Chapter 3

Who would have thought she would be celebrating two years at IJDC? She sure didn’t. Nevertheless, while spending time with her co-workers she felt a twinge of guilt. They unknowingly built a relationship with her based on lies. They knew Camille Carmichael as an ambitious, hardworking, international jewelry purchaser. She entered as an assistant account representative and now she held the title of VP of International Accounts.

Despite the pretense, Camille was proud of this promotion and knew she earned it. She had convinced her coworkers she was one of them by keeping up with seemingly endless travel and working long nights. Her life consisted of the IJDC, and the bureau’s increasing pressure to close this case just muddied the situation.

“What can I get cha’, pretty lady?”

The bartender was flirting hard. He was handsome, in a rugged bad boy kind of way. His long hair gathered in a low ponytail and his fitted black t-shirt showed off his sculpted chest.

“I’ll take a frozen margarita.” She returned his smile.

“And she’s flirting too.”

“Mind your business?” Camille said jokingly. When had Ashanta arrived? As she stood to hug Ashanta, she came face-to-face with Harold Donovan.

Camille pulled back and searched Ashanta’s face for an explanation. Had she lost her mind? Why would she show up at work-related function with the boss? Yes, obviously she had lost her mind.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said with no shame. She was unfazed by Camille’s judgment filled face. The slight shrug of her shoulder gestured that it was no big deal.

They knew each other well, but sometimes she had no idea what Ashanta was thinking. She was smart and quick, but Camille knew there was more to her. She tried to be patient and it killed her to admit that her suspicions of Ashanta grew by the day.

“Congratulations Camille, you deserve it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Donovan.”

“You’re welcome. What do you want, honey?” Harold asked Ashanta. Camille silently took in their exchange. His eyes roamed Ashanta’s face and paused at her mouth. Harold’s gaze turned and bore into Camille, causing blood to flood to her face.

“Here’s your drink.” The bartender called over her shoulder. Camille turned and nodded her thanks. She welcomed the break from Harold’s intense stare. She grabbed the cool glass and took a sip letting the icy lime-flavored drink settle her nerves. She placed it back on the bar and used her moist hands to restore the normal hue of her cheeks.

Camille knew without looking at a mirror that her face was beet red. She hated having fairer skin. How many black women blushed? Very few and she was one of them. It annoyed the hell out of her and so did her freckles.

She settled in a seat watching them search for a place to sit. She scanned the club, nursed her drink, and started rocking to the music. The DJ had the place jumping. Camille let the music and the margarita erase the awkward scene with Harold.

The dance floor was full and she waved at a few of her of her co-workers seated in a reserved area. She turned to the bar and noticed Saul sitting at a table alone. It was hard to make out his expression, his body appeared rigid, and he had a firm hold on his beer. She leaned forward in her seat to follow the direction of his glare. Ashanta and Harold.  Interesting.

* * *

They entered Club VIP, a new Houston establishment catering to young professionals. Jarvis located a table and leaned into Marc to speak over the music.

“The crowd is light. But it usually picks up around 6:30 or so with the after work crowd.”

They placed their drink orders and both scanned the club captivated by the music and the atmosphere.

“Great choice,” Marc said as the waiter sat their drinks on the table.

“So, man, what brings you back to Houston?” Jarvis asked.

“I’m tired.” They laughed, but Marc sobered wanting to get Jarvis’ take on his career move. “I think I’m ready to leave the agency and I need some time to mull it over.”

Jarvis took a swallow of his longneck beer. Marc waited for his response. He valued his brother’s opinion and some part of him hoped Jarvis would aid him in deciding since he was still unsure.

“That’s a big step. What would you do?”

“I don’t know. I have enough money saved to travel and figure it out.”

“But you’re no spring chicken, brother.”

They laughed. Marc knew where this conversation was going. “And your point is?” He lifted his beer to his mouth, scanning the open layout of the restaurant and bar. He liked the vibe he admitted while rubbing his hand over his fade.

He would let Jarvis speak his peace while keeping in mind that his brother was the safe and practical one. Jarvis married right out of college. His family had a nice home in an upper middle-class neighborhood. His wife stayed at home with the kids. They had everything, except the mini-van and a dog.

