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

by Brooklyn Knight

  “Are you sure about this?” Sasha asked from behind me.

  “About the plan? Very.” I let the curtain fall back into place and turned to face her.

  Sasha’s face was distorted with concern “Not about the plan, about going to dinner with Michael,” she clarified, dry washing her hands. “He’s going to come after you,” she warned. “He’s going to try and make a move, and if you’re not careful he’ll eat you alive.”

  My eyes narrowed, and I grabbed my clutch from off the bed. “I can handle Michael Sawyer,” I assured her. “In fact, I’ve got him right where I want him, but the trick is to make him believe that the opposite is true. He wants me to pledge my allegiance to him.”

  “To sell your soul...”

  I shivered. “I need him to trust me, so I can follow through on the plan. If I turn down his offer for dinner, he’ll get suspicious.” I lowered my voice. “And I don’t have much time. Dylan’s end of quarter meeting is next week. I need to make sure I’m on Michael’s good side. I need to do this.”

  I thought about Dylan and my heart jerked.

  Sasha’s voice intruded on my thoughts. “Have you called Stefan?”

  “No,” I admitted, and then I raised an all-knowing eyebrow at her. “Have you?”

  She blushed like a fool in love. “Maybe,” she replied, and we both giggled.

  “Well! It seems as if the two of you are getting on pretty well,” I noted, wiggling my brows at her.

  “He’s a nice guy,” she admitted. “I like him, but until all of this is settled between you and Dylan, I’m keeping my distance. I think he’s of the same mindset. He’d kill for Dylan,” she said.

  I nodded in corroboration.

  Her voice shook. “And you’re sure you’re going to be okay tonight?”

  I straightened my shoulders and tried not to let her uncertainty get to me. I needed to maintain my confidence and composure. Yes, I was nervous as hell! Michael Sawyer was as smooth as the finest of silk, but there was only one man I wanted. My plan was to make Michael believe I was remotely interested, but I wasn’t fool enough to minimize the potential for him to make a move. I’d need to navigate this entire situation stealthily. If I shut him down too early, the plan would go bust and I wouldn’t be able to save Dylan.

  “I’m sure,” I responded, and I inhaled. “How do I look?” I ran my hands over the black chiffon cocktail dress I’d chosen. Tulle flared out from the fitted bodice, and off-the-shoulder sleeves showcased my toned shoulders. I struck a modest pose in my black stilettos, complete with laces wrapped around my shins. I fluffed my fingers through my lengthening afro, which I’d made curly using Miss Oshun’s magic product. The curls popped and bounced around my ears.

  “Like an African goddess,” Sasha said. “Dylan would go wild.”

  “I think he would,” I said with a smile. Normally, I would have been posing for him. He’d tell me to turn around so he could complete his informal assessment, and if he was satisfied, he’d grunt and tell me to bend over the bed. My core jolted with neglect and I re-focused, as a new determination erupted inside of me.

  I pushed the door of Sasha’s apartment open and stepped onto the stoop. In an instant, the door to the Phantom opened, and Michael stepped out. He was dressed impeccably, wearing a rust-colored, tailored tweed blazer, designer jeans, and Giuseppe Zanotti sneakers.

  I swallowed.

  His eyes were fixed on me as I eased my way towards his car. He met me half way and took my hand into his. “Wow,” he breathed before placing a modest kiss on my cheek.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to tremble. The smell of his rich signature cologne collected in my head.

  “You’ve taken my breath away,” he claimed.

  I smiled and decided to return the compliment. “You look very debonair.”

  Michael’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Please, allow me.” He guided me into the back seat and his hand on the small of my back seemed to burn through the fabric of my dress. Quickly, he got into the car and his driver pulled away.

  The red leather interior was so soft it almost swallowed me. Michael touched a button on the ceiling and static lights, like a mini galaxy, burst above my head.

  He rested his hand on my exposed thigh and I fought the urge to move away from his touch.

  “I hope I’m not under-dressed,” I said trying to distract from my nervousness.

  “You’re perfect,” he replied. “Where we’re going, it’ll be just us, so no one will have to feel inferior by your presence.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He chuckled. “Away from the hustle and bustle,” was his response.

  The Phantom jetted across the MacArthur Causeway and pulled up at the Miami Beach Marina. Super yachts sat perched on top of the water. Many of them spanned fifty meters and I was curious as to which one belonged to Michael.

  He led me through the plush lounge of a luxury boat club, acknowledging various men and women on our way, but his hand never left its position on my waist.

  Soon we were standing in front of a sexy aerodynamic watercraft. Powder-blue lights seeped from the bottom of the boat, spilling onto the surface of the calm, glassy water.

  “This is beautiful,” I breathed, unable to keep the thought to myself.

  “Her name is Nandi,” he whispered in response. “My hope is that you will enjoy your evening and we can get to know one another.” He squeezed my waist. “Come on.”

  He led me up the ramp and we stepped on board. We passed through a VIP stateroom, which was tastefully furnished with teak furniture and gold fittings. Then, we walked into a glorious dining room. The table was set for two and a shimmering chandelier twinkled above the fully set table.

