A Lover's Dream

“Let me take you out?”

Mick smiled. “Again?” she teased.

“
Outside
the hotel.”

“Definitely.”

Satisfied, Quest nodded before fixing Mick with a look that said he should be going.

She stood and watched him follow suit. She was about to pass the sofa when his hand cupped her elbow. She turned, sighed as though she were preparing herself.

He simply tugged her close. Mick stood on her toes, her eyes focused on his heavenly mouth when he dipped his head. Her eyes grew wide and she studied his face up close before her lashes drifted closed.

Her lips parted eagerly in anticipation, but Quest merely applied soft kisses to her mouth in rapid succession. Each time, Mick arched closer, her lips parting farther in a quiet plea for him to cease his teasing.

“Mmm…” Mick whimpered, when his tongue rotated around hers, caressing in the same manner as his thumbs caressed her skin with slow sweeping circles. She could have kissed him forever.

She found herself praying as hard for the kiss to go on as she did for it to end.

Just don't let him snap his fingers
, she thought.
The panties will surely come tumbling down…

To my fantastic family and friends, who never tire of supporting me.

To my agent, Sha-Shana Crichton, and my editor, Demetria Lucas. Thanks for all you do!

Sam Hodges, book editor for the
Charlotte Observer
, thanks for making a new author feel like such a celebrity!

Mrs. Wilhelmina Johnson, of the Cultural Realism Center in Darlington, South Carolina, for such tireless and giving efforts.

Anna Bowman, budding publicist and reporter for the
Florence Morning News
, thanks for the great advice!

All the wonderful book clubs who've welcomed me. Special thanks to the Debonair Book Club in Florence, South Carolina, and PWOC Book Club in St. Marys, Georgia, and Jacksonville, Florida. I love you ladies!

To the dynamic staff of the Davidson College Library in North Carolina, the most supportive and sweetest bunch of folks!

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Letter to Reader

About the Author

Savannah, Georgia, 1989

Quest Ramsey's gray stare darkened to black as it often did whenever he suffered a bout of frustration. That night, a hotel room door was at the root of his foul mood. He muttered a sharp curse and tried again to push open the door that stubbornly refused to give. Following a few firm nudges from his shoulder, the door opened just a crack. Quest's mouth twisted into a grimace then. Given the circumstances, a hotel room door that would not open most often meant there was either a drunken body or a couple of lovers passed out before it.

Quest rolled his eyes and braced his shoulder next to the mahogany door once again. Using a bit more of his considerable strength, he was able to force the door open a tad wider. The obstruction, whatever it was, moved aside just slightly and Quest managed to angle his six-foot-plus frame inside the room.

It didn't take long to solve the mystery of the blocked door. A tall, potted fern tree had been knocked to the floor, creating the impediment. Another curse passed Quest's lips when he noticed the tree's cracked porcelain
planter and the dirt spilling from it. The white, furry carpeting was now thoroughly black and marked by shoe prints of the numerous party guests.

Moving on, Quest continued his inspection of the room. Aside from the broken planter and spilled dirt, there seemed to be no other cause for alarm. The spacious eleventh-floor suite of the Forman Hotel was littered with plastic cups, beer bottles, and soiled ashtrays—the usual. Food wrappers filled the waste-baskets and cluttered around the base. Quest's long lashes fluttered in relief as his inspection turned up no signs of holes in the walls or light fixtures that were torn from their places.

“Better than usual,” Quest noted sourly, acknowledging the fact that the “usual” usually consisted of far worse and far more costly mishaps. In truth, a party given by Quaysar Ramsey most often resulted in an unfortunate hotel staff member preparing for months of renovating.

“Where the hell is that fool?” Quest inquired of the empty room, his deep-set gaze scanning the area for any sign of his brother. The place appeared deserted; there wasn't even music playing. Still, something told Quest there was more to see.

“Damn it, Quay!” he bellowed, his expression turning fierce when he'd moved on and discovered the state of the living room. It wasn't the food ground into the floor, or even the wine-splattered and overturned sofa and armchairs that had elicited his outburst. Instead, Quest's eyes, now a bottomless black, were focused on the balcony door with the glass shattered from its panes as they barely clung to their hinges.

Quest approached the massacred doors. Shaking his head, he winced at every sound of crunching glass beneath his Adidas. Quest stood surveying the damage, unable to form even one curse or admonishment toward his brother who had gone so far as
to get down on his knees while swearing to him that nothing like this would happen again.

