Coup: A BWWM Romance (The French Connection Book 2)

by Brooklyn Knight

  “Yes sir?”

  He pulled his bottom lip between his gleaming teeth. “Go to the bed and bend over.”

  I spun around, laughing. “Boy, I do not have time to play with you.”

  “Sweetheart, you know better than anyone else that I am not playing. You’re so far away. And you look so delicious,” he breathed and moistened his lips.

  I knew what that meant, too.

  I blushed under his appreciative, amber gaze. “Thank you, baby. Your approval is all I need.”

  I paused as thoughts of Michael whizzed through my mind. I shuddered at the memory of how he’d invaded my personal space. It was one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life. Not that I wasn’t accustomed to being appreciated by men before, but Michael was a different case. I should tell Dylan, I thought. I should tell him about the way Michael had pounced on me and invaded my private space. I should tell him about all the things Michael had been saying, about him and about us.

  But I was afraid to.

  I didn’t endorse the keeping of secrets from my man, but I also knew my man very well. If Dylan even suspected that I was uncomfortable, he’d shut everything down and fly like a bat from the underworld to wherever I was. I didn’t want Dylan to save me. I wanted to handle my own affairs. I could stand up to Michael Sawyer, I told myself, so there was no need to tell Dylan about what was going on.

  Still...

  Ever since the board meeting with Af-Tech and the things Michael had said, I’d been more aware of what was happening in the news. Videos of injustices being committed against people who looked like me were flying all over social media. The accusations, the intolerance... There was a clear divide in America, almost as if a line had been carved in the sand; and while I knew Dylan didn’t represent or endorse any of what was going on, my mind was still plagued with noise. I’d been trying to ward off the thoughts, but now I wondered if my head was buried in the sand when it came to all of the issues. Working with Michael was like being at a perpetual Black Lives Matter rally. It was intense, but I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe I wasn’t intense enough.

  I stalled, trying not to rub my elbow or let a wrinkle develop over my nose. I knew both those things would give me away. I dragged my focus to the present and my fiancée who was peering at me through the screen.

  I ran my hands over my dress. “Maybe I should wear something else tonight,” I suggested, “something less seductive.”

  Dylan frowned. “Why?”

  “Because the only eyes I want on me are yours, and you won’t be there tonight,” I replied.

  “I have no problem with people admiring my woman,” he asserted. “They can look at you all night. As long as they don’t touch, we’re good. But if you’re uncomfortable...” he paused and scrutinized me through the plasma screen.

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “I just wish I could be on your arm tonight. And I hate the fact that Michael thinks he can dictate your movements.”

  “Michael Sawyer does not scare me, ma belle fille,” Dylan asserted, his eyes turning to steel. “He doesn’t want me at his event tonight, but I have no desire to be there either. If I show up it would mean that I have something to prove. He would think I was weak and there is no way I’m going to give that jackass any room to question my confidence.”

  “So this is about your alpha ego, then?” I asked raising an eyebrow.

  He chuckled. “Part of it is,” he admitted, “but me showing up would also suggest that I didn’t have confidence in you, and I am one hundred per cent secure in everything that concerns me.”

  My heart augmented.

  “Besides, this meeting with the Board of Directors is long overdue.” His voice turned low and pensive. “I have a feeling that something is on the horizon because Brenneman is being elusive.” He paused. “I have a feeling they’re trying to shift me.”

  “Shift you? On what bases?” I demanded.

  Dylan sighed and raked the back of his neck. “Apparently a couple.”

  My eyes quivered as I observed him. For the first time I noticed that he looked tired. His eyes were normally bright and vibrant, but a dullness was setting in, stealing their luster.

  My jaw trembled. “Baby, you don’t have to worry about the Board,” I assured him. “Without you, Hamilton Associates would be a ship without a sail, and those men know that very well. They’re trying to bully you because...” I tugged at my ear, as thoughts of the things Michael had insinuated stormed me. My eyes fell from his.

  Dylan leaned closer to the screen. “This isn’t your fault, Lai,” he said, reading my thoughts to the letter.

  I grunted and smiled. “I suppose you’re right. After all, you’re the one who pursued me with a vengeance, remember?”

  “And I’d do it all over again,” he claimed.

  We laughed, but after a second, it paled.

  “Baby, I just wish you didn’t have to go through this,” I admitted in a whisper.

  “Sweetheart, this isn’t the first time I’ve faced adversity,” he reminded me leaning forward again. “And if I have to jump through a few hoops to be with you, then you can call the Ringling Brothers and sign me up. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Besides, apparently my getting married to the intern isn’t the only thing on their list of concerns.”

  “What else could they bring to the table?”

  “I’ve had to make a few unpopular executive decisions recently,” he revealed sitting back in his chair. “I went against the grain and ruffled a few feathers.”

  My brow wrinkled. “Baby, I had no idea,” I said. “You’ve never told me about any of this.”

  “I know,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “I’m your woman, Dylan. If you’re worried about something, we can be worried together. What decisions did you have to make that would upset the entire Board?”

  Dylan inhaled. “There was a firm that wanted to do business with us, but I shut it down.”

  “What firm?”