Everything about his life screamed boring. However, he couldn’t deny that Jarvis and Darlene were happy; but would he be happy? Probably not.

“You know what I’m talking about. Wife…kids…house.”

Jarvis signaled for the waiter.

Marc knew his brother had good intentions but he didn’t plan to settle down any time soon. When he married Ebony, he planned to commit to her for life. She, apparently, had other plans.

“I don’t think that’s in the cards for me. Right now, I just want to take some time to figure out what my next step is. Then whatever happens; happens. I have no other expectations beyond that,” Marc said while peeling at the beer label on the empty bottle in his hand.

“Just remember, you two were young. All marriages are not like that.”

Marc’s head snapped up and met Jarvis’ direct stare. Leave it to him to bring up the past. They rarely spoke of his failed marriage or his inability to commit to another woman since. He knew he wasn’t still in love with Ebony, but the sting of the betrayal was as fresh as it was twenty years ago. He did not intend to subject himself to that type of deception again; not in this lifetime.

“I talked with Derek today.”

Marc welcomed the change of subject. “Really, what’s he up to?”

“He’s planning a visit. He asked about you and asked for your number.” That caught Marc’s attention and he angled his head towards Jarvis.

“Did he say what he needed?”

“Naw, I’m assuming it had something to do with a case.”

The DJ was spinning some of the hottest songs on the radio. The noise level was increasing as more people made their way to the dance floor. Jarvis selected a good table because Marc was able to view the front entrance, bar and dance floor with limited obstruction. His brother was the consummate investigator.

“Is he still with the bureau?”

“Yeah, as far as I know. We’re planning to get together when he comes to town next week.”

Marc was curious about why Derek wanted his number. It had been a few years since they last talked. Whatever it is must be important, he reasoned, since agents rarely crossed department lines, especially between the FBI and the CIA.

“Hum.” He finished his drink. Curiosity held the silence between them.

“That’s the second ‘hum’. What’s up?” Jarvis stopped moving to the music to focus on Marc.

“You know it’s rare for agents to work between the FBI and the CIA. It’s some old sibling-rivalry type mess dating back to when Truman was president. The tension only heightened after the release of the investigations following the 9/11 attacks. Playing politics is becoming too much to handle. It's not enough to just do your job.”

Just as he finished, Darlene entered the club. She still looked like the woman Jarvis brought home during college, having kids only filled out her figure in a womanly way.

“Hey, isn’t that Darlene?” Marc tilted his head toward the entrance of the club. Jarvis followed the direction of his stare.

“Yeah, man, let me go over and meet her.” He stood to leave the table. After walking a few steps, he retraced them and asked Marc to order another round of beers.

Marc watched his brother walk away. Jarvis and Darlene exchanged a quick hug. They made him believe that marriage wasn’t so bad. Marc surveyed the room and saw the club was indeed full. He glanced towards the bar while looking for a server and noticed a group of chatting women. One, in particular, caught his attention. The path between him and the bar seemed to clear, giving him full view of the beautiful woman with a halo of curls.

Her attention averted from her companion’s as if sensing his interest. They openly assessed each other and she slightly tilted in her head in his direction acknowledging their brief exchange. She turned back to her companion, but stopped, glanced over her shoulder and smiled. That was all he needed. Marc stood, finished his beer, and walked in her direction.

* * *

He’s coming this way. What should I do? The tequila in her margarita gave her the bravado to toss him her best sexy smile. Camille didn’t think he’d act on it. Placing her cup and tip on the bar, she noticed Mr. Hersey closing in on her.

Oh hell, she thought watching him cover the distance in long strides. He moved through the crowd as if he was Tyson Beckford commanding a runway instead of one of a couple hundred people in this small club. She might as well enjoy the view.

Camille settled back on the bar stool, legs crossed, elbows resting on the edge of the bar. Live a little, a small voice said and with that, she ordered another drink.

She started at the top of his close cut hair and ended with his casual shoes. She would have pegged his stroll as graceful if he wasn’t such a large man. He had to be close to six feet.

Camille knew he appreciated the redirection of her attention because he rewarded her with a sexy smile, which she brazenly returned. They held eyes until he stopped about a foot from her to let a couple move past without breaking eye contact.

