explain. An inner voice mocked that it was because she’d never have the same concern for him, but Myk dismissed the voice as not knowing what the hell it was talking about.

  He looked over at her sitting near the door. He wanted to take her to bed, though, that he freely admitted. Setting aside what such an encounter might cost, he wanted to hear her whisper his name again, feel his hand sliding over her satin skin, and kiss her when she came. There was a physical attraction between the two of them that no amount of denial could hide. He felt it; so did she. When all this drama began—could it really be less than a week ago?—he’d no idea of the stubborn, rock-hard brain that whirled behind those raven black eyes of hers. He’d naturally lumped her in with all the other women he’d known socially, beautiful but unable to ignite more than a passing interest. He’d been so wrong. Just finding her in Fishbein’s room with the diamonds had been intriguing enough; but then for her to shoot him and escape? The women in his past were all too willing to do his bidding. Sarita was different. She didn’t have a submissive bone in her body, and that backtalking mouth of hers had no trouble telling him where to go. Tonight though, that mouth had parted under his kisses, and damn her if he didn’t want another taste. “You held up your end real well tonight.”

  “Is that a compliment?” she asked, facing him.

  He could see flashes of her features in the passing streetlights. “Yes.”

  “Then, thank you,” she replied. Sarita could feel the air between them thickening, and she forced herself to be as casual about it as he seemed to be. “What are you going to do with all the wedding presents?”

  He shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Can I have them? For the center, I mean.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “If I’m out of line for asking, tell me so.”

  “You aren’t.”

  “So, can I have them?”

  He chuckled. “Don’t you ever stop?” Before she could respond, he boldy scooped her up and set her on his lap.

  “Chandler?” she scolded. The heat of his thighs burned through her clothing like hot coals from a barbecue grill.

  “Just sit still. We need to talk.”

  “We were talking fine the way we were.”

  They were facing each other, no more than a few inches apart.

  “This is better,” he quoted, holding her eyes in the dark.

  The tone of his voice in tandem with his nearness made Sarita’s lips part unconsciously.

  “So,” he asked, “what should we do about what we’re both feeling?”

  She didn’t speak.

  “Oh, you’re going to deny it?”

  “No.” How could she after all he’d made her feel tonight. “I just—”

  “Just what?”

  “I shouldn’t be attracted to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this sounds like something out of the tabloids. Kidnapped woman sleeps with captor—has his baby.”

  He didn’t like hearing himself described that way. “You haven’t been kidnapped.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “Safekeeping.”

  “No,” she disagreed, shaking her head. “It’s you taking away my freedom.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  “I can’t.”

  Frustrated, she trained her vision on the darkness passing by the windows.

  “You’re pouting again,” he pointed out in hushed amusement.

  “I am not, but if I was, I have a right to.” Sarita put as much earnestness in her voice as she could. “I really need to see what’s going on back at home, Chandler. The center needs me. You said I could
go, but when?”

  He sighed. After his phone conversation with Saint, her going home was probably not a good idea, but Myk found himself wanting to please her. “Suppose we stop by there Monday morning, and I scope the place out?”

  Without thought, she threw her arms around his neck in gratitude. She gushed with delight, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” In the middle of the celebration, she caught herself. Her arms slowly dropped. “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to apologize for.” Frankly, he’d enjoyed it. Having her on his lap felt natural. Her hot little hips made him feel something else. “I’m not making any promises about your being able to stay, though.”

  “That’s okay,” It wasn’t really, but Sarita was convinced once he visited the center and saw the work being done there, he’d have no choice but to leave her in charge. After that, she’d work on convincing him to let her return permanently.

  He asked, “Happy now?”

  “Yes.” Although the repercussions radiating from Fletcher’s death loomed over her life like a storm on the horizon, Chandler’s acquiescence was the best news she’d had in days. “Thanks, again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  A yawn escaped Sarita. Being a rich bitch was work.

  “Tired?”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Then lean back,” he said softly. “We’ll be home in a minute.”

  Sarita searched his face in the dark. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is a game to you, and it doesn’t make sense for me to pretend that it’s not.”

  Myk knew she was correct, again. It was a game but not on the level she assumed. Over the past few days something about her had wormed its way under his skin, and his attempts to use his legendary discipline to counteract it weren’t working. In the past, he’d always been able to place logic ahead of emotion, especially where women were concerned—Myk Chandler could always fall back on his control; but tonight, the words he’d whispered to her on the dance floor had risen out of places inside of himself that he hadn’t even known existed. Hot feverish scenarios of lovemaking had been vivid enough to make him want to drag her into the closest private space and wear her out.