Surrender to a Donovan (Kimani Romance) (2 page)

Chapter 2

Dear Jenny,

I’m confused. I am a 32-year-old woman with
two sons living with my 35-year-old boyfriend, who has three children from a
previous relationship that also live with us. I work a full-time job and
take care of the house and the children. My boyfriend is an
entrepreneur—trying to open his own barber shop. We’ve been together for ten
years.

I want to get married. He doesn’t
understand why what we have is not enough. I want commitment and love and
stability for our family. Especially since I don’t mind taking care of his
kids as well as the ones we share together. I’m not even complaining about
having to pay the bulk of our household bills myself. I am a Christian and
have been taking all our kids to church for years, but my boyfriend never
comes with us.

There is this life I want with a family
and a household built on Christian love and respect. Then there’s this
feeling that I’m still shacking up, and as my girlfriends keep reminding me,
“settling” for less because he obviously does not want to commit to
me.

Last Valentine’s Day my boyfriend
proposed. I was so excited. I couldn’t wait to show everyone the diamond
ring he gave me. I immediately went out and bought wedding books and started
writing down my plans for the wedding. But when I asked him about setting a
date he said he wanted to wait. It’s been more than a year, and we’re still
waiting. Problem is, I don’t know what we’re waiting for.

Can you help?

In love and confused.

T
ate Dennison read the letter for the
second time. That was her process—Nelia, the editorial assistant on this floor,
received the mail and routed each piece to whichever staff writer they went to.
The second floor of the Excalibur Building was dedicated to the writing staff of
Infinity
magazine. Once Nelia had gone through
the mail, she brought Tate her stack. Tate then separated the letters into two
piles—male and female questions—because she needed a different type of focus
when answering each letter.

Was this the way she thought she’d be using the journalism
degree she’d received from Morgan State University in Maryland? Of course not,
but it paid the bills.

It was nearing five-thirty in the afternoon and already she’d
answered four letters, attended a staff writers’ meeting and let the graphics
director talk her ear off for about an hour. The one thing she hadn’t done was
answer her cell phone again. It had started ringing around noon and continued
every half hour. The first couple of times she’d answered the unknown number,
but then she grew tired of the hang-ups and turned the ringer to vibrate. Still,
she’d kept an eye on the ringing each time, just to be sure it wasn’t the day
care calling about her daughter.

To say she was tired would have been an understatement. But she
was here trying to get more work done. Recently, the magazine had begun printing
ten responses in her column per month. But Tate liked to be ahead of the game.
She’d learned there was no other way to be.

Because she’d been sitting so long, her feet had started to go
numb, so Tate walked to the end of her small office. It probably used to be a
closet, she thought, as she skirted around the desk that took up the bulk of her
space. Immediately she was face-to-face with the bookshelf that served as an
organizer and held all her mail, past columns, along with copies of the letters
she’d responded to and pictures of her inspiration squeezed in for good
measure.

Her daughter, Briana Suray Dennison, stared back at her with
plump cheeks and a tiny toothed grin. She was Tate’s star and moon, the reason
she’d taken this job and lived in Miami. Briana was basically Tate’s reason for
living at all. Three months ago, she’d turned two, and her baby chatter was
becoming real words like
mama
and
no.
Tate rubbed a finger over the picture, touching
the chubby cheeks she loved to kiss and nuzzle. She loved her daughter’s smile
and the simply joyous look she always had in her eyes. It never failed to make
Tate’s heart ache.

They were supposed to be a family living happily ever after.
And here she was in another state, thousands of miles away from the only family
she had left in Maryland. All because of him. No, she corrected herself, moving
here and starting over had been her decision. Leaving their family high and dry
had been Patrick’s. She wouldn’t take the blame for what wasn’t her fault.

She’d loved him enough to alienate herself from her relatives
because they didn’t care for him. Had loved him enough to marry him and have his
baby. And he’d used her enough to take their savings and all the furniture in
their house. Now, nine months after his betrayal, she knew Patrick had never
loved her. Their three-year marriage had been a complete lie. And that was fine.
She’d resigned herself to that fact, even if Briana’s smile reminded her of it
every day.

