by Donna Hill
With all the conversations and activity buzzing around them, it gave Layla the opportunity to unscramble her thoughts and emotions. She couldn’t figure Maurice out, she thought as she watched him mesmerize the waitress with that smile as he placed his order of ribs, collard greens and potato salad. Was he putting her on? Was he for real in his apparent attraction to her? Was this all some elaborate ruse to get back in her panties? She didn’t know. How could she be sure of anything? Brent had done a real number on her sense of self, her sexuality, her desirability. Maybe she was simply too needy, still too raw and hurt and was getting mixed signals. She touched her finger to her lips that still felt the pull of his, held the sweet taste of him. She squirmed in her seat.
“Some wine or would you prefer your favorite?” he asked softly pulling her back into his magic web.
Layla rested her gaze on him. Don’t over think this. See how it goes. It’s only dinner. “Yes, wine, thanks.”
Maurice signaled the waiter and requested a bottle of merlot.
“To being human,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast.
Layla flushed. She lightly tapped her glass to his. “That remains to be seen,” she tossed back and enjoyed the look of pleasant surprise that lit his eyes.
“Touché. What would I have to do exactly to show you the human side of Maurice Lawson?”
This was her chance to perhaps get beyond the imaginary wall that he’d set up around himself. She knew that there was so much more to him than sex in a bottle that needed to come with a warning label. But she knew that she would have to tread lightly.
She lifted her chin ever so slightly. “Well…you could start by telling me what you do when you’re not here seducing unsuspecting masseuses.”
He looked at her for a moment and then tossed his head back and laughed, a deep soul-stirring laugh that rumbled deliciously in her center. It was infectious. She couldn’t help but join him.
His laughter slowly diminished but the soft smile remained. “I’m a computer engineer consultant for lack of a better set of terms.”
Layla took a sip of her wine. “Sounds impressive. What does it mean?”
He chuckled. “I get called in to evaluate systems, set them up, redesign them based on the needs of the organization.”
“That must keep you busy.”
He nodded and reached for his glass. He took a sip and set his glass back down. “It does. Busy enough.”
“Is that what you went to school for?”
A shadow passed across his face. “No.” He paused for a moment as if contemplating saying anything further. “I learned it in the Navy.”
“Oh.”
The waiter arrived with their food and Layla’s stomach sang joyfully in response. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Maurice opened his linen napkin and spread it on his lap. Layla did the same.
“Now let’s see if B. Smith’s lives up to its reputation.”
They dug in and for the first ten minutes the only sound between them was clinking forks and murmurs of delight.
Halfway through the meal, when their appetites were partially satiated, Maurice asked her how she’d gotten into the massage business.
She took a sip of wine to clear her palate. “Well, it was always a dream of mine to have my own business. I love the feeling of bringing comfort to others. I believe the touch has the ability to heal in many ways. It took me a while to finish all my classes so I worked as a journalist for a few years.”
“Multitalented.”
She smiled as her right brow lifted. “I suppose. So, I trained, learned everything that I could.” Flashes of Brent raced through her head, halting her in mid-sentence.
Maurice tipped his head to the side, his expression questioning.
She reached for her wineglass and found it empty.
Maurice lifted the bottle and refilled her glass.
“Thank you,” she murmured and took a hungry sip.
“That bad?”
Her eyes jumped to his face then darted away. “It was,” she finally admitted. “Not all of it. Just the end.”
“Bad endings tend to linger.”
Her gaze rose and settled on his face. His expression told a hundred stories at once. All she wanted was one. The story of what happened to him.
“What was your bad ending?”
His jaw tightened. She watched his Adam’s apple moved up and down as if the words wanted to get out but couldn’t.
“Not very good dinner conversation,” he said finally. “Let’s leave it at that.”
She pressed her lips together then turned her attention back to her remaining dinner. “So, when you are not out rewiring the world, what do you like to do?”
He chuckled, and she peeked up at him through her long lashes and the shadow was gone. Just like that. He was so unsettling.
“Believe it or not, I play piano. A group of us get together to do a gig every now and then. Local stuff. At least we used to,” he added as an afterthought.
“What?” She beamed at him. “Piano? You certainly have the fingers for it.” And as soon as the words were out of her mouth she felt her entire body heat with the memory of what those long fingers had done to her body. He remembered too. She could see it in the darkening of his gaze. The air between them charged.
“Can I show you the dessert menu?” the waiter asked, appearing as if summoned by some unseen hand.
“Nothing for me,” Maurice said, his voice thick.
Layla swallowed over the hot tight knot in her throat. “No. Thank you.” She forced herself to look up at the waiter to break the spell between her and Maurice.
“I’ll take the check,” Maurice said to the waiter but he never took his eyes off of Layla. The waiter handed him the check from his pad and took his credit card.
