The Edge of Midnight

by Beverly Jenkins

  “I thought they were just coming for dinner,” he groused.

  Sarita scanned his face. He didn’t look happy. “If it’s not okay, you need to say so, now.”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “That I’m not real good at sharing.”

  Sarita put her hand on her hip. “I am not letting you eat that whole brioche by yourself, Mykal Chandler.”

  His laughter rang out around the room.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  For a moment, he couldn’t stop laughing, but when he finally managed to get a hold on himself, he spent a moment eyeing the woman who had single-handedly turned his world upside down. “I wasn’t talking about the brioche. I was talking about not wanting to share you.”

  The tone of his voice gave rise to memories of the night, and Sarita found his possessiveness thrilling.

  “I was hoping you were coming back to bed,” he said frankly.

  “I’d like to, but if I do, there won’t be any breakfast, or dinner.”

  “I don’t care.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “Are all dragons so insatiable?”

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. I’m the only one I know.”

  She shook her head. “Go back to sleep. You’ll need your strength for later.”

  Silence.

  The scowl on his face made Sarita say teasingly, “Why, Mykal Chandler, you’re pouting.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You are, too.”

  Their eyes met and held. She said, “I would love to spend the morning with you, but—there’s always tonight.”

  Myk felt like a kid deprived of his favorite dessert. “I suppose I can wait. Go cook. I’ll be down to help soon as I shower and get dressed.”

  “You’re sure, it’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay, but my grandmother raised me to be nice.”

  “She did?”

  He gave her an amused glare. “You are about two seconds from having those red leggings pulled off so I can paddle your sassy little behind.”

  She giggled.

  “I’m not kidding. March.”

  She gave him a crisply elaborate salute, turned sharply in her bunny slippers, and marched to the door.

  The sound of his laughter followed her through the sitting room and out into the hall.

  Sarita took the big roaster holding the seasoned turkey out of the fridge and placed it in one of the built-in ovens she’d preheated upon her arrival. The oven below was heating up for the brioche, but she had to put the filling together with the dough and let the whole thing rise again before it could bake.

  She was in the process of doing that when he sauntered in. “Coffee’s ready,” she pointed out. Like Saint, Chandler lived on little else. Thoughts of Saint made her wonder where he might be and if he’d turn up for dinner. He usually did, but she tried not to get her hopes up just in case he didn’t show this year. Since his return to the neighborhood, she’d become accustomed to having him around, and she’d missed him the past few weeks.

  Myk sipped on his coffee and watched her prepare the brioche. All he wanted to do was make love to her again. He hadn’t gotten nearly enough last night, and frankly, the male in him was still not pleased that he’d had to play second fiddle to a damn turkey. Whatever happened to a woman being so overwhelmed by his expert loving that all she could think about was more of the same? he thought sarcastically. He’d never had a woman leave his bed to go and cook instead. Being around Sarita was an experience, and a humbling one at that. “So, what else is on the menu?”

  She looked up from the rolling pin she was using on the dough. “Let’s see. Eggs, grits, catfish, biscuits, fruit, and this brioche.”

  When she had the dough rolled out to a fourteen-inch rectangle, she added the filling of apples, chopped walnuts, and cinnamon. Once the filling was spread over the rectangle of dough, she slowly rolled it up jelly-roll style and placed it in the loaf pan. The recipe made two loaves, so she repeated the whole process with the second loaf, then covered both pans with a clean dish towel for the final rising.

  She went over to the sink to wash her hands. They were sticky from working with the filling and floury from the dough. In the process he came up behind her, and she stilled when his body heat enveloped her. His first move was to brush his lips over the side of her ear. Next came his hands moving oh so lazily over her breasts—plucking, rolling. He whispered, “I have never been kicked to the curb for a turkey before.”

  She grinned and stretched sensually. Her leggings were coming down. “You are such a spoiled, dragon man.”

  Her panties followed and she rippled with anticipation. “Am I on punishment for choosing the turkey over you?”

  “Yes,” he breathed, as his hand traveled meaningfully and possessively over her bare behind. Myk thought she had the softest skin he’d ever caressed. Her hips and thighs were warm, and so was he. He moved his hands between her thighs and played lustily until she was panting, weak, and running with love.

  “I like being on punishment,” she breathed hotly.

  Myk entered her just as she was, and as she took him in, he rasped out, “God, you’re sweet.”

  He started out slow, letting her savor his length and strength, while he delighted in the feel of her sheathing him. The pace increased, and a purring Sarita braced herself against the sink so he could get it all. She soon had to hold on to the counter to keep herself steady. Each upward thrust made her gasp with pleasure, and as the pace increased and her answering movements met him stroke for stroke, she cried out hoarsely and surrendered to the climax that rolled over her like thunder.

  Her cries set off his own completion. Growling, head thrown back, he stroked her as life itself were in the balance, then filled her with all that he had.

  When they finally parted, Sarita had a hard time slowing her breathing and her thumping heart. Her inner thighs were damp from his essence, and her core swollen and tender from lusty use. “I’m supposed to be cooking…” she said, her back still to him.