She’d flirted with him and now here he was. He closed the space, moving in so that she could hear him over the music. He smelled good; almost edible. Where had that come from?

If she didn’t know any better, she’d bet her retirement on knowing that he was undressing her with his eyes, and she was doing the same.

“Would you like another drink?” he asked, holding her gaze.

“No.” His eyebrow peaked, as if something she’d said had amused him. He stepped closer allowing someone to move past. The smell of his cologne tickled her nose.

“Would you like to dance?” He extended his hand. Her stomach flip-flopped. Oh, boy. She hesitated before taking his hand. Their brief exchange was throwing her senses off.

“Yes, she would.” Ashanta answered, dousing cold water on their sensual moment. “Hi,” she continued, “I’m Ashanta.”

He briefly directed his steamy, spellbinding gaze toward Ashanta.

Camille realized her chest was tight and her breathing was heavy. Had she held her breath the entire time? He was dangerously sexy and off limits.

After tonight…the traitor in her head beckoned.

“Marc, Marc Fulton.” He made his introduction while staring at Camille. She appreciated the way his husky voice caused a delightful sensation to travel the length of her body.

“Nice to meet you,” Ashanta said.

 “And you are?” he asked her, not missing a beat.

“Camille, and yes, I would love to dance.” He approved of her response because his expression beamed with a smile that would have pegged his previous expression as an irritated smirk. It reached his smoky eyes and revealed a slight dimple in his left cheek.

Camille felt like a skittish teenager and threw caution to the wind as she placed her slender hand into his. Electricity moved between them. His eyes flashed with awareness, but it quickly disappeared.

Did she imagine it? No, she reckoned. His breathing pattern changed and his full nose flared as he placed his hand on her lower back, leading her to the dance floor.

“Thank you, Camille,” he murmured close to her ear. Where had this sexy Adonis, come from?

“For what?” she asked, trying to maintain her composure. Camille felt the length of his body along her left side as they stood inches apart. She let her eyes linger on his full mouth, wondering what he tasted like.

“For making this evening interesting,” he answered, unaware of her racing thoughts. She had concluded that drinks mixed with abstinence equaled insane sexual tension. She had to shake it loose.

“How so?” she asked when they stopped at the edge of the dance floor.

The selection shifted from upbeat to a slow. She noticed the younger crowd moving towards the bar and couples taking residence on the dance floor.

Marc placed his hands on her waist. Camille followed his lead and wrapped her arms loosely around his neck, as if they had done it for years. He nudged her closer bringing her body next to his muscular frame.

His large hands braced her lower back and she noticed the differences in their size. She had been wrong about his height. He had to be over six feet and compared to him, her five foot six inch height seemed comical.

“Where should I begin?” Marc paused to look down into her face. His gaze was smothering. She saw it coming. He wanted to kiss her and she wanted him to kiss her. It felt brazen, but she did. She reasoned that maybe the kiss would settle the fire brewing in the pit of her stomach that was slowly moving south.

Marc lowered his head and captured her mouth in a fleeting kiss. The controlled fire in her stomach was now a full alarm inferno. She opened her eyes to see his sparked with awareness as he pulled back.

Camille saw raw sexual energy beaming in her direction. She glanced around the dance floor and noticed that the song had changed. She stepped back. He stepped forward, closing the space. Her eyes ventured back to his full, soft, kissable lips.

Camille needed some space to breath. She stepped back, extending her hand, “Thank you for the dance.” He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed her gently on the back of her hand.

“Camille, do you know that you’re beet red?” He chuckled and she joined in, relieving some of the sexual tension.

“No, but it happens from time to time.”

“I like it. It’s cute.” She found herself back in his arms. “And you’re beautiful. Can I see you again?”

She paused and looked towards the bar. Something was going on and Camille knew she needed to get back on the job.

“Sure.”

She knew he noticed the change in her mood because he followed her attention towards the bar. He didn’t say anything, but they both knew their time together was limited.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, I need to run.”

“How about we exchange numbers and talk over the weekend?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Her preoccupation with scanning the club drowned out the noise in the club. She looked at him and he too began to look about the room.

“Are you looking for Ashanta? She’s over there.” Marc said pointing to a private booth on the far end of the club.

Ashanta and Harold sat huddled up. Camille looked to the seat Saul occupied earlier and found him still there.