Quest wondered what the punishment would be to Quay, or to himself for that matter. After all, he'd allowed his twin to talk him into booking the hotel in his name. Their parents, Damon and Catrina, had all but told Quay that his next screwup would result in time away from home.

Needless to say, Quest and Quaysar were more than a little fearful of what that threat would entail. Quest blinked then, bringing himself back into the present. Loud voices and what sounded like screams beckoned his attention below. Slowly, he crossed the balcony and inched forward to peer over the dented rail.
How the hell did those fools dent an iron ledge?
he wondered.

Quest wouldn't have time to ponder that little item, as his eyes and attention were now focused below. Horror and fascination emerged on his handsome dark face as he realized the cause for the raised voices and commotion below. He watched a growing crowd gather around the nude body of a woman on the sidewalk. Even from the distance, he could see the crimson pooling around her body. He knew she had come from the ledge, the ledge from the room in
his
name. Stunned by the sight and dizzy from the questions racing through his mind, he backed away from the rail.

As he turned toward the room again, his eyes began to survey the suite with fresh intensity. His feet felt as though they were attached to hundred-pound weights as he retraced his steps. Soon, he was in the master bedroom.

“Quay?” Quest called out, seeing his brother lying in the center of a massive four-poster bed. Absently, he noted his twin was naked with only a sheet barely covering his privates.

Quest didn't bother to call out to Quaysar again. He'd spotted the empty gin bottle cradled in the
crook of his brother's arm and knew he had passed out. The bed gave as Quest lost what strength was left in his legs and had to sit on the edge. Completely dazed, he stared unseeingly past the bedroom door. He could still hear the screaming.

Chicago, Illinois, May 2006

Driggers Morgan's kind, handsome face possessed a look of fatherly concern as he studied the lovely young woman who sat behind the desk in her study. With her legs propped on the polished oak and her dark brown face partly hidden behind a thick hard-back, she seemed relaxed enough. Driggers, however, knew the young woman very well. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“Whose heart have you broken this time?” he questioned casually.

Michaela Sellars smiled, easily recognizing the intense curiosity mingled within the nonchalant tone she was accustomed to hearing in Driggers's voice. “No one's,” she replied in a whimsical manner.

Driggers nodded at the singsong response and pushed his solid frame from the doorjamb. “You know I don't believe that,” he said.

Mick pulled her amber gaze from the page she'd been reading and fixed the observant sixty-something man with a look of phony outrage.

Driggers tilted his head to one side as though trying
to get a bead on what held her attention so reverently. “Just as I thought,” he announced finally, “the Cowans. You only read that story when you're debating or trying to forget some young man,” he surmised.

Mick shrugged and set the book aside. “Well, I'll have you know that I'm not trying to do either. I just happened to pick up the book, that's all.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Driggers rebutted, then laughed when he picked up the book to inspect it more closely. “You must be preoccupied with something, so spill it,” he ordered politely while thumbing through the crisp pages.

Mick moved her legs from the desk and propped her feet on the seat of her chair. “There's nothing to it, I promise,” she said, bracing her elbows on her knees and setting her chin in her palms. “I was looking for something else and I just happened across the book,” she explained further.

“I see.” Driggers sighed in obvious disbelief. “And I suppose the fact that you turned right to the section on Blue and Esther has no real significance?” he asked, referring to the patriarch and matriarch of the Cowan family.

Mick's lashes fluttered and she wriggled her fingers about her lovely, round face. “Blue and Esther's story is the most prophetic section of the book in my opinion.”

“Prophetic, huh?” Driggers perched his still-agile frame on the edge of the desk.

“What Esther gave up to be with Blue,” Mick pondered, resting her head back against the tall, lavender desk chair. “I could never choose a man over my family.”

“Hmph. Spoken like a woman who's never been in love,” Driggers mused.

Mick took no offense. “Spoken like a woman who's
never had a family,” she countered softly, her sparkling stare turning solemn.

Driggers frowned then, not caring one bit for the look on her face. “You should never feel alone. You know that.”

