Griffin approached Belinda, beckoning. “Come, darling. I want to introduce you to a client who’s also a good friend. Keith, this is Belinda Eaton. Belinda, Keith Ennis.”
Belinda was too starstruck to register Griffin’s endearment as she smiled at the larger-than-life superstar ballplayer. His sparkling raven-black eyes, shaved head, mahogany-hued smooth skin and trimmed silky mustache and goatee were mesmerizing.
She offered him her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Keith raised the delicate hand that he had swallowed up in his much larger one. “I can’t believe Rice has been holding out on me,” he crooned, winking, his baritone voice lowering seductively. “Where has he been hiding you?” he asked Belinda.
A rush of heat stung her cheeks. “I’ve been around.”
Griffin looped a proprietary arm around Belinda’s waist. “Sorry, man, but she’s not available.”
“If the lovely lady is unavailable, then why isn’t there a ring on her finger, Rice?”
Belinda grimaced when she felt the bite of Griffin’s fingers as they tightened on her waist. She flashed Keith a tight smile. “Please excuse me. I’m going upstairs to get Sabrina and Layla so they can meet you before the others arrive.”
Belinda mentioning his meeting Griffin’s nieces reminded Keith why he’d come to his attorney’s home. His team had played a Saturday afternoon game, and he’d planned to unwind at his condo with the woman who usually kept him occupied during home games. However, Griffin got him to change his mind and his plans when he gave him a generous check as a donation to his alma mater.
Keith’s gaze lingered briefly on Belinda Eaton before coming back to rest on Griffin’s scowling face. “Look, man, I know I was out of line.”
“You were.” The two words were cold, exacting.
Keith recoiled as if he’d been struck. “Will you accept my apology?”
The seconds ticked off, the silence swelling and growing more uncomfortable with each tick. Griffin’s face was a glowering mask of controlled fury. His client had stepped over the line. He’d taken Keith Ennis, a naturally talented athlete from a disadvantaged Baltimore neighborhood to instant superstar status with a five-year multimillion-dollar contract, along with high-profile product endorsements.
Griffin was normally laid-back, quick to smile, slow to anger and willing to give anyone three strikes. Unfortunately, Keith Ennis had just used up one of his three. He angled his head. “That’s something I’m going to have to think about. Can I get you something to drink?” he asked in the same breath.
Keith flashed a tremulous grin. “Sure.”
* * *
Layla and Sabrina stared at their sport idol, tongue-tied as Griffin snapped pictures of them shaking hands with Keith, flanking him when they posed as a group picture and when he autographed their brag books. The ballplayer, seeking redemption for his misstep, signed autographs for their teachers and fellow students. Clutching their treasured memorabilia to their chests, the sisters raced upstairs to text their friends.
* * *
Griffin and Belinda became the consummate host and hostess as they greeted guests with exotic cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. The Moroccan-style meatballs, deviled eggs with capers, mini crab cakes and beluga caviar on toast points were the highlight of the cocktail hour.
It didn’t take Belinda long to understand why her sister liked socializing at Griffin’s house. Excellent food, top-shelf liquor, friendly, outgoing guests and an attentive host made for certain success.
The thirtysomething crowd included college classmates, frat brothers and three newlywed couples. She knew a few of the guests were surprised to see her as hostess, but they soon got used to it. The music, which included old-school and new-school jams, had several couples up and dancing when everyone filed out of the dining room to the back porch.
It was ten o’clock when Keith bid his farewell, saying he had to get up early for batting practice. Others followed suit over the next hour. Griffin paid and tipped the bartender, the chef and waitstaff, then led Belinda out to the patio, seating her on a cushioned chaise. The outdoor fireplace emitted enough heat to warm the mid-forty-degree temperature. Dozens of candles lining a long wooden table flickered, competing with millions of stars in the clear night sky.
Belinda slipped off her heels. “I’m going to need a throw or a blanket,” she said, as Griffin joined her on the chaise.
Griffin nuzzled her neck. “I’ll warm you up.” Without warning, he effortlessly lifted her so that she sat between his outstretched legs. “Lean back against me.”
