Pleasure at Midnight ; His Pick for Passion

by Pamela Yaye

  Geneviève smirked. “There’s nothing sweet about me. I’m impulsive, stubborn, and I drink mai tais like they’re water.”

  “Just like my granny!” Chuckling, Roderick grabbed his briefcase off the table. “I’ll be in touch. Once I meet with Mr. Sánchez and his attorney, I’ll give you a ring.”

  “I look forward to hearing from you, Roderick. Thanks for coming by.”

  “It was my pleasure. You’re my favorite client, and my favorite singer, too.”

  Geneviève rolled her eyes skyward. “Sure, sure. I bet you say that to all your clients.”

  “No, beautiful, just you.”

  Roderick nodded, then turned and stalked inside the suite, whistling one of her songs.

  Slumping against the railing, Geneviève watched him with keen interest. Everything about the chiseled, brown-eyed attorney appealed to her, and even though he was off-limits, that didn’t mean she couldn’t fantasize about him.

  Chapter 3

  Demi burst into Geneviève’s bedroom suite, snatched the iPhone out of her sister’s hands and stuck the device in the back pocket of her striped leggings. “Gigi, get up,” she demanded, in a no-nonsense voice. “You’ve been cooped up inside here all day, and it’s not healthy. You have two choices. You can come with me to the hotel’s rooftop gym, or we can go for a walk around the city center. What’s it going to be?”

  Geneviève groaned. Leaving the suite was out of the question. These days, she couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized, and even though she appreciated her fans, she didn’t feel like posing for pictures, signing autographs or snapping selfies. Fans talked her up in the streets, invaded her personal space and followed her, even when she asked them not to, and Geneviève didn’t have the energy to interact with pushy strangers on the busy city streets.

  “None of the above, so give me back my cell and bounce. I want to be alone.”

  “No, you want to clap back at the internet trolls who posted negative comments on your social media pages, and it’s a complete waste of time.” Demi grabbed her arm, pulled her up off the king-size bed and gripped her shoulders. “You’re Geneviève Harris, one of the most successful artists of all time, not some wannabe singer seeking affirmation.”

  Deep down, Geneviève knew her sister was right, but it bothered her what people said about her online. She knew it shouldn’t, that it didn’t matter what anyone thought about her or her music, but for some strange reason it did.

  “Girl, what you should be doing is sexing your fine-ass attorney, Roderick Drake.”

  “Oh brother, here you go again.”

  “What do you expect me to do? I have to do something before it’s too late. You should be dating, not hanging out in your hotel suite with your vibrator.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Geneviève hissed, glancing at the bedroom door. “I don’t want Mom to hear you and start asking questions.”

  Demi smirked. “Oh please. Mom has a pink buzz buddy, too, named Big Willy, and she never leaves home without it!”

  Laughing, Geneviève grabbed her hoodie off the suede armchair, put it on and stuffed her feet into her gold Nike sneakers. “One hour. That’s it.”

  “Great! Let’s go.” Demi linked arms with Geneviève, then patted her hands. “Now, back to Roderick. He’s the perfect man to bring you out of your funk, and I’m going to get him for you.”

  “Get him for me?” Geneviève repeated, wrinkling her nose. “He’s a man, Demi, not a dog.”

  “Gigi, you can say that again. He’s a dark-chocolate hottie with a killer body, and if I wasn’t committed to Warner, I’d be all over that hot New York attorney with the brick-hard butt.”

  Geneviève pressed her lips together. Turning toward the window so Demi couldn’t see the amused expression on her face, she willed herself not to laugh. She didn’t want to encourage her sister, but she struggled to keep a straight face. Demi loved to crack jokes, and derived great pleasure from shocking Geneviève with titillating stories about her sex life. Demi and her boyfriend of six months, Warner Erickson, couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and when they weren’t making out they were planning their next romantic weekend.

  “I’m worried about you. You’ve been single for over a year, and it’s time you started dating again. You don’t have to marry the guy, Gigi. Just go out and have some fun for once.”

