“No!” shouted the chorus of campers as they shook their heads and slapped palms.
Roger threw back his head and laughed. “I thought not. You are encouraged to write letters to your families. Mailboxes are located around the camp and will be emptied twice a week. Mail will be distributed every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Your parents are aware they are not to send you food, so if they forget and send you snacks or candy it will be confiscated.” Murmurs and grumbling followed this announcement.
“I’m going to introduce you to some people whose responsibility it is to make certain you enjoy your summer.” Adjusting his glasses, Roger directed his attention to the table filled with camp staff.
“Miss Brianna is one of our social workers, who along with Mr. Lucas will be available if you’re having a problem with anything or anyone.” Brianna and Luke stood up and nodded. “Next is Mr. Jeff, who is our drama instructor. For those of who are interested in singing, dancing, or exploring your theatrical talents, please let your counselor know and he or she will sign you up.” Jeff rose to his feet and gestured with a flourish, then bowed from the waist. His actions elicited laughs and a round of applause.
“Camp Six Nations is very fortunate to have the next great artist with us. Miss Megan has made a name for herself as a world-famous potter and glassmaker. None of you will want to leave here without making at least one item using Miss Megan’s trademark technique.
“I suppose some of you have wondered why your camp is called Six Nations. The answer will come from our interdenominational minister, Reverend Alfonso, who is also a Choctaw shaman or holy man.
“We have experienced medical personnel, whom I hope none of you will have to visit during your stay. But in case of a few scrapes and bruises Dr. Richard and Miss Jill will be available twenty-four-seven.
“Next up are two people we must always keep happy—the cooks!”
There came thunderous rounds of applause. “Please, please, please don’t ever make Miss Lydia and Mr. Neil upset, because we don’t want them to tell us that they forgot to turn off the oven and burned the food.”
Lydia stared at Kennedy through her lashes, smiling when he winked at her.
“Last, but certainly not least,” Roger continued, “is our sports director, Mr. Ken.” He nodded to Kennedy. “I’d like for you to say a few words.”
Kennedy swung his legs over the bench and stood up. Some of the children gasped, craning their necks to look up at him as he offered them his two-hundred-watt grin.
“I’d like to welcome everyone to Camp Six Nations. You are very special because this is our first season, which means you will be responsible for establishing a tradition for next year and all those to come.
“I’ve only set one goal, and that is that everyone will learn to swim before the end of the season. Swimming is mandatory, but you will have a choice of any other sport listed in your camp folder. All sports will focus on teamwork, sportsmanship, and respect. You are here because you are special. Don’t ever forget that.”
Kennedy, his gaze fixed on Lydia, sat down to a smattering of applause. Something intense flowed through him, and he wanted to tell Lydia she was special, special enough to make him forget his promise never to become involved with another woman.
* * *
Lydia stepped out onto the porch closing the front door; then she went completely still. Kennedy lay on her recliner, eyes closed, head cradled on folded arms, while the distinctive voice of Patti LaBelle singing “If Only You Knew” came through the stereo speakers. She was hard pressed not to smile. He’d made himself at home.
She moved closer and his eyes opened. He stared up at her as if she were a complete stranger. “Enjoying yourself?”
A mysterious smile softened his mouth. “You can’t imagine how much,” he said cryptically. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the recliner and stood up. “I like the wind chime and the candles. They add a very nice touch.”
Kennedy liked the aesthetics and he liked Lydia Lord. He liked everything about her: face, body, voice, cooking ability. She claimed a refreshing femininity missing in many of the women he’d known, most of whom he’d discovered were either too vapid or too needy.
It wasn’t vanity that made him cognizant of his ability to attract the opposite sex, but the numbers escalated once he’d become a ballplayer earning eight and sometimes nine figures from an NFL contract and product endorsements.
What had set him apart from many of the young instant millionaires and made him an anomaly in the sports world was that he wasn’t a dumb jock blessed with only superior physical talent. He’d worked hard to dispel that myth, and now that Camp Six Nations was fully operational he’d become an entrepreneur.
Lydia flashed a dreamy smile. “They help me relax.”
Lowering his chin, he angled his head. “Would you prefer we talk here?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m looking forward to walking.” Sitting on her porch with Kennedy was far too tempting an offer.
His gaze moved slowly from Lydia’s face to her feet in a pair of sandals before reversing itself. She’d brushed her hair off her face and secured it in a knot on the nape of her neck. On another woman the style could be interpreted as matronly, but on her it was sleek, sophisticated. Her staid hairdo was incongruent to a magenta tank top and black slacks. An expanse of coffee-colored brown flesh was visible between the hem of her top and waistband of her hip-hugging pants.
“You look nice, Lydia.”
The heat singeing Lydia’s face swept downward like a sirocco and pooled between her thighs. It wasn’t Kennedy’s compliment that had aroused her, but the smoldering invitation in his gaze that seemly undressed her.
Why, she mused, did she feel like a girl on her first date? What was there about Kennedy Fletcher that melted her composure? His presence set her nerves on edge, heightened her sexual awareness of him, and stirred her libido.