  Michael slid my chair out and I sat, thanking him. Rounding the table, he pushed his dinner jacket to the side and sat across from me. A waiter instantly appeared with an appetizer of lobster bisque and rested his bowls in front of us as Michael thanked him.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so mannerly,” I commented with a small smile as I picked up my soup spoon.

  Michael frowned. “You make it sound as if I’m a ruthless brute,” he said. “I can assure you, I’m the finest of gentleman.”

  I laughed. “At the office you’re very austere, but I’m certain many women have experienced your sensitive sides when not in the confines of Sawyer, Inc.”

  “I don’t play games when it comes to business,” he commented, reminding me of why I was there in the first place. “And neither do I entertain many women. At least not in this fashion.”

  I thought of Sasha, and the way she pined for this man. It saddened me to think that, in his mind, she was not worth the time and effort. I sipped a spoonful of the creamy bisque and peered at him.

  “I want to get to know you,” I requested.

  His dark eyes sparkled. “And I the same.”

  “What drives you?” I asked impertinently.

  “What do you think drives me, Laila?”

  A silence, steeped in wariness and marvel, encompassed us.

  “Power. Success.” I paused. “Anger...”

  He flinched but didn’t respond.

  “What are you angry about?” I asked tenderly.

  “I didn’t realize I gave off an angry vibe,” he replied shifting in his seat. He threw his arm over the back of the chair and squinted at me. “But you’re right. I am very upset about a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know I’m an ambassador of sorts for afro-culture.”

  “Ambassador bordering civil rights forerunner...”

  He laughed and so did I.

  I leaned forward. “What’s that about?”

  He sighed and returned to his appetizer. “You mean other than the fact that I’m a black man operating under a white man’s system?” His eyes rolled away from mine, and he rubbed his freckles. “My mother was a white woman,” he revealed. “Her and my father were high school
sweethearts. Everything was perfect until his life came to an untimely end. I was twenty-one years old at the time.”

  I sat back in shock. It was the last thing I expected to hear from him. “My god, Michael. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He shook his head, not accepting my condolences. “No need to be sorry,” he suggested. “Being sorry won’t change anything. Ask my mother and she’ll tell you that.” He inhaled, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

  “So you’re angry at...”

  “My mother,” he filled in.

  My brow furrowed. “Why? Clearly, she’s raised a successful and competent man.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “She tried her best,” he said with a smile. “But like I told you, a white man will never understand the complexities of a black woman. And neither will a white woman understand what it means to be a black man in America, whether she’s your wife or your mother.”

  My heart clamped.

  Michael returned to his meal and finished his soup. When the waiter returned, he collected our plates, mine untouched.

  Michael leaned back in his seat. “Laila, if you’re here to find out the details regarding the coup I’m about to orchestrate on your former boyfriend, you have to know that there’s no way I’d give that information up.”

  My jaw tensed.

  “I hate Dylan Hamilton,” he continued. “He represents everything that has caused me agonizing pain. He’s the face of the thing that has let me down, over and over and over again.”

  I steadied my posture. “Then perhaps we can connect on that point, because I also hate Dylan,” I whispered through my teeth.

  “Why on earth would you hate him? A few weeks ago, he was your shining white knight.”

  “And a few weeks ago, I thought I had a man who loved me unconditionally. Fortunately for me, I found out the truth about the extent of his love. You should have seen the way he looked at me when I came home with my hair cut,” I murmured, staring into the distance. “He almost didn’t recognize me. It was like he had no idea who I was.” I grunted. “And that was when I realized: there was no way he could recognize me. He didn’t know me.” My eyes shot towards Michael, my vision blurred. I blinked, and contrived tears splashed onto my face.

  Michael got up from his seat and hastily moved by my side.

  “Michael, if we’re going to... be together, I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me. Not only that,” I added. “I want to be a part of your plans to ruin Dylan Hamilton.”

  Michael smiled and swept his fingers across my cheek, wiping away the manufactured tears. “What will you offer me in exchange for that trust?” he whispered, his lips close to mine.

  I didn’t move, even though I wanted to. “My promise I will play an instrumental role in making sure the better man wins,” I asserted, “and my promise that I’ll be standing next to you when it happens.”

  Michael chuckled. His eyes traced my lips and my neck, and then he pulled his gaze back up to my face. “Is that all?”

  I paused strategically. “For now.”

  He peered into my face and nodded, touching my bottom lip with his thumb. “I’ve always been a patient man,” he said. “Anything worth having is worth waiting for. I will wait for you, Laila.”

  He sat across from me as the waiter brought the entrees and refilled our wine glasses. Michael lifted his high in the air. “To the better man,” he called out.

  I touched my glass against his. “To the better man.”

  Thirty-One

  Dylan

  ‘Ameroccan’

  It was late afternoon when my eyes popped open. Golden waves of sunlight gushed through the clear windows of the master bedroom suite and I rubbed my eyes trying to adjust to the intrusion.

  I rolled over to my side and grabbed my cellphone from the nightstand, and I stared at Laila’s profile picture in my contacts.

  Me: Are you safe?

  I waited, staring intently at the screen, but noticed that only one check-mark appeared.

