Samira removed her coat and gloves to hand to him. “The only word for the last twenty-four hours is chaos,” she said as he hung up her coat and then led her into the living room. A large mug sat on each small table beside the duo of leather chairs before the lit fireplace.
Lance waited for her to kick off her heels and take her seat before he sat as well.
She picked up the cup and let it warm her palms before she took a sip, enjoying the feel of the steam rising against her face. “With amaretto,” she sighed at the taste of the almond-flavored liqueur.
“How did it go?” Lance asked after a few moments of silence only broken by the crackle of the fire.
“Alek was caving when Roje and Maman left. He’s more upset about the deceit then he is the relationship,” she said, before enjoying another sip. “Naim is the most upset. He feels it’s a betrayal to our father.”
“And you?”
She looked over at him. “Me? I’m a hypocrite,” she admitted, casting her gaze away from him and into the fire. “How can I not want for her what I want for you?”
At his silence, she looked over to find him looking into the fire as well. “Grief is lonely. You never imagine being left alone by the person you love. You never really comprehend till death do us part until...death.”
She pushed past the unease she felt. “I can’t lie that the look on my mother’s face when she saw Roje was pure peace,” she said, remembering the smile. “Why wouldn’t I want that for her?”
If she was honest, they looked good together.
“Coming from someone who thought he would never fall in love again, it’s a good thing,” he said as he looked to her again. “You’re a good thing.”
“But am I enough?” she asked impulsively.
He eyed her, but there was a definite pause, as if he was gauging the impact of her question. “For?” he asked.
Samira closed her eyes and released a stream of air through her pursed lips, accepting at that moment that within the realm of her relationship, she was insecure. That did not sit well with her. Not well at all. “You know what? That was a ridiculous question,” she said. “I am enough. A woman should never rely on someone else to designate her worth.”
“And do you think I’ve done something to bring on any insecurities?” he asked.
“Intentionally? No,” she admitted, looking around at his home.
“What does that mean?”
She eyed him. “Nothing,” she said with a shake of her head as she reached for her hot chocolate.
“Something,” he insisted, rising to his feet to stand before her chair. He extended his hand to her.
She eyed it but did not take it. “Oh no,” she said, chuckling.
“What!” he exclaimed.
“A hug and then a kiss and then suddenly it’s long strokes all night long and a bunch of moaning when we come together,” she said. “You know it and I know it.”
His hand remained. “Sometimes a hug is just a hug,” he said.
She wrinkled her nose at him as she finally slid her hand into his and allowed him to tug her to her feet. She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned back to look up at him.
“What have I done—unintentionally—to make you feel insecure?” he asked.
She slid her hands down into the back pockets of his jeans. Playfully she squeezed his buttocks.
Lance shook his head.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t be the one to initiate sex,” she explained.
“Samira.”
She didn’t look at him. Instead, she pressed her face against his chest as she looked into the flames.
He held her tighter, resting his chin atop her head. “What’s going on?” he asked.
For so long she had put aside her questions and doubts, not wanting to be insensitive. “Are we really doing this now?” she asked.
Lance stiffened. “What have I done—unintentionally—to make you feel insecure?” he asked again.
Say what needs to be said.
“How long are you going to punish yourself for your wife and daughter passing?” she asked.
Lance released her.
They shifted away from each other. Not even the fire could warm the sudden coolness.
Samira crossed her arms over her chest and glanced over at him. “I am your enabler,” she said, turning to him.
His jaw tightened, and his shoulders straightened. “You make me sound addicted,” he said, his voice low.
“To your grief? Maybe so, Lance,” she said.
He eyed her in disbelief.
“I know you lost your family, and that’s the toughest thing you will ever have to face and get past one day, but you’re the ghost, Lance,” she said, spreading her arms as she did a semiturn in his living room. “Look around you. No pictures. No sunlight. No plants. No color. No joy. No holidays. It’s a damn portrait of suffering and damn despair. You’re just a faded version of yourself.”
“You don’t know me,” he roared.
“Do you?” she asked calmly in the face of his anger. “Do you remember who you were before the car accident? Do you want to?”
He strode over to his bar and jerked up a decanter of some brown liquor to pour himself a healthy share into a glass. “I guess you think my anger is a sign of something else?” he asked as he dropped cubes into the glass.
“I don’t know. I’m not a therapist,” she said.
He frowned. “No shit, Sherlock,” he drawled condescendingly.
“Welcome back, Grumpy Grouch,” she said.
Lance set the glass down on the bar. His stance softened as he turned to face her. “I love you, Samira,” he said.
“I absolutely believe that,” she said, her heart racing. “I love you, too. So much. This is not about the present. It’s about the future—our future—and what it will look like.”
Slowly he walked over to her.
“Would you bring children into this bleak life?” she asked.
He stopped.
Her breath caught.
The crackle of the fire filled the silence.
“Samira,” he said, his face was bleak.
A real chill raced over her body.