  “A mid-sized called Af-Tech.”

  My breath hitched. My eyes fluttered.

  Dylan continued. “They’re young and I wasn’t confident in their stability, so despite their potential – which is there – I suggested that we give them a few years before we entered into a business relationship with them.”

  My mind fled to the business meeting I’d had earlier that day and Sawyer’s impassioned speech. He had thrown Hamilton Associates under the bus, but that was normal in business. Yet now I wondered if there was something else up his sleeve.

  A sick feeling inched its way through the lining of my stomach and I covered my mouth with my hand.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied. I ran my hand across my nose. “I just don’t like the sound of this.”

  “I know, which is why I didn’t want to tell you. At the end of the day, Sawyer is your boss. To discuss these matters with you would be a huge burden. And perhaps a conflict of interest...”

  I only had one interest, but I accepted Dylan’s point, and now I was wondering if working for Sawyer was worth it. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure I’d made the right decision.

  “Ma belle fille, it’s getting late and the sooner you leave, the sooner you can come home to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He grinned, and a familiar sparkle made his tired eyes shine. “Say that tonight.”

  “You know that I will,” I confirmed. “And baby...”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  I paused, reconsidering the hypocritical words that were about to come out of my mouth. “No secrets. Whatever you’re going through, I want to go through it with you.”

  Dylan’s eyes crinkled in the corners. He touched his lips with his fingers and pressed them against the camera. I lifted my hand to match his.

  “I love you, Dylan Hamilton.” My throat tightened.

  “And I love you more,” he responded.

  Eighteen

>   Laila

  ‘Ankara and Chitnege’

  Ignacio had received explicit orders to chauffer me to and from the gala, and despite my insisting that I could drive myself, he refused to shirk his responsibility. It didn’t make sense to argue with him. Ignacio was the Ecuadorian version of Dylan, which translated into an international parallel of stubbornness it made no sense to compete with. So, I sat in the back of Dylan’s Porsche, a silver clutch laid in my lap. I was trying to stop thinking about the conversation I’d had with him, but my mind was flying in all directions.

  Something was afoot.

  There was no question about how much Michael hated Dylan with a burning passion. And while he would never admit it, he was green with envy. From what I could tell, Dylan had established a history of outperforming Michael on every side, and in that meeting this morning, Michael had alluded to the fact that he was coming for Hamilton Associates. Now I wondered how literal his words were.

  As if on cue, my cell phone buzzed in my purse. I flipped it open and pulled it out. An icon of Michael’s face stared up at me from the phone, and it was as if his dark, stern eyes could see right through me.

  Michael: I do hope that you’re on your way

  ... And that you’re alone...

  The sick feeling I’d experienced earlier settled in the pit of my stomach again, and I closed my eyes, waiting for it to subside.

  I ignored the message, refusing to entertain him before I had to.

  Soon, the Porsche was circling an elaborate roundabout in front of a sprawling brick stone mansion. The spouting fountain in the center released a thin, steady stream of glistening water, and guests milled about the lavish grounds. Luxurious statues dotted the expansive lawn, which was bordered by imported shrubbery. Lights twinkled inside a sheer tent, housing the elaborate party, and the mix of new and old-school music wafted into the clear, cool sky. My eyes were drawn to the tall, ivory columns, etched with expensive gold inlay, and that was when I saw Michael.

  His entire six-foot three frame was draped in a fine Italian suit. His collar was open, dressing him down, but not enough to steal away his powerful and austere presentation. His dark brown eyes were fixed on me, and I noticed when his hand tightened around the neck of the champagne glass he was holding.

  I inhaled as Ignacio rushed over to my door and opened it. He extended his hand to help me out, but in a matter of seconds, Michael had appeared at the car.

  “Allow me, good man,” he insisted stepping in Ignacio’s way.

  Ignacio frowned. “Yo la tengo,” he snapped, and Michael stepped back with a smirk.

  Ignacio’s suddenly hard eyes shifted to mine. “Vas a estar bien?” he whispered peering into my face.

  I nodded, fitting an unnatural smile on my countenance.

  Ignacio might as well have been Dylan. If he even had an inkling that something would go wrong, the party would be over before it started.

  “I’ll be fine,” I responded touching his arm.

  He nodded. “Si necesitas algo...”

  “I know,” I cut him off. “If I need anything, I’ll call you.” I raked at the back of my neck. “Please be back by midnight. I’ll be ready to go by then.”

  Michael chuckled. “I would suggest you wait for her to call you,” he advised glaring at Ignacio. “Midnight may be a little early.”

  Ignacio’s eyes narrowed as Michael guided me away. There were several people around, but the feeling that it was just Michael and I was almost overpowering. I scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar face, but my eyes narrowed when I noticed a group of men who looked vaguely familiar.

  Michael linking his arm through mine as we headed for the tent diverted my attention. He snatched another champagne glass from the tray of a passing waiter and handed it to me. “You didn’t answer my text,” he commented, nodding a greeting to one of his guests.

  “You didn’t ask a question,” I shot back.

  He chuckled as he led me towards the party scene. “True,” he agreed. “I was only trying to confirm your attendance. I wasn’t sure if you’d stand me up.”

