by Sandra Kitt
He couldn’t have felt more alive.
Chapter 11
Savannah sighed deeply, rolled over and opened her eyes. She was alone in the bed.
She blinked at the ceiling, trying to remember if Mac had really kissed her awake, drawing a sleepy response from her and whispering she was going to be late for work, or if she’d only dreamt it. She still had her watch on from the day before and glanced at the time. She was definitely going to be late if she didn’t get out of bed right now.
As she headed for the shower she spotted his jacket and shoes in the living room, and caught a whiff of brewing coffee.
In record time she had showered, returning to the bedroom to find that McCoy had left a cup of coffee on her bureau. She sipped it while she dressed.
He’s a keeper, she thought, surprising herself with the quick assessment.
Back in the bathroom for the last of her preparations, Savannah used her damp towel to wipe away the condensation on the bathroom mirror. She caught her own reflection and thoughtfully studied it. Her eyes were clear and bright despite the celebration the night before and the early-morning bedroom tango with McCoy. That was the image, however, that made her smile—the two of them entwined and going at it with joy and abandon. She looked positively content and satisfied. The only thing missing was the purr.
There was no time for a mental replay of the early morning when she and Mac had come to a mostly nonverbal understanding. She could still feel, however, the lovely and physical message he’d left on her body. Her lips looked even fuller from having been kissed, and from having known the full taste of him. Her nipples were still sensitive, as were her inner thighs.
Savannah returned her empty cup to the kitchen. Mac’s jacket was still in the living room, but his shoes were missing. She looked through the window and saw him sitting in one of the poolside lounge chairs. He was fully dressed now and seemed to be enjoying his coffee, the peace and quiet and his own thoughts.
Savannah watched him for a moment, suddenly feeling a bit shy. Something had changed between them last night, but she wasn’t completely sure what it meant, or where it would lead.
She went out to join him. McCoy glanced over his shoulder at her approach and smiled.
“Good morning.” He held out a hand to her.
She returned the greeting as she took his hand. McCoy gently pulled her closer and slipped his arm around her waist. He not only hugged her that way, but pressed a kiss to her breasts through her linen top. It was such a tender unexpected gesture, and sweetly erotic.
McCoy deftly shifted her and Savannah found herself seated on his lap.
“I can’t do that,” she frowned.
“I’ll let you know if you’re too heavy.”
She sat, gingerly. It wasn’t that she doubted the strength of his thighs, or feared appearing coy, but there was something very intimate about the position. And, playful. His arms looped lightly around her waist.
“I’m impressed. You’re actually up and dressed in decent time.”
“I’m impressed. You’re still here,” Savannah chuckled boldly, and then added. “You look so comfortable, sitting out here.”
“I am,” he said quietly. “What time do you have to be at work?”
“Within the hour. I won’t be late. And you?”
“I have an eleven o’clock appointment and a lunch meeting at one. I’ll call my assistant to double-check.”
“Maybe we should get going,” Savannah said, a little uncertain about what to expect the morning after.
“In a minute. Look, about last night…”
“No explanations needed,” she interrupted quickly, her heart somersaulting over the thought of what he might say. “The party was very nice. I owe Kay a big one. This morning here was—”
“Amazing,” McCoy now interrupted.
“Yes, it was,” Savannah agreed almost in a whisper.
“That’s what I wanted to say, Vann.” He squeezed her waist, stroked her arm, pecked a little kiss on the side of her neck. “I wanted to tell you how special it was to me.”
Savannah slowly smiled, even though she felt alert and tried to read where McCoy was headed. She nudged her shoulder into his. “Is there something else?”
“God, no. Believe me, I thought of canceling all my appointments and maybe talking you into taking today off so we could spend it together.”
“And what would we do the whole day?” she asked with mock puzzlement.
McCoy sighed and closed his eyes briefly. She thought she detected a soft moan.
“Let me put it this way. Clothing would not have been required.”
He then slid his hand up her back to press against her head, moving in for a kiss. She’d never had a morning kiss quite like it. It was softly erotic, their lips and tongues teasing together. It was gentle foreplay, and she felt her body responding.
He caressed her moist lips with his thumb. “If we keep this up…” His voice was a husky growl, replete with longing.
“I know,” She nodded, her forehead against his.
Savannah shifted to get off his lap, acutely aware of the hardness of McCoy’s growing arousal against her thighs.
He held her in place. “Wait a minute. There’s something else I wanted to say. I have to attend an event next week. I was looking forward to—”
That was as far as he got when they both became aware that someone was at the front door of the house. They could hear the faint opening and closing of it, heavy footsteps on the tile entrance, followed by a deep male voice calling out.
“Vann? Anybody home?”
Savannah quickly stood up, as did McCoy when the intruder finally reached the side door leading out to the pool area.
“Hey,” the male visitor said, looking back and forth between Savannah and McCoy.
Savannah shook her head. “Hey, yourself. You’re about two weeks late.”