“I don’t want to have more children,” he said.
She’d never known her heart could beat so fast. “What?” she asked.
He took a step, and she shook her head. He stopped.
“That would have been nice to know before this moment,” she said, her voice monotone as she tried to imagine finding love, maybe even one day marrying, but never having children.
“Samira,” he said.
She moved quickly to the closet and grabbed her coat to pull on. “At this moment I realize my mother is courageous for being able to move on beyond her grief,” she said, as she tugged on her gloves. “So, I thank you for that.”
Long strides brought him to her side, and he reached for her wrist before she could open the door and flee. “Samira, please,” he begged, pulling her body to his and pressing kisses to the side of her face.
“Please what?” she asked, leaning back to look up at him. “Please give up your dreams of having a family? Please choose you over having children? Please forgive you for keeping another one of your secrets? Please enjoy living in the shadow of your guilt and grief? No.”
She kissed him, allowing herself to enjoy the feel of his mouth and the rise of his ardor as they clung to one another. “Lance,” she said, easing her hand down onto his chest to push him back from her. “I’m giving myself thirty days to get over you. I’m giving you the same thirty days to get your shit together or leave me alone for good.”
He reached to twist his hand in her hair and jerk her close to him once more. “Don’t do this again,” he said, alluding to their last break when he followed her to Milan.
“Hugs. Then kisses. Then long strokes all night long. No,” she insisted, pushing out of his embrace. “Do not call me. Do not come to me. Do not look for me. Do not contact my family to reach me. Thirty days. Either you’re all in or all out, Lance.”
With that said, she rushed from the house before he could see the first of many tears fall.
Chapter 10
Two months later
“Happy holidays, Ms. Ansah!”
Samira gave her assistant, Assi, a hard glare as she passed her office on the way to her own. She fought the urge to mutter, “Bah humbug”—but just barely. She paused in the doorway at the sight of a large poinsettia on the corner of her desk.
Assi ran into the back of her, and Samira glanced back at her over her shoulder.
“Sorry,” the woman said with a slight wince.
Samira continued into her office and picked up the plant to hand back to Assi. “Have you confirmed the travel plans with my mother?” she asked, removing the sleek caramel-colored camel-hair coat she wore over a formfitting leather dress in the same shade.
“The car will pick you, your mother and Mr. Roje—”
“Just Roje,” Samira said, removing her computer glasses from the ostrich-leather eyewear case to slip on before she logged on to her computer. “Actually, I don’t know his last name. I guess I should find out, since they’re to be wed in three months.”
“Okay,” Assi said. “Your driver will be downstairs at 9:00 a.m. sharp. Your luggage has already been shipped ahead and arrived at Mr. and Mrs. Ansah’s chalet in the Swiss Alps.”
Samira nodded, wishing she didn’t dread the annual family holiday trip. Lance had forever changed Christmas for her—and not for the better. She allowed herself to think of him and took great comfort in the pain of hurt and disappointment being less sharp than it had been when her thirty-day deadline came and went two months ago.
Work had become her new lover.
“I uploaded the video interview with Ms. Burns this morning,” Assi said.
Samira found her first smile of the day. “Thank you, Assi,” she said.
Her conversation with Ursula Burns, the first African American woman to be CEO of a Fortune 500 company, was just the debut she needed for her new blog/initiative to encourage young African American girls to aspire to join the growing ranks of powerful black women in corporate America. She planned such conversations once a month, and next on her list was Alessandra.
The formation of her nonprofit offering scholarships to women of color looking to acquire their MBAs was receiving a lot of press. That was a bright spot in the last few months.
I just knew he was coming back to me.
“Coffee or tea, Ms. Ansah?”
And I was wrong.
“Ms. Ansah?”
Samira blinked and looked up at Assi, pushing away a memory of crying until her eyes were puffy because of her heartbreak. “Yes?” she asked.
“Would you like coffee or tea this morning?” Assi asked again.
“Hot chocolate, actually,” she said.
“Right away.”
As Assi departed the office with the Christmas plant in hand, Samira thought of the last time Lance made her the same drink. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
“I’m giving myself thirty days to get over you. I’m giving you the same thirty days to get your shit together or leave me alone for good.”
“Knock-knock.”
Samira looked up at Alessandra, striding into her office looking beautiful in a bright orange silk blouse paired with a matching leather pencil skirt. “Good morning, sis,” Samira said, removing her spectacles.
Alessandra claimed one of the seats in front of her, lightly tapping a rolled-up magazine she held against the edge of the desk. “I watched the interview you did with Ursula. It was excellent. You really are good on camera,” she said. “Funny. Smart. Insightful. A mini Oprah.”
“Thanks.”
“But that’s not the reason I’m here,” she admitted, unrolling the magazine she held to set in front of her.
Samira looked down at the national weekly celebrity magazine. “What’s this for?” she asked curiously as she eyed Rihanna on the cover.