“Thank you. I gotta go.”

She moved out of his embrace, placing her hand against his chest. She could feel the definition of his body. She needed to get as far away from Marc as possible. Camille turned to walk away when he grabbed her wrist, and diverted her attention back to him.

“What’s your number?”

Camille rattled off her number. He nodded, but didn’t write it down.

“But you’re not writing it down.”

“I don’t need to. I got it right here.” He tapped his index finger on his right temple. He leaned, brushed a quick kiss on her cheek, and let go of her hand.

Camille began moving towards Saul, but paused to glance over her shoulder. Marc remained in the same spot, feet planted, watching her every move.

* * *

Damn, he’s sexy. Ashanta watched as Harold settled into the booth. His relaxed demeanor made it appear as if he partied in a club full of young Black professionals on a regular basis. He was one of the only white men in the club, yet he walked around as if he owned the place. She knew he didn’t usually socialize after work but this time, he attended to prove a point to her and she was reading him loud and clear.

Harold placed her drink on the table and lazily laid his arm along the back of the bench, touching her shoulder.

Ashanta glanced towards the bar. She knew Camille would have a lecture prepared when they talked later, and she understood her concerns, but fuck it. Harold made the madness of her life disappear. Didn’t she deserve it?

They made a striking pair, she was five-ten in her bare feet with deep, rich ebony skin, kissed by the motherland and he cleared six feet with salt-and-pepper hair, and twenty years her senior. He had the body of a twenty year old and the determination of a worldly man who took what he wanted; no apologies. She found his rough edge sexy as hell.

“Do you see the look on Saul’s face?” Ashanta asked although she honestly didn’t care about Saul. Nor did she like him. He was an arrogant bastard and a spoiled brat. He sat at a table alone, watching them as if disgusted. She could care less, but she did not want to come between Harold and his eldest son.

Harold shrugged, “I am a grown man. I’m his father. Who I decide to spend my time with is none of his business.” He paused as if in deep thought. “I believe we have an understanding.”

Yeah right, she thought. She doubted that he and Saul had come to the same understanding.

Harold slid his arm between her lower back and the cushioned booth. He cupped her hip and pulled her body closer to his. Their legs touched, and her body responded immediately to his nearness. The smell of his cologne, the brandy on his breath and swirl of his finger, as he traced small circles on her thigh, had her buzzed; and it wasn’t all due to the alcohol. 

“Let’s give my son something to watch,” Harold suggested.

Ashanta parted her lips in an open invitation and he wasted no time. He captured her laughter in a smoldering kiss that erased their casual façade and exposed his sexual need. She tilted closer, wanting to experience all that he had to offer.

Harold wrapped his hands around the sides of her neck as his thumb gently brushed along her jaw line. He groaned his approval of her submission and expertly darted his tongue into the warmth of her mouth.

She was too enthralled with him to care that they were making out in a club booth. They let the sounds of the club absorb the moans that passed between them. He ended their exchange and she captured his lower lip between her teeth in an intimate nibble before allowing him to adjust his posture to accommodate his rising manhood.

Ashanta saw the passion stirring in his crystal-clear blue eyes mirroring the feelings pulsating through her body. She had ignored his requests to take their relationship to the next level, but tonight she planned to give in to his persistent patience.

They knew her misgivings were valid. The reality of him owning the company that employed her was just the beginning of her worries. When she add in the twenty-year age difference, the fact that she was an African woman and he was a white man, the deck was stacked against them.

“I want you,” he whispered as his lips grazed her ear. He leaned back and his smothering gaze imprisoned her. His statement was simple and direct, however, the look in his eyes was intent with a hint of vulnerability.

Ashanta knew his hesitation was well founded. His appearance at happy hour signaled a big step in declaring his feelings for her. She didn’t think he would actually do it. In some ways, she wished he hadn’t.

He made it hard to refuse what he openly offered and she was tired of fighting her feelings. She decided to accept his invitation and enjoy it for what it was worth.

Ashanta turned into Harold and let the softness of her breast rest against him. She wanted him too, but giving in would be the death of her.

Harold ran his index finger from her exposed shoulder to her forearm leaving a train of tingling need as he continued to seduce her, fully clothed and in public.