  The message had not been delivered.

  My mouth tightened before I decided to check my other messages and emails. Finally, I rose from the bed, ready to make a start on the rapidly passing day.

  It wasn’t long before I was sitting on a train, headed for Roussillon. My stomach had exploded with nerves before I’d even left the hotel and I was trying my best to maintain my posture. There was no need to be anxious, I tried to convince myself. It didn’t matter if these people didn’t know me from a hole in the wall. The only time I’d been to the house was with Laila, and we’d both been disappointed to find no one at home. What made me think they’d be at home now? And what if they were? What would I even say?

  I looked at my watch. It was seven o’clock on a balmy Saturday evening, and my plan was to catch them in the cool of the day when they’d be relaxed and possibly more open to spontaneous visits from white American tourists. A yellow cab bumbled its way past the ochre Roussillon landscape and matching architecture. I took in the homes and buildings in therapeutic hues of red, brown and yellow, and the cresting hills in the distance. It wasn’t long before the landscape began to transform. The houses, that had once been separated by vast areas of lush, green pasture, now sandwiched together, becoming denser.

  The cab driver cut into my reflections. “We’re almost there,” he announced. An ageing sun was beginning its descent beyond the hills, but its fierce glow was unforgiving.

  I pulled my sunglasses down as the glare passed over my face.

  “Are you sure you’ve got the right address?”

  “Pretty sure,” I responded.

  The cab rumbled to a stop in front of a quaint, red house, and two little boys played catch outside, shouting at each other in French. Their dark brown skin glowed against the evening rays. On the steps just outside the front door, there was a young girl combing another one’s hair. Something inside of me lurched when I noticed that their hair looked similar to the way Laila’s now was, only longer.

  The cab came to a stop and so did all the activity in the yard.

  I handed the cab driver some cash, never taking my eyes off the boys who were now scampering towards the door. The girl who was fashioning the other’s hair, craned her neck behind her, and a small curvy woman appeared at the door. The boys fled into her arms and the woman peered into the car. An expression of curiosity and concern marred her smooth features.

  Slowly I stepped out of the cab. “Bonjour,” I greeted her, but she didn’t respond.

  I adjusted my messenger bag over my chest for no reason other than to take my mind off my escalating anxiety.

  The cab did a sudden u-turn and pulled away, leaving me alone to navigate the unfamiliar scene.

  I turned back to face the woman. She ushered the children inside and headed towards me.

  “Bonjour, monsieur.” She blinked a few times and paused before trying her hand at English. “How may I help you? Maybe you are lost?”

  “I don’t think I am,” I replied, holding up the paper.

  She tipped her head to the side.

  “My name is Dylan Hamilton. I’m a good friend of Laila’s.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Laila Renaud,” I clarified feeling pressured. I tried to steady my breath.

  The woman’s mouth quivered, and she covered it with her hand. “You know my cousin?” she asked in French, but before I could answer, she bellowed towards the open door. “Papa, Alex, come quickly,” she hollered. Within seconds, two men were rushing out of the house. Expressions of trepidation were etched into their features. The woman was talking rapidly, so much so, I could barely understand what she was saying.

  She seemed happy. Or excited. Or shocked.

  Suddenly, she bounded from the stoop and marched towards me, grabbing my arm.

  “You know Laila,” she said, as if I wasn’t the one who had given her the information. Her eyes danced and sparkled as she stared at me. She ran a trembling hand over my cheek an
d pulled me into a warm embrace, melting my anxiety.

  “Que se passe-t-til?”

  I pulled away from the woman to look at the two men standing at the door. The man who spoke was big and burly. His deep voice rattled me to the core and the woman stood to attention. The other man, who appeared close to my age, shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  The woman addressed him in French, telling him the things I had said.

  The frown on his face deepened. “I don’t know this man,” the older man announced in an agitated mutter.

  The woman scowled and stared to reprimand him in French and her accent, touched with a hint of something else, intensified. “None of us know him, Papa. That is why he is here.”

  Papa retorted in an angry verbal vomit and Alex put his hand on Papa’s arm.

  The woman hissed her teeth and waved her hand dismissively. “Papa, go inside and eat. Dinner has been prepared and everyone is waiting.” She gestured to Alex. “We’ll be in soon. You just go inside and relax, why don’t you?”

  In a surprising act of obedience, Papa turned on his heel and stomped back into the house.

  Now, outside was quiet as we all watched the place in which he’d been standing. The woman grabbed my arm and squeezed it, gently pulling me closer to her, and Alex came off the stoop.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he offered rubbing the back of his neck. “That was our father, Laila’s uncle,” he explained. “He is a very strong and cautious man.”

  The woman nodded, as if she’d understood what Alex had said, even though he’d spoken in perfect English.

  I tried to smile. “No need to apologize,” I assured him. “This is a shock. An unexpected visit from a random American man on a Saturday evening would surprise most.”

  “This is Yasmine,” he said, finally introducing the kind woman who had embraced me, both literally and figuratively. “We’re Laila’s cousins.” He pressed his lips together and his voice lowered. “We haven’t seen Laila in a long time,” he reminded me in French, for Yasmine’s benefit.