She turned to find Faye staring at her. “Sure,” she said much too quickly.
Faye sat down next to Alana, studying her closely. She knew there was something wrong with her friend, but decided it was not the time or place to question her. They’d come to Long Island to have fun and make lots of money while doing it.
Alana forced a smile. “What’s up with you and Hakim? I hope you got his number.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What!”
Faye winked at her. “I gave him mine.”
Alana returned the wink despite her throbbing temples. “Now, that’s my girl.”
Faye had told Hakim she wouldn’t be able to go out with him until after Labor Day because she was working on a special project. What she didn’t tell him was that the project was working as an escort.
“After Bart introduced you two, I saw you hanging on to Lowell Knight.”
Alana massaged her temples with her fingertips. “It was all for show.”
“Nice performance.”
“It’s not like that anymore, Faye. I’m totally committed to Calvin. “
But is Calvin totally committed to you? Faye wanted to ask.
“What time are you leaving?” Alana asked. The party was winding down and the crowd was beginning to thin out with the onset of dusk.
“I’m not.”
Alana stared, tongue-tied. “You’re spending the night?”
Faye’s body stiffened in shock. Her best friend’s query was layered with an accusatory tone that set her teeth on edge. “Yes.”
Alana leaned closer. “What the hell are you doing, Faye?” she whispered. “Just because Bartholomew Houghton waves some paper in your face, you’re ready to drop your panties and—”
“Stop it, Lana, and get your mind out of the gutter.” Faye’s voice was low and filled with a seething rage she found hard to control. “You should know me better than that. The man wants me to spend the weekend with him, and sleeping together doesn’t figure into the equation.
“In case you’ve forgotten why I decided to sign on with P.S., Inc., let me refresh your memory. I need money for my brother’s appeal—a lot of money, because most lawyers see rapists and pedophiles as bottom-feeders in the criminal-justice food chain. Even murderers command more respect. So if Bartholomew Houghton wants me to spend a month with him, then I’ll do it. And if it means lying on my back to get the last dollar, then I’ll do that too.”
Alana studied the bright pink polish on her toes rather than meet Faye’s angry gaze. She had forgotten about Craig Ogden Jr. because despite the turmoil going on in the Ogden household Faye always appeared so well adjusted. The only time she saw her lose her composure was after Faye received a letter from her brother informing her that he’d spent a week in the Auburn Correctional Facility hospital recovering from a beating that prison officials documented as an accident at the maximum-security penitentiary.
“I don’t know why I keep forgetting about your brother.” Her head came up. “I’m sorry.”
Faye saw the tears filling Alana’s eyes. “Damn, Alana,” she whispered. “You’d cry if you stepped on an ant. There’s no need to apologize. Please dry it up, Lana, before we both start bawling.”
“Do you have anything for a headache? My head is pounding.”
“No, but I’ll ask Bart if he has some in the house.”
Alana closed her eyes, willing the pain to go away. When she opened them again it was to see Lowell Knight sitting in the chair Faye had vacated, his dark gaze fixed on her face.
“What’s the matter, beautiful?”
She closed her eyes again. “I have a mother of a headache.”
Shifting his chair behind hers, Lowell rested his hands on her shoulders. “Relax,” he crooned as he gently massaged her shoulders and neck. “You’ve got knots everywhere.”
Alana lost herself in the warmth and sensual smell of the body pressed inches from her own, and the strength of the fingers moving sensuously over the nape of her neck. She let down her guard, and for a few minutes she fantasized that it was Calvin’s hands on her bared flesh.
However, reality surfaced when Faye returned with a bottle of water and a tiny paper cup containing two aspirins.
CHAPTER 26
Alana spent the drive from Southampton to Manhattan with her eyes closed and her head in Lowell Knight’s lap. The pounding in her temples had subsided but it was the warmth of the hard thigh under her cheek, the gentle touch of fingertips messaging her temples and the gliding motion from the limo’s smooth suspension that eased her tension headache.
“Come home with me tonight,” Lowell whispered close to her ear, even though he doubted the driver could hear him on the other side of the closed partition.
“I can’t.”
“It’s not as if you have someone waiting for you at home.”
Alana opened her eyes, and sat up, scooting over on the leather seat to put some distance between herself and the handsome architect. She’d confided to Lowell that she was engaged and that her musician fiancé was currently touring with his band.
She glared at him. “I come home with you and we do what?”
Lowell smiled, displaying deep dimples in sable-brown sculpted cheeks. His steady midnight gaze was filled with amusement. “It’s not what you think, Alana.”
Some of the stiffness left her body. “What is it I’m thinking, Lowell? That because my fiancé is out of the country, I’d crawl into bed with you?”
Shaking his head, Lowell moved over and pulled her to his side. He rested his chin on the top of her head, her curly hair tickling his nose. “Are you this distrustful of every man you meet?”
Alana trusted Calvin, yet that hadn’t been the case with the other men she’d been involved with. There was something about Calvin that told her he was the one she wanted to spend the rest of her life with; he was the one whose babies she wanted to have.
“Not every man.”
