“Really, Marco?” Darius folded his arms over his chest, looking very much unconvinced.
“She’s not immune. She’s just...stubborn.” It was the truth. Marco had never encountered a woman so determined to dismiss his many positive qualities.
Another round of chuckles filled the room.
“It’s true,” Marco groused. “She’s already admitted she’s attracted to me, but she’s decided to ignore it.”
“Why?” Darius’s tone was mocking.
“She wants to keep things strictly professional between us, because she doesn’t want any preferential treatment when her company’s trial period is up.”
“I don’t see why you’re complaining. She’s doing the right thing, and possibly saving the both of you from a potentially awkward situation.” That comment came from Ken, who’d laid down his drumsticks and was now shuffling through pages of sheet music.
“It’s too late for that.” Marco wanted to elaborate, and tell Ken that things between him and Joi were already plenty awkward. But he knew there was no point. His friends, in typical Gents fashion, were going to keep entertaining themselves at his expense, at least until someone changed the subject.
“Did you get a chance to kiss her? That usually turns women into putty in your hands, right?” The snide question came from Rashad.
He recalled the kiss they’d shared. The memory of the softness of her lips was particularly potent. “Yes, I kissed her. And you can now stop being an ass about this, before I use your locks to strangle you.” Marco cut a censuring look in Rashad’s direction.
Darius cut in. “All right, guys. I think we’ve teased Marco enough. We need to start deciding on a set list and a stage costume for the Winter Jazz Fest, and then we need to actually practice so we don’t sound terrible when we take the stage this week.”
Marco listened as his bandmates went back and forth about the upcoming jazz festival, relieved that the heat was finally off him. The four of them conversed for several minutes about what songs they would play, and how they would alter their usual stage wear for the event. The Winter Jazz Fest typically drew large crowds numbering in the thousands. Getting in front of an audience that large was a big deal for the Gents. While none of them considered themselves career musicians, they all agreed that their love of the music made them want to reach as many people as they could.
“All right, so we’ll do a few original songs, and round the set out with the crowd-pleasers—Monk, Miles and Coltrane.” Darius jotted the tentative set list on a legal pad. “Sound good?”
Everyone agreed.
“Great, now let’s practice. We’ll run through ‘Anything Goes’ first. Count us off, Ken.”
As the men readied their instruments, Ken raised his sticks above his head, crossing them in a V formation. Tapping them together, he gave the count. “Five, four, three, two.”
All of them began to play their respective parts, the sound blending together to provide a pleasing backdrop to Rashad’s impassioned crooning.
The sound was, quite literally, music to Marco’s ears. As he moved his fingers over the keys of his saxophone, turning his breath into the clear notes supporting the harmony, he felt a certain joy rising inside. This level of peace was something he only achieved when he played his sax, and if it were possible, he’d live there. And when the notes from his sax joined with Rashad’s skillful piano playing, the deep notes echoing from Darius’s fingers playing over the strings of his bass and the rhythmic cadence of Ken’s drums, they created something truly magical. Each man played off the other, combining their talents to give new life to the classic jazz compositions they all knew and loved.
When the first song ended, a collective cheer went up in the room.
Rashad had a broad grin on his face. “Damn. We’re hot today, y’all.”
Marco had to agree. He imagined his own playing might have been affected by the song’s lyrics and meaning, and how it related to his current feelings about Joi. But since he’d survived his friends’ earlier barrage of questions, he knew better than to bring the subject back up again.
The band moved on to the next song, Cole Porter’s classic, “Night and Day.” As Marco played the notes, he continued to let his passion for the music, and his growing fascination with Joi, inform his execution. She might never come around, but at least he’d have the inspiration she provided to fuel him toward the pinnacle of his talents.
Knowing that made him feel somewhat better, so he smiled around the mouthpiece of the sax, and gave it his all.
Chapter 8
Monday morning, Joi arrived at the bank twenty minutes before opening time. She, Jackie and Yolanda made small talk as they sat on the bench outside, waiting for Marco and Roosevelt to show up with the keys. Joi smiled through the entire conversation, because she genuinely enjoyed the company of her guards, and considered them friends as well as employees. Beneath her smile, though, were the hidden feelings she harbored for the bank’s president. But she would never share those feelings with her guards—things were awkward enough for her at the bank as it was. She’d only confided in Joanne because she knew she could trust her older sister, both to keep her secret and to give her sound advice.
When the two men approached the door, the women ceased their chatting. One by one, they stood, awaiting entrance to the bank.
Joi stood last, brushing a hand over her long houndstooth coat to release the wrinkles from it. Am I primping for him? As soon as the question entered her mind, she pushed it away. She was merely maintaining a professional appearance. Her efforts had everything to do with being a businesswoman, and nothing to do with the dark-haired banker.
“Good morning, ladies.” The deep, silken tone of Marco’s voice cut through the chill of the early-morning air, warming Joi’s insides.
Everyone exchanged pleasantries, but Joi’s eyes were on Marco.
When their gazes locked, time seemed to stand still. There was something in his eyes, something that called to her.