Fatigue swept over her, and she closed her eyes. “It was a nice little get-together.”
“It was nice,” Griffin said in agreement, as he, too, closed his eyes.
She opened her eyes and peered up at him over her shoulder. “Some of your friends were somewhat surprised when you introduced me as your hostess. Were they perhaps expecting to see you with some other woman?”
Griffin opened his eyes. “I don’t know what they expected, Belinda, because I’ve never concerned myself with how other folks see me. If I did, then I’d stop being who I am. And I deliberately didn’t introduce you as my brother’s sister-in-law because I felt it was none of their business.”
“Did you tell Keith that I’m the girls’ aunt?”
“Nope.”
“Do you plan on telling him?”
“Nope.”
“Why are you so monosyllabic?”
Using a minimum of effort and movement, Griffin changed positions until Belinda lay under him. “I don’t feel very much like talking, Miss Eaton, because I’d rather do this.”
She knew Griffin was going to kiss her, but was helpless to stop him. The truth was she didn’t want to stop him. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d replayed him kissing her over and over—in and out of bed. Griffin had ignited a spark that grew hotter and more intense each time she saw him. A part of her wanted him to stay away—the sensible Belinda. Then there was the other Belinda—the sexually frustrated woman who hadn’t slept with a man in three years.
Blood-pounding desire rushed through her veins. Her lips parted, she swallowed Griffin’s warm, moist breath as his mouth covered hers in a hungry joining that left them tearing at each other’s clothes. Belinda grasped the back of his sweater, pulling it up from his waist and baring flesh in her journey to get to know every part of Griffin Rice. She’d become addicted to him, his scent and the hard contours of his toned, slender body.
Griffin kissed Belinda with an outward calm that belied his hunger to take her—on the chaise and without protection. One hand slipped under her blouse, while the other slid up her inner thighs. The heat coming from between her legs was an inferno. Belinda was on fire, the flames spreading and racing out of control. He fastened his mouth over a breast, the nipple hardening when he suckled her through the cup of her lace bra.
“You are exquisite,” he whispered, pressing his groin to hers so she could feel how much he wanted and needed her.
Looping her arms under Griffin’s shoulders, Belinda held on to him as if he were her lifeline while waves of ecstasy rocked her like a ship in a storm. He suckled one breast, then the other before trailing moist kisses down her belly. She was hot, then cold as Griffin released the zipper on her slacks, pushing them down her thighs; his head replaced his hands as he pressed his face to the apex of her legs.
Griffin inhaled the womanly essence through the scrap of silk. His longing to be inside Belinda bordered on insanity, but sanity won out when he moved up the length of her quivering body, his heart pounding in his chest like a jackhammer. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the chaise.
“One of these days we’re going to finish this,” he promised.
Belinda nodded rather than speak. She was afraid, afraid that she would
beg Griffin to make love to her on the chaise and out in the open where Sabrina or Layla could possibly discover them. Raising her hips, she eased up and zipped her slacks and adjusted her top. An owl hooted in the distance as she reached for her shoes.
She stood up and stared at the outline of broad shoulders in the muted darkness. Griffin was so still he could’ve been a statue. “Good night, Griffin, and don’t forget to put out the candles.”
Getting up from the chaise, Griffin smiled at the woman who’d wound herself into his life and his heart. “Good night, Lindy.”
Chapter 7
“Miss Ferguson, please take your seat. Mr. Evans, you know the rules. No hats or do-rags.” The high school administration had banned cell phones and do-rags for male students while classes were in session. Students had to wear picture IDs, and they’d installed metal detectors because of an incident in which one student stabbed and killed another with a knife he’d concealed under his cap. Their attempt to ban gang colors was voted down by the school board, and the result was a proliferation of red, blue and gold bandannas and jackets.
Belinda knew her students were restless and looking forward to spring break, and she was no exception. She would use the week to sleep in late, weed her flower garden, clean out her closets and hopefully catch up on her reading.
