Any Man I Want

Sweet Little Lies

Losing to Win

Crush
(with Lutishia Lovely and Cydney Rax)

 

 

The Montgomery Series

 

Heard It All Before

Pretty Boy Problems

Any Man I Want

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

This one is dedicated to my godmother:

Rita Shirley Reddick.

 

I know I'm a writer, but sometimes one word is all you need
:

Awesome

“We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”

—Maya Angelou

I'd like to take this time to thank everyone who wrote in and asked, “What about Katrina? Can a sister get some sexy?” Why, yes—yes, she can! As the third and final Montgomery, I thought Katrina deserved a story of her own that also allows us to revisit characters from Beau and Roman's stories.

One thing I've been very passionate about is positive portrayals of African-American women and men in literature. Certainly, there are enough stereotypes that exist and proliferate today that warrant some contrast and debunking. Though my characters sometimes lead more glamorous lives then the rest of us, at the end of day I hope you find them relatable and real.

When you read one of my books, I'd like my characters to be people that you would hang with or invite over for dinner. Hopefully, you'll find that with Katrina and Carter.

 

Enjoy!

Katrina—Saturday, May 21—10:22 p.m.

 

“Y
ou will rue the day you ever discarded me!” Kevin Eriq Delancey declared dramatically as he slammed his belongings into a designer suitcase that cost more than my first car. Thankfully, we were in a private villa of an exclusive resort in Barbados and no one was close enough to hear his ranting and banging around. “Rue the day!
Do you hear me?
” he repeated, punctuating each word with the hard toss of an object into his luggage.

I blinked twice and then deliberately looked back at the thumbnail I was slowly filing. It didn't seem prudent to laugh, but really—he sounded like a poorly written soap opera character. I coughed to cover up the giggle that threatened to spill out.
Rue the day?
I thought—okay, sir. I refrained from sighing deeply or rolling my eyes.

“Yes, I hear you, Kevin.” I stayed still while keeping my eye on the fuming man pacing around the spacious accommodations. This trip had been successful professionally and disastrous personally. My photo shoot went flawlessly; my relationship went up in flames.

With growing detachment, I watched as Kevin railed at me, so angry that spit was literally flying from his mouth as he spoke. I had deliberately waited until tonight. I thought I'd staged this perfectly. We had a lovely dinner; I made sure he drank the lion's share of the wine. Our week here in Barbados was nearing an end. I'd hoped he'd be mellow enough to avoid just this kind of scene. True, there's never a good time to break up with someone, but seeing as how we'd only been dating a few months and neither of us were fooled into thinking this was any sort of love connection, I thought it safe to cut the ties before we headed back to the States.

I had long since given up dating models or photographers or designers. I was sick of men who required more pampering, ego-stroking, or mirror time that I ever would. I was tired of men who just wanted a trophy for their arm, a playmate for their bed, or photo op to boost their careers. Some of the blame fell on me. I hadn't always chosen my companions wisely. I was a busy woman. I didn't want to put a lot of work in and I wanted it to be easy. But I'd found that easy men were like cheap shoes: You got what you paid for, they were usually uncomfortable, and you shouldn't expect them to last long. I decided it was time to put at least as much effort into picking my men as I put into picking my wardrobe. Priorities, you know.

At first glance, Kevin seemed to be a great choice. He seemed different in a good way. He was supposed to be my anti-drama boyfriend. The grown-up, sophisticated, 'bout-his-bidness man who made the rest of them look like preschoolers. Educated, sophisticated, wealthy, and articulate; Kevin Delancey was supposed to be a step up on my dating food chain. Someone I could try and build something with for the long haul.

Yet here we were . . . again. Kevin was the CEO of a hugely successful online purchasing Web site. Serengeti was similar to Amazon.com, but the products were primarily manufactured and sold by people of African descent and targeted the African-American community. He started the company in his dorm room at Morehouse fifteen years ago, took it public for a ton of cash, and then went private again. He was now listed somewhere between Michael Jordan and Warren Buffett on the
Forbes' Richest Americans
list.

Unfortunately, those riches had not bought Kevin very much in the way of couth, class, or chill. As my nephew Chase liked to say of ill-behaved people, “Dude had zero chill.” Kevin put the X in extreme everything. And I'd missed the initial warning signs. Totally my fault. Kevin rolled up on me at an event for BellaRich Designs, the fashion house I ran jointly with my future sister-in-law, Belle Richards, and my brother, Beau. Beau and Belle were also former models. Since I was phasing out modeling for anyone other than BellaRich, I'd been more focused on design and promotion. It was at a BellaRich party where Kevin came over to compliment us on the line of evening wear we'd debuted.

At first impression he came across suave, sophisticated, stylish, and supremely confident. Just a shade under six feet, he was olive-skinned, easy on the eyes, and had a smile that no doubt closed many a deal. I admit to being somewhat fooled at first. I had to dig down a few layers to find that he was all about the surface and not much else. At this moment, I narrowed my eyes at him as he continued to pace and pontificate. Perhaps he should've finished Morehouse—they generally turned out a better product.