Still staring into her eyes, he swung open the door, and held it open. “Ladies first.”
Yolanda and Jackie went in right away, but Joi lingered. Enraptured by his gaze, she felt as if her feet were rooted to the spot she occupied on the concrete sidewalk. She could feel the warmth of the bank’s heated interior flowing out through the door. But that electrically generated heat was no match for the heat she felt blooming inside, as she gazed into Marco’s eyes.
Marco stared back. His gaze was intense, and seemed to hold the weight of words that were going unsaid.
Suddenly she heard the sound of someone clearing their throat.
A few long beats passed before she realized Roosevelt was still standing there with them. Roosevelt’s crooked smile conveyed a sense of mirth, and of knowing.
Shaking her head, she blinked a few times to break the spell. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Careful to avoid any contact between her body and Marco’s, she eased past him and slipped inside the building.
She heard Marco chuckle as she retreated, making a beeline for the ladies’ room. As insistent as Marco could be, she knew he wouldn’t follow her in there.
Within the confines of the restroom, she stood by the mirror and looked at her reflection. Her eyes were watering a bit, so she dried them with a paper towel from the dispenser, careful not to disturb the thin layer of pressed powder she wore to keep somewhat oily skin at bay. After retouching her lip gloss, she took a few deep, cleansing breaths, then walked out.
And cursed under her breath when she saw Marco standing outside the loan officer’s door, directly across from the ladies’ room.
Was he waiting for me? She knew it was possible that he had some business to discuss with the loan officer, or some other reason he should be standing in that very spot. But that didn’t keep her from being a bit suspicious of his
motives.
Her suspicion only increased when he caught sight of her and immediately began walking in her direction.
A part of her wanted to flee, but she stayed where she was. She’d already run from him once today, and she didn’t want to make a habit of that. Beyond that, he’d made it obvious that he wouldn’t be deterred, at least not while they were both in the building.
So she watched him striding in her direction, awaiting whatever he might have to say. She couldn’t help but notice the way the tailored dark navy suit fit his athletic frame. The fabric at the forearms stretched ever so slightly to accommodate his biceps. From the crown of his dark waves of luscious black hair, to the smart blue paisley tie and the designer leather dress shoes on his feet, he was about as handsome and impeccably dressed as a man could be.
As he entered her space, her eyes focused on the masculine lines of his face. His square jaw was bare, shaved of any facial hair. Generally, she liked for a man to have a bit of scruff, but on Marco, she found the clean-shaven look surprisingly appealing.
His cocoa-dark eyes held evidence of his humor as he spoke. “Ms. Lewis. If I didn’t know better, I might think you were avoiding me.”
She gave him a half smirk, but said nothing.
“Come on, Joi. I thought you were made of tougher stuff.”
Folding her arms over her chest, she quipped, “I am, and you’d better remember that.”
He smiled, while scratching his chin. “Oh, don’t worry. You don’t have to remind me about your black belt. Not after the way you took that guy down last week.” He scrunched his face into a pained expression.
A peal of laughter escaped her throat, in response to the face he made. “Honestly, Marco...”
“Aha! So you can call me by my first name.”
“That was our deal, wasn’t it? I’d call you Marco if you agreed not to pursue me.”
He held up his index finger, wiggling it from side to side. “I agreed not to pursue you, unless you asked.”
She shrugged. “Same difference.”
He took a small step forward, coming within a few inches of where she stood.
The heat of his body seemed to reach out, whispering over her like a lover’s caress. A sensual shiver ran through her, radiating from her core out to the tips of her fingers and toes. Despite his casual demeanor, he seemed to be wielding a strange, erotic power over her. The space between them notwithstanding, she felt as if he were touching her. Or was that just her mind, carrying her off to fantasy land again?
“I’m a man of my word, Joi. You can be assured I will not do or say anything to you unless I’m asked.” His words held credence and weight.
She could sense his honesty, and she responded with a slow nod. “Thank you, Marco.”
With a nod of his own, he backed up, taking his incredible body heat with him. “Have a good day, Joi.”
She watched him walk away, this time feasting her eyes on the rear view of him in the snazzy suit. She could see the outline of his powerful thighs, and a rear end so nice, she had to look twice.
She closed her eyes briefly, knowing she needed to stop ogling him and get her focus back on the work ahead.
Joi, you will not spend the entire day thinking about this man.
That was what she told herself, but she could already tell that today would indeed be a manic Monday.
* * *
Within the quiet confines of his office, Marco worked on his computer. He’d taken off his sport coat and tossed it over the back of his chair, in anticipation of an intense work session. His tie loosened and his shoes on the floor beside the desk, he’d proceeded to dive headfirst into his duties. By lunchtime, he realized he’d be stuck at his desk for at least another hour if he wanted to get the task done.
He ordered in for lunch, and after he’d finished his meal of a grilled chicken sandwich and a cup of French onion soup, he moved on to the rest of the day’s work.
Around two, he’d completed the current stack and cleared the clutter from his desk, but it was a hollow victory. He knew that in two or three days, the stack would be replaced by another one just as tall.
