by Qwillia Rain
The soft lilt of Africa blended with the rough Cockney edge in her voice. “Hi, Daddy, I’m home.”
Mike waited until his adopted daughter entered and left the large suitcase she dragged behind her propped against the sofa before responding. “Tumaini Nonkosi Nagweni, I should beat your ass for this little stunt, young lady,” Mike growled as he paced in front of the sofa and watched Tuma wander around the apartment.
“When you said you had a flat above the studio, I hadn’t expected it was this big.” Tuma held her arms out and turned in a slow circle in the middle of the open space of the living room, before moving to face Mike. “And the light. Abani, this is beautiful.” She threw herself into his arms for a warm hug.
“You aren’t listening to a word I’m saying, are you, Tuma?” Mike returned her hug. Closing his eyes, he inhaled and enjoyed the scent of baby lotion and sandalwood that always clung to her.
“It’s all blah blah blah. You know you need me here.” She pulled out of his arms and moved to the dust-covered coffee table. Running her finger across the dull surface, she wrinkled her nose at the film coating her fingertip before wiping it on the faded jeans she wore. “Judging by the condition of this apartment, you need someone to clean up.” Her gaze roved the stark walls and minimal decorations in the room. “If this is the way you live, abani, I shudder to think what I’ll find in the studio downstairs.”
“And what about your education, anuli? You didn’t spend five years working on an art degree and training in restoration to answer phones and book appointments for me.”
“Which is no different than what Seamus would have expected me to do,” Tuma reasoned.
Mike rubbed his hand over his face and tried to remain rational. “Don’t you see what I mean? He owns and runs one of the most respected galleries in Edinburgh. He’s a brilliant collector and having him as a mentor would do so much for your career.”
“But that isn’t what I want to do, aba. I’ve told you. I love photography. I want you to teach me more. Show me how to capture the emotions in the light and shadows.”
“What about your friends? Won’t you miss them?”
For a moment Tuma appeared confused as she slowly lowered herself into the oversize chair. “Aba, are you ashamed of me? I know I am not your real basha—your real daughter—”
Mike crossed the room and tugged her out of the chair and into his arms. “No, Tuma, never think that. Darlin’, you are my little girl in every way but blood. I could never be ashamed of you.” He leaned back and wiped the tears from her cheeks before hugging her again.
“Then why? Why don’t you want me here?”
“It’s not you, Tuma. Things are—complicated right now.”
Tuma wiped at the remaining tears dampening her eyes. “You mean with your lady? Maybe I can help you—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mike snapped.
Her eyes narrowed, and she tipped her head to the side. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Mike grimaced and sighed. “I won’t be around very much, kainda. She thinks she doesn’t want me, and I’m going to have to work long and hard to get through the walls she’s built around herself.” He settled onto the sofa and leaned his head back against the cushions.
“Abani, you have told me for years about your feelings for Miss Lyssa. How can you think I would want you to abandon the field of battle to entertain me? A kafil—a protector—like you cannot walk away from the woman he has loved for so long. I would not ask you to.”
“If you stay, I will not be here, Tuma.”
Tuma shook her head and set herself in his lap, just as she had done when she was younger and needed his reassurance that the evil men who’d tried to harm her wouldn’t return to take her from him. Despite the fact that she was now a young woman of twenty-three and not a scared twelve-year-old, Mike wrapped his arms around her waist and waited.
“No, abani. No. You must fight. I will be fine by myself. You have an alarm, and you taught me how to defend myself.” The thick sound of Africa filled her voice, reminding him of the first few years when her excitement or emotions would make her blend her native tongue with the newer English language she’d worked so hard to learn. “You are my abani, my father. You are zuberi—strong. Miss Lyssa, she must see that the feelings you have for her are true. That you are her issa—her salvation, just as you have been mine since you took me from the evil ones.”
She raised her hands and cupped his face between them. Her golden eyes held his. “You will show her. Make her understand I need a nina—a mother.” Tuma let him go and rested her head on his shoulder. “You will do this for your daughter, for your anuli. You will get me a mother.”