An inexplicable look of withdrawal came over Lowell’s face. He liked Alana Gardner—a lot. She was beautiful, smart and claimed a sense of humor he found refreshing. She was candid, something he’d found missing in some of the women he knew, and that included his ex-wife, and, despite her affianced status he saw a sadness in Alana she attempted to conceal behind a too bright smile and witty quips.
“I share a brownstone in Fort Greene with my brother and his family. If you don’t feel comfortable staying with me, then you can sleep in a guest bedroom in my brother’s apartment. We’re going to have a block party tomorrow afternoon, so I’d like to invite you to come as my guest.”
Tilting her chin, Alana stared up into the obsidian gaze of the man with sculpted features reminiscent of a carved African mask, and just for an instant regretted her involvement with Calvin. However, the moment passed as quickly as it’d come.
“I’d love to accept, but I’m expecting an overseas telephone call from my fiancé.”
It felt good to refer to Calvin as her fiancé instead of her boyfriend, partner or live-in companion. But on the other hand she wouldn’t have to tell anyone she was engaged if she’d been wearing a ring.
If Lowell was let down by her declination, he did not show it. “Perhaps I can call you at the magazine and we can either meet for lunch or dinner. I will leave that up to you.”
She lowered her gaze. “I can’t, Lowell, because I don’t want to give you the impression that anything could possibly happen between us.” Glancing up, she met his penetrating gaze again, smiling. “Where were you a couple of years ago when I was trolling clubs looking for a together brother?”
Lowell’s mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “Even if you were unattached two years ago I doubt we would’ve met.”
“Why?”
“Because I was going through a divorce, and I’ve never trolled clubs. I’m not looking to get married again—at least not for a few years. I thought we could see each other as friends.”
Pushing against his chest,
Alana straightened. “It wouldn’t work,” she said softly, “because there may come a time when we may want more than friendship.”
“And what would that be, Alana?”
“Sex, Lowell. I’ve never been unfaithful to Calvin.”
Lowell’s expression was tight with exasperation. He never had to try this hard to convince a woman—any woman—to go out with him, but Alana Gardner was testing his patience. “Is that why you’re pining over your globe-trotting musician boyfriend, because he’s promised you marriage?”
Alana’s temper exploded. “Who the hell do you think you are to fix your mouth and say something like that to me?”
A sardonic smile parting his lips, Lowell said, “Lowell Russell Knight.”
Rage made it difficult for Alana to draw a normal breath. Within seconds Lowell had become her father and every man who’d done every woman in the world wrong. They were all egotistical bastards who, like spoiled little boys, wanted what they wanted, and when they couldn’t get their way they either pouted, sulked or went on the defensive.
“Fuck you, Mr. Lowell Russell Knight!” she hissed.
Lowell studied Alana thoughtfully for a moment before he slid over and stared out the side window, swallowing the acrimonious words poised on the tip of his tongue. He was still in the same position, unseeing eyes staring at landmarks he knew like the back of his hand when the driver maneuvered westward along One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, then turned in a southwesterly direction onto Frederick Douglass Boulevard to Central Park West.
He sat up straighter when the chauffer stopped in front of a canopy building facing the park. He opened the rear door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, smiling when Alana slid over and placed her hand in his. Hand in hand he escorted her under the dark red canopy as a doorman in matching maroon livery surreptitiously averted his gaze.
Leaning down, Lowell pressed a kiss to Alana’s cheek. “It would’ve been good, Alana.”
She gave him a long, penetrating look. “It’s too bad we’ll never know.”
“You’re wrong, because one of these days you’re going to regret your decision not to become friends.”
Lowell’s prediction was layered with an arrogance that sickened her. “Goodbye and good luck, Lowell.”
Not waiting for a response, she turned and walked into the lobby, stopping at a wall of mailboxes to retrieve her mail. Flipping through the stack, she looked for a letter or postcard with a London postmark.
Her heart sank. There was nothing from Calvin. Tears blurred her vision as she made her way over to the bank of elevators. By the time she exited the car on the eleventh floor her brain was in tumult, and a war of emotions within her raged uncontrollably.
She opened the door to her apartment, dropping her handbag and keys on the table in the entryway. She didn’t remember undressing, taking a shower or crawling into bed—alone.
What she did remember when she awoke four hours later and peered at the display on her telephone was that Calvin still hadn’t called. Then she did something she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do. She dialed the number to his cell phone.
Her heart pumping a runaway rhythm, her palms moist, a knot forming in her stomach, Alana counted off two rings. She quickly changed her mind, pressing the button to disconnect the call. Her movements were mechanical as she replaced the receiver in the cradle, turned off the bedside lamp, lay down and pulled the sheet up over her head as she’d done as a child whenever she heard her parents arguing.
She’d reverted to a time in her life when she’d pretended she was a princess and all she had to do was make a wish and her prince would come and rescue her.
She would give Calvin McNair another week. If he didn’t call her, then she would call him.
CHAPTER 27
The music stopped and the catering staff finished loading their van when the large orange ball of the sun dropped below the horizon, leaving streaks of red in the darkening sky.