Mick realized how her words may have sounded to the man she'd looked upon as a father for the better part of seven years. She'd known Driggers since hiring him as her houseman. Then, he'd seemed as desperate for some semblance to family as she'd always been. Over the years, they had crafted a relationship Mick wouldn't have traded for anything. Standing then, she rounded the desk and pulled Driggers into a hug. “I'll never feel alone as long as I have you,” she whispered and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

 

Hard, driving rhythms from a vintage Miami Bass CD filled the air surrounding Michaela's stately fifteen-acre back lawn. The perfectly manicured landscape was dotted with twenty-one women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one, plus one thirty-two year old. The perfectly toned ladies moved in sync to the affecting music as they rehearsed another excruciating albeit dazzling routine.

Michaela, who carried the crown as the oldest dancer on the lawn, didn't miss a step. She grooved with as much energy and sensuality as the girls who were at least ten years her junior. Of course, the fact that her skills were near perfect was no surprise. After all, she had choreographed the eye-catching routine, a routine that was at least fifteen grueling minutes in length. When it ended, everyone—with the exception of Michaela—fell to the ground in an exhausted state.

Mick stood in the center of the collapsed heap and clapped. “Outstanding, ladies!” she cheered
while laughing at the girls' agonizing responses. “Oh, come on, congratulate yourselves for making it through another routine!” she urged, her laughter gaining volume when the girls complained in earnest.

It was all in fun. Michaela had taken to choreographing routines for the dancers of Wiley State's marching band four years ago after being granted the opportunity to perform with the alumni band of her alma mater during one of its televised homecoming games. Since then, the twenty-member dance troupe had been criticized, raved over, and drooled over for their exquisite racy numbers during the band's halftime shows.

“All right, people, you know the deal! I've got ten full baths, so you better hustle if you want to be in the first group to wash off that grime!” Mick's laughter resurfaced as she watched the girls scramble to their feet in unison and race for the showers—literally.

Mick followed, strolling toward the brick patio while ruffling the riot of thick blue-black curls that framed her face like an onyx cloud. A slight frown wrinkled her brow as she focused in on a woman heading toward her. After a moment, Mick's frown cleared and she broke into a grin while waving toward her publisher.

Contessa “County” Warren shook her head while approaching her best friend and associate. Her long lashes fluttered like hummingbird wings when she rolled her eyes and cast a tired glance across her shoulder. “Why you prefer to kill yourself bouncing around with these teenyboppers when you could have a workout in a stylish gym with mature women and mature conversation is beyond me,” she criticized.

Mick halted her steps and tapped one finger across her full lips. Her stirring amber gaze narrowed while the delightful mole at the corner of her mouth twitched when she smiled in concentration. “Hmm…a stylish
gym, with mature women no less. Ones who can't quite decide whether to get the liposuction or Botox injection next. Yeah, County, I sure do wish I could be in on such stimulating conversations.”

County waved off the sarcastic remarks as though they were annoying flies. “I still question this obsession of yours, Mick. Hell, you could've joined the dance troupe at Wiley when we were students. That's what
normal
folks did,” she pointed out with the look of challenge appearing in her almond-shaped deep brown eyes.

Mick nodded, conceding to the truth in the dig. “Need I remind you how improbable it was that I would've been chosen back then?”

“And need I remind
you
that you've always had that body?” County retorted, her eyes raking Michaela's figure for emphasis. “You only needed to learn how to work it, and the best way to learn that ain't taught on the field.”

“Here we go,” Mick groaned, knowing they were about to embark upon Contessa's favorite subject: sex.

“Of course,” County said, tilting back her head as she focused on something in the distance. “Well… I guess the field could've been used as a training ground. Goodness knows, I—”

“County! Please spare me another story about your sex life. It's too damn early in the morning.”

County burst into a bout of rich laughter. “Baby, it's never too early for sex. You'd know that if you were getting any,” she taunted, speaking the last few words in Mick's ear as she brushed past her.

Mick took the blow, then bowed her head and prayed for patience. “Are you here just to ridicule and harass me, Count? I mean, I know it's one of the things that give you the greatest pleasure. How'd you get into my house anyway?” she ranted.

Pushing one hand into the back pocket of the
flare-legged jeans that molded to the generous expanse of her derriere, County stood taking in the beautiful view of the grand lawn. “Driggers let me in. And yes, I do love to ridicule and harass you, but this morning I'm here to conduct real-life, actual business,” she announced, turning to pin Mick with a haughty glare.

“Bull,” Mick whispered, the sparkling quality of her gaze giving her eyes the look of some exotic tigress. Though Contessa Warren was a great success and handled her business in a diligent, almost reverent manner, the woman was not known for rising before 11:00
AM
—not for business anyway. “The only thing you wake up for at the crack of dawn is a quickie,” Mick pointed out bluntly.