  He ran his hand up her spine. “Wasn’t that what we were doing?”

  She glanced up into his amused dark eyes. “I’m going to have to ban you from the kitchen.”

  He flicked his tongue over her ear, and countered thickly, “Every time you come in here, you’re going to think of what we just did.”

  He was right, too right. Sarita knew that she’d never be able to stand in front of this sink again and not remember the feel of his thrusts and the sweep of his magical hands. How in the world she was going to be able to walk away from this man when their time together came to an end, she didn’t know.

  For the rest of the day, his eyes teased her. Awareness of him stroked her through the arrival of the guests and breakfast, during the watching of the game, and when they all sat down at his long dining room table to eat the well-prepared meal. Each time she looked his way, the memories floated back.

  By the time everyone went home, Sarita was tired from the long day, but the promise of pleasure glowing in his eyes gave her more than enough energy for what he had in mind. “I’m going up and take a shower.”

  “Okay, and while you’re gone I’ve a few phone calls to make.”

  She gave him a warning look.

  He came to his own defense, “Don’t worry, I’ll be here when you get back because I have a surprise for you.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “What kind of surprise?”

  “If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise,” he told her with amusement in his voice. “So go take your shower.”

  “It’s not something real expensive, is it?”

  “Sarita, if you don’t stop asking me questions, I’m going to write a check for the Taj Mahal and give it to you for Christmas.”

  She laughed. “Okay. I’m going.”

  When Sarita came back downstairs she felt refreshed and relaxed. The shower had been glorious. The blue
cotton pjs and the terry-cloth robe she had on were soft and comfortable, and the clean pair of red socks kept her feet warm.

  Myk glanced up at her entrance into the kitchen and, after checking out her attire, shook his head and smiled.

  She looked down at herself. “What?”

  He took a swallow of the papaya juice in the glass he was holding, then said, “Pretty sexy outfit.”

  She tossed back, “I knew you’d like it. Too tired for diva clothes tonight.”

  His mustache lifted with his smile.

  “So, where’s this surprise?”

  “Be right back.”

  He returned a few moments later carrying a small bag emblazoned with the logo of one of the national phone companies. In his other hand he was carrying some papers. “Your new cell phone.”

  Sarita peered down into the bag. Sure enough there was a phone in it. She pulled it out. “Oh, wow.” She’d wanted a cell phone, but had never been able to afford even the cheapest plan.

  While she looked it over, he added, “If it’s okay with you. I’d like to get a few more for the Guard to share when they’re on duty. The foundation will pay the charges, of course.”

  The offer touched her. “That’s very generous of you.”

  The sincerity of her tone made Myk’s heart do strange things again. Were Drake and Walter right about his being in love? “The phone isn’t the surprise, though.”

  He spread the papers on the table. She saw that they were architectural drawings of a building. “What are these?” she asked, looking up at him curiously.

  “I took the liberty of working up some ideas for rehabbing your building.”

  She shot him a look of surprise, then trained her excited eyes back on the drawings.

  There were three mock-ups. They were similar in ways and different in others. Doors were in different places; the landscaping varied, as did the positioning of the playgrounds. The detail and thought that had to have gone into the project took her breath away. “These are wonderful,” she whispered with awe.

  He pointed out the distinct features in each design, explaining size and dimensions, why he positioned rooms the way he had, and how long construction might take. They discussed the pros and cons of the three choices, estimated the costs of the renovation, and kicked around other ideas to incorporate into the final design. He brought out his laptop, and when the drawings came up on the screen, he incorporated her ideas into the design with a skill she found dazzling. “You’re pretty good at this.”

  “Thanks.”

  They spent a few more minutes talking over the plans, then he shut down the computer and set it aside. Sarita didn’t know what to say in the face of such generosity. “I’m speechless.”

  His mustache twitched. “Good.”

  He pulled her into his arms and looked down into the face that filled his dreams. “Too expensive?”

  She dropped her head, “No. Thank you, so very much.” Leaning up, she kissed him softly. His arm tightened across her waist and pulled her close. She placed her head against his chest and hugged him tight, relishing his strength and generous spirit. “You’re the best sugar daddy a girl could have.”

  He chuckled. For the first time Myk had a woman he wouldn’t mind sharing the rest of his life with. He had no idea how she felt, but he was willing to be at her side for as long as she wished.

  They made love in his bed until the wee hours of the morning. When they were done, he pulled her up against him, covered them both with the blankets, and slept content.

  Because it was the Friday after Thanksgiving, the kids in the neighborhood had no school. Sarita had scheduled a morning meeting with the Guard. Among other items, she wanted their input on the center’s new design. However, before she could get started on the agenda, Jerome asked excitedly. “Did you hear about the bust on Townsend last night?” Townsend was three streets over.

  Sarita set her big purse on top of one of the tables. “No. What happened?”

  “They dropped down on them dealers so hard!”

  “The police?”

  One of the girls cracked, “Didn’t look like no police to me. They were driving a black van with the windows tinted up.”

  Sarita remembered the TV news report she’d seen recently and wondered if this was the same crew. “Are you sure they weren’t the police. State police maybe?”

