Читать книгу A Private Affair - Donna Hill, Donna Hill - Страница 12

Quinn and Nikita

She was whipped by the time she arrived, accompanied by a first-class attitude. She’d had to walk nearly four blocks in the suffocating heat from where she’d finally found a parking space, while listening to the cacophony of “Ooh baby’s,” “Can I get wit you’s” and countless other comments she’d prefer to forget. If another fast-talking man had another one-liner for her, she wasn’t going to be responsible for her actions.

Her clothes felt as if they’d been fastened to her body with Instant Krazy Glue, and if she hadn’t known better she’d have sworn her “Secret” had been let out of the bag.

When she stepped through the door of the club she let out a silent hallelujah when a cold blast of air hit her smack in the face, lowering her body temperature to near normal. She adjusted her eyes to the semi-darkened interior, taking in the trendy patrons and classy decor.

Slinging her Coach bag onto her shoulder she threaded her way around the circular tables and walked with an easy grace toward the bar. Years of ballet classes and etiquette training were the only things that saved her from stumbling over her own feet when she looked down the length of the bar and saw him sitting there, as cool and collected as he wanted to be. And he was looking straight at her.

Lordhammercy. Now she knew what Parris meant about the unreliable air-conditioning. It was obviously busted again. What other explanation could there be for the rush of heat that closed around her like a cocoon? She felt like stripping. Her heart was hammering so fast she thought she was having some kind of fatal attack.

With as much calm as she could summon she averted her gaze, located an empty table as far away from him as possible, took a seat and prayed for an earthquake, tidal wave, something. Luckily, a waitress rescued her and brought her a quick drink of Pepsi with lemon. Heaven knows she hadn’t forgotten him—that face, those eyes, that body. Every now and then, on her lunch hour, she’d walked along his block in the hope of seeing him again. Those times she’d been prepared with some cool and engaging conversation. Right now she couldn’t even remember her own name. She slurped a sip of her drink.

When she walked through the door, he was sure he was seeing things. He blinked, and yes, it was her—that irrepressible sister he’d thought about almost constantly for the past few weeks. He took another swallow of his drink. Man, she looked damned good, just as if she belonged in a classy place like this. He didn’t want to stare, so he just kind of played it off, as if looking for somebody. He wondered if she was meeting her man here or something. Didn’t look like it. He blew it the last time he saw her, getting all tongue-tied and whatever. He wouldn’t let another opportunity to get to know her slip by.

Damn, here he comes. What was she going to do now? Mmmm. How does he walk like that, like he’s floating on some cloud?

“What if I joined you?” he asked as if he’d known her forever. “Would that be a problem?”

She looked up into those blue-black eyes and tried to focus on what he’d just asked her and not on the body that needed to be on the centerfold in Playgirl. She shrugged and gave him a half smile. “Suit yourself.” What happened to the irresponsible actions she was going to launch into the next time a guy handed her a line? But this one sounded kind of good.

She tried to ignore him by signaling the waitress.

“Pepsi with lemon,” he said when the waitress appeared.

Nikita looked at him, her eyebrow arched.

“What…I pay attention to those kinda things.” He grinned. “Jack on the rocks,” he said without taking his eyes away from Nikita. She was even finer than he remembered. The slope of her eyes, the arch of her cheeks and that clingy little T-shirt…

Dimples. She hadn’t noticed the dimples before. But he sure had them and they were sure pretty. “You’ve been watching me?” she asked, both thrilled and apprehensive.

“Yeah, for a while.” He paused and scanned the room. “You’re not meetin’ anybody.”

“How do you know that?”

He watched her slender body adjust itself, ready to show she was indignant, and felt as if he were being pulled inside of her. “Because we’ve been waitin’ to meet each other for a long time. Our last run-in was just an appetizer. You don’t think I’d forget a woman like you, do you?” He took a sip of his drink and watched her over the rim of his glass. “And I know you didn’t forget me. Tell me I’m wrong, and I’m outta here.”