Mike leaned his head against hers and smiled. “Yes, my anuli. I will get you a mother.”
Chapter Ten
The first notes from a familiar song tugged Lyssa awake with visions of Ray Bolger crooning “if I only had a brain” whispering through her mind. The sudden tension and soft curses from Mike stilled any movements that might give her away. When he rolled out of bed and grabbed the cell phone from the nightstand, Lyssa pretended to sleep, curious why Mike wouldn’t ignore the call and let it ring through to voice mail. Nervous knots twisted in her stomach when he stepped out into the hall instead of speaking in front of her.
Was this it? The call that would pull him away? If he did leave, was she ready to stand by her ultimatum to him—no starting where they left off if he came back? Did she even want to contemplate him not returning? It was difficult to keep her breathing steady as anxiety bubbled to the surface of her mind.
The only illumination in the dark house came from the glow of streetlamps through the curtains on the front room’s bay window. Through the gap, his body was a shadow lighter than the ones surrounding him in the hall.
“Yes.” Mike’s response was gruff, nothing like his usual greeting.
The caller spoke for a moment before Mike answered with a question. “What kind?”
She was careful to keep her eyes barely open; she could feel Mike’s gaze on her through the open door. She shifted into the spot he’d abandoned when he left the bed, wanting to make sure she could hear him clearly. “Background?” He asked before he paused as if searching his mind for anyone he might know. “Shoot.”
“LaTreace Barrows.” Lyssa was surprised she could hear the caller’s accented voice as he told Mike about being “tipped” on the woman’s interest in “the ruby slippers.” It made no sense to Lyssa, but apparently Mike understood.
Shoes? What kind of photo shoot could they be talking about? The last she’d heard, LaTreace was in Europe acting as a spokeswoman for a children’s rescue foundation.
“She’s good people, Trent. Be careful with her.”
“Rumor says your brother was with her for a while.” The question sounded more like a statement to Lyssa.
“It’s true.” Mike seemed to anticipate the next question, so he forestalled it. “If you want confirmation, yes, I was her lover a few years before she hooked up with Bryce.”
Lyssa squeezed her eyes shut and fought to keep from gasping at the information. It was a known fact that Mike had had lovers before her. She shouldn’t let that upset her, but it did.
The other man, Trent, didn’t ask for the details Lyssa wanted, such as who broke it off and when. He only asked, “Can she be trusted?”
“Yes. Just don’t use her as bait. Keep her in the loop, and she’ll follow all instructions,” Mike warned. It was clear to Lyssa that Mike was uneasy with whatever the caller was planning. A part of her wondered if it was because Mike still had feelings for LaTreace.
“Will do.” The other man didn’t bother with good-byes; he simply disconnected the call.
Mike closed the phone and hovered in the doorway. She suspected he was brooding over the call. Despite her own fears of losing him, she couldn’t withhold comfort when she knew he needed it. Keeping her voice soft and sleepy sounding, she called out to him, “Mike
?”
Setting his cell phone on the nightstand, he climbed beneath the covers and cuddled Lyssa close. “Go back to sleep, baby.”
“Mmm, ’kay.” She nuzzled her head against the curve of his shoulder and draped her arm over his waist. The need to take care of him had intensified in the weeks they’d been together. Internal alarms sounded, but she ignored them. She’d worry about it tomorrow.
She heard him inhale and didn’t have long to wonder about his reaction to the mixed scents of her favorite honeysuckle perfume, their sleep-warmed bodies, and sex. He tugged her closer, and his body slowly began to relax. She couldn’t do anything about the phone call. No evidence she could point her finger at other than that her gut instincts told her Mike was keeping a secret much greater than hers. But would it really matter once he walked away?
* * *
It amazed Mike how much could change in just twenty-four hours. He’d heard of things going from bad to worse, but he’d never been on the receiving end of it until that very moment. At the same time the bell over the front door jingled, Tuma laughed up at him as they descended the stairs from his apartment into the studio. They both had a clear view of the three women hovering inside the doorway.