Layla was breathing too fast, but she couldn’t slow it down, not with him staring at her as if she was dessert. There was a lusty hunger in his eyes that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She shifted ever so slightly in her seat to relieve the building pressure between her thighs.
Layla made her mouth work. “How long have you played?” she asked in a whisper thin voice.
“Since I was a kid. My mother thought it would keep me out of trouble. Piano lessons every Wednesday and Saturday.” He chuckled lightly at the distant memory.
She tried to imagine him as a little dark-eyed boy, propped up on a stool to reach the keys. The vision made her smile.
“All the lessons must have paid off. I guess you had to give it up when you went into the Navy,” she said tentatively.
“Not entirely. When we did have a chance to go on leave or blow off some steam, I always tried to get in some time to play. It relaxes me.”
“So. you picked it right back up…since you’ve been home.”
He shrugged and looked into the depths of his wineglass.
“I’d love to hear you play sometime.”
His gaze slowly moved to hers.
The waiter returned with his receipt and credit card.
“Ready?” he asked effectively halting that last line of conversation.
Was that another land mine that she’d stepped on?
Maurice rose slowly from his seat. She watched his mouth tighten as he stood. He straightened and reached for his cane.
She started to get up, to keep him from having to go through the ordeal of helping her from her seat when she could see that he was in pain. But the dark look of warning that he threw at her rooted her to her seat.
He took her arm and she slowly stood. “I’m not a cripple,” he hissed from between his teeth. Fury and something she couldn’t describe hovered in his eyes. Shame?
Layla opened her mouth to protest but she was already being u
shered outside. He wordlessly led her around to the passenger side and opened her door.
Her whole body jerked when he slammed his door. She folded her arms tightly around her waist. She could feel her temper rising, bubbling like a pot of water turned on high. She whirled toward him.
“I don’t know what your issues are, and quite frankly, right now I don’t give a damn. Maybe you need to have a list of acceptable topics that your twisted personality is willing to discuss. You’re a miserable, hurtful man who acts like the whole world is out to pity you. And you know what, I do. Not because of your injury. That’s your issue. I pity you because you want to wallow in your misery and you’ll always be alone if you do. And that’s what’s sad.” Her chest heaved with the effort of her tirade and her pulsed pounded. “Take me home.”
She swung away from him and turned her face to the window, biting on her bottom lip to keep from crying.
Maurice didn’t utter a word. He turned on the car, backed out of the space and started back.
Layla didn’t even comprehend that they’d returned until felt her door being opened. Her head jerked upward. Maurice was standing over her with his hand extended. She clasped her purse in her left hand, ignored his, got out of the car and brushed by him.
She stormed off down the path to her cottage.
“Layla. Wait.”
Her heart pounded. She kept walking.
“I can’t run after you.”
The words stuttered her steps. She slowed, stopped and then turned around. Seeing him standing there, silhouetted against the backdrop of moonlight, magnified how incredibly hurt and alone he was. Her heart constricted.
“You can walk to me, though,” she said with a lift of her chin.
He started coming toward her, and she felt like she was in one of those scenes from a romance movie where the hero comes home to his lady love. And then he was standing in front of her, and she was thankful for her heels that gave her the height to meet him.
His hand slid through her hair, clasping her behind her head. His eyes were on fire and they seared her skin as they grazed across her face.
“Show me how to be different,” he said on a ragged whisper. “Tell me how to reconcile my two worlds. Teach me what you know about healing, because I’m all messed up inside.”
Her throat squeezed and a tear spilled down her cheek. She took the hand that held her head and brought it to her side and led him into her cottage.
Chapter 13
The door shut behind them. Layla turned and stared into his eyes. She leaned up a bit and touched her lips to his and felt the vibration of his moan against her mouth. His arm snaked around her waist and her lips parted.
His tongue invaded her mouth, toyed with her, stoked her fire, and she eagerly returned the pleasure. This time it was Layla that eased away. She cupped his face in her hands.
“You’re not going to use your incredible sex appeal to distract me. Not this time.”
Maurice grinned. “I’m losing my charms all ready?”
She took his hand. “Come. Let’s sit.”
Maurice made himself comfortable on the couch. Layla stood in front of him. He reached out and clasped her thighs. His thumbs traced the soft insides and she shuddered. His hands moved up under her short dress, and suddenly she gripped his wrist with a strength that surprised them both.
She shook her head slowly back and forth and stepped out of his grasp. “I have the fixing for a mojito. Want one?”
Maurice leaned back. Absently he rubbed his injured leg. “Sure.”
She whirled away and sauntered over to the small kitchen area. She could feel Maurice’s eyes on her and she took full advantage. She stretched to reach the bottle and mojito mix in the cabinet and bent low to get the ice from the bottom drawer freezer. Within moments her favorite beverage was whirling in the blender.