Faye lay on a cushioned chaise, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of fading automobile engines and the lulling, relaxing surge of the incoming tide. She’d swum laps in the pool, joined in a vigorous game of water volleyball, washed off the chlorine in a freestanding shower in the pool house then joined the other partygoers for a leisurely sumptuous buffet, followed by dancing nonstop to music spanning decades.
She loathed moving. If the nighttime temperatures didn’t drop too much, she would be content to spend the night where she lay.
Faye must have dozed off, because something jolted her awake. Within seconds her flesh pebbled. It wasn’t from the cool breeze blowing off the water.
“Would you like a pillow and blanket?”
Her gaze met and held Bart’s in the remaining daylight. “No, thank you.”
Hunkering down beside her, he angled his head. “Would you like to go inside?”
Rising slightly, she patted the cushion on a nearby chaise. “I’m not ready to turn in. But I would like company.” She knew her request shocked him because he went completely still for several seconds then complied, folding his lanky frame down to a nearby matching lounge chair.
Staring up at the spray of stars littering the darkening sky, Bart was able to identify a few visible constellations in the late-spring heavens. He pretended interest in the stars instead of the woman lying less than six inches away. Lights surrounding the house and property were coming on with the encroaching nightfall while everything about Faye Ogden engulfed him in a diaphanous spell, her feminine essence holding him captive.
He closed his eyes, still seeing the play of gold on her satiny skin, her slanting light brown eyes, high, exotic cheekbones, temptingly sensual outline of full lips and her sexy body.
“Did you hire Hakim and Lowell for their looks or for their brains?” Faye said, her query breaking the comfortable silence.
Bart opened his eyes, sat up, blinking in bewilderment. “What did you say?”
Faye’s eyebrows lifted as she struggled not to laugh. “I said, did you hire your black vice presidents because they meet the criteria of tall, dark and hand—”
“Stop it, Faye,” he countered softly, interrupting her. “Do you actually believe I’m that shallow?”
“I don’t know, Bart. You tell me.”
He noticed a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It was apparent she was teasing him. Teasing or not, he wondered if Faye was interested in Hakim, because there no doubt the extremely talented urban planner was interested in her. And it wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned Lowell’s and Hakim’s striking good looks.
Bart lay down again. “It’s just a coincidence that they happen to be the total package.”
“How many people work for you?”
“They don’t work for me, Faye. They’re employed by DHG.”
The seconds ticked off as a swollen silence escalated between the two strangers. And despite Faye’s disclosure to Hakim that she and Bart were friends, the fact remained that they didn’t know enough about each other to claim that designation.
Her expression stilled and grew serious. “Are you always so literal, or is this your subtle way of telling me to mind my business?”
Bart laced his fingers together and positioned them under his head. “I would never do that.” There came another lengthy pause. “What is it you want to know about me?”
Turning over to face him, Faye rested her head on a folded arm. Why hadn’t she noticed the deep timbre of Bart’s voice before? A deep, soft voice filled with a power that defied one not to question or challenge his authority.
“You can begin by telling me a little about Bartholomew Houghton.”
He smiled. If he hadn’t endeavored to keep out of the spotlight, he knew Faye wouldn’t have asked him to talk about himself.
“There’s not much to tell.”
“Then tell me whatever you’re willing to disclose.”
Bart shifted on his chaise, staring directly at her. “I’m fifty, widowed and have no
children. I was born upstate about thirty miles west of Albany. I grew up dirt poor. My father did odd jobs to keep a roof over our heads, and my mother worked in a dress factory and a local diner on weekends to put food on the table. The year I turned twelve, everything changed. Dad was hired as caretaker for the Rhinebeck Academy. We moved out of a rented trailer and into a three-bedroom house in the Hudson Valley. Dad took the position because he had steady work, a decent place to live and his sons were offered a tuition-free prep-school education.”
“Which means you were given the advantage of a privileged education,” Faye said, smiling.
Bart returned her smile, the expression deepening the lines around his extraordinary eyes. “Yes.” There was no modesty in the single word. “I was able to read Chaucer in Old English years before my public-school counterpart. The first day I walked into class and the instructors called me Master Houghton made me aware that if I studied harder than the other kids, I’d eventually overcome the stigma of being the janitor’s kid.”
Without warning, he sobered. “And it wasn’t until years later that I realized that many of my classmates weren’t enrolled in Rhinebeck because they had above-average intelligence, but because their wealthy parents sought to conceal their academic and behavioral weaknesses.”
Faye tried making out Bart’s expression in the shadowy light. “Do you think you’d be who you now are if you hadn’t gone to an elite private school?”
He shook his head. “No. Attending Rhinebeck gave me access to those with financial and political clout I never would’ve met no matter how hard I studied or worked.”
“Did you work hard, Bart?”
He chuckled. “I’m still working hard. But that’s going to change in ten years.”
“What’s going to happen in ten years?”
“I’m going into semiretirement.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to become an amateur golfer.” Much to her surprise, Bart laughed heartily, the deep rumbling sound coming from his chest.
“How did you know?”
She sat up and swung her legs over the chaise. “I think I read a survey somewhere about what men want to do once they retire, and the number-one choice is golf.”
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