Another reminder of the mess her marriage had turned out to be
was writing this damned column. Each morning she came in to another stack of
mail, another stack of someone else’s relationship problems. And she was the one
charged with helping them, when she hadn’t been bright enough to see the signs
of her own union falling apart. If that wasn’t ironic, she didn’t know what
was.

“Okay, get it together, Dennison,” she berated herself. Taking
a deep breath, she thought about the letter she’d just read for the second time,
about the circumstances and the issues she needed to address.

There were a few. For instance, why was “In love and confused”
the only one with gainful employment in this household? What she needed to do
was make this boyfriend of hers get a job. “A real job at that,” she said aloud
and then chuckled and moved on to the next issue.

“Excuse me?”

The deep male voice startled her, and Tate jumped, backed up
and slammed her leg into the side of her desk.

“Damn it!” she swore, leaning over to rub her leg and looking
up just as the owner of the voice had moved in to catch her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, touching a hand lightly to her
shoulder and leaning over slightly to look at the leg she was rubbing.

The full skirt she had on today was a thin paisley material,
and it fell between her legs as she rubbed. She realized with a start how much
of her thigh she was actually showing and hurriedly pulled it down.

“I’m fine,” she said, clearing her throat. “Just fine.
Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. Then he took a step
back, stood straight, his eyes trained directly on her.

Tate prayed a big gaping hole would open in the middle of this
tiny office floor and swallow her up. Embarrassment spread across her cheeks and
down her neck in a heated rush. “How can I help you, Mr. Donovan?”

Yes, she told herself in a stern voice, this was Sean Donovan,
the boss, or at least one of the bosses. Tate knew that the Donovans owned
Infinity
and several other media ventures in the Miami
area. She’d done her research when she’d applied for the position. He was the
younger of the two brothers, the more serious and intense one. Dion was the tall
and dangerously handsome one.

For a minute or two—she couldn’t really count right now, but
she knew that it seemed like a really long time—he stared at her without
speaking.

“Sir?” she prompted, her palms starting to sweat. It was a
horrid nervous habit she had. Either her hands sweated or she tripped over her
words as if her mind had drawn a blank or her tongue had suddenly become too big
for her mouth.

“Call me Sean,” he said. If it were possible, his voice sounded
even deeper than it had just seconds ago. “And you’re Mrs. Dennison?”

“Yes, I’m
Ms.
Dennison.” She
clapped her lips shut, appalled that she’d actually stressed the
Ms.
“I’m Tate,” she said in an effort to correct
herself.

“You write the ‘Ask Jenny’ column?”

She nodded. “I do.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets and began looking around
her tiny office. He wore a slate-gray suit and a crisp white shirt with an
aqua-blue tie. The colors seemed to highlight the buttery tone of his
complexion. His head was completely bald, his goatee, full and trim around the
bottom half of his face. He was startlingly fine up close, and Tate had to gulp
to keep from drooling.

When he stopped looking he turned to her again. Tate shifted
from one foot to the other. His stare was intense, as if he were looking
straight through to her soul. Her heart hammered, and the palms of her hands
sweated profusely.

“Forgive me for staring,” he finally said. He looked away only
because he was shaking his head. Then his eyes, the warm brown orbs, seemed to
zoom right back in on her. “I just pictured the writer of this column a little
differently.”

A ping of offense vibrated through Tate’s chest, and she stood
a bit straighter, staring at him with a little more heat than she had been. “I
don’t understand your meaning.”

“I thought you’d be older,” he said abruptly.

“Well, I thought you’d be more professional,” she said.

Again her lips clamped shut. Tate needed this job, desperately.
But she wasn’t about to be disrespected for the sake of a paycheck.

His hands came out of his pockets and went up into the air as
if she’d been trying to stick him up.

“My fault,” he said. There was a twinkle in his eyes, sort of
like they were smiling at her. Because his mouth certainly was not. He had the
same quizzical expression he’d had when he came in. “I didn’t mean anything by
that. Just that from reading the column and the advice provided, I assumed the
writer was a more mature, experienced woman.”

“I assure you, Mr. Donovan, I’m very mature. And experience
doesn’t make up for common sense. I graduated third in my class with a degree in
journalism. I minored in English and have worked on two widely distributed
newspapers before coming to
Infinity.
Is there a
problem with my work?”

He was shaking his head before she gave him a chance to answer.
“Absolutely not. In fact, I was coming to get a feel for the possibilities.”