If this was a come-on line, she didn’t care. There was just something about him. Something earthy and real, from the rich timbre of his voice, his don’t-give-a-damn attitude, to his inaccessibility. Not like the sophisticated, suit-and-tie, Ivy League men that she was accustomed to. She felt out of her league in his presence, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from wanting more and had no intention of trying. She was about to take the leap of her life.

“You’re right. I didn’t forget.”

He took her hand as if he had all the right in the world. “Quinn.”

When she looked down at the large, smooth hand that swallowed hers, then upward into his dark eyes, she was a ship at sea. Somewhere, deep inside, she knew he was her anchor. “Nikita.”

“Nice. It fits you.”

His smile was slow and easy, like a hot, lazy summer afternoon, with Mama serving cool lemonade on the porch, by the swings. You just wanted to take your time with it and make it last.

“You from around here?”

“No. I live on Long Island.” She hated how that sounded—all smug and above it all. But what else could she say?

He leaned back in his seat, cocked his head to the side, and kind of rolled his eyes up and down her body. “No doubt. Never met nobody from Long Island. So, you one of them w-a-y uptown girls.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She pulled her hand away and wrapped it around the cold glass to cool it.

“Whatever you want it to mean. You want it to mean something that’s gonna piss you off, then it will. And from the look on you face, it does. Why’s that?”

“It doesn’t piss me off, as you put it.” Defensive was not the sound she was striving for, but it came out, anyway. She took a sip of her Pepsi and tried again. “What I mean is, I like where I live. I didn’t intend to sound otherwise.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Hey, that’s cool. You’re a big girl. Feel any way you wanna.” He wanted to push her, to test her, test her sensibilities. Would she be put off by him? If he let her into his world, what would she do about what she saw?

“How’s the apartment?”

The question pulled him back from the turn of his thoughts. “Comin’ along. I’m settlin’ in.” He grinned. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to see it for yourself.”

Her stomach fluttered and she had to wiggle her toes to shake off a tingling sensation. “Who said I wanted to?”

He leaned closer across the table. “I know you do. Maybe not tonight, but you will.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself for someone who doesn’t know me from Adam.”

And then he said the most startling thing, in clear, plain English, and she wondered for a second if he were a ventriloquist. “No, I’ve known you all my life, Nikita. We’ve just waited until now to make it official.”

He was one smooth talker, there was no doubt about that. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

He grinned, and all those pretty white teeth sparkled against that good-enough-to-eat skin. Nikita was in creamy-black-chocolate heaven.

“So, you got a last name to go with that first one?”

Nikita laughed. “Yes. It’s Harrell.”

“Hmmm.” Quinn nodded. “Nikita Harrell. Sounds important. You important?” His dark gaze probed her.

“I hope so.”

Echoes of countless conversations with Lacy danced through his head. How many times had she told him that your worth, your own importance, could never be measured by the make and model of your ride, or the size of the roll in your pocket, or how many people moved out of your way when you walked down the street? He hadn’t listened.

“You hope so. That’s kinda lame, comin’ from a girl like you. Either you are, or you ain’t. Simple. Don’t think about it. If you don’t know, then who will?” She had that look again, like somebody’d just pinched her behind and she was rarin’ to slap ’em. But he didn’t even care.

“You have a very interesting way of making my words turn into what you want to hear.”

“I call ’em like I see ’em. Ain’t that what women look for in a man—honesty?”

“A little diplomacy wouldn’t hurt your repertoire.”

Quinn laughed, a deep hearty laugh, and Nikita struggled to keep the smile from her lips.

“You know you wanna laugh.” He chuckled. “So why don’t you just let go and give in to how you feel? You ever done that before, Nikita Harrell, just gave in to how you was feelin’ without worryin’ about tomorrow?”

Then, suddenly, his tone changed—softened—caressed. His eyes moved in on her and the world disappeared. It was just the two of them. His finger stroked her hand, setting off the electric currents.

It’s getting hot in here. She opened her mouth to speak, but he just put that same finger to her lips. His mouth curved up on one side.

“Don’t answer. Not now. I want that first to-hell-with-the-world experience to be with me.”