She knew that McCoy stood silently, watching. She knew that he was drawing his own conclusions. She opened her arms as she walked toward the new arrival, and he did the same. They embraced, the taller man lifting her off her feet.
“Uncle Sam owns me lock, stock and my future pension. I got here as soon as I could. I have to fly out day after tomorrow.”
Savannah was about to make introductions when the two men naturally approached one another. The grinning stranger thrust out a hand to McCoy whose hesitation was imperceptible except to her.
“McCoy Sutton,” he spoke first.
“Harris,” the man responded.
Savannah touched Harris’s arm, but she looked at McCoy. “He’s my brother.”
Savannah accepted the hand of the valet who attempted to help her out of her car. Her legs got momentarily tangled in the voluminous flow of silky fabric, and the high heel of her dress sandals snagged in the hem. She fought with the dress but still managed to exit with grace, grabbing her evening clutch purse and the shawl purchased from Domino Hagan. She took a moment to compose herself before heading into the ornate theater complex where the black awards ceremony was being held and taped, to be televised later on network TV. Somewhere inside, Punch Wagoner was waiting for her.
To be honest, she would rather have attended with McCoy.
Harris’s sudden appearance the week before had delayed McCoy’s explanation of why he couldn’t invite her. His attendance was not mandatory, but it was all about business. Over a Moroccan dinner a few nights later, McCoy had told her why. She’d heard all about Jeff Peterson and his sister, the would-be actress Cherise Kim Daly. McCoy was attending the awards with Cherise, a fact made more acceptable by his admission that he wished it could have been her instead.
While hearing firsthand Cherise’s real place in McCoy’s life, Savannah couldn’t help being disappointed that business would take precedence over their private wishes. But, to be fair, Savannah had told McCoy with equal candor that Punch had already informed her that she would be going with him because the awards ceremony was a must-go-to eve
nt for her now that she was almost an insider in Hollywood.
All around her, what seemed like hundreds of formally dressed men and women were also headed into the theater. Savannah automatically searched for McCoy, but there were too many people and it would be easy to miss him. Punch had told her he would meet her in the foyer, since he had the tickets, and she was his guest. Donna had been unable to secure extra tickets to the event even though she was to perform, but Punch had called, excited about the prospect of introducing her to several producers and directors who would be in attendance.
She was still getting used to the idea of being an insider. And it made her uncomfortable. Savannah admitted that she loved the attention being given to Fade to Black, but it meant dressing up and being put on display. It meant possibly curbing her natural reticence and showing her enthusiasm when talking about her option. It would mean talking about her father, and she knew that maybe even a comparison would come up. The name Will Shelton, as she’d discovered in the last year, was a familiar name in the industry, especially among black professionals.
Savannah suddenly quaked at the thought that she might be compared to her father, or that others had raised their expectations of her because of who he was and his status in black Hollywood. But more than any of these considerations, Savannah was deathly afraid that she might, even inadvertently, embarrass herself or stain her father’s reputation.
She was a little intimidated, but Punch Wagoner would accept no excuse from her not to attend. It was a golden opportunity, he’d said. Savannah knew he was right. Such moments were hard enough to come by and it would be foolish to ignore the one being offered to her. After all, she was representing more that herself and her work.
She stood near the ticket booth feeling alone and out of place, hoping for the remote possibility of spotting someone else she knew. Instead, Savannah found herself a one-person audience for a private show on Hollywood taste, fashion and industry functions.
She’d never seen so many skinny black women in her life.
Many of them were stunningly beautiful, but almost all had the carriage and presence of someone who wanted or needed to be seen, and who already counted themselves as a VIP. They smiled and postured, and posed with practiced ease in front of the cameras as they sashayed past the cordoned-off media photographers.
She’d also never seen so many black women with long flowing hair, thanks to the advanced technology of believable hair extensions and weaves.
The parade of women were a kaleidoscope of colorful sparkly gowns designed to flatter and reveal. Savannah glanced down at her own dress, purchased just the day before on a frantic search with Kay to find something smart, comfortable and affordable. She’d settled on a strapless gown by Donna Karan without any extra adornments or glitter. The design flattered her curves, and the color, a matte champagne hue, emphasized the honey tones of her skin. She’d even submitted to getting her hair professionally done, and a mousse of natural ingredients gave it body, shine and a funky spiked styling that she actually loved. Her jewelry consisted of a pair of diamond stud earrings that, ironically, her father had given her for her eighteenth birthday. She didn’t bother with a necklace. Donna had pointed out that when the stars went out for the evening they hardly ever wore elaborate jewels. Less was better. None was more effective.
“You look fabulous.”
Savannah turned to the voice and found Punch viewing her from head to toe. His black tux made him look oddly uncomfortable, as if the outfit didn’t quite suit his body type.
“Thanks. Can I go home now?”
He laughed and put his arm around her shoulder. “Not until I have a chance to show you off and introduce you around. We need to start laying groundwork, and events like this one, where everyone comes out, are a good place to start.”
“If this is all about Fade to Black, wouldn’t it be better to let the work speak for itself? Nobody knows me here.”