The thing was, people met me and saw the packaging. Light skin, light eyes, long hair, proportioned body. They don't take the time to see the sum of my parts. They assumed that as a model, designer, and business owner I was all champagne, caviar, red carpets, and flashbulbs. Really, I was most at ease curled up in front of On Demand with chicken wings and cheap Chianti. Kevin didn't get to know that side of me. He had no interest in the sweatpants, T-shirt, hair-in-a-ponytail, chill-on-the-sofa side of me. We started off as arm trophies for each other and I took my time over the course of the next few months deciding if I wanted it to be more than that. Our dates were glossy: high-profile restaurants, club openings, movie premieres, charity events. I didn't like the way he treated people he didn't seem to think were his equal. Rarely did he find anyone to be his equal.

Our schedules were so crazy that I didn't spend a lot of time with him so I thought perhaps I was judging him too harshly. After all, the man ran a gabillion-dollar business; he didn't necessarily have time for all the niceties.

I came into this week thinking that it was going to be our make-or-break week. Kevin and I had flown down to Barbados for a shoot showcasing the newest line of BellaRich resort wear. Belle and I decided to go with Caribbean-inspired colors and prints for the line. Kevin had placed a substantial order after seeing the initial drawings. Seemed like the perfect time to mix business and pleasure for both of us. If only Kevin had shown a tenth of the prowess and presence in the bedroom that he did in the boardroom—we wouldn't be in this situation. Okay, that's not fair. I wasn't breaking up with Kevin because he was terrible in bed. Being terrible in bed was the last of many nails in the Kevin Delancey coffin.

And believe me . . . it wasn't just tragic bedroom game. Wait, let me say that again:
Tragic
. Bedroom. Game. A man of his age should not only know how things work, but should at least know where to find them. I mean, this is Anatomy 101. It's just not that hard to locate a minimum of three erogenous zones. That level of ineptitude indicated both selfishness and laziness. I'm sad to say I had to fake my way through it... twice. Once to give him the benefit of the doubt. The second time hoping he improved his game. At my age, faking it? Ain't nobody got time for that.

Before you judge me, know this—I was not so shallow that I couldn't overlook or provide hands-on assistance to someone with subpar swerve skills. The fatal flaw that put the dagger in whatever Kevin and I had? He treated people like crap all the time. Not just when he was stressed or busy or multitasking. He thought everyone was there to cater to his every whim. He cussed out the waiter, made a maid cry, shouted at his subordinates, threw a tantrum when the gift shop was out of the lotion he preferred, and snapped his fingers and pointed when he required something. The third day of the trip, when he pointed at the coffeepot and then to his cup, I raised a brow.

“Did you . . . need something?” I asked silkily.

He snapped his fingers twice and said, “Katrina, you know I'm better when I have my coffee.”

“Is there a reason why you cannot pour it for yourself?” It wasn't that I was opposed to pouring his coffee; it was the way he expected me to respond to a double-snap of his fingers. What was I, a dog? No, sir.

He sneered. “Oh, I forgot, Princess Katrina, you are too bougie to serve your man. You've never had to lift a finger a day in your pampered life. You're too cute to pour a simple cup of coffee, huh? Never mind.” While I sat there, astounded, he called the front desk and ordered a butler to be assigned to our suite. This fool could've poured four cups of damn coffee in the time it took for him to insult me, call down for assistance, and wait for someone to arrive to fetch his caffeine. After that, I was done. I played the “oops, I have my period” card and moved to the other bedroom in the suite. You would think after a week of me ducking out before he woke up and dodging him all damn day he would be a little less surprised at my declaration. I even softened the breakup by saying (cue an epic eye roll here) that he was just too much man for me.

“Are you listening to me, Katrina?” He stood by the front door of the suite, hands on hips. The much-maligned butler holding his luggage stood warily beside him. His expression indicated that he wished he was anywhere but here. I could empathize.

“Of course, Kevin,” I lied smoothly.

“Well, hear this. You remember this moment. This is the moment you made an enemy of Kevin Eriq Delancey. You will regret this moment for the rest of your days.”

I flung my hair over my shoulder and met his gaze directly. “I don't regret much. Life is too short for regrets.”

His nostrils flared as he fought visibly to control his anger. “You
will
regret this.”

Clearly nothing I said was going to make this go smoothly. “I'm sorry you feel that way, Kevin.”

He swung the door open and motioned for the butler to walk out ahead of him. He stepped through and turned back. “You bet your sweet ass you'll be sorry. Also, I'm taking the jet. You can fly commercial.” With that, he slammed the door shut behind him.

“Whew.” I sighed and flung myself backwards on the sofa. Reaching for my cell phone, I punched a number. Belle, my business partner, best friend, and future sister-in-law answered on the first ring.

“Did you ditch Kevin Clueless yet?” Belle said in her husky southern drawl.

“Yep. He just stormed out, slammed the door for extra effect and everything.”

“I guess he had his mad on?”

“Livid. He had that vein that men get in their forehead when they're agitated on full throb.”

“Well, good riddance, I say, sugar. He can try and cause trouble, but the contracts he signed were airtight. If he backs out of the orders, we'll raise a stink. We're not without influence.”

I let out a breath. “He says I'll ‘rue' this day. Regret it the rest of my life.”

She snorted. “Really . . . rue? You know I love an old-school turn of phrase, but c'mon now. What is he, a Victorian villain?”

“He's something. Best of all, he's gone. But really . . . I think we're okay. Like you said, he can make some waves, but how much trouble could he really cause?” After a bit more chatter, I wished her and Beau a good night and hung up.
How much trouble could he really cause?
I mused as I headed to the bathroom for a long, relaxing soak.