She peered up at him through her lashes, unaware of the sensuality in the gesture. “Thank you.”
The beginnings of a smile parted his lips. “You’re welcome.” Reaching for her hand, he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
She was ready for Kennedy and whatever they would offer each other over the summer, and more than ready for all of her tomorrows.
“Let me put out the candles first.”
Kennedy released her hand, watching as Lydia used a snuffer to extinguish the flickering flames. Within seconds the objects on the porch were shadowed in the diffused light from a setting sun. Twilight had cloaked the camp with a diaphanous veil through which the subtle colors of red, orange, blue, and gray shimmered.
Completing the task, she returned to his side and took his hand. “I’m ready now.”
Are you really ready, Lydia? he asked silently. Kennedy wanted to know if she was ready for the chase, his pursuit of her. They walked hand in hand across the meadow and down the path leading to the lake.
Camp Six Nations was settling down for the night. Lights were going out in the cabins of the younger campers, while the older ones were filing out of the barn where they’d viewed Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring.
“When did you decide you wanted to become a chef?” Kennedy’s sonorous voice broke the comfortable silence.
Lydia took a quick glance at his distinctive profile in the waning daylight. “I must have been four when I announced to my parents that I wanted to cook when I grew up.”
Attractive lines fanned out around Kennedy’s eyes. “You never changed your mind?”
“Nope. I grew up in the kitchen. I went from a high chair to a playpen and finally to a tall stool, watching my mother prepare three incredibly delicious meals a day for her husband and nine children.”
Kennedy stopped suddenly and Lydia would’ve lost her balance if he hadn’t caught her waist. “You’re one of nine?”
She bit back a smile. His reaction was similar to most whenever she revealed the size of h
er family. “I’m the youngest.”
“Are you the only girl?”
“No. I have six brothers and two sisters.”
Pulling her closer, Kennedy shook his head. “What I would’ve given to have had a brother, a sister, or both.”
Lydia, who knew nothing about the very private Kennedy Fletcher, said, “You’re an only child.” He nodded.
They continued along the path in silence as nightfall descended. A sprinkling of stars in the darkening sky was overshadowed by the brilliance of a near-full moon. Large round globes mounted on poles surrounding the lake were coming on in the encroaching darkness.
“How was it growing up with six older brothers?”
“It had its advantages.”
“Did they scare away your potential suitors?”
Lydia wanted to tell Kennedy that she hadn’t had many suitors. There was the college basketball player to whom she had given her love and innocence, and Justin Banks.
“By the time I began dating, most of my brothers were married with their own children. It was my father who’d earned a reputation as the intimidator. He scared away the paperboy who he thought was flirting with my sister Sharon.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“We lived in a farmhouse about twenty miles outside of Baltimore. Our nearest neighbor raised milk cows. How about you, Kennedy? Where did you grow up?”
“Smoky Junction, Alabama.”
Lydia’s expression brightened. “I thought I detected a southern drawl.”
“I worked very hard to get rid of my drawl.”
“Why?”
“A television network had approached my publicist because they wanted a highly visible spokesperson for an antidrug public service announcement. I went to the audition, but was rejected because it was hard to decipher some of what I was saying.”
“How did you lose it?”
“I paid a speech coach to tutor me. Six months later I recorded the announcement.”
“But isn’t that a little like denying who you are?” she asked.
Kennedy shook his head. “Who I am has nothing to do with how I look or sound. I’m still a country boy from a mill town that’s so small that if you go more than thirty miles an hour you’d see all of it in five minutes.”
“How small is it?”
“The cotton mill employs almost all of the 958 folks who live there.”
Lydia was mildly surprised by Kennedy’s reference to his being a “country boy.” Everything about him screamed big-city elegance and sophistication, and she wondered whether Kennedy’s transformation was predicated on his publicist’s desire to make his client a more marketable product.
“What are you going to do at the end of the summer, Lydia?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I’m planning to open my own restaurant.”
“When?”
“Hopefully next spring.” She told him about the new construction site with the underground mall.
“Are you certain you’ll be able to rent the space?”
“No. But, because I submitted an application as soon as the prospectus was announced, I believe I have a good chance of securing it.”
Kennedy tightened his hold around Lydia’s waist, bringing her closer. The soft curves of her body fit perfectly against his length. She stiffened slightly, then relaxed. He smiled.
“Running your own restaurant is an enormous responsibility.”
She nodded. “I know, but I’m ready for it. I graduated from culinary school at twenty. I apprenticed in a hotel kitchen for a year, then spent the next two years in France, Italy, and Spain, learning how to cook their regional dishes.
“I came back to the States and went to work for a well-known D.C. restaurant that will remain nameless. I gave them four years. I was up for a promotion twice, and each time I was passed over. That’s when I decided no more, not at twenty-seven.”
“You quit?”
“You damn skippy I did. If I’m going to stand on my feet for hours over a hot stove, then it will be because I want to and not because someone else demands it.”
Kennedy’s mouth curved into an unconscious smile. There was just enough rebellion in Lydia to make her interesting. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your promotion, but their loss is the camp’s gain.”