Sabrina and Layla, who attended a private school, had begun their spring break two days before their public school counterpart. They were on a week-long class trip that would take them from Washington, D.C., to Williamsburg, Virginia, and finally the Gettysburg National Military Park before returning. With the girls away and Griffin in Chicago on business, if it hadn’t been for Cecil and Nigel’s barking the house would’ve been as silent as a tomb. The past two mornings she’d gotten up early to take care of the puppies, and she knew she couldn’t linger after classes because she needed to get home to see after them.
“Miss Eaton, tell Brent to get out of my seat.”
Belinda let out an audible sigh. “Mr. Wiley, please find your own seat.”
Brent Wiley took his time sliding off the chair to sit on another in the next row, all the while glaring at the petite, dark-haired female student with whom he had a love-hate, on-again, off-again relationship since the school year began. Their enmity escalated when it was rumored that Petra Rutherford was dating a rival gang member.
He pointed a finger at her. “I’m gonna fix you, ho!”
Petra Rutherford jumped up. “Your momma’s a ho, bitch!”
Belinda had had enough. “Mr. Wiley, out!”
Brent Wiley knew the drill. Whenever Miss Eaton ordered a student out of her classroom it meant a visit to the dean. It also meant a call home, and that meant big trouble for him. His old man was on his back because some of his friends were in a gang, but what Brent couldn’t understand was that his pops had been in a gang when he was in his teens, did a bid in prison but after he was paroled found religion. Pushing back his chair, Brent stood up. He nodded to another boy, pulled up his baggy jeans, then gathered his books and left the classroom.
Belinda waited until she had everyone’s attention. She glared at Petra. “Miss Rutherford, count yourself lucky, because you also should be in the dean’s office.”
Petra rolled her eyes. “I ain’t gonna let nobody call me a ho,” she mumbled under her breath.
Leaning against the front of her desk, Belinda crossed her legs at the ankles. The girls sitting in the front row glanced down at her shoes and smiled at one another. She knew the female students in particular monitored what she wore. On several occasions they’d ask if a jacket or blouse was new because they hadn’t seen it before, which led Belinda to believe they were cataloguing her wardrobe.
She felt it important to wear business attire, unlike those teachers who sometimes wore jeans and sweats. Today she wore taupe linen gabardine slacks with a white silk man-tailored shirt and waist-length tan suede jacket. Her footwear was a pair of brown leather pumps. Not only was she an educator but also a role model for her students. In order to be a professional she also had to look the part.
“Yesterday I gave out copies of three things—two newspaper cartoons and one photograph. I wanted you to analyze them and write a paragraph on what message the cartoonist and photographer are trying to express.” A hand went up in the back of the room. “Yes, Mr. Sanchez.”
“The photograph with the man holding a sign with Burn All Reds is expressing his hatred for communists.”
“You’re right, Mr. Sanchez. But couldn’t he just as easily been protesting fascists, immigrants or even the police officers you see in the photograph?”
“No way, Miss Eaton. I showed my grandpa the picture and he said the woman holding the sign, Rosenberg Traitors Must Die For Their Crime, was because the Rosenbergs who were communists sold the atom bomb secrets to the Russians.”
Belinda smiled. It wasn’t easy to engage her students about what they considered “old news” that had nothing to do with their lives. “Did your grandfather tell you what happened to the Rosenbergs?”
Jaime Sanchez flashed a wide smile. “They lit up the commie bastards in the electric chair.”
Belinda shifted so the students wouldn’t see her smirk as they laughed loudly. She didn’t think she would ever get used to their colorful language. She tried to keep the use of expletives in her classroom to a minimum, but knew she was fighting a losing cause.
“Yes,” she said, “they were found guilty of spying for the Soviet Union and sentenced to death by execution. Does anyone else have a comment about the photograph?” No hands went up as students lounged in their seats as if in their living rooms. “I need someone to analyze the cartoon from the Birmingham News dated June 27, 2002. It’s a picture of Uncle Sam with a copy of the Constitution, holding a pencil with the word security stamped on it. Uncle Sam’s thinking, So...where do I draw the line?