Punch was steering her toward the ticket taker and the entrance to the theater. “In answer to your first question, that’s not how things work in Hollywood. In answer to your second question, that’s about to change.”
He looked at her again with satisfaction and nodded.
“You do your father proud.”
“I hope so. I feel like he’s done a lot of ground work for me just being my father. I…I don’t want to let him down,” Savannah murmured.
In response, he took her hand and hooked it through his arm, patting it. “Just leave everything to me. I know what I’m doing.”
Savannah had never imagined that the much-touted event would be so unexciting.
For all the buildup about the awards show from others, she’d thought the night would be far more magical than it actually was. Because it was being taped, announcements, musical starts and award acceptances sometimes had to have two or three takes. Even during the proceedings on stage, the audience got up at will to leave and return to the theater, no one standing on ceremony. She became fascinated with watching how often some of the women left, presumably to use the facilities. But it finally occurred to her that they might also have been making repeated grand entrances to be seen and to catch the attention of important people.
The one thing that did catch Savannah by surprise was the realization that there were actual celebrities in the audience. She saw Steven Spielberg, Whoopi Goldberg, Jay Leno and Jamie Foxx. Even she couldn’t deny the thrill of seeing people whose work she had enjoyed over the years.
At one point Punch recognized someone across the aisle and got up for a brief discussion. Then, to her dismay, he brought the man over to be introduced to her. Savannah smiled and was pleased she said all the right things, as evidenced from Punch’s approving smile, but she had no idea who the man was. Afterward, the lights went down and the program continued. She perked up when a dance number was introduced and Donna appeared with the troupe. Savannah had never seen Donna perform before, and was blown away by her obvious talent and energy. The routine was fast, with intricate athletic steps that had the audience cheering at the conclusion and the dancers’ bodies glistening with sweat as they left the stage.
But Savannah found her attention drifting after that. The proceedings around her faded into the background as she settled into the more satisfying activity of reliving, in her memory, the last night she’d seen McCoy….
It had been the previous Saturday, and he’d suggested that they go to a Rollerblading exhibition on the Venice Beach boardwalk. She’d been enthralled with the daring and talent of the amateur performers, some in their seventies, she found out to her amazement. She’d gotten a kick out of realizing how many people were flat-out exhibitionists, doing anything to get attention while wearing next to nothing.
She and McCoy had foregone lunch in favor of ice cream and strolling leisurely through the carnival-like atmosphere of the pier. They’d sat overlooking the ocean together, once again comparing their upbringing, discovering more similarities between them, openly confessing what they didn’t like. The sun began to set, sending afternoon light across the ocean so that it sparkled jewel-like, with dazzling clarity.
“You know, I have a rain check you owe me,” McCoy said, looking at her through his dark glasses.
“You do? For what?”
“I seem to remember being invited to use your pool. How about now?”
“Would you really like to?” she’d asked.
“It’s a lot more private, and we won’t get salty,” he’d grinned.
It was only after they’d reached the house and Savannah had gathered towels and poured two glasses of wine that she realized McCoy didn’t have a swimsuit on or with him.
“What do you want to do?” she asked. But as soon as the words left her mouth she already knew what his answer would be.
“How do you feel about skinny-dipping? Would it offend you if I got in butt naked?”
“I’ve never done it,” she confessed.
McCoy had taken the towels and wineglasses out
of her hands. “Go change. I’ll wait outside.”
In her bedroom Savannah dug out her bathing suit, a one-piece tank that was good for actually swimming. She hadn’t done much of that since coming to L.A. She also found a bikini she hadn’t worn in two years. When she put it on she discovered that it still fit. And she was surprised and pleased with how she looked. She kept it on.
When she’d returned to the backyard, the sun was very low in the western sky. There were no lights on around the pool, but the interior lights glowed, sending out a bluish watery wave of muted color. McCoy was already in the water, breaststroking laps from one end of the pool to the other, hardly making a sound. She could see his body, but the rippling water hid any details.
Savannah sat on the edge of the pool and dangled her legs in the water, enjoying watching McCoy’s coordinated prowess.
“Want me to keep count?” she asked.
“I want you to come in and join me,” he said before neatly executing a swimmer’s turn and starting back toward her.
“I will.”
But McCoy upped the ante when he suddenly turned on his back and did a dead man’s float. She caught her breath as he was totally revealed to her. She wasn’t embarrassed, but enthralled with his penis bobbing against his leg in the water.
Savannah knew that his actions were calculated, and didn’t hold it against him. He was getting the effect he wanted from her. She was starting to feel warm and overdressed in her bikini, and a thickening heat and sensitivity was making her achy and aroused between her legs. She slid into the pool. The water was anything but cooling.
Savannah enjoyed just treading water, or gently side-stroking around McCoy as they played cat and mouse, her laughter breaking out often in the early-evening air. In that moment she felt deliriously happy just being in McCoy’s company. She knew…hoped…that he was going to put the move on her. To his credit he was subtle and surprising about it.
