No Ordinary Love

by Ann Christopher

  “I’m unfair?”

  “—I’m willing to let bygones be bygones and to accept your gracious invitation.”

  “My invitation?”

  “To the Halloween bonfire tomorrow night.”

  “You want to come to some neighborhood bonfire?”

  “Of course. I’m told there will be exceptional food—”

  “Exceptional is a little strong, considering that half the dishes will have whipped cream, Jell-O and marshmallows in them.”

  “—and I can meet your parents.”

  Ringing silence from Samira, who stiffened.

  “Why would you want to meet my parents?” she finally said.

  “Because they’re your parents. Honestly, I thought Americans were smarter than this.”

  Now she looked vaguely alarmed. “But what’s the point?”

  “I want to meet these paragons of virtue who have a successful long-term marriage and raised such an exceptional daughter. Why are you looking at me like I plan to kidnap them and hold them for ransom? My idea makes perfect sense. You and I can get to know each other better in a chaperoned setting, and people from work will think you’re being nice to me because I’m a stranger here. I’d think that you would be glad to join me in an activity that involves clothes and doesn’t require a bed. But if you’re rethinking your earlier position, I can still be there in eight minutes.”

  “Stay. Where. You. Are. You won’t be so smug when my father gives you the third degree. And the bonfire is potluck, just so you know.”

  “Potluck?”

  “Everyone needs to bring a dish to share.”

  “Ah.”

  “Are we finished here? Can I go back to sleep now? Thanks to you, I’ve had about fifteen minutes’ sleep in the last couple days.”

  He hesitated.

  No, they weren’t finished. He didn’t want to let her go. For one shameful second, he actually considered asking her to put the phone down near her pillow just so he’d know she was still there as he drifted off to sleep.

  Thank God he hadn’t quite reached that level of dependency.

  Yet.

  It was late. They were both tired. But there was a question that nagged at him worse than his semi-engorged state.

  “Is it so easy to say good-bye to me?” he asked quietly, his old companion Loneliness settling on the pillow beside him, taking the spot he’d hoped Samira would want. “You’re always trying to do it.”

  His mood shifted to the pending emptiness that would fill him until he saw her again. It was early in their relationship yet, and he didn’t believe in getting attached, which meant that nonsense concepts like soul mates, love at first sight or even love had no place in his life. Despite his earlier concerns about protecting his heart.

  Even so, he was smart enough to recognize patterns when he saw them, and a troublesome new pattern stared him in the face right now.

  Every time he and Samira parted, he ached to see her again. Wondered how long he would have to wait until that glorious moment, and if he could produce the required patience.

  He was a strong man with a healthy ego, but the idea that this woman could hang up and go back to sleep when he knew he’d be thinking about her all night…

  It didn’t sit right with him.

  “Samira?”

  “You’re not entitled to all my secrets, Baptiste,” she said softly, her voice hoarse. “You’ve already had enough in your couple days with me. Don’t you think?”

  Something inside him eased, just a bit.

  The ambivalence in her eyes also helped.

  “Maybe I’m not entitled to your secrets. But I still want them, ma reine.”

  Her eyes lit with amusement. “Don’t be so greedy.”

  “Don’t be so tempting,” he said, unsmiling.

  A long moment passed. Her smile slowly faded. He stared at her lips, remembering the taste of them. The exquisite feel of them on his body. She stared back, her unwavering attention leveled on his eyes.

  “What do you see?” he wondered. “When you look at me like that?”

  “That’s another secret,” she said, a vivid flush creeping up her neck and over her cheekbones.

  “La belle dame sans merci,” he said glumly. “So beautiful. So merciless. So many brick walls.”

  “Yeah, well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Don’t try to make me feel bad with your little Keats poem.”

  “A woman who knows both her Shakespeare and her Keats is after my heart. And your heart must be a very great treasure for you to guard it so closely.”

  Her gaze was level. Unabashed.

  “It’s the only one I’ve got. And luckily, international players such as yourself don’t bother with women’s hearts. Do they?”

  This perfectly reasonable assessment of his approach to dating and women also did not sit well with him. It felt as though she wanted to squash him into a trunk and slam the lid.

  Where did he want to be instead?

  He didn’t know, but it wasn’t in that tiny trunk.

  More than he wanted out of that trunk, he wanted his fill of Samira. Freely given, with unlimited smiles and eyes that sparkled without reservation.

  He wanted.

  “Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you seem to think.”

  “That remains to be seen,” she said.

  “I don’t know what’s happening here,” he told her. “I only know that it’s happening. Isn’t it?”

  “Evidently,” she said reluctantly.

  A beat or two passed.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  Shaky laugh. “I have no idea.”

  They watched each other, settling into the silence, and neither seemed inclined to hang up. That being the case, he decided to try for a small concession.

  “Do me a favor, angel.”

  “What is it?”

  Something about the new glow in her eyes—sexy, knowing—told him she knew exactly where this was headed.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  She made him wait for a long few seconds, his heart a steady thump in his throat. When she spoke, her voice skimmed across his skin like satin.

  “Why should I do that for you?”

  Finally, an easy question.

