Читать книгу Sultry Nights - Donna Hill - Страница 10

Chapter 2

Dominique navigated her Mercedes coupe in the direction of her office, turning onto Magnolia Court North before making the left onto Main Street into the heart of downtown Baton Rouge.

“It was so good seeing you and Jackson and the kids at the wedding,” Dominique said, speaking into her headset to her best girlfriend, Zoe Beaumont-Treme. “I wish Cynthia could have made it.”

“Me, too, but she was with us in spirit from Paris. Your aunt Jacqueline looked incredible. I haven’t seen her in years.”

“I know. Neither have we. She writes to Rafe every now and then from wherever she may be with her job. But her and dad haven’t spoken since…Uncle David.”

“That’s really such a shame. When all else fails what you have left is family.”

“She said she may stay in Louisiana for a little while before she picks up her next assignment. Who knows maybe she and dad will find a way to work through things.”

“I hope so. Not to change the subject but I’m still wowing over your sister’s dress. Is she back from her honeymoon yet?”

“They came home last week. She looks fantastic. I still can’t believe Desi is married. She’s now Desiree Hampton.”

“Is Desi going to hyphenate her name?” Zoe asked.

“I don’t know. Why is it that women have to take the man’s name, anyway? It is so yesterday. Things are changing but not fast enough and until they do, I intend to hold on to my own.” Not that she had any immediate prospects in that regard, but that was beside the point. It was the principle.

“Girl, when the right man comes along I want to be a fly on the wall to hear what you have to say then.”

Dominique heard one of Zoe’s twins crying in the background. “I hear duty calling.”

Zoe laughed lightly. “Those are ‘we’re hungry cries.’ I’d better go. I’ll call you over the weekend. Maybe we can meet up for lunch.”

“Sure. Take care. Kiss the kids…and Jackson.”

“Will do. Bye, sweetie.”

Dominique heard the call disconnect in her ear. An odd feeling of sadness swept through her. She and Zoe and Cynthia had been friends since they were little girls. When Zoe moved to Atlanta a few years earlier to pursue her career as a curator at the High Museum, and Cynthia a year later to open her business, it was difficult but they still managed to get together. They took vacations, shared secrets and shoes, and then Jackson Treme stepped into Zoe’s life and everything changed for good. Now she was a married woman with two-year-old twins. But at least she and Jackson had moved back to Louisiana, so they did get to see each other more often, and Cynthia had been thinking of expanding her business and opening a secondary location back in her hometown of Louisiana. It would be great to have her girls back again.

Dominique pulled onto her street and drove around the corner to the small lot behind her building and parked her car, cut the engine, dropped her cell phone into her purse and got out. The alarm chirped as she pushed through the doors of the back entrance.

Getting First Impressions off the ground was Dominique’s pride and joy. Everyone in her very ambitious family—save for her older brother, Rafe—was involved in something important. Sure, she could have spent her days shopping and lunching and traveling, but with her best friends married or moved away she found her days becoming empty and meaningless. She wanted her father to be proud of her, too, and that would have never happen if she’d continued living her life the way she’d been living it. He’d threatened on more than one occasion to cut off her endless funds if she didn’t get her life together.

It was her older sister, Lee Ann, who had helped her to explore some of the ideas that had been running around in her head. If there was anything that Dominique was good at it was shopping and clothes. Her first thought was to open an exclusive boutique and use her many contacts to supply one-of-a-kind items.

“That’s wonderful,” Lee Ann had said, “but who needs another exclusive boutique? Who is that helping? What about supplying quality clothing for women who can’t afford them?”

That was the seed of the idea that materialized into First Impressions. It was a top-of-the-line clothing establishment that provided clothing to low-income women that were returning to the workplace or needed that special one-of-a-kind outfit for an event. It started off small, but after less than six months in business she could barely keep up. She had a full staff that screened all of the applicants, stocked the racks and kept up with inventory.

Dominique’s sense of style and understanding of what each woman needed to make them feel special was an integral part of the company’s success. Now, with a bit more than two years in business, she was ready to expand and include a training program for women as part of her services. To do that she needed more space.

For the past month she’d been reviewing applications from contractors and had finally narrowed down her search to one: T. Jackson Contracting. She’d heard great things about the company, and was impressed with their proposal. She had a meeting scheduled with the owner in less than an hour.

* * *

Trevor Jackson maneuvered his Range Rover down the narrow street, slowing periodically to search for the address. He stopped in front of the building with the teal-blue awning and plate-glass window. “First Impressions” was emblazoned in bright white letters. He turned the corner and found a parking space. He draped the strap of his camera around his neck, took his iPad to take notes and walked back to the entrance.

He opened the glass-and-wood front door and a bell chimed. From the outside the size was deceiving. It was much larger than he expected and everywhere that he looked there were racks and shelves of women’s clothing, shoes, purses and accessories in glass cases.

“May I help you?”

He turned toward the sound of the voice. A good-looking middle-aged woman in a crisp navy-blue suit and pale pink blouse approached him.

“Hi, I’m looking for Ms. Lawson. We have an appointment.”

“You must be Mr. Jackson.”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “I’m Phyllis. Dominique is expecting you. Let me show you to her office.”

They walked around the racks of clothing to the back of the showroom and then down a narrow hallway. The walls were lined with framed photographs of women in a variety of settings and outfits.