  “What makes you think he’s even interested in me?” Geneviève asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? He dropped everything and flew thousands of miles to see you.”

  Demi led Geneviève through the suite, gushing about how smart and handsome Roderick was. Her sister was right. He was a catch, exactly her type, but Geneviève would never get romantically involved with him. Roderick was her attorney, and she didn’t believe in hooking up with her staff. Even worse, he was still hung up on his ex. She saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, and didn’t want to be with a guy who was pining for someone else.

  Painful memories darkened her heart. Years earlier, she’d fallen head over heels for one of the executives at the record label, and thinking about the talented music producer from North Philly made her heart ache. In the beginning, Joaquin Moreno couldn’t keep his hands off her, but five months into their red-hot affair he became distant, treating her with disdain, as if she didn’t matter. If she hadn’t trolled him on social media during the Christmas holidays and found pictures of him vacationing in Bali with his estranged wife, Geneviève wouldn’t have even known he was married. She’d put on a brave face in the studio, but she’d been heartbroken, devastated that the man she loved belonged to someone else.

  Emotionally distraught, she’d shut herself away in her Chestnut Hill mansion. To ease her pain, she’d written dozens of songs, and when the album was released it had skyrocketed up the charts, but the accolades and awards made Geneviève feel worse, not better. The album was a painful reminder of the love she’d had and lost. Had he ever cared for me, or was it all just an act?

  “Keep it a hundred,” Demi implored. “You like Roderick, just admit it.”

  Do. I. Ever! Opening her mouth, a lie fell off her lips. “You’re wrong. I don’t.”

  “Oh stop, it’s the twenty-first century, so quit playing hard to get and ask Roderick out.”

  “Ask him out? I don’t even know him!”

  “Exactly!” Demi wore a toothy smile. “Invite Roderick to have drinks with you tonight at the hotel bar, and once you get to know each other better, do what comes naturally.”

  Geneviève sniffed the air. The suite smelled of spices, and she guessed her mom was cooking in the kitchenette. Sure enough, Althea was standing at the counter, chopping vegetables, and hearing her mother hum the chorus of “Salty Girl” brought a smile to Geneviève’s lips. They had adjoining rooms, and it was times like this that she loved having her mom nearby. Althea wasn’t perfect, but she was the only parent Geneviève had, and she appreciated everything her mother did for her.

  Sunshine streamed through the windows, warming the room with natural light. Filled with plush carpet, contemporary furniture and decorative lamps, the suite was as lavish as it was inviting, and even though it was a beautiful, comfortable space, Geneviève still missed her home in Philly. Last year, she’d built her dream house in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in the city, and she wanted to finish decorating the posh, six-bedroom estate.

  Geneviève spotted her Versace luggage set beside the couch and sighed. Twenty-fours hours ago, she’d been determined to leave Madrid, but after thinking about what Roderick said, she’d had a change of heart. People were counting on her, and she didn’t want to let them down.

  “I was beginning to wonder where you girls were,” Althea said, glancing up from the wooden cutting board. “Gigi, did you have a nice talk with Roderick?”

  Starving, Geneviève grabbed a banana from the glass fruit bowl, peele
d it and took a bite. A light flashed, temporarily blinding her, and she swatted her sister’s shoulder. She hated when Demi snapped pictures of her when she wasn’t looking and hoped she didn’t post the unflattering photograph online. “Knock it off.”

  “Bite me!” Demi stuck out her tongue, then laughed at her joke. As usual, her eyes were glued to her iPhone, and she was typing furiously. Last week, she’d launched her lifestyle website and YouTube channel. Obsessed with attracting viewers and sponsors, Demi posted dozens of videos, pictures and beauty tutorials a day.

  Geneviève was proud of her sister and glad she’d found something she was passionate about, but she was tired of being the object of Demi’s attention. To Demi’s delight, and Geneviève’s dismay, her candid posts always received millions of views. Geneviève was annoyed, but her sister was over the moon that her YouTube channel was trending, and she didn’t have the heart to rain on her parade.

