Throwing back his head, Kumi laughed loudly, the sound coming from deep within his wide chest. “I kind of like that idea.”
“Look, Mr… .”
“Walker,” he supplied. “The name is Kumi Walker.”
“Mr. Walker.”
“Yes, miss?” He lifted his thick black curving eyebrows in a questioning expression.
“It’s Ms. Johnson.” She’d given him her maiden name. “Okay,” she said, deciding to concede.
What harm would there be in cooking a meal for him? And he was right about attacking her. If he’d wanted to attack her and take her vehicle, he could’ve done it easily.
Kumi flashed a victorious grin. “How about Sunday around four?”
“Sunday at four,” she repeated, holding out her hand. “I need my key.”
He removed the car key from the back pocket of his jeans and dangled it in front of her. “Where do you live?” She grabbed for the key, but he pulled it away from her grasp. “Your address, Ms. Johnson.”
Swallowing back the curses threatening to spill from her lips, Veronica counted slowly to three. “Do you know Trace Road?” He nodded. “I live at the top of the hill.” She held out her hand, palm upward. “Now give me my damn key.”
Kumi dropped the key in her hand, then picked up his helmet and placed it on his head. He waited, watching the gentle sway of her hips as she walked over to the SUV and got into the driver’s seat. He was still waiting when she slammed the door to the Lexus, started up the engine and sped away. As she disappeared from view he glanced at his watch. He would have to exceed the speed limit if he were to make it back to his cottage to shower and change his clothes in time.
Twenty minutes later he stood under the spray of a cool shower, recalling his interaction with Ms. Johnson. He didn’t know what had drawn him to her, but he intended to find out.
It wasn’t until later that night when he lay in bed that he thought perhaps there could be a Mr. Johnson. Even though she hadn’t worn a ring, he knew instinctively she would’ve mentioned a husband—if he did indeed exist.
Closing his eyes, Kumi tried recalling her incredible face and body, and much to his chagrin he couldn’t.
Veronica left the warmth of her bed, walking across the smooth, hardwood parquet floor on bare feet to a set of double French doors. Daybreak had begun to breathe a blush over the night sky, depositing feathery streaks of pinks, blues, violet and mauve. Rays from the rising sun cut a widening swath across the navy blue canvas, as ribbons of light crisscrossed the Great Smoky Mountains and painted the verdant valley with delicate hues from a painter’s palette. With a trained eye, Veronica witnessed the breathtaking splendor.
Opening the doors, she stepped out onto the second-story veranda and leaned against the waist-high wooden railing. She closed her eyes, shivering slightly against the early morning chill sweeping over her exposed flesh. Her revealing nightgown was better suited for sultry Atlanta, not the cooler temperatures of the western North Carolina mountain region. Despite the softly blowing wind molding the delicate silken garment to her curvy body, she felt the invisible healing fingers massaging the tension in her temples, dissolving the lump under her heart and easing the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders.
Breathing in the crisp mountain air, she watched the sun inch higher—high above the haze rising from the deep gorges. The sight was more calming and healing than any prescribed tranquilizer.
Why had it taken her so long to return to this mountain retreat? Why hadn’t she returned after burying her husband Dr. Bramwell Hamlin? Why had she lingered in Atlanta, Georgia, a year after defending her legal claim to his estate?
She knew the answers even before she’d formed the questions in her mind. She hadn’t wanted to leave Atlanta—leave a way of life that had become as necessary to her as breathing. It was where she’d been born, raised and had set up a successfully thriving art gallery; it was also where she’d married and had been widowed.
It hadn’t mattered that Bram had been old enough to be her father. In fact, he’d been several years older than her own father, but she’d come to love him—not as a father figure but as a husband. She’d married Bram at thirty-four, was widowed at forty and now at forty-two had to determine whether she truly wanted to leave the glamour of Atlanta and relocate to her vacation retreat in the North Carolina mountains.
Pushing away from the railing, she stepped back into the bedroom and closed the doors. It was Sunday and she had to decide what she was going to prepare for dinner. It was the first time in two years that she would cook for a man. Cooking dinner for Kumi Walker would be a unique and singular experience. After she fed the arrogant young man his requested home-cooked meal, she would show him the door. And that was certain to be an easy task, because since becoming a wealthy widow, she had become quite adept at rejecting men.
Easing the narrow straps of the nightgown off her shoulders, she let it float to the floor. She stepped out of it, bending down and picking up the black silk garment. Straightening gracefully, she headed for the bathroom.
The sun had shifted behind the house, leaving the kitchen cooler. Overhead track lighting cast a warm gold glow on stark white cabinets and black-hued appliances. Veronica had adjusted the air conditioner to counter the buildup of heat from the oven. She’d spent nearly four hours preparing oven-fried chicken, smothered cabbage with pieces of smoked turkey, candied sweet potatoes, savory white rice, cornbread and a flavorful chicken giblet gravy. Dessert was homemade strawberry shortcake.
Glancing up at the clock on the built-in microwave oven, she noted the time. Kumi was expected to arrive within forty-five minutes. All she had to do was set the table in the dining area off the kitchen, take another shower and select something appropriate to wear.