The tall redhead at Lyssa’s left muttered, “Lucky bitch,” loud enough that everyone in the room heard it.
The way Lyssa’s face paled and then iced over made Mike want to curse. He could imagine what his woman was thinking as her blue eyes moved from him to Tuma before dropping to the shirt he’d loaned his daughter to wear over her tank top and jeans.
He’d promised Lyssa a surprise when he’d left her house this morning, the intent being that he expected to have a few minutes alone with her before the models arrived to introduce Lyssa to Tuma. With Charlene and Elaina next to her, Mike wasn’t about to make such an important announcement.
“Abani?” Tuma probably sensed his frustration as she stood beside him.
Drawing a deep breath, he let it out slowly. “It’s okay, anuli. Come on; let me introduce you to everyone.”
With his hand on her back, he led Tuma over to Lyssa and the models. “Tuma, this is Lyssa Lawrence, the designer. And Elaina Kregre and Charlene Vynes. Ladies, Tumaini Nagweni, my new assistant and office manager.”
Tuma shook hands with the models before smiling warmly at Lyssa. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Mike hasn’t mentioned hiring an assistant.” Lyssa’s smile was tight and barely polite as she quickly shook Tuma’s hand and then released it.
The smile dimmed on Tuma’s lips. “I only arrived yesterday. He has been very kind to let me stay in his apartment until I find a place of my own,” Tuma explained.
Charlene snorted, her expression sly. “I’m sure he has.”
Elaina grimaced and reached over to lightly shove the redhead’s shoulder. “Knock it off, Char.” Turning to Tuma, she asked, “Please tell me you have some coffee. The boss lady dragged us out before I got my caffeine fix.”
Tuma motioned toward the open partition between the reception and display area and the studio section. “Right this way.”
Mike leaned down to whisper reassurance to Tuma in Swahili before she led Charlene and Elaina away. “Lys—”
Her glare cut him off. “We both have a job to do. Let’s just get it done and leave the autopsy for later.” She headed out the door to the van parked in front of the building.
Definitely not an auspicious start, Mike determined with a sigh as he pushed through the door and followed her. He’d play it her way for now.
Just over four hours later, Mike was rethinking his earlier decision to allow Lyssa time to avoid him and cool off. The studio was a beehive of activity. Lights, reflectors, and a rack of gowns and outfits were scattered around the room. The renovated warehouse was the perfect spot for his work, with its refurbished hardwood floors, painted cement columns, and bare pipes along the ceiling. The front half of the studio acted as a reception area, with the movable partitions left closed when he was in the middle of a shoot or open when he wasn’t. Today he’d left them closed, and he was glad. His frustration built faster than usual.
After the awkward start to the morning, he’d hoped things would improve. Four hours in, Lyssa’s hostility hadn’t ebbed, Charlene grew ill-mannered about not being allowed to wear certain designs, and Mike’s nerves were frayed. With only half the outfits and dresses photographed, he felt like slamming his camera down and running everyone out of the studio. Elaina deferred to Lyssa on what she should wear and played referee to keep a judicious distance between Tuma and Lyssa. Lyssa reasoned with the women and spoke with him in a cool and professional manner, but a decided chill entered her voice whenever she addressed Tumaini.
And that was what was irritating. He’d come to the studio before Lyssa earlier that morning in order to organize the lighting, cameras, and other fine details. It had also given him a few minutes to catch up with Tumaini and make sure she was ready to take on the assignment as his assistant.
Since her arrival with the models at seven thirty, Lyssa had been careful to keep a safe distance from him, and she’d done everything possible to avoid speaking to Tumaini. Her standoffish nature and efforts to avoid him and his assistant pressed his patience.
Mike felt like growling. The only woman Lyssa took offense to was the one person he hoped she’d connect with most. Tumaini was going to be a big part of their life together, and Lyssa needed to learn to accept that.