“Those are pictures of our ladies,” Phyllis said by way of explanation. “Most of them are single mothers getting back to work, or women who had been incarcerated and are starting life over again. Some are high school seniors that needed a prom dress. I was one of them,” she added.

Trevor didn’t try to guess which category she fell into.

Phyllis stopped and knocked on a closed door.

He faintly heard a voice from the other side say to come in.

Phyllis turned the knob and opened the door. “Mr. Jackson is here.”

“Thanks, Phyllis,” Dominique said from behind the frame of her computer screen. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Jackson,” she said and continued typing. “I’ll be right with you.”

Phyllis eased out and Trevor stepped inside. He took a quick survey of the small, totally feminine office and crossed the room to view the framed photographs on a chrome wall unit.

He’d seen pictures of the Lawson family in the newspapers and on television for years that spotlighted the high-class parties, the politics, the weddings and even the scandals that swirled around the oldest son. He’d had some doubts about bidding on the job. He’d had his share of rich folk and their “issues,” their demands and fickleness. It was his business partner, Max Hunt, who finally convinced him that it was worth doing. The work that the organization did—according to its brochure—fit into Trevor and Max’s sense of service to the community. Although he preferred to work in low-income neighborhoods and help the families in the 9th Ward rebuild, this would be his one corporate project for the year.

Dominique swerved her chair from in front of her computer screen and slammed her knee into the desk when she caught her first glimpse of Trevor’s broad back, lean waist and tight behind. White-hot pain shot up from her knee and exploded into tiny stars in her head. She gripped the edge of the desk and bit down on her lip to keep from screaming.

But the real cause of the heat that flooded her cheeks and set her heart racing was when Trevor looked over his shoulder at the sound of the collision.

For a moment, she couldn’t think beyond the pain in her knee and the vision before her. Trevor Jackson was not the stumpy, balding, cigar-chewing, dirty-under-the-fingernails contractor that she’d expected. He was an Idris Elba look-alike, with the build and piercing dark eyes to cinch the deal. If he opened his mouth and out spouted the King’s English, she was done. His right eyebrow lifted and she only wished her lashes were as naturally thick as his.

Concentrating on standing up without wobbling on her aching knee, she made it to her feet as he turned fully around. Her stomach fluttered.

“Mr… .” Her mind went blank.

“Jackson.”

She forced a smile and wondered if she looked as suddenly unnerved as she felt. “Yes, sorry. Mr. Jackson. I’ve seen so many people this morning.”

Trevor let the comment go. Maybe she got a very early start, seeing that it was barely after nine. Either that or she was no different from the rest of the elite that he’d dealt with in the past who didn’t care enough to know the names of the people that they employ.

Dominique’s knee was pulsing in time to the thudding in her chest. She finally had the presence of mind to extend her hand in his direction. And what did she do that for?

Trevor’s large work-roughened hand enveloped hers. His long fingers wrapped around her palm and gently squeezed.

Heat sluiced through her veins, filled her body, loosened her inner thighs and made her tiny pearl stiffen and twitch.

He was a full head above her, even in her heels, and she was forced to look up at him to make contact with eyes that were framed with thick lashes and orbs that were inky black, almost bottomless. There was a slight squint to his gaze as if he was staring into sunshine.

“Is it okay if I sit down?”

Damn, was she staring? Only the flickering light of good home training kept her from snatching her hand away. “Of course.” She smiled and extended her scorched hand in the direction of the couch and briefly shut her eyes the instant he turned his back and willed herself to get it together—and grabbed the folder with his paperwork.

He would never know how stiff her knee was becoming the way she managed to catwalk across the short space to join him in the cozy seating area. She opted for the club chair and slowly eased down into the plush comfort of the seat. Her knee was on fire.

Trevor leaned back against the plump cushions and draped his arm across the back of the couch. The rolled up sleeves of his tan chambray shirt revealed the tight tendons of his arms and he looked quite comfortable, as if sitting in her office relaxed and nonplussed was something he did regularly.

Dominique ran her tongue across her dry bottom lip and then opened the folder that was on her lap. “So…” She glanced across at him and forgot what she was going to say.

“Yes?” The corner of his mouth flicked.

Dominique adjusted herself in her chair and switched her focus to the papers in front of her. “Well, as you know, my organization has plans to expand. We recently purchased the two floors above us and I need them converted into work space, well classrooms, a library and a resource center.”

“Right.”

He wasn’t going to make this easy. “I’ve received dozens of proposals but yours met all of our criteria.”

He nodded.

Dominique swallowed. “If you’re still interested, we can discuss terms and when the work can get started.”

“I’d like to see the space.”

“Of course.” She started to stand and winced at the pain in her knee. She gripped the side of the chair.

Trevor was halfway to her side. “You okay?” He almost grabbed her but caught himself.

She bobbed her head. “Fine.” She pushed herself to a standing position. “I’ll show you the space.” She led the way out of her office, toward the back of the building and around to the side entrance that led to the upper floors.

Dominique gripped the wobbly wooden banister and gritted her teeth as she mounted the stairs. She was going to need some ice and not just for her aching knee.

* * *

Trevor dutifully followed Dominique up the stairs, trying to keep his mind on the steps and not the gentle sway of Dominique’s hips or the curve of her legs or the soft scent that she trailed in her wake. Fortunately, they wouldn’t have too much contact. Once work began he couldn’t imagine a woman like Dominique Lawson being in the mix of dust, buzz saws and sweaty men.