She should have gotten up. She should have run as fast and as far away from this man as possible. But his presence held her there, as surely as if he’d tied her down.

“There you are.” Parris bent down and pecked Nikita on the cheek, successfully snapping her out of her trance. “I was wondering if you were still coming.” She looked from one to the other.

Nikita blinked and smiled up at Parris. “Of course I was coming. I’ve been here a while.”

Parris raised her eyebrow.

“Oh, Parris McKay, this is…Quinn. Quinn, Parris. She’s Nick’s wife. He owns the club.”

So this was the boss’s wife. Damn, Nikita Harrell traveled in high circles. He’d seen Parris’s videos and her face more times than he could count. He stood. “Nice to meet you. I was talkin’ with your husband earlier. He said he’d introduce us, but Nikita here saved him the trouble.”

“Oh, you’re that Quinn! Nick hasn’t stopped talking about you. When do you start?”

Nikita frowned. What in the world were they talking about?

Quinn shrugged. “Probably next week.”

“Great. I’m dying to hear you play. Girl, you didn’t tell me you knew such a fabulous piano player.”

“Had I only known.”

Parris squinted as if she couldn’t see her. “Anyway, I have to run. My first set starts in an hour. Come to the office afterward, Niki. We can talk then.” She stuck out her hand to Quinn, which he took. “Pleasure to meet you. Welcome aboard.”

“Same here. Thanks.”

Parris waved, then hurried across the floor and into the back room.

Nikita set her gaze on Quinn’s don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world face. “You play piano—here at the club?”

He chuckled. “I ain’t even gotta look up the word disbelief. It’s all over your face. What’s so hard to believe?” His smile was gone. “Hard to believe a guy like me could do anything besides—what—find a short way into your pants? Everything ain’t always how it seems on the outside. Take you, for instance.” He leaned back. “Under the icy, uptown, Ms. Clean exterior, I know there’s a hot-blooded, double or nothin’, wanna-take-a-chance-with-you-Quinn woman dyin’ to get out. All she needs is somebody to unlock the garage door.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. “Oh, really?”

“Oh, yeah,” he crooned and took her hand, pulling her to her feet and in line with his body, forcing her to look up at him. “I’m gonna show you, right now.”

He led her out onto the dance floor and they flowed as one perfect unit to the moods of Whitney’s “I Believe in You and Me.” One song segued into the next, as they glided together across the smooth hardwood floor.

Although short women never held much appeal for him, this one was different, he thought. She felt perfect. She fit. Like some missing piece—of what he wasn’t sure. Nikita Harrell was no Sylvie, that was for damned sure, or anyone else like her. She was more like those women on the cover of Essence and Black Elegance. You could see ’em, but not touch ’em. Getting with a woman like Nikita Harrell was that elusive dream. Would she be his dream come true?

Nikita closed her eyes. Allowed her senses to soar. She felt him everywhere, warm, hard, large and strong. Strangely enough she felt secure, as if this man could easily keep the bogeyman away. Keep her safe—from herself. He wasn’t threatened by the foreign world she only imagined being a part of, because he lived it. Still, she felt that there was more to him than the hard, thug-like, don’t-give-a-damn, too cool aura that he gave off like an expensive cologne. Against every bit of good judgment that had ever been ground into her, she wanted to find out what was beneath the surface.

“What do you do when you ain’t hangin’ in nightclubs and pickin’ up strange men?” he said deeply into her ear.

A flood of heat roared through her body, jerking her away from her daydreaming. She arched her neck back to be able to look up at him. His eyes were crinkling at the corners. She swallowed. “I work for Today’s Woman magazine. It’s pretty local at the moment. But we’re growing.”

“Cool. What do you work at?”

She smiled. “I do everything—read manuscripts, answer phones, lick stamps. But I’ve finally gotten my big break. The publisher, Ms. Ingram, liked my idea for an entertainment section, and she’s letting me write my first article. It’s going to be an interview with Parris.”

“You got my attention. Tell me more.” He wanted to tell her about his own writings and his sister’s dreams for him. He didn’t.

