The Blackstone Promise

by Rochelle Alers

  Veronica’s chest rose and fell under the sensual assault on her bare flesh. She nodded rather than speak. His fingers burned her breasts through the sheer fabric of her bra. Her flesh was on fire; she was on fire. It was all she could do not to squirm and writhe under his touch.

  Lowering his body, Kumi supported his greater weight on his elbows as he buried his face against the side of her neck, inhaling the distinctive scent that was Veronica’s.

  “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do,” he crooned in her ear, when all he wanted was to touch, kiss and taste her.

  Veronica felt as if she were standing outside of herself looking on as a spectator. This wasn’t happening to her. She’d permitted a man, a stranger she’d known less than two weeks, to touch and kiss her, and she’d kissed him in return.

  This stranger had come into her home and into her life to make her feel something she’d thought long dead—desire. She met his gaze. His eyes alone betrayed his ardor. In the raven gaze there was an open invitation she recognized immediately. He was waiting—waiting for her to grant him permission to make love to her.

  He pressed closer, her soft curves molding to the contours of his hard body. Her hands slipped up his arms, curling around his strong neck. Closing her eyes, she smiled. “What am I going to do with you?” she whispered.

  Kumi laughed deep in his chest. “You can start by permitting me to call on you, Miss Johnson.”

  Her soft laugher joined his. “You sound so proper, Mr. Walker.”

  “That’s because I was brought up proper,” he said truthfully.

  It hadn’t escaped her notice that Kumi was an absolute gentleman. He always made certain to seat her, and when she stood up, he also rose to his feet. His mother had done a fine job raising him. And if she did agree to go out with him publicly, she knew Kumi would never embarrass her.

  Wrapping his arms around her midriff, he held her close—close enough for her to feel the outline of his extraordinary arousal. Her blood warmed and raced through her veins. Suddenly her body was alive, throbbing with a need that resulted in a gush of wetness between her thighs. She lay panting, her chest heaving as she surrendered to the raw sensations pulsing throughout her lower body.

  Kumi watched the play of emotions cross Veronica’s face as she breathed through parted lips. He wanted to take her, easing his hardened flesh into her celibate body. But he knew that would not become a reality—not yet. He wanted her to get used to him, the weight of his body. He wanted to be able to touch her and not have her pull away. They had time—at least three full months to get to know each other—in and out of bed.

  He reversed their positions, settling her over his chest. “I’m going to keep you prisoner until you grant my wish, princess.”

  “You are most arrogant, Sir Knight.”

  “Aye, mistress,” he countered, “that I am.”

  “If I grant your wish, then what can I expect?”

  “Grant the wish, princess, and you’ll find out.”

  She punched him softly on the shoulder. “That’s not fair, Kumi.”

  “Yes, it is, because I’m willing to give you all of myself while asking nothing in return.” She sobered, a slight frown furrowing her smooth forehead. He brushed a kiss over her lips. “By the time the summer’s over you’ll know exactly what I mean.”

  Veronica hummed along with the sultry voice of Lena Horne singing “Stormy Weather.” Veronica had left North Carolina at eight, hoping to make it to Atlanta within four hours, because she’d promised her parents she would arrive in time to share lunch with them.

  She hadn’t planned to return to Atlanta until her family reunion weekend, but the board of the Bramwell Hamlin Scholarship Foundation had requested she present a check to an impoverished Atlanta high school senior at an awards dinner. The young woman had been accepted into an historically black college’s premed program. The check would underwrite the cost of four years of tuition, books and room and board.

  The fact that half of Bram’s estate had been set aside for the foundation further angered his children. Clinton, the eldest son felt that Veronica had deliberately talked his father into endowing the scholarship fund to cut him out of his rightful inheritance. In a heated discussion with the enraged man, she had quietly reminded Clinton that his father did not owe him one copper penny, and if he’d received anything from the estate then he should’ve considered it a gift. It was only after the surrogate court had upheld the contents of Bramwell Hamlin’s last will and testament that Veronica had become aware of more Hamlin addictions: Clinton’s gambling and Norman’s drinking. Cordelia seemed to be the only one of Bram’s children that was free of the addictive personality of her mother and brothers.

  The haunting image of Kumi penetrated her musings. By the time the summer’s over you’ll know exactly what I mean. She would be the last to openly admit it, but she was looking forward to the summer. She wanted to share with Kumi what she should’ve experienced in her twenties and thirties.

  After her Sunday afternoon confessional, she had consented to seeing him. Over the next three days, they’d taken in a movie, and then ate the most delicious chiliburgers in the state at a small roadside café that boasted sawdust floors and loud music blaring from a colorful jukebox. They’d sat in a booth in the back, laughing uncontrollably when she attempted to drink beer from a longneck bottle for the first time in her life, spilling some of the rich brew down her chin. Kumi had moved from sitting opposite her to next to her and surreptitiously used the tip of his tongue to lick the beer from her chin. She’d sat motionless, glorying in the erotic gesture.

  She’d ridden home on the back of the Harley, her face pressed against his back, her body tingling from a heightened sexual awareness that had never been there before—not even with her first lover.