As he spoke he took a step closer to her desk. Now, he didn’t
look as imposing as he had seconds ago when he’d made his “older” remark. Still,
Tate’s thighs began to quiver, and her heart beat a quick rhythm in her chest.
She flared her fingers, made a move that she hoped seemed natural and wiped her
palms on her skirt. “What kind of possibilities?”

“Maybe we can discuss them over dinner,” he said, his fingers
touching the edge of her desk as he leaned forward slightly.

He was a very tall man. And Tate considered herself tall for a
woman, at five feet nine inches. Even so, she had to look up at him, into those
eyes that seemed so deep and so assessing.

“No,” she snapped. “I can’t go to dinner with you.” She spoke
quickly and moved her arms for some unexplainable reason. The action sent her
hands flailing until one smacked into a picture frame on her desk, sending it
toppling over.

Of course it would fall right in front of him, and of course
he’d pick it up and look at it instead of just setting it upright. Or just
leaving it alone and getting out of her office.

“Who’s this?” he asked, examining the picture.

Now she was flustered and offended all over again, even though
she’d never really calmed down. He’d asked the question as if he deserved an
answer. He was her boss, not her man. She took one deep inhale and slowly
released the exhale. Okay, she was overreacting. He was only asking a question.
Actually, he was asking a lot of questions, but he was the boss, so he could do
that.

“It’s my daughter,” she said, reaching for the picture. It took
everything in her not to snatch it from him.

“She’s cute. How old is she?”

He didn’t give her the picture.

“Two.”

He looked up at her, one eyebrow arching as he asked, “And
you’re not married?”

“You don’t have to be married to have a baby. But for the
record, yes, I was married to her father when she was born. Now, I’m not.”
There, he could go now. She touched the edge of the frame in an effort to take
it from him.

He held firm.

“So you’re divorced?”

“Yes. I mean, almost. I mean, was there something I could do
for you, Mr. Donovan?” She snatched the picture from him and wasn’t really sure
she cared what he thought at that moment.

“You can call me Sean. I’ll let you get home to your daughter.
But I’d like to talk to you about the column. I’ll have my secretary call you
with some available times for us to meet.”

He’d already stepped back from her desk and was headed to the
door when she said, “That’s fine.”

Her words stopped him, and he turned back to look at her. “Yes,
that’s very fine,” was his parting reply.

Tate dropped into her chair, clutching the picture of Briana to
her chest and let out another deep breath. That was a tension-filled meeting. A
confusing meeting. A “damn-oh-damn, that man is too damned fine” meeting.

Chapter 3

T
hey’d tried mashed potatoes for dinner. That had gone over well, Tate thought with a smirk. At two years old, Briana already had plenty of personality. And along with that personality came a pickiness with foods. Tate had mistakenly assumed that any type of baby food would do as long as she didn’t have an allergic reaction to anything. She was sadly mistaken.

Briana did not like any of the green vegetables. The result was green splatters all over the kitchen floor, the high chair and whatever Tate was wearing that day. Miraculously, Briana herself remained untouched by the ill-smelling guck. Tonight Tate had tried another tactic—she’d whipped up some homemade mashed potatoes and mixed them with the ingredients from her mother’s chicken soup recipe. Briana wasn’t a fan of the broth, so Tate’s plan was to see if she’d eat the chicken and vegetables if they were submersed in another texture. The first few spoonfuls had gone okay, so Tate had relaxed and let herself enjoy the bonding time with her daughter.

Then Briana made a face that originally Tate thought was funny but soon became concerned about. She looked like she wanted to cry but couldn’t quite get it out. Afraid she might be choking, Tate hurriedly scooped her out of the high chair and began patting her back. Maybe her windpipe had been clogged. But as soon as Tate began patting Briana’s back, there was an explosion—both from her mouth and inside her diaper. It had taken the last hour and a half to clean all of Briana and put her to bed and clean the kitchen.

Now Tate was ready for some “me time.” Only there was nothing to do. She’d thought of running a hot bath and soaking with a good book to read, but the thought of going back into the bathroom made her temples throb. Opting for a quick shower instead, she entered her bedroom and was about to switch on the television when something caught her eye. Tate looked toward the two windows on the side of the room. The blinds were pulled up to the halfway mark, and navy blue valances that matched the comforter on her bed covered the top.