  Jerome said, “The state police don’t wear ski masks.”

  She had to agree. The kids then told her about other busts they’d heard about through friends at school and from cousins on the westside. Keta echoed what all the kids felt. “I don’t care who they are as long as they keep jamming those dealers.”

  Sarita said, “Amen.”

  After the meeting ended, Sarita walked to her office with a cup of cocoa and the morning paper. She took a seat behind her messy desk and sat down to catch up on the day’s news. On page one was a story on the Townsend street bust, and like the kids, the reporter who’d done the articles wondered who the men were. According to what Sarita read, there had been at least fifteen similar incidents in the past six weeks, and the police continued to deny any involvement. The Feds weren’t talking, as usual, so if the government was somehow behind all the doors being kicked in, they weren’t telling. It must be Federal, Sarita thought as she turned the page to see what else was going on in her city. Only they have the balls to bust someone without a warrant.

  In his office, Myk glowered at the article on the front page of the paper. Drake had warned him it wouldn’t take the city’s reporters long to get wind of NIA’s operations, and as always, the mayor had been right. Myk tossed the paper down. The last thing they needed were reporters sniffing around. He was confident no one in the organization would give out any information, but reporters made their living ferreting out folks’ business, and Myk didn’t want them sniffing around his. On the next outing, they’d have to make sure no unauthorized persons were lurking in the darkness with video cameras or some other way to record the goings-on. All bets would be off if the face of one of the operatives showed up in the next article.

  His secretary’s voice came over the intercom. “Mr. Chandler, there’s a Mr. Kerry Fukiya here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment.”

  The name Fukiya sounded familiar to Myk, but for a moment he couldn’t place it, then, suddenly, he knew. “Send him in, and hold my calls. Thanks.”

  Mr. Fukiya was Sarita’s Ninja.

  Myk was expecting an elderly man for some reason; stereotypes probably, but instead, the man entering his office appeared to be no older than Myk. He was of medium height and tightly built, and was dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and a winter parka.

  They shook hands. “Have a seat,” Myk said.

  The man ignored the gesture and stepped to the window instead. “Nice view.”

  Myk studied him. “I like it.” No, Fukiya was not what Myk had been expecting.

  As if he’d read Myk’s mind, Fukiya turned from the window, and said, “Not what you were expecting?”

  “Frankly, no. Sarita described you as an Asian gentleman. I thought she was referring to age.”

  “No, she was referring to my charming nature.”

  Their eyes met. Myk saw a depth in Fukiya’s dark brown eyes that contrasted with his flippant remark.

  “How is she?” Fukiya asked.

  “Well.”

  He turned back to the view. “The Empress Sarita is a very special woman. When I first moved into the neighborhood four years ago, the gangbangers covered my house with their tags. It was their way of saying, ‘Move out,’ but I stayed, and do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “Because Sarita and her Army were at my door first thing the next morning, paintbrushes in hand. They wanted me to know that the bangers didn’t represent everyone in the neighborhood. She, and those women—and their kids—painted my place, had me over to dinner, and introduced me around.”

  He looked Myk’s way. “The donated paint they
used was a god-ugly gray, but to me, it was as beautiful as gold.”

  Myk smiled. “She is something.”

  “That she is. Which is why I am here. I wanted to meet the man she married.”

  Myk met the man’s eyes squarely.

  “I would think a woman like our Empress would find it hard being married to a man as rich as you are Mr. Chandler.”

  “Are you trying to offend me?”

  “No. Just stating fact.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “As I said, to meet you, to introduce myself, and to say, that like you I will protect her with my life.”

  Myk tried to read Fukiya’s intent. “Sarita thinks you’re a Ninja.”

  He didn’t blink. “She’s seen too many Hollywood movies.”

  Myk didn’t press the matter. Now that he’d met the mysterious Mr. Fukiya, he planned to run his name through the databases and see what they turned up.

  Fukiya said then, “I’ll let you get back to your work. Welcome to the neighborhood, Mr. Chandler. I hope you will treat her like the jewel that she is.”

  Myk could see in Fukiya’s eyes that this wasn’t just friendly chitchat. The man meant for Myk to hear his words. “Don’t worry,” Myk told him.

  Fukiya walked over to the door and exited, leaving a very thoughtful Myk alone.

  Sixteen

  At the end of the business day, Myk swung by the center to pick up Sarita. He wanted to tell her about his encounter with Fukiya and see if her lips were still as sweet as they had been that morning when he’d kissed her good-bye.

  Sarita wasn’t at the center however.

  In her office sat Silas, who told Myk, “She went by her place to water her plants. She’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Myk hid his alarm. “By herself?”

  “Yep.”

  Carefully keeping his voice and manner even, Myk said, “Think I’ll go and see if she needs a ride back.”

  Myk left the office and quickly went to his car.

  Sarita had just watered the last plant when a knock sounded on her front door. She checked the peephole. A very tall, well-dressed man was on the porch. She opened the door but didn’t undo the lock on the screen door. He was easily six feet, eight inches tall, clean-shaven, and bald. Nice suit, she thought to herself. “Can I help you?” she asked.