  She didn’t know how, but Jerome Kumi Walker had overwhelmed her with his sexy, compelling personality, leaving her off balance and gasping whenever he touched or kissed her. She’d been able to keep every man at a distance—all except for the motorcycle-riding master chef.

  A sensual smile softened her mouth as she thought of how much she’d come to like Kumi. He was even-tempered and generous, and more importantly he was a good listener and very easy to talk to. His above-average intelligence was more than apparent by his fluent French and his vast knowledge of art and architecture. He’d reluctantly admitted he’d been valedictorian of his high school graduating class.

  How ironic, she thought, as the skyline of downtown Atlanta came into view. She was scheduled to present a scholarship to a deserving high school graduating senior, a student who planned for a career in medicine, while Kumi, who had been given the opportunity to become a doctor, had deliberately rejected it.

  Veronica sat at the lace-covered table on the patio of the home where she’d grown up, enjoying her second glass of iced tea. She had to admit that Irma Johnson brewed the best pitcher of iced, or sweet, as Southerners referred to it, tea in the state.

  Smiling, Irma’s gold eyes sparkled like citrines. “I must admit you look wonderful, darling.” She called everyone darling, and no one took offense because of the way the word rolled off her tongue like watered silk.

  She returned her mother’s smile. “Thank you, Mother.”

  Harold Johnson, two years his wife’s senior, reached over and patted his daughter’s hand. “I have to agree with your mother. You do look wonderful.”

  Leaning over, she kissed her father’s smooth cheek. “Thank you, Daddy.”

  A tall, spare man, Harold still claimed a head filled with softly curling white hair that contrasted beautifully with a complexion that always reminded Veronica of a sweet potato. Her genes had compromised when she’d inherited her mother’s eyes, and body, and her father’s hair, coloring and height. Petite, seventy-year-old Irma Wardlaw-Johnson’s thick b
lack hair was streaked with only a few silver strands. A former schoolteacher, Irma had met Harold at a fund-raiser for the NAACP and had fallen madly in love on sight. Irma’s parents had thought widely traveled Harold too urbane for their twenty-two-year old daughter, but reconsidered once they discovered Harold was heir to an insurance company that sold policies to Georgia’s Negro populace. Harold and Irma had recently celebrated their forty-eighth wedding anniversary.

  “How long do you intend to live in that godforsaken place, darling?”

  Veronica rolled her eyes at her mother. “You make it sound as if I live hundreds of miles from civilization.”

  “You live at the top of a mountain where, if you screamed, your so-called neighbor would never hear you. For heaven’s sake, Veronica, you could be dead for a month before someone discovered your body.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic, Irma.” There was obvious censure in Harold’s tone.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” Veronica crooned, winking at Harold.

  Veronica did not intend to argue again with her mother about where she’d chosen to live. But then, for as long as she could remember, Irma had always been critical of her lifestyle. It was her mother who had dissented loudly about her becoming an artist and spending the summers in Paris. It was Irma who protested vocally when Veronica had announced her intent to marry Bramwell—a man older than her own father.

  She was forty-two, independent and capable of running her life and making her own decisions, despite Irma’s objections. She’d been labeled a rebel and a renegade, while her younger sister, Candace, had been the good daughter.

  Staring at a pair of eyes that were an exact match for her own, Veronica wondered how Irma would react if she saw her daughter riding on the back of the Harley—or if Veronica invited Kumi to accompany her to their annual family reunion celebration? A mysterious smile lifted her corners of her mouth. Perhaps she would invite him and find out.

  Candace Yarborough’s expression spoke volumes as she opened the door to Veronica’s ring. “You look absolutely fabulous. Why, you’re practically glowing.” Throwing her arms around her older sister’s neck, she kissed her cheek.

  Veronica pressed her cheek to Candace’s, feeling blissfully happy and wonderfully alive. The awards dinner had been a rousing success. The first recipient of the Bramwell Hamlin Scholarship Foundation award hadn’t been able to deliver her prepared speech because she hadn’t been able to stop sobbing out her joy. The emotional moment had most in attendance crying, as well—Veronica included.

  Candace pulled her into the entryway. “Come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  Following her sister into an expansive living room, Veronica said, “Where are the boys?” She’d been in Atlanta for two days, but had yet to reconnect with her brother-in-law and her nephews.

  “They went with Ivan to see his mother. She’s not doing too well after her hip-replacement surgery, because she refuses to listen to her orthopedist. I keep reminding Ivan that his sons are as hardheaded as his mother.” Glancing at her watch, Candace, said, “They should return sometime around eleven.”

  Sitting down on an off-white silk club chair, Veronica silently admired the furnishings in the Yarborough living room. Candace had employed the services of a professional interior decorator to make her home a magazine layout designer showplace.

  “How did Bobby and Will do on their final exams?”

  Candace ran a manicured hand through her short coiffed hair. “They aced them. I initially had my doubts about them being homeschooled, but after seeing their grades this year I’m glad I decided to go through with it.”