The music moved from body-locking to hand-clapping, so Quinn guided Nikita back to their table.

“I’m listenin’.” He held her chair while she sat down.

Niki looked up at him for a moment, the small, uncalculated gesture reaching her. So she talked. And he did listen. In small doses, she explained about her abrupt exodus from Cornell and the tension-filled four months at home.

“So, you gotta save enough loot to get your own crib?”

“Loot?”

He grinned. “You know, Dinero, cash, money—loot.”

“Oh.” She smiled in embarrassment. “Yes, I do. And soon.”

Quinn nodded. “How long you been takin’ classes at NYU?”

“I just started this semester.”

He lounged back in his seat, splay-legged. “So now what—you’re gonna be a writer—what happens to all your doctorin’ skills?”

Nikita’s soft brown eyes slowly traversed the room as though searching for the answer, or for the words that would bring her emotions to the forefront. She looked for understanding. “It just wasn’t me,” she finally said. “I tried to make it work—”

“Because your people wanted you to,” he said, finishing her thought, “so you hung in there until you couldn’t hang no more.”

She nodded.

“Sometimes you just gotta do your own thing, ya know? Everybody ain’t gonna always understand or accept that. But you just gotta keep it real and go for yours.”

Nikita looked at him. Even through the crudeness of his words she knew he understood. When had any man she’d ever been with ever grasped what she thought and felt, or even cared enough to voice an opinion that reached beneath the surface? Her male associates had always been too concerned with their own success to show any interest in her needs or feelings. Quinn was in total contrast to what she’d imagined he would be. With a little polish he could really shine.

“What about you? What makes it real for you?”

“Maybe I’ll rap with you about it sometime.” He stood. “But I gotta be pushin’ on.”

Nikita hid her disappointment behind the glass she lifted to her lips.

His eyes crinkled as he touched her cheek with the tip of his finger. “Take it easy, Nikita Harrell.”

“You, too.”

He turned, smooth as a velvet-toned Nat King Cole album spinning on a crystal turntable platter, and, like vaporous wisps of cigarette smoke, was gone.

She didn’t know whether to be angry or insulted. He hadn’t asked to see her again, or asked for her phone number. Even though he wasn’t her type, anyway, he could have at least asked for her number, whether he called or not. Wasn’t she interesting enough? Pretty enough? What kind of woman attracted a man like Quinn—Quinn? She didn’t even know his last name.

“So, Miss Thing, what in the world was going on with you and Mr. Dark and Lethal?” Parris asked, breaking into Nikita’s meandering thoughts. She took a seat.

“Nothing.” She shrugged her right shoulder and frowned. “We were just talking. That’s all.”

“Really? Then what’s with the look?”

“What look?”

“Like you just got your little ego stepped on.”

“Not hardly.”

Parris put on her best lecturing-her-girlfriend voice, targeted and launched. “He’s not your type, Niki. Anybody can see that from a mile away. He has bad boy written all over him.” She waited a beat, then broke into a grin. “And that’s the turn on. Isn’t it?” With Freudian accuracy she continued, “The other side of life that you only get to fantasize about. The whole good-girlsdon’t syndrome is tickling your imagination, like a bird feather flicking against your nose. Only thing is, sneezing is not what you have on…your…mind…to…do.”

Nikita bit back a grin. Parris knew her as well as she knew the riffs and downbeats of her songs. Knew how to manipulate her as easily as she worked those notes up and down the scale. Parris McKay was a royal pain, and she loved her. “As usual, you’re reading way too much into this. We were just talking.”

“When you believe it, so will I.” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “Don’t look so lost, sister girl. Come back next week and you’ll see him right behind that piano,” she teased.

“Very funny.”

Parris moved toward the stage, a raised platform in the center of the room, when the MC announced her name.

“See you in a bit.”

“Parris,” Nikita hissed between her teeth.

She turned, raised her brows in question.

“What’s his last time?” Nikita asked, trying and failing to sound unconcerned.

Parris smiled. “Parker, hon. Quinten Parker.”