County responded with a seductive smile and a naughty wink. “I don't do quickies, love,” she informed her friend, giggling when Mick pretended to gag. “I'm here so early because this was too good to wait till later.”

Mick folded her arms across the front of the figure-forming white bra top she wore. “So spill it,” she ordered.

“I took a chance and went after something. I figured I was wasting my time, but it paid off.”

Mick only shrugged.

County shook her head and began to rummage through the denim canvas bag she carried. She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth upon locating a magazine, which she thrust into Mick's hands.

Mick frowned at the page County pointed to. She scanned what looked to be an advertisement. “The Ramsey Group?” she inquired, her frown deepening when County beamed. “Am I supposed to magically know what this is about?” she blurted.

County grimaced and snatched the magazine from Mick's hand. “I was in Sam's office the other day and—”

“Sam?” Mick interjected, recognizing the name of County's realtor. “You know, if he was a real friend, he'd be advising you to stop pouring so much money into these ventures.”

“Well, he's not a friend, he's a realtor, and he's about makin' money,” County threw back before waving one hand in the air. “Look, that's not what this is about. I happened across this advertisement while I was at Sam's. This group not only sells homes—homes that start, by the way, in the low eight hundreds.
Thousands
, that is,” she clarified with two winks. “They also build homes and own the property. In fact, they own several upscale communities throughout Washington State, California, and the Midwest.” County shrugged and perused the advertisement again. “I admit that I was at first interested in finding out about an investment. I mentioned it to Sam and we discussed the group. Let me tell you,” she said, fixing Michaela with a stern look, “by the end of that discussion, I'd forgotten about investing.”

Again, Mick shrugged.

County smiled. “The Ramseys are African-American,” she shared.

Mick's eyes trailed to the advertisement. “Never heard of 'em,” she retorted, though she was subtlety intrigued.

County nodded and began to stroll back toward the house, grinning when Mick fell in step next to her. “They're out of Seattle, Washington, and they've become giants in the real estate business.
Silent
giants. Your cup of tea,” she said, slanting a glance toward Mick.

It was true, Michaela admitted silently. She had made a household name for herself following her debut release, which chronicled the rise, fall, and recreation of the Shelanon family of Medora, North Dakota. The Shelanons were relatively unknown in much of the country, as well as in the black community, Mick brought the phenome
nal African-American clan into the public eye. The family had staked a claim and made their fortune in a state most African-Americans never believed they'd set foot in. The book was a smash, and following that, Michaela had obtained unimagined popularity. As a result, every family worth having their history recorded wanted Mick to record it.

True, she had her share of well-known families who wanted to tell their stories. Michaela, however, was more interested in digging out the stories of those who didn't make the who's who lists regularly. She gravitated more toward those families who'd obtained real success while managing to remain out of the spotlight. These were the people Mick wanted to research, and they practically clamored for the opportunity to talk with her. Of course, this wasn't surprising. Michaela Sellars was known for her ability to coax the choicest bits of information from her subjects. Her unsettling yet entrancing amber gaze drew people in to such an extent they recited their life's history without ever realizing they were being interviewed. Still, in spite of her curvaceous figure, flawless dark chocolate skin, captivating eyes, and the unruly halo of thick midnight curls, Mick had never considered herself a drop-dead beauty. She felt she was too short, too curvy. Her attributes oftentimes had her waiting too long for a man to tear his eyes away from her chest. She thought her nose was too small, as its size only emphasized the fullness of her mouth. Her completely sensual appearance encased a completely intellectual personality.

When it came to her work, she attacked it in a doggish fashion. And she attacked her play in the same manner. She was a woman who enjoyed her success, due in no small part to her upbringing. She'd lived a rough life as a foster child, but managed to secure a good education and made the most of it. Michaela was the
first to point out that she led a good life. She had every material possession a woman could wish for. She had everything except what she wanted most: a family of her own and all the love that accompanied it.

“So anyway, I sent a proposal to the Ramsey Group's administrative director and asked for the story,” County rambled on.

Mick's face reflected stunned amazement, but she knew it would've been unreasonable to expect anything less from her best friend. Contessa Warren had earned her nickname, the Count, more for being take charge in business than because it was an apt shortening of her first name. County's motto was: if they don't know you, introduce yourself.