“Don’t worry so much, honey.” He read her mind as if they had known each for a lifetime. His finger continued its journey as he ran it across the hollow of her cheekbone. “I love the look of your beautiful skin. I love the taste of your mouth on mine. I can’t wait to see your onyx eyes filled with sleepy satisfaction, in my arms, in my bed.”

She couldn’t breathe. Harold closed the remaining inch separating them. “Let me love you, honey. Let me make love to you.” He pulled back and mouthed please.

Damn. He searched her eyes for the answer. She would give him a dose of his own medicine. Ashanta wrapped her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his hair. She flicked her tongue along his mouth, stopping only to nibble on his lips before grabbing his earlobe between her teeth.

“Yes,” she finally answered. He rewarded her with another kiss that left her lightheaded.

“Let’s say our goodbyes.” He stood to let her out of the booth. Ashanta righted her dress, as she scanned the club.

“I want to find Camille and let her know we’re leaving.”

“Okay, I’ll make my rounds and head to the men’s room.”

Harold pulled her into a parting kiss that started as a quiet storm with the patience of a saint and ended in the heat of the devil’s seed. Her legs could barely support her weight. They felt like jelly stilts. He slowly ended the kiss.

“Hot damn!”

He laughed. “That was so unladylike.”

She rested her head on his chest to catch her breath. She would find a way to tell him the truth and save her family.

“You know I curse like a sailor.” She looked at his handsome face and took hold of his erect manhood. “We both know you don’t want me for my poised, ladylike ways.”

“Hot damn.” Harold released a low growl peering at her through lowered eyes. “Let’s get out of here. Now.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Donovan.”

Ashanta turned to find Camille. Harold held her hips and aligned their bodies, positioning his throbbing need against her round derriere. She could feel the rapid rhythm of his heart beating on her back. She felt the warmth of his breath before she heard the low raspy confession that would follow.

“I love you.“

She froze. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. She turned to see his face, but he was gone. She watched his back as he retreated.

She loved him too. Ashanta only hoped their love would be enough.

* * *

He should have skipped this whole scene. Witnessing his father with her almost made him hurl. Harold still chased anything in a skirt.

Saul ordered another drink. The leggy blonde-haired woman stepped to the side and revealed Harold. He stood a few feet away with his hands casually in his pockets. His tie hung loosely around his neck and the top button of his oxford dress shirt was undone.

“What is your problem?” His head angled lower to level his stare.

You, Saul thought but dared not voice.

“What problem?” He hated that his father still had the power to intimidate him. His eyes frigidly moved about the room.

“Don’t play ignorant with me, boy.”

Boy… “Father, I’m a grown man. I haven’t been, your boy, since you ran off with your little office hussy.”

The dim club lights reflected across Harold’s face casting a sinister shadow. He turned the chair opposite Saul toward him straddling it as he rested his forearms on the back of the chair. The smile on his face did not reach his piercing cold eyes. He grabbed the glass left by the parting waiter and smelled the contents. “Oh, so this yak is helping you grow some balls tonight,” he laughed.

Saul squirmed in his chair as his father’s laughter caused his stomach to gather in tight knots.

“Oh, don’t stop now Mr. Badass. Say what’s on your mind,” Harold probed.

Saul swallowed a lump the size of a bowling ball, straining to clear his throat. He inserted his index finger between his neck and his shirt collar, trying to loosen its hold. What he saw in his father’s eyes made him bite back the words he wanted to say.

“Let me help you,” Harold sipped from Saul’s glass before continuing. “You have an issue with Ashanta? Grow up! Who I date or sleep with has nothing to do with you. Am I making myself clear?”

His voice was a mere octave above a whisper, enforcing every syllable of the parting sentence through clenched teeth. Saul flinched. Harold did not wait for Saul to answer. He stood and walked away the drink.

Saul released the pent up air trying to disregard his humiliation. His father made him feel like a child and he hated the hold Harold had over him. Mortified he sat with his elbows on the table, cradling his head. Saul looked up only to catch a glimpse of Harold escorting Ashanta out of the club. The strain of his clenched fist caused tremors to quiver through his arms. Saul hated him and her. He slammed his fists on the table, startling a woman walking past. Harold would not get the last word.