The campers had cheered and exchanged high fives once they realized they were going to be served a traditional Sunday dinner reflecting the American South: Cajun, Creole, soul, and just plain country dishes.
“I like cooking for children.” Lydia gave Kennedy a sidelong glance. “Do you have any children?”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest before he said, “No.”
“Are you certain?”
Kennedy registered a quiver in Lydia’s voice, knowing instinctively why she’d asked the question. He slowed his pace. “I’m not a monk, Lydia.”
Her delicate jaw tightened. “How can you be sure you don’t have a child somewhere that you don’t know about?”
“I am sure, Lydia,” he countered emphatically. “I’ve never slept with a woman without using protection. Now, why am I being interrogated?”
“I just don’t want to contend with baby mama drama from an ex-chicken-head groupie or video ho if I decide to go out with you.”
“I’ve never entertained groupies, hos, or chicken-heads.” His voice was heavily sarcastic.
Lydia emitted an audible sigh over the incessant sounds of crickets and frogs mingling with other nocturnal wildlife serenading the countryside. She had agreed to go for a walk with Kennedy to talk about herself, but they’d compromised. He’d been forthcoming, answering her questions with a candor she had not expected. There was more she wanted to know about him, but that would come later.
“When do you want to go out?”
Stopping under the soft golden glow of a lamppost, Kennedy pulled her into the circle of his embrace. “Are you asking me out, Miss Lord?”
She gave him a saucy grin. “Yes, I am. We only have eight weeks, so I suggest we get this party started.”
“Are you promising a party, Lydia?”
Her expression changed, sobering. “I never make promises, because I’m not certain I’ll be able to keep them.”
“Well, I do make promises,” Kennedy said. His stare drilled into her, looking for a modicum of uneasiness in her gaze. But it was apparent Lydia Lord wasn’t easily intimidated. “I promise to respect you.” His voice lowered seductively. “And I promise to show you a good time.”
Lydia found the man holding her to his heart vaguely disturbing as she tried separating Kennedy Fletcher, private citizen, from Ken Fletcher, celebrated running back. Tilting her chin, she studied his features one by one in the flattering light: a strong chin, the hollow beneath his cheekbones, and a full firm mouth that drew her gaze and lingered there.
“I like your promises.”
“Good.”
Lydia felt him coming closer although he hadn’t moved. She knew Kennedy was going to kiss her, but there was nothing she could or would do to stop him. Her lids fluttered wildly, then closed as his mouth brushed hers tentatively before he staked his claim.
Kennedy forced himself to go slow. He dropped light kisses at the corners of Lydia’s mouth as if it were a frothy confection to savor at a leisurely pace. Everything within him screamed for a release, but he managed to quell his desire for the woman in his arms. He’d promised her he would respect her—and he would. It would have to be her decision to take what they would share to another level. He deepened the kiss, his lips parting as he breathed in her moist breath and her scent.
Lydia curved her arms under Kennedy’s shoulders, holding on to him as if she were a drowning swimmer. And she was swimming, feeling the power of the undertow from his slow, addictive kisses. She’d been kissed before, but not like this.
He held her as if she were a piece of fragile porcelain, his mouth brushing hers like the gossamer touch of a butterfly’s wings. His nearness gav
e her comfort, the intoxicating smell of his cologne overwhelmed her, and for the first time in her life Lydia wanted to strip off her clothes and lie with a man she didn’t know and damn the consequences.
Kennedy raised his head, but did not drop his gaze as a vaguely sensuous light passed between him and Lydia.
She rested her forehead against his shoulder. “You forgot one more promise.”
His right hand moved up and down her spine in a soothing motion. “What’s that?”
“Not to seduce me.”
A deep rumbling laughter resounded in his chest. “That’s one promise I can’t make, Lydia.”
He wouldn’t promise, and Lydia did not want him to. As if on cue, they turned and retraced their steps. All of the lights in the camper cabins were out, while one light shone through the second-floor window at the main house. It was apparent everyone wanted to get enough sleep before the first full day of camp.
Lydia stopped in front of her cabin, easing her hand from Kennedy’s firm grip. “Good night.”
Kennedy nodded. “Good night, Lydia.”
He stood motionless watching as Lydia climbed the steps, opened the door leading to the porch, then the inner door and closed it softly behind her.
Walking the short distance to his own cabin, Kennedy sank down on the love seat. A jumble of confused thoughts and emotions attacked him as he recalled kissing Lydia. The instant he tasted her mouth, he realized that was what he’d wanted to do when he saw her for the first time.
He’d promised her he would respect her and that they would have fun—lots of fun.
And they would—at least for the next eight weeks.
CHAPTER SIX
Lydia had just completed the task of cutting up peaches and strawberries when a counselor with a little girl sporting a head filled with curly braids walked into the kitchen.
Keisha Middleton still had not adjusted to camp life. Kiki, as the children in her cabin called her, cried constantly, refused to eat, and would not participate in any of her scheduled activities.
The six-year-old was adorable, reminding Lydia of a doll that had become a favorite when she was a child: curly hair, flawless dark brown skin, large black eyes, and delicate features.
All My Tomorrows Page 6