  “Last night, you gave me heaven. Tonight, heaven is all I can think about, but it’s off-limits.” He cleared his hoarse throat. “If you’re going to be merciless and cruel—”

  “Such drama.”

  “—dooming me to a sleepless night, the least you can do is give me this one small thing. Let me pretend you’re waiting for me the way I’m waiting for you.”

  She hesitated, her gaze sliding out of focus as she looked to the empty other side of her bed and smoothed the sheets where he should be right now.

  Then her unsmiling eyes, hotter now, flicked back to his.

  His breath hitched. His heart leapt.

  In no particular rush, she fluffed up a pillow and propped her phone against it as he had done, giving him a longer view. She rose up on her knees, maintaining eye contact. Her T-shirt, he now saw, just skimmed the tops of her shapely thighs, which were dark and delicious against the white sheets.

  He tried to breathe.

  She hooked her thumbs through the narrow sides of her bright blue panties, right at her hips, and stood on the bed to shimmy out of them and kick them aside.

  In a maddening display, she revealed all of her legs—thighs, toned calves and bare feet—but no pussy.

  He waited, heart pounding.

  She knelt again, staring him in the face to ensure that she had his undivided attention, eyes glinting with amusement at his expense.

  He gripped himself over the sheet. His queue was now roughly the size of some overgrown cucumber at a farmer’s market, so he stroked himself.

  Samira gasped.

  He stroked again, moaning.

  Her lips curled in a faint smile as she took the lower edge of her T-shirt and slowly swept it off ove
r her head.

  He exhaled, the sound long and serrated.

  There she was.

  Pussy…taut belly…softly bouncing breasts with erect nipples.

  Flushed skin. Glittering eyes. Captivating half-smile.

  She undid him.

  Completely and absolutely.

  The sight of one naked woman should not rivet a man like this. Especially a man who’d seen dozens of world-class naked beauties.

  But it did.

  He drank in the sight, paralyzed inside his lust.

  Far too soon, she slid under the sheet and resumed her position on her side, with her elbow bent and her head propped on her hand. She picked up the phone with her free hand and held it up to her face once more.

  “Happy now?” she asked in that sultry jazz singer’s voice.

  Happy?

  “What’s the English word for ecstatic and miserable, all at the same time, ma reine? Teach it to me.”

  She hesitated.

  “I’m not sure there is one.”

  This information did not surprise him.

  Everything about their situation seemed uncommon.

  Extraordinary.

  “Good night, Baptiste.”

  “‘Parting is such sweet sorrow,’” he said glumly.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God. Are you quoting Romeo and Juliet again?”

  “Why not? It’s appropriate.”

  “Indeed,” she said darkly. “And look how those two star-crossed lovers turned out.”

  He glowered at her.

  “Good night, Baptiste,” she said, her eyes smiling at him.

  “Bonne nuit, ma reine.”

  He hung up and collapsed onto his back, knowing he was in for a long night.

  15

  “Hey, little men,” Samira said late the next morning. “It’s okay. You can come on over. I’m on hold.”

  She wedged her phone between her ear and shoulder and waved over the eight-year-old twins who’d been eyeballing her while hovering on the periphery of her table. Having finished her Saturday morning errands already, she sat in one of the quieter corners of bustling Java Nectar, the local coffeehouse and social hub on Journey’s End’s main street, DeGroot Avenue, with her laptop open. Her plan? To pay her bills and catch up on some of her work e-mails before Melody joined her for lunch in a bit, then her Krav Maga class. She’d just called customer service to double-check her credit card balance and was now on hold.

  “What’s up, Ms. Samira?” asked Noah Lowe as he carefully set her tiny pitcher of cream on the table. Brown-skinned with short black hair and glasses, today he wore a Star Trek T-shirt that said I’m Not Worried About the Kobayashi Maru and a pair of worn jeans that showed a good inch or more of his skinny ankles in white socks.

  “Looks like we’re not the only ones working today,” Jonah Lowe said glumly, handing her a napkin and spoon for her pot of tea, which a server had already delivered a minute ago. His Star Trek T-shirt said This Is Your Future Captain Speaking. He pointed to her briefcase and paperwork. “That looks like hard stuff.”

  “What’s wrong, guys?” She tried to tune out the elevator hold music blaring in her ear. “You wanted to sleep late today?”

  “Yeah,” Noah said. “Cause our mom and James are still on their honeymoon.”

  “And they didn’t take us,” Jonah added, his scowl deepening.

  “We figured if they’re taking two weeks off from work, we shouldn’t have to work, either,” Noah said. “But Mom said we don’t get our allowance if we don’t work, so we had to show up.”

  “Wow,” Samira said, trying not to grin. Miranda, their mother and Java Nectar’s owner, ran a tight ship. “That’s tough.”

  “I know!” Jonah brightened with sudden inspiration. “Do you think we could sue her, or something? For child labor?”

  Samira covered her twitching mouth with her hand and tried to look grave. “I’m not sure about that. Do you think it’s good for a family if the boys go around suing their mother?”

  “Well, she’s breaking the law!” Noah said, sweeping his arms wide in his outrage. “How can we keep working like this? This can’t be good for little kids!”

