A Private Affair (5 page)

But something greater than the fear of discovery pushed against him. The need for change, the need to be recognized for something other than a hustler. Maybe there was something to what Lacy had been saying all those years. Maybe he did have talent. Nick seemed to think so.

He looked around. This was no B.J.'s. The mirrored walls reflected shiny black tables, a dance-all-night floor, bathrooms that smelled as if they were cleaned on the hour. Even the smoke from the cigarettes didn't seem to hang on him and clog his lungs. The people who began to filter in wore suits, classy designer clothes, casual jeans with starched shirts, and jewelry that didn't blind him from a mile away. The women looked as if they'd just stepped off the cover of
Essence,
not
Player.
The bartender's shirt was pristine white, not a grimy Fruit of the Loom T-shirt splotched with grease and the underarm stains from failed deodorant. The music that filtered from car windows was classic R&B, not the booming sounds of hip-hop and underground rap.

He looked at his Nike sneakers, the large gold pinkie ring, and his customary oversize jogging suit. He didn't belong here. And he was a fool for thinking that he did. Even for a minute. To have a semblance of this kind of life and living behind the privacy of his own doors was one thing. To try to live it in the open was another.

He tossed the last of his drink down his throat, paid his tab and turned on the bar stool, ready to leave—then in she walked.

Quinn and Nikita

S
he 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 af
ternoon, 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?