Kumi hung his jacket on a hook behind his seat and placed a bouquet of flowers on the passenger seat alongside a bottle of champagne. Slipping behind the wheel of his brother-in-law’s car, he turned the key in the ignition and headed in the direction of Trace Road.
Warm air flowing through the open vents feathered over his freshly shaven face. He wanted to enjoy the smell of his home state. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Asheville and North Carolina until he’d sat on the bike and rode through towns and cities he’d remembered from his childhood. Memories—good and bad—had assailed him.
He’d left the States at twenty-two, returning a decade later as a stranger.
He’d been back for eight days, yet had not seen or spoken to his two older brothers or his parents. His sister Deborah had disclosed that the elder Walkers were vacationing abroad, and were expected to return to the States for the Memorial Day weekend. And that meant he had ten days before he would come face-to-face with his father—Dr. Lawrence Walker—a man who was as tyrannical as he was unforgiving. A man who’d hung up on him whenever he called home. A man who had symbolically buried his last-born because Kumi would not follow his edict. After a while, Kumi had stopped calling.
Concentrating on his driving, he turned off the local road and onto a narrowed one identified by a sign as Trace. He reached the top of the hill, slowing and searching for Ms. Johnson’s house. He saw one house, and then another.
He swallowed an expletive. He hadn’t asked her the house number. His frustration escalated as he steered with one hand, driving slowly, while peering to his right at structures set several hundred feet back from the winding road. There were a total of six along the half-mile stretch of Trace Road. He drove another quarter of a mile into a wooded area before reversing direction. As soon as the houses came into view again, he saw her Lexus.
Kumi turned into the driveway behind her SUV, shifted into Park and turned off the engine. He retrieved his jacket, the flowers and the champagne.
He felt her presence seconds before he saw her, and when he turned to stare at the woman who’
d promised to cook for him, he almost dropped the flowers and the wine.
She stood in the open doorway dressed in off-white. His gaze was fused to the outline of her body in a sheer organdy blouse she’d paired with tailored linen slacks. A delicate lacy camisole dotted with tiny pearls showed through the fabric of the airy shirt. Her feet were pushed into a pair of low-heeled mules in a matching pale linenlike fabric covering.
Kumi forced himself to place one foot in front of the other as he approached her, mouth gaping. Her hair—it was thick, chemically straightened, and worn in a blunt-cut pageboy that curved under her delicate jawline. It wasn’t the style that held his rapt attention, but the color. It was completely gray! A shimmering silver that blended perfectly with her flawless golden-brown face.
Chapter Two
Veronica knew she’d shocked the arrogant young man when he wouldn’t meet her amused gaze. He’d come on to her thinking she was only a few years older than he was. But it was her gray hair that had left this swaggering mahogany Adonis gaping, slack-jawed.
“Good afternoon, Kumi.”
The sound of her voice shattered his entrancement. He smiled. “Good afternoon, Ms. Johnson.”
Veronica returned his smile, capturing his gaze with her brilliant amber one. His eyes were large, alert, deep-set and a mysterious glossy black.
“You may call me Veronica.” She stepped back, permitting him entrance to her home.
He walked into the living room, staring up at the towering cathedral ceiling and winding wrought-iron staircase leading to a loft. Streams of sunlight from floor-to-ceiling windows highlighted the highly waxed bleached pine floors with a parquetry border of alternating pine and rosewood inlay.
Shifting slightly, he turned and stared down at Veronica Johnson staring up at him. The fragrance of Oriental spice clinging to her flesh, hair and clothes swept around him, making him a prisoner of her startling beauty and femininity.
Veronica’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “I think you’d better give me the flowers before you shred them.”
He looked at the bouquet he’d clutched savagely in his right hand. The petals from some of the roses and lilies had fallen off the stems within the cellophane covering.
“I’m—I’m sorry. But…these are for you.” He handed her the flowers and the bottle of champagne, chiding himself for stuttering like a starstruck adolescent. What he did not want to admit was that seeing Veronica Johnson again had left him more shaken than he wanted to be.
“Thank you. The flowers are beautiful.” Her gaze shifted from the bouquet to Kumi. “Is something wrong?” Her voice was soft, comforting.
“No…I mean yes.” He decided to be honest with her and himself. “You surprised me.”
She arched a questioning eyebrow. “How?”
“Your hair. The color shocked me. I didn’t expect the gray.”
Her expression was impassive. “In other words, you didn’t expect me to be that old.”
His mouth tightened slightly before he said, “I was talking about your hair color, not your age.”
“I’m gray because I’m old enough to claim gray hair.” She knew she didn’t owe him an explanation, but decided to teach him a lesson. The next time he met a woman, he would be less apt to flirt with her. “I began graying prematurely at twenty-eight,” she continued, “and by the time I was thirty-eight I was completely gray.”
“There’s no need for you to address me as if I were a child,” he retorted sharply.
“I did not call you a child, Kumi. But if you feel that way, then I can’t help it.”
Closing his eyes briefly, Kumi struggled to control his temper. It had begun all wrong. He hadn’t come to Veronica Johnson’s house to debate age differences. He’d come because there was something about her that drew him to her. She was older than he was, but that didn’t bother him as much as it appeared to disturb her.