  “How long are you working today?” Samira asked.

  “A whole hour!” Jonah said.

  Somehow Samira managed to choke back her laughter. “Yeah, I don’t really think that’s a sue-able offense, guys. Sorry.”

  But the boys looked undeterred as they turned to go. Noah hooked his arm around Jonah’s shoulder and they put their heads together. “I think that was a good idea, man. Do you think we’ve saved enough to hire a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s look at our bank statements!”

  They raced away just as the music in Samira’s ear abruptly cut off and a female voice came back on the line. “I double-checked, Ms. Palmer. You have a zero balance.”

  “But I haven’t paid the bill,” Samira said, flabbergasted.

  “We received an online money transfer for the full amount this morning,” the woman said. “I can send you an e-mail confirmation, if you’d like?”

  “Yeah, because I think there’s been some mistake—oh, my God.” Samira smacked her forehead as a logical explanation hit her. “I think my parents must have paid my bill.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Yeah. My wedding got canceled at the last minute, and they wanted to pay for all the nonrefundable charges, but I told them not to do that. Looks like they didn’t listen. I hope they didn’t tap into their retirement accounts for this. Can you do me a favor? What’s the name of the bank the payment came from?”

  “Let me see… Here it is. It’s got a French name I can’t pronounce, and it’s on the Boulevard Saint-Germain in Paris. You’ll see it in the e-mail.”

  Samira froze, her heart threatening to pound out of her chest. It couldn’t be.

  “A…French bank, did you say?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Did you need anything else from me today?”

  “Just the e-mail,” Samira said, feeling dazed. “Thanks. Bye.”

  She hung up just as Melody crept up to the table with her shoulders hunched and her head ducked, looking like the guilty party that she was.

  Samira fired right up at the sight of her. Last night’s interlude with Baptiste had left her more unsettled than ever—hard to keep a guy at arm’s length when you’d already slept with him, spent half the night on the phone with him and practically had phone sex with him—and Melody was the so-called friend who’d handed Samira over to him.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kick your ass right now, Benedict Freaking Arnold,” Samira said.

  “You know what Buddha said.” Melody flashed her cheesiest grin. “‘Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.’”

  “Yeah? Well, false friends are worse than bitter enemies. Scottish proverb.”

  “Oh, get over it,” Melody snapped, abandoning her I’m so ashamed routine in favor of open defiance as she slid into her chair and put her bag down. “I liked him. I think he’s good for you. Let’s move on.”

  “Luckily for you, I’ve got bigger fish to fry than dealing with your treacherous betrayal,” Samira said. “You’re not going to believe what I just found out.”

  “Yeah, you’re not going to believe what I just found out, either.”

  Samira paused, not caring for the grim tone. Didn’t she already have enough on her plate at the moment without additional drama from Melody?

  “What is it?”

  “You go first,” Melody said.

  “Fine. I just got off the phone with my credit card company. I think Baptiste paid my bill.”

  “What? How much?”

  “All of it!”

  Melody’s lower jaw popped open, but she recovered quickly. “And he didn’t mention it to you?”

  “No.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “No idea.”

  “How did
he do it?”

  “I don’t know.” Samira thought back, straining her memory banks. “Well, I mean, I lost my statement the night of the party. I had it in my little clutch. I remember that much. But it disappeared. That’s why I had to call just now to find out my exact balance.”

  Melody looked aghast. “You’re not suggesting that Baptiste rummaged through your purse—?”

  Samira tried that on for size and discovered she couldn’t make it work. Maybe she was criminally naive or delusional, but she just couldn’t picture Baptiste as a snoop. Some people did stuff like that out of jealousy or possessiveness, but Baptiste?

  “No,” she said firmly as a sudden memory hit her. “Hang on. I did drop my purse when I was in his hotel room. I don’t know, maybe he found the statement…?”

  Melody leaned in, her eyes aglow with excitement. “Well, what’re you going to do about your new sugar daddy?”

  Samira gasped. “You think I should keep the money?”

  Melody shrugged. “He wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t have the money to spare.”

  “Maybe he thinks it’s a loan…?”

  “Doubtful,” Melody said firmly, pursing her lips.

  She sounded dead certain, which sparked Samira’s curiosity. “What makes you so sure? And why the face?”

  Melody drummed her fingers on the table and stared at her, pausing long enough to allow a lump of dread to grow in Samira’s belly. “Have you, ah, looked him up online yet?”

  “No…?”

  Disbelieving snort from Melody. “What is this? Nineteen-eighty? What kind of woman sleeps with a man and doesn’t look him up?”

  “I haven’t had a chance yet. I planned to a little later.”

  “Just don’t kill the messenger, okay? I hate to be the bearer of this news, but it seems especially relevant now.”

  Samira’s dread flared like a sunspot. “Oh, God. Please do not tell me Baptiste is gay, too.”

  “Oh, no, honey,” Melody said quickly, waving a hand. “Nothing like that.”

  Samira all but collapsed with relief. “Well, what is it? Stop beating around the bush.”

  Without a word, Melody got out her phone, pulled something up and handed it over. “Just scroll through.”