“What is the central focus of this cartoon drawn after September 11, 2001? Is the cartoonist saying that the United States should abandon the Constitution, or...” Belinda’s words stopped when she saw a student get up and open the window. “Sit down, Mr. Greer,” she ordered when he reached out the window.
The words were barely off her tongue when sunlight glinted on a shiny object in the student’s hand. “Everybody get down!” Belinda screamed before an explosion and flash of light changed the lives of all in the classroom.
Televised footage of past school shootings came back with vivid clarity. Belinda struggled to remember the protocol for such an incident. How was it she could remember the tragic faces of parents and students but not what she’d been told if a similar situation occurred at her school?
It was the second gunshot that jolted her into action as shards of glass and plaster rained down on those huddled under desks. She had to alert the office to initiate an immediate school lockdown. The wail of approaching sirens drowned out the sounds of students’ screams when two more shots shattered the windows. The classroom was under siege as shell casings littered the floor.
Belinda knew it was impossible to reach the wall phone installed in each classroom without exposing herself to the gunman. Crawling on her belly, she opened the lower drawer of the desk, grabbing her handbag. She found her cell and punched in three digits. Her voice was surprisingly calm when she told the 911 operator what was happening. The operator told her that someone else had called in the gunfire and first responders would be there in minutes.
She placed another call—to her mother—and then prayed.
* * *
Griffin sat at the conference room table with the senior vice president of an upscale clothing manufacturer, staring numbly at downtown Chicago through the wall-to-wall window in a towering office building.
Oakley Donovan wanted to offer GR Sports Enterprises, Limited, a lucrative seven-figure deal for a flamboyant tennis pro to model sportswear
for next year’s spring and summer line. He would’ve agreed to the deal, yet held out because he wanted Oakley Donovan to commit to all four seasons. A deal which should’ve been inked in one day but was now into its fourth.
Before he boarded the flight to Chicago, Griffin and Belinda saw their nieces off as they got the bus with twenty-eight other seventh graders for their class trip. She drove him to the airport, and his flight touched down at O’Hare forty minutes before his scheduled meeting. Instead of checking into a hotel he took a taxi directly to Donovan’s office building where he was told that Oakley Donovan’s wife had gone into labor, giving birth to a baby boy, and he regretfully had to postpone their meeting.
Griffin informed Donovan’s executive assistant that he could be reached at the Palmer House in the event that the new father wanted to set up another meeting. During the two days it took for Donovan to reschedule, Griffin attended a Cubs versus Mets baseball game at Wrigley Field, sent Donovan’s wife a gift basket for the newborn and sampled the much-touted Chicago hot dog and deep-dish pizza. He became a tourist, picking up souvenir caps and T-shirts for Sabrina, Layla and Belinda.
He’d planned to spend the week at Belinda’s house if he hadn’t had the Chicago meeting. Having her so close whenever she slept under his roof and kissing her under the guise of a greeting had begun to test the limits of his patience, of which he had very little.
Griffin laced his fingers together and counted slowly to ten. “It’s unfortunate you’ll only commit to the spring and summer, because if you decide to use Keats for subsequent seasons, then the price goes up exponentially.”
Oakley Donovan found it hard to concentrate. He still hadn’t recovered from witnessing the birth of his first son, whom his third and much younger wife insisted on naming after him. “How much more, Rice?”
Griffin’s head came up and he stared at the man, who at fifty-nine, should’ve been rocking his grandchildren instead of a newborn. Oakley Donovan reminded him of a shark—he was all teeth. But he wasn’t taken in by the wide grin and genteel manner. Under the custom-made shirt, handmade silk tie and tailored suit beat the cold heart of a shark. Donovan sold a likeness of a model to a cigarette manufacturer without securing a release from the model. It took a decade for the model to settle for an amount, which had made him quite wealthy. He knew Oakley wanted tennis ace David Keats to model his clothing line and Griffin was prepared to hold out until Oakley met his price.
Forever an Eaton: Bittersweet LoveSweet Deception Page 9