  “Mom, I’ve decided to finish the rest of the European tour, but—”

  Althea dropped the knife on the counter, then danced around the kitchen to an inaudible beat. Throwing her hands in the air, she shouted, “Praise Jesus! There is a God.”

  Demi and Geneviève shared a look.

  “Gigi, I’m so proud of you.” Althea cupped Geneviève’s face in her hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “I knew you’d make the right decision. You always do.”

  “Mom, you didn’t let me finish. I’ll continue the tour, but I’m not working on my days off, so cancel everything you’ve scheduled for the next two weeks.”

  The smile slid off Althea’s face. “Y-y-you can’t do that,” she stammered. “I’ve already made arrangements for the photoshoot, the music video and a magazine interview in Barcelona.”

  “Roderick said I’m not legally bound to anything besides the tour, so cancel everything.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?”

  “Yes, and he also offered to contact Urban Beats Records to revise my current schedule.”

  Propping her hands on her hips, Althea spoke through clenched teeth. “He. Did. What?”

  “I’m not attending the state ceremony dinner at the Royal Palace on Saturday night either.” Geneviève finished her banana, tossed the skin in the trash can and washed her hands in the sink. “I’m going to stay here and kick it with the band.”

  “Honey, you have to go. This is a big event, and I’m excited about meeting the president.”

  “Then go. No one’s stopping you.”

  “I can’t attend the state ceremony dinner without you. I’m your plus one.”

  “Mom, I’m tired, and I really want to relax this weekend.”

  Althea clasped her hands as if in prayer. “Please, Gigi. I’m begging you. Think about what this could do for your career, about the doors it could open for you in the future. This could be huge for us... I mean, for you.”

  Geneviève bit down on her bottom lip. Deliberating over what to do, she considered her conversation with Roderick that afternoon and remembered his advice. Or rather, his grandmother’s words of wisdom. Live your life without worrying about pleasing others—

  “Gigi, don’t do this. You’re making a mistake,” Althea continued. “Please reconsider.”

  Determined to stick to her guns, Geneviève straightened her shoulders and spoke in a confident tone of voice. “Mom, I’m not going. The band has been busting their butts for months, and I want them to know how much I appreciate them, so on Saturday night I’m treating everyone to dinner and cocktails.”

  Demi waved her cell in the air. “And I’ll be there to capture every scandalous moment!”

  “Oh, no you won’t!” Geneviève quipped, plucking the device out of her sister’s hand. “And now that I have your iPhone, I won’t have to worry about you ruining our fun.”

  “That’s your cell, not mine.” Demi laughed. “Mom, we’re going to the gym. See you later!”

  Exiting the suite, Geneviève put on her baseball cap and pulled it down past her eyebrows. She released a deep breath, then another. She’d done it. Stood up to her mother, and it felt good. For some strange reason, she wanted to call Roderick, to tell him what she’d done, but she dismissed the thought.

  “I wish he’d quit calling,” Demi fumed, sucking her teeth. “He’s so annoying.”

  Geneviève glanced at Demi’s iPhone, saw the name D.D. on the screen and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. She wanted to press Talk and curse him out, but she didn’t want her dad to know he’d gotten under her skin. His name was Dwight Dellamarre Jr., but they’d nicknamed him Deadbeat Dad when they were kids, and the moniker stuck.

  A lump formed in her throat. Geneviève had always dreamed of reconciling with her estranged father, but he’d dashed her hopes and dreams when she was eighteen years old. Once her debut album was released, everyone she knew was trying to cash in on her fame—distant relatives, music teachers, and her good-for-nothing father. For a handsome, six-figure fee, he’d given a tell-all interview to a national magazine, and not only revealed embarrassing secrets about Althea’s past, he’d released family photographs from Geneviève’s childhood that she’d never seen before.

  Her thoughts returned to weeks earlier, and anger coursed through her veins. Over the holidays, Dwight had emailed her, begging for money. He didn’t care about her; he cared only about her bank account, and she didn’t want anything to do with him. Althea was stubborn and bossy at times, but Geneviève couldn’t imagine her life without her. Her mom worked tirelessly as her manager, and she loved her with all her heart.