  Veronica studied Candace’s round face. She claimed a pair of large, dark eyes, bright smile and a flawless golden complexion; she saw the serenity that had become so apparent in her sister’s life. Candace had taken one look at Ivan Yarborough, declared herself in love and embarked on a relentless crusade to become his wife and the mother of his children. She’d loved teaching school, but loved being a wife and mother more. She homeschooled her children and the family traveled together whenever Ivan spent more than three weeks away from home. Candace was determined not to raise her sons alone because of an absentee father.

  “Do you want anything?”

  Veronica waved her hand. “No, thank you.” She’d eaten at the awards dinner.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “When are you going back to North Carolina?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “What time tomorrow?”

  Veronica paused for several seconds. “Probably around noon. Why?”

  “Come shopping with me. I need to replenish my lingerie.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “To your favorite boutique in Buckhead. I love their selections.”

  “You or Ivan?”

  A rush of color suffused Candace’s golden skin. “Well, I do get to model them before he undresses me.”

  “Be careful, little sis, before you make me an aunt for a third time.”

  “Bite your tongue, Veronica. At thirty-eight I’m through making babies. It’s your turn.”

  “Bite your tongue back. At forty-two I’m much too old to think about having a baby.”

  Candace lifted her eyebrows, shaking her head. “Not! Remember Helene had her first one last year, and she was older than you.”

  “Didn’t Andy James say that his son was born with a gray beard?”

  “Andy was drunk as a skunk for a week after celebrating his son’s birth, so he could’ve said anything. You need to find a man, get married, settle down and have at least one baby.”

  “What if I have a baby without getting married?” Veronica teased. She’d given up all hope of ever having a child. At first it had bothered her when her sister and girls she’d grown up with had married and became mothers. But after a while she conceded herself that she was still a woman even if she never bore a child.

  Candace groaned. “Don’t let Mother hear you say that. It would kill her if her daughter was to become an unwed mother.”

  “I wouldn’t be an unwed mother—I’d be a single mother.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Big difference, Candace. What if I’d had a child with Bram? I wouldn’t be an unwed mother, but a widow and a single mother.”

  Candace gave her a skeptical look before changing the subject.

  The two sisters talked for hours, stopping only when Ivan called Candace to inform her he and their sons had planned to spend the night in Athens and would return the following morning. Veronica left minutes after midnight, promising to meet Candace at the mall in downtown Atlanta at ten that morning.

  Chapter Seven

  The afternoon sun had shifted, sending pinpoints of gold through the leaves of trees flanking Trace Road. The cargo area of Veronica’s truck was crowded with shopping bags from several of the boutiques she and Candace had visited. Much to her surprise she’d purchased quite a few sheer and lace-trimmed undergarments. On a dare from her sister, she had bought a lacy black thong panty and matching bra. She would wear the bra, but doubted whether she’d ever wear the thong. The cooler mountain air flowing through the vents of the Lexus was refreshing, unlike the humidity smothering Atlanta like a weighted blanket.

  She pulled into the driveway to her home, smiling. Shutting off the engine, she left the SUV, retrieving the shopping bags from the rear; a minute later she unlocked the front door. She’d been away for three days, and it felt good to be back.

  Walking up the staircase to her bedroom, she dropped her purchases on a chair in her sitting room, checked the messages on the telephone on the bedside table, listening while undressing.

  She raised an eyebrow when Kumi’s voice came through the speaker,
greeting her in French and telling her that he’d enjoyed spending time with her. The next message was also from him. In this one he confessed to missing her, hoping she would return his call. He left a number. The third and final message stunned her with his intensity. “I miss you, Veronica. Please call me when you get this message.” Then there was a pause before he spoke again. “I love you.”

  Sinking to the bed, clad only in her bra and panties, she stared at the French doors. Each time she saw Kumi, her feelings for him intensified. She was totally entranced whenever he was near and she ached for the protectiveness of his strong embrace. Her eyelids fluttered wildly as she reached for the telephone.

  Kumi paced the floor in the small cottage like a caged cat. His initial reunion with his father hadn’t gone well. While his mother clung to him weeping inconsolably, his father had stood off to the side glaring. He’d acknowledged Dr. Lawrence Walker’s presence with a nod, and then walked out.

  He had expected the reunion to be strained, but thought his father would have at least said something—even if he were to just yell at him, proving that his relationship with his father would never change, not even after a fourteen-year separation. Kumi had ridden back to his cabin saddened, tears not for himself but for his mother, because she’d always ended each of her letters to him with a prayer of reconciliation for him and his father. It was apparent that all of her prayers were in vain.

  He stopped pacing long enough for his thoughts to stray to Veronica. He hadn’t seen her in three days, although he’d left several messages on her answering machine for her to call him. When she hadn’t his frustration level had gone off the chart. After the third message he thought perhaps she had taken ill or injured herself and he had ridden over to her house. When he didn’t see her truck he knew she had gone away.

  He refused to believe that she’d returned to Atlanta. She’d said she planned to spend the summer in North Carolina. He could handle any disappointment—his father’s alienation and his mother’s tears as long as he had Veronica in his life.