  “And why on earth would I do that?” My voice was laced with sarcasm.

  “I didn’t know if you’d received permission to attend. I’m not sure how tight your leash is, although from the looks of it, Dylan has been pretty liberal in allowing you to wear that dress.”

  I halted and ripped my arm out of his as fire consumed me from the inside out. “Are you intentionally trying to get under my skin, Michael?” I asked folding my arms across my chest. It was a rhetorical question. The answer was already clear.

  “Why would I want to do that? You’re my star player and I value you, more than you’re willing to acknowledge. If anything, I’m trying to butter you up and get on your good side.”

  My tight arms slackened a little.

  “I told you, Laila. I have big plans for you. I see you soaring, ascending to heights you never dreamed possible.” He stared into my face, his eyes searching mine as he painted a glorious picture in my mind. His voice softened. “I see you making a mark with your designer stilettos in the business world: a force to be reckoned with. A woman not soon forgotten.” He paused. “I see us doing that together, Laila.”

  I ripped my eyes away from his, as chills of both intrigue and uncertainty rippled through my entire body.

  Michael chuckled. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “I’m not sure,” I muttered.

  Michael lifted his hand and stalled, then tucked a loose strand behind my ear. I eased away, but the deed had already been done.

  A group of women dressed in expensive, African attire crossed us, and Michael nodded respectfully, commenting on their undeniable splendor. One woman had her hair arranged in thick, ethnic plaits, while another sported stylish bantu knots. The other had vibrant, red dreadlocks, which had been curled and hung majestically below her toned shoulders.

  “Look at that,” Michael hummed. He wanted me to believe that he was talking to himself, but I knew better. “The color and creativity of our people always amazes me.” He pointed at the woman with the bantu knots. “That print, the fabric her jumpsuit is made of, is called Ankara. The bold color scheme and gaudy designs are typical of West African countries.”

  “That woman looks flawless,” I breathed ogling her ethnic, trendy jumpsuit. It was melded perfectly against her modest curves.

  “Yes, she does,” Michael agreed. He turned his attention to the woman’s companion. “And that one is Chitnege print, which originates in Zambia.”

  “How do you know all of this?” I asked, daring to look at him again. I cleared my throat, trying to dial back my awe and intrigue.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, and for a moment, appeared to blush. “I was eighteen years old when my parents took me to Africa for the first time, and it was the most poignant experience of my life, even to this day,” he revealed. “We went to Lagos, but we didn’t stay in any of the posh hotels, like Southern Sky Ikoyi or anywhere in Banana Island. We stayed with regular folk.”

  I pursed my lips and narrowed my eyes playfully. “Really, Michael? Regular folk?”

  He laughed. “Folk who were more regular than the ones in Banana Island,” he clarified. His features softened as the smile receded. His tone turned emphatic. “I was so impacted by the beauty of the country and its people – my people – it was literally at that very moment that I developed this intense desire to learn more about my roots; to understand the natural wealth that is so abundant on the entire continent. To understand how I had been impacted by my plastic, western mentality.” He paused, and his mouth bunched. For a second, it looked as if he would shed a tear. “I’m passionate about the growth and success of people who look like me, especially because my mother didn’t,” he confessed. “It drives everything I do.”

  A thick silence descended between us and I thought about my African mother, who’d migrated from Morocco to France before I was born. I thought about the short fiv
e years I got to spend with her before she died. I didn’t even get to know her and had few tangible memories of the woman who I saw smiling in the pictures my French father had collected.

  Ma belle fille... you are so much like her. You have her mannerisms, her eyes, and her smile.

  I sat in front of my Papa, desperate to know more.

  His eyes twinkled as he eagerly engaged me in what would be one of the last conversations I’d have with him before he died. “She was business savvy, like you are, ma belle fille. That is why you’re so tenacious and driven. You are like your mother.”

  “Did she have a business, Papa?”

  “She ran a small pastry shop right out of the kitchen,” he told me. “She was the best baker in all of Roussillon. People came from both ends for one of her croissants, but they were crazy for her Moroccan cous-cous and boflotos. They could never get enough of that.” His smile dimmed, but it was still there. “She had dreams of opening a bakery, but we could never save enough money to make her dream come true.”

  My mouth tightened, and a penetrating resolve attached itself to my soul. “I’ll make you proud, Papa. I’ll make mama proud too. I’m going to make all of your dreams come true.”

  He reached up and squeezed my shoulder. “I know you will, ma belle fille.”

  I blinked back sudden tears and looked at the woman in the Ankara jumpsuit.

  Maybe that was the answer, I thought. Perhaps it was the missing piece. I’d easily identified with the heritage my Caucasian French father had given me. Aside from a few weeks in Roussillon every summer, it was all I knew.

  But what about my mother’s side? How much did I know about my African roots?

  Suddenly, music striking up from a band ripped me out of my war-torn musings. I looked up at Michael, surprised to find him observing me closely as the dance floor started to fill.

  “May I have a dance?” he asked. Sincerity emanated from him, but apprehension and fear riddled me.

  “Michael, you know that’s not possible.”