She poured them into two large goblets and returned to the couch. She handed Maurice his glass and sat down beside him, then took off her shoes and tucked her leg beneath her. She angled her body to face him. “To healing,” she said.
Maurice paused a moment and then touched his glass to hers. “Healing.”
Layla took a long, cooling swallow. She was still unsure of what limits Maurice would throw in her way. Although he’d agreed to a truce of sorts and accepted his awfulness, he’d done it before. She’d been taken in before by his charm, by the carnal sensuality that seeped from his pores. She couldn’t let him get the upper hand again. He was a man used to issuing orders and having them obeyed and that trait obviously spilled over into his everyday life. She drew in a breath of resolve.
“One of the first things that I learned about the healing power of touch was that both the giver and the receiver had to open themselves fully, release themselves of everything except the moment, the sensation of touch. The giver’s mind must be clear so as not to transmit any of their negative energy to the receiver.”
“I’ve had all kinds of massages, therapy, heat, cold treatment, pain pills…you name it.” He sighed heavily. “They barely worked. But you…” His gaze connected with hers and she instantly felt that pull again.
“Maybe it was the first time you really allowed yourself to let go of the pain. When you do, the relief will come.” Her eyes skimmed over his face that looked back at her with a mixture of awe and skepticism. She hesitated, mentally debated on how far she should go. “You’re holding on to more than physical pain,” she said slowly. She waited to gauge his reaction. “Whatever you have buried inside is more painful than the injury to your leg.”
He looked away. Her pulse quickened but no emotional land mines blew up in her face. At least not yet.
Maurice draped his arm along the length of the couch. “You seem to have the superpowers to see inside my dark soul,” he said in a mocking tone. “What about you? What lies beneath all the loveliness?”
Layla picked up her drink. She brought the glass to her lips. “Okay. Quid pro quo. I tell something, you tell me something. Fair enough?”
He studied her for a moment. “You’re serious?”
“Very.”
His eyes registered amusement. He chuckled. “All right. Ladies first.” His mouth hinted at a smile.
She lifted a finger. “But each revelation has to be of equal value.”
His brow rose. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, if I confess that I attempted suicide you can’t come back and with, you’re allergic to ice cream.”
Maurice let out a deep chuckle. “Fair enough. And one more caveat.”
“Yes?”
“I get to call a halt.”
Layla considered this a moment. In the corner of her mind she understood that even though he was giving in a little, he wasn’t going to turn over all control. If she intended to make whatever this thing was work at all, she was going to have to meet him halfway.
“Fair enough,” she finally said. She folded her hands on her lap. “My middle name is Marie,” she said to break the confession ice.
That brought a smile to his face. “And my middle name is David.”
“Maurice David Lawson.” She smiled. “Has a nice ring to it. I’m an only child.”
“So am I,” he returned
Layla twisted her lips in thought. “I have a degree in journalism, but I don’t really like it.”
“I got my degree in the Navy like I mentioned before. I dropped out of college.”
“Why?”
His gaze slid to hers. “Questions are part of the quid pro quo?”
“Hmm, we can adjust the rules as we go,” she hedged.
“Then there’s no point in having rules.”
She crossed her legs and felt the heat of his gaze run along her limbs. “Point taken.” She paused. “I grew up in Brooklyn, New York
. I’ve lived there most of my life. When I graduated from college I moved to the West Village.”
“Louisiana. My family is from Baton Rouge.”
Her heart thumped. The family line had been crossed.
“Are they still there?”
It was as if a veil lowered over his face. The light in his eyes dimmed. He reached for his glass and took a long swallow and then another like he was fortifying himself.
“I suppose. I haven’t spoken with them in years,” he finally said, as he gazed off into the distance.
She desperately wanted to ask him why, but he’d put the brakes on questions. She tried another approach. “Too bad family can’t be like friends. You can pick your friends, but not your family.”
“The few friends that I do have make up for the family that I don’t.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “I have some great friends, too. Desiree for one. We’ve been friends since college. And Melanie and I are god-sisters.”
“Well connected.”
“Yeah. Desi is how I wound up here. Made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” she said in a bad Marlon Brando impersonation.
That brought his devastating smile back. “Don’t give up your day job.”
Layla giggled.
He stroked her cheek with the tip of his finger. Her breath caught.
“I like hearing you laugh.” His voice dropped an octave and settled in that place deep in her belly. “You should do it more often.”
“So should you. You have a wonderful smile.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Rule change.”
“Rule change?”
“Yes. I want to ask you a question.”
“Sure. But only if I get to ask you one.”
He nodded in agreement.
She folded her arms and waited.
“Why did you leave after…?”
Layla’s face heated. She looked away and shifted in her seat. “Wasn’t expecting that,” she murmured.
“Is that your final answer?” he asked, his tone teasing.
She pressed down a smile then looked into his eyes. “Scared I suppose.”
“Of what?”