  Born and raised in the Badlands, a neighborhood in North Philadelphia known for its street gangs and drugs, she’d experienced difficult times as a child, and Geneviève would never forget the sacrifices Althea had made for their family. To pay for vocal lessons, dance classes and theater camp when Geneviève was a child, Althea had remortgaged their home—twice—and if not for her mother’s unwavering faith, she wouldn’t be a successful singer with fans all over the world.

  A suite door opened at the end of the hallway and a petite brunette dressed in a crisp hotel uniform emerged, holding a beige travel bag. Gasping, Demi clutched Geneviève’s forearm. “Damn, he’s fine!” she gushed, panting her words. “Check out his package.”

  Geneviève held her breath. Roderick was standing in the doorway in a pair of black Nike shorts, and the sight of his bare chest made Geneviève moan inwardly. Swallowing hard, her gaze slid over his broad shoulders, down his flat-board stomach to the bulge in his shorts. Her thoughts spiraled out of control, and heat flowed through her body.

  “Good evening, ladies.” Leaning against the doorframe, he folded his arms and nodded his head in greeting. “Where are you headed?”

  Geneviève wanted to speak, but her tongue was twisted inside her mouth like a rope. She was attracted to him, and staring at his muscled biceps and dark, round nipples made her pulse pound in her ears.

  “We’re going to the rooftop gym,” Demi said. “Want to join us?”

  “I’ll take a rain check. It’s been a long day, and I was just about to jump in the shower.”

  Need some company? Geneviève pressed her lips together to avoid speaking the words.

  “Geneviève, I’ll call you in the morning after my meeting with Mr. Sánchez and his attorney.”

  Ordering herself to get a grip and to quit fantasizing about him, she dragged her eyes away from his chest and said, “I’m going to the stadium in the morning to run through my set for next Friday’s show, and I won’t have my cell, so if I don’t answer leave a message and I’ll call you back when rehearsal’s done...” Geneviève knew she was rambling, but she couldn’t stop herself. Felt as if she’d lost control of her mouth. She wished her voice wasn’t shaking, and hoped Roderick didn’t notice she was a quivering, blabbering mess. Unbelievable! she thought, scolding herself for losing her composure. I can perform in front
of thousands of people but I can’t talk to Roderick without breaking into a sweat! Go figure!

  “Sounds good,” he said with a nod. “Enjoy your workout, ladies. See you tomorrow.”

  You can bet on it! Geneviève boarded the elevator. The doors closed, and she slumped against the wall. Demi chatted a mile a minute about her rabid social media followers, but Geneviève wasn’t listening. She was fantasizing about the man in suite 1824.

  Roderick worked for her, but that didn’t stop her from lusting after him. Geneviève wished she could spend the rest of the night with Roderick, and as the elevator rose to the twentieth floor, her body ached for the dashing New Yorker with the ripped physique. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop her X-rated thoughts about him, and wondered how long she’d be able to resist the needs of her flesh.

  Chapter 4

  Roderick took one look at the Madrid Law office and had second thoughts about entering the weathered brick building sandwiched between a youth hostel and a dilapidated liquor store. Garbage littered the sidewalk, and tattooed men in soccer jerseys and shorts were chugging beers. Roderick feared the business was a front for illegal activity and glanced over his shoulder as he exited his rental car, clutching his briefcase. Madrid Law was located in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city, but Roderick knew better than to judge a book by its cover. From what he’d read online, the company had a great reputation, talented attorneys and a winning record.

  Activating the alarm on the Ferrari 488 Spider, he noticed several pedestrians eyeing the vehicle, and considered moving it around the corner. He had insurance on the sleek black sports car, but he hoped it wasn’t stolen while he was inside the law firm, meeting with Mr. Cabrero.

  Roderick gave his head a shake. Dismissing the thought, he adjusted his tie, then smoothed a hand over his tan Armani suit. He opened the front door, stalked inside the reception area and took off his aviator sunglasses. A rancid odor was in the air, but he resisted the urge to flee, and nodded in greeting at the slender woman standing behind the desk in the fuchsia dress.