He stifled a yawn, then got up from his desk to stretch. Just as he raised his arms over his head, his smartphone rang.
He reached into the hip pocket of his trousers and took out the phone. Looking at the name and number, he felt his brow rise in shock. With a swipe of his finger, he answered the call. “Ernesto? How the hell are you, man?”
On the other end of the line, his friend laughed. “I’m doing great, Marco. How are you, you SOB?”
Now it was Marco’s turn to laugh. “I’m fine. It’s been a long time, E. What brings you out of the woodwork?”
“I know, man. I wanted to invite you to my parents’ party. They’re celebrating forty years in the pineapple business.”
His brow hitched again when he heard that. Ernesto’s parents, Enrique and Consuela Herrera, owned the largest pineapple empire in Costa Rica. The Herreras had their hand in everything, from growing the fruit, to harvesting, processing and packing. With pineapples being Costa Rica’s second-largest export crop, behind bananas, the Herrera family enjoyed incredible wealth and status in their home country. “Is this party being held back home in Limón?”
“You bet your ass. Where else would they have it? They’ve booked the Tortuga Lodge ballroom.”
“When is it?” As homesick as he was, Marco would take any excuse to escape the frigid North Carolina winds and visit his coastal home.
“A week from now. Can you make it?”
“That’s pretty short notice, Ernesto.” He’d already decided he would attend the party, but he enjoyed making his friend sweat it out.
“Aw, come on. Mama is always going on about you. She knows that if it wasn’t for you keeping me focused back in college, I would never have graduated.” Ernesto’s voice held an edge of guilt.
“She’s right. You were a total slacker. But what are friends for?”
Ernesto sighed. “All right, all right. I’m forever in your debt. Now will you come to the party?”
He laughed, standing by the window in his office. His hand brushed against the glass, and feeling the cold clinging to the windowpane sealed the deal for him. “Sure, Ernesto. I’ll have to make some arrangements around here, but tell Mama Herrera I’ll be there.”
“Great. Thanks, man. Should I tell her to give you a plus-one?”
He ran his free hand through his hair. There was only one person he would want to escort to the Herreras’ party, and he was pretty sure she’d slap him if he asked. Still, he wasn’t about to admit that to his friend, so he said, “Of course. When have you ever known me to attend an event alone?”
A snickering Ernesto responded, “Never. Remember that homecoming dance in college, when you took two dates?”
The memory of that night was still fresh, and it brought a smile to Marco’s face. That night, more than a decade ago, he’d entered the university gymnasium with a woman on each of his arms. He couldn’t remember their names. “Yes, I recall. One was fair and blonde. The other was tan with dark hair.”
“You’re getting old, man.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m at the office, Ernesto, so I’ll talk to you later.”
“Gotcha. Later, Marco.”
When Marco ended the call and pocketed his phone again, he found himself chuckling. It seemed his college buddy was just as much of a procrastinator as he’d always been. Who else would give a person less than two weeks’ notice to make an international trip? He made a note to box Ernesto’s ears when he saw him next.
Thinking of Ernesto and their past together inevitably brought Joi to mind. Back then, she’d been Ernesto’s reserved yet lovely fiancée. Ernesto had been ready to commit to her, for reasons Marco was well awar
e of. That is, up until the day she’d bolted from the altar, leaving behind any possibility of the future they might have had together.
He wondered if she ever regretted her decision, or if she ever questioned why Ernesto never made a real effort to contact her after she abandoned him.
He knew. He knew it all, and he suspected she was none the wiser. No, she couldn’t have known Ernesto’s motivation for getting married. No one, other than Marco and Ernesto himself, knew that Ernesto needed a wife so that he could claim his inheritance to the Herrera pineapple fortune.
Still, Marco had heard of woman’s intuition. Had she run because she’d sensed that Ernesto’s love wasn’t real? Did she somehow know that while he had proposed, and pledged his fidelity, that he would never truly be committed to her?
On Ernesto and Joi’s wedding day, she’d only made it halfway down the aisle before she stopped, turned and sprinted out of the church. Standing next to his friend, Marco had watched her go, then tried to comfort Ernesto. All the while, he knew that if Ernesto hadn’t approached Joi first, he would have gone after her. Why had fate chosen to drop her back in his life again?
There was no way for him to know the answers to those questions, and he certainly wouldn’t ask her. Doing so would mean admitting to her that he’d played a role in Ernesto’s plan of deception. After the way he’d treated her, announcing his mistrust at every opportunity, he knew she’d think of him as nothing more than a hypocritical liar. And in a way, she’d be right.
A knock on his office door drew him out of his thoughts and back to reality. Turning from the window to face the door, he said, “Come in.”
Nancy, one of the tellers, stuck her head in the door. “Mr. Alvarez, we’ve got a new customer out front who wants to meet you.”
“I’ll be there in a second, Nancy.”
She stepped back and closed the door.
Marco stepped into his shoes, retightened his tie and pulled on his sport jacket. He glanced at his reflection in the wall mirror hanging by his bookshelf, and once he’d smoothed the lines out of his suit, he left his office for the lobby.
A Sultry Love Song Page 7