“Follow the sticky note,” Alessandra said, crossing her legs as she settled her body in the chair.
Samira felt a little apprehension. “I’m not really into celebrity gossip,” she said as she opened the page. “Hell, I hate when we make the press—”
Alessandra smiled. “Looks good, doesn’t he?” she asked.
Samira pressed her now trembling fingers to the headshot of Lance on the glossy page. “Really good,” she whispered, taking in how ruggedly handsome he looked as he smiled proudly without a care for his scar. So confident and sexy.
“It’s nice to see him without the hat.”
“For the whole world to see without the hat,” she said in awe.
“The interview is good, too,” Alessandra added with an arch of her brow. “I think you’ll agree.”
Samira nibbled at her bottom lip, with her heart pounding and her nerves shot, as she read the interview with speed. He was promoting his newest release, Danger.
“‘Lance Millner, who is just as well-known for being a recluse as for his literary accomplishments, explains the reason he stepped out of the public eye several years ago,’” Samira read aloud.
She gasped. Lance opened up about the car accident, his wife and daughter’s deaths, and his scar, all leading to him becoming solitary.
“‘The love of a good woman and therapy helped me overcome it,’” she read aloud.
The love of a good woman...
So that’s why he never came. He’d fallen for someone else.
That hurt.
She closed the magazine and pushed it across the desk toward her sister-in-law as she put on a smile. “I’m happy to see Lance doing much better,” she said, reaching for her glasses and blinking to keep even one tear from falling.
Alessandra pushed the magazine back toward her. “Why do you look as if you’re smiling while constipated?” she asked.
She smiled harder, seeing the shadows of her cheeks rise beneath her eyes.
Alessandra recoiled and held up her hand. “No, you are giving off Joker from Batman vibes right now,” she drawled.
Samira stopped smiling. “Joaquin Phoenix or Jack Nicholson?” she asked.
“A little of both,” Alessandra emphasized with a shiver.
Samira playfully winced before she laughed softly. “That was a smile to keep from crying,” she admitted, removing her glasses yet again.
“Crying for what?” Alessandra asked. “Lance loves you. He worked through his issues. He’s made some major changes. It’s time for your happily-ever-after.”
“I’m truly happy for him,” she said with honesty. “But I am not the woman he’s talking about, and that’s...okay. I haven’t heard from him since the night he told me he didn’t want children, so I am not the woman he loves anymore.”
“Aw, Samira. I’m sorry. I thought maybe you reconnected recently.”
She shrugged her shoulder. “Definitely not.”
Alessandra eased her hand across the top of the desk to reach for the magazine.
“It’s fine. Leave it,” Samira said, turning to her computer. “I am still a Lance Millner fan and I am ordering a new copy of his book right now. I typed the first half, and I want to see how it ends.”
“Too bad real life can’t be written with the perfect ending like a book,” Alessandra said, leaning forward to extend her hand.
Samira took it and gave it a squeeze. “Says the lady with the perfect ending to her love story.”
“Not perfect, but good because of love, respect, hard work and lots of compromises,” she insisted.
Assi walked in. �
��Excuse me, ladies,” she said. “Ms. Ansah, I have your hot chocolate. Ms. Ansah-Dalmount, would you like something?”
Alessandra rose with a shake of her. “No, thank you,” she said. “Samira, I will see you in the morning for our flight.”
After the women left her alone, Samira immersed herself in work, distracting herself from the thought of Lance finding his happy with someone else. She failed at it so many times, having to tell herself, “Move on, Samira,” and “Focus” to get back on track. Throughout meetings and conference calls, her sadness about Lance was there, pulsing beneath the surface.
Later that day her fingers paused on the keyboard and she glanced over at the magazine.
The love of a good woman...
She closed her eyes and rested her head in her palm. “Shit,” she swore as the tears welled up.
She couldn’t stop them, not anymore.
“I loved him,” she whispered, reaching to the edge of her desk, where a white leather box held tissues, to quickly snatch a few before leaning back in her chair and dabbing at her eyes.
I love him. Still.
“Damn.”
She whirled in her chair and looked out at light snow falling on the city. In the windows of the office building across the street, she could make out tiny lit trees or Christmas wreaths in the windows for those celebrating the season. “Merry Christmas to me,” she muttered. “Thanks so much, Lance.”
“You ready?”
Samira looked up to find her mother, Alessandra, Marisa and Ngozi entering her office. She cleared her throat as she balled the tissues up and tossed them into the wastepaper basket by her desk. “Hello, everyone,” she said. “Ready for what?”
LuLu opened her closet and removed her coat and pocketbook.
Marisa and Ngozi gave Alessandra a meaningful stare.
“Fine,” she said to them, before turning back to Samira with a smile. “Lance has a book signing in Manhattan tonight, and we all thought this is your opportunity to say whatever you have to say to him.”
Ngozi held up both her hands. “In a public place.”
Christmas with the Billionaire ; A Tiara for Christmas Page 14