With a shake of his head, he refocused his thoughts and lowered his head over the camera to line up the next shot. He’d dealt with models hitting on him since he first started working in the industry, and it had never been a big deal. Even Charlene had played her little games on past shoots with him, but today it set his teeth on edge. Grimacing, he moved from behind the tripod and approached the model to remove the silky scarf he’d asked her to take off three times already.
“Listen, Charlene, if Lys had wanted a scarf to go with this dress, she’d have made one.” Reaching for the fabric, he unwound it from around the skinny redhead’s neck, all the while fighting the urge to strangle her with the length of silk.
“But it looks so much more sexy,” the model whined and tried a sultry pout. It only succeeded in making her look petulant.
The distinct scent of alcohol emanated from her. Looking closer, he noticed the unfocused gaze and the fact that she wasn’t exactly steady on her feet.
When her arms snaked around his waist and she tried to slide her hands into the back pockets of his jeans, he exploded. “Enough!” He thrust Charlene away from him and glared down at the woman as she teetered, off balance on the high heels she wore. “I’m not on your fucking menu. So keep your hands to yourself.”
Turning to find Tuma, the makeup artist, Elaina, and Lyssa staring in wide-eyed disbelief at him, he gave up. “That’s it. We’re done for the day. Get your shit, Charlene, and get out. I don’t want you back here unless you’re sober.” He ignored her halfhearted denials.
“We’ll take it from the top tomorrow at eight, Elaina.” Mike waited for the other model to nod her agreement before turning to Tumaini. “Basha, make sure everyone gets their things before they leave.”
Leveling his gaze on Lyssa as she stalked toward the rack of gowns, he shook his head. “Not you, Lys. We need to talk.” Motioning to the only walled-off section of his studio, Mike waited long enough to see Tumaini following Charlene and Elaina to the dressing area. At the mirrored table, the makeup specialist began packing her brushes, pots, and tins into her case. Drawing a deep breath to calm the irritation pulsing through him, Mike moved to follow Lyssa toward his office.
Slamming the door behind him, he shoved his fingers through his hair. “Damn it, Lys. Why the hell did you pick Charlene for this shoot?”
Lyssa relaxed into the overstuffed armchair. “I didn’t. Upscale selected her for the spread.”
“Yeah, probably because she’s been too high or drunk to be trusted with any runway work,�
�� Mike snapped.
“I noticed she was a little off this morning,” Lyssa admitted.
“Off, my ass. I’ll bet that bottle of water she’s been sucking on is straight vodka.” Mike paced the area between his desk and the table across the room with a light box on top.
“I don’t usually allow her anywhere near my designs, but Upscale didn’t give me any choice.” Lyssa shrugged and watched him.
Mike scraped his fingers through his tousled hair. “We still have tomorrow. With luck she’ll dry out tonight.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She won’t be in the ad.” He pushed his fingers through his hair a second time. “To be honest, I don’t like the way her shots are turning out.”
“The dresses?” Lyssa looked worried as she rose from the chair and moved toward him.
“No, those are great.” The tension in her shoulders eased. “You’ve done a fantastic job on the designs.” He rubbed his forehead. “No, she’s lost too much weight since I last saw her. The clothes aren’t hanging correctly on her.”
“I can try to make some adjustments,” Lyssa offered.
“It wouldn’t work. She’s all angles. Hell, she looks like a damned swizzle stick instead of a woman.”
“There isn’t anyone else. Vickie said she tried everywhere before she finally settled for Charlene.”
“I’m not worried about the pictures, Lys. We can get Elaina to do all the dresses if we have to.”
Before Lyssa could respond, Tuma rapped on the door. As his daughter stuck her head into the room, Lyssa stiffened.
“Everyone’s ready to go. Did you want me to put the equipment away?”
“No, I’ll take care of that.” He caught Lyssa around the waist with his hands, halting her move toward the door. Tension radiated from her as she avoided looking at Tumaini and wriggled to free herself from his hold. Mike stilled her attempts to pull away as he addressed Tuma. “Can you make sure the models get back to their hotel, anuli? I’m going to be working with Lyssa for the rest of the afternoon, so maybe you can take the opportunity to check out the town. Get the lay of the land.”