“The flowers need water, the champagne should be chilled and I’d like to eat. The only thing I’ve eaten all day is a slice of toast and a cup of coffee. Meanwhile, you seem out of sorts because you’re a few years older than me.”
It was Veronica’s turn for her delicate jaw to drop. Kumi was beyond arrogant. “I’m not out of sorts.”
Kumi flashed a sensual smile, disarming her immediately. She returned his smile.
“Can we discuss age after we’ve eaten?” he asked.
“No,” she said quickly. “There’s no need to discuss it at all, except to say that I’ll turn forty-three on September 29.” To her surprise he showed no reaction.
“And I’ll celebrate my thirty-third birthday next January, which means there’s only a ten-year difference in our ages,” he countered in a lower, huskier tone.
Which makes you too young to be my mother, he added silently.
Veronica wanted to yell at him, Only ten years. Ten years was a decade; a lot of things, people and events changed within a decade. Her life was a perfect example.
She displayed a bright polite smile—one Atlanta residents recognized whenever she and Bramwell Hamlin—African-American plastic surgeon to the rich and famous—had entertained in their opulent home.
“Everything is ready. If you follow me I’ll show you where you can wash up before we dine.”
Kumi noticed that she’d said “dine” instead of “eat.” He liked that. Following her, he admired her hips as she walked across the yawning space of a living and dining room, to a screened-in room off the corner of the expansive kitchen. A delicate pewter chandelier lit up a large table with seating for six. Two place settings were set with fine china, silver, crystal stemware and damask napkins. Water goblets filled with sparkling water were positioned next to wineglasses.
Attractive lines fanned out around his dark eyes. “You set a beautiful table.”
She nodded, acknowledging his compliment. “Thank you. The bathroom is over there.” She pointed to a door several feet from the dining space.
Kumi walked over, opened the door and stepped into a small half bath. Potted plants lined a ledge under a tall, narrow window, a profusion of green matching the tiny green vines decorating the pale pink wallpaper. The room was delightful and feminine with its dusky rose furnishings and leaf-green accessories. He washed and dried his hands, then left the bathroom.
Returning to the table, he braced his hands on the back of a chair, staring openly at Veronica’s back as she bent from the waist and peered into a kitchen cabinet.
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No. Everything’s done. Please sit down.”
He complied, watching as she retrieved a vase and crystal ice bucket from a cabinet under a countertop. She half filled the bucket with ice from the ice maker in the refrigerator door, then inserted the bottle of champagne. Her movements were fluid as she unwrapped the flowers and arranged them in the vase, filling it with water.
Rising quickly to his feet, Kumi closed the space between them, grasping the vase and the bucket. He placed them on the table. Ignoring her warning look, he carried several platters and covered dishes from the countertop to the table. After Veronica had placed a gravy boat on the table, he came around and pulled out a chair for his hostess. She sat, and he lingered over her head, inhaling the scent emanating from her body. Curbing the urge to press a kiss on her luminous silvery hair, he took his seat.
Staring at her hands, he noted their fragility. And like the rest of her they were beautifully formed. She uncovered several dishes, halting when she glanced up and caught him staring at her.
Veronica knew she intrigued Kumi. There was something in his gaze that communicated that her being older than him was not an issue. She shrugged a shoulder, thinking perhaps he just liked older women. Dropping her gaze, she returned her attention to uncovering the platter
of chicken.
“You are incredible,” Kumi crooned when he saw the cabbage, fluffy white rice, sweet potatoes and the thick slices of buttery cornbread.
“Voilà, a home-cooked meal.” Veronica handed him several serving pieces. “Please help yourself.”
Reaching across the table, he picked up her plate. “What do you want?”
A smile trembled over her lips. She was clearly surprised that he’d offered to serve her. “A little bit of everything, thank you.”
“White or dark meat?”
“I eat both.”
Kumi speared a leg, and then spooned a portion of rice, cabbage and sweet potato onto her plate. He rose slightly and placed it in front of her before serving himself.
Placing a napkin over her lap, Veronica gestured to the bottle of chilled white wine already on the table. “Would you like wine or the champagne?”
“Is there another alternative?”
She gave him a direct stare. “Homemade lemonade.”
His dark gaze roamed leisurely over her features, lingering on the tempting curve of her lower lip before returning to fuse with the amber orbs with flecks of darker lights. He marveled at her brilliant eyes, her sexy mouth and her flawless skin.
He forced his gaze not to linger below her throat where the outline of full breasts pushed against the silk under the gossamer material of her blouse. Within seconds his body betrayed him; a rush of desire hardened the flesh pulsing between his thighs. Clenching his fists tightly, he clamped his teeth together. He couldn’t speak or move as he waited in erotic agony for the swelling to ease.
“Wine, champagne or lemonade?” Veronica asked again.
Kumi shifted uncomfortably on his chair, praying she wouldn’t ask him to get up. The pressure of his engorged flesh throbbing against the fabric of his briefs was akin to a pleasurable pain he did not want to go away.
The Blackstone Promise Page 14