Before she could stop herself, Tate yelped at the sight of a masked face pressed against the window. Moving quickly to her nightstand, she picked up the softball bat she kept against the wall between the stand and the bed. She’d played second base in high school and now gripped the bat in her hands as if she were ready to hit a home run. Nervous legs carried her closer to the windows, but as she approached she felt a tingle of relief. There was no one there. Hurriedly, she pushed the blinds farther upward to check the locks on each window and then pulled on the blind strings until they were completely unwound and the edges were dangling on the floor. She could do without sunlight tomorrow morning.

With a sigh and a nervous chuckle, she berated herself for overreacting. As tired as she was, she could have seen sheep running around her room. She went to the television and turned it on.

Tate had only been in Miami for six months and had just recently gone over to the dark side and ordered cable. So far, so good.

She climbed into the full-sized bed she’d finally purchased after sleeping on a futon for the first five months of her time here. The first thing that caught her eye on the screen was that vaguely transparent DNT logo at the bottom left of the screen. Donovan Network Television.

“Can’t get away from them, huh?” she said fluffing her pillows and positioning them so she could sit up and watch television until her eyes demanded she sleep.

Tate never slept well, hadn’t since the last night Patrick was with her. She convinced herself it was because she was in a strange town and didn’t know anybody. What if Briana cried out in the middle of the night? She had a baby monitor in her bedroom, and the transmitter was hooked up in Briana’s room. Still, she couldn’t shake the edgy feeling of being in a new place.

She had no idea what she was watching on television, but she didn’t change the channel. The program went to a commercial with a gorgeous woman wearing a stunning dress. She was on a fashion runway, and then the camera panned over to the guests of the fashion show and a smiling Regan Donovan. Tate knew her from work. Regan was the only female Donovan working at the magazine. She was as pretty as the model, especially when she smiled, which she was doing right now as she announced a new show coming to DNT.

“With photography by Lyra Donovan and judging by Camille Davis Donovan of CK Davis Designs, one lucky woman’s dreams will come true.
The Fashionista
promises to bring you everything you’re looking for in reality television—beautiful women, great clothes, sexy men and drama, drama, drama!”

Music followed Regan’s pitch with the date and time of the show’s kickoff running across the bottom of the screen.

Tate smiled, wondering just how it would feel to have her own dreams come true. Growing up she’d dreamed of going to college, getting a good job as a writer and having a family. It wasn’t much, but it was her dream. And once upon a time she’d had it.

Then she didn’t.

And that pissed her off. She snapped the television off and plopped down in the bed, pulling the sheets up over her shoulder. But when Tate closed her eyes, she didn’t see the normal memories from her past. The usual aching in her chest at what had been lost or what had never been hers in the first place wasn’t there. All of that was replaced by one set of intense brown eyes, one solemn look and the name of one man: Sean Donovan.

* * *

A glass of red wine in hand, Sean sat in a lounge chair watching the city skyline at sunset. He was on the wraparound patio of his penthouse condo in downtown Miami’s Marina Blue. After taking a sip from his glass, he set it on the arm of the chair and could almost hear his mother scolding him. There were two things about Janean Donovan that were a definite: she loved her family fiercely, and she demanded respect of people and their belongings, which she saw as blessings from the good Lord. The latter were her exact words.

The fabric was some type of leather, but not really leather. And that was on purpose, even though for the price he paid, Sean couldn’t figure out why. All he knew was that his mother had picked out the charcoal-gray set, which consisted of a six-section sofa and a solo chair and ottoman. The color complemented the smooth cement finish of the patio and its four-foot walls. The tinted glass doors that lead to this outside oasis were in a dark gray tone as well.

Admittedly, he loved this space. It was perhaps his favorite of the entire condo because it was so peaceful. He could sit out here and actually hear himself think. Or he could sit out here and hear absolutely nothing because it was so relaxing. The inside of the house wasn’t his absolute favorite. Not because of the décor, because again, Janean had made sure he had the best designer in Miami. And while his mother had tried to make a lot of the decisions for him, she allowed herself to be nudged when he was really adamant about something. He was her youngest child, so it had been a little harder for her to let go of him when he’d moved out. Even though that was every bit of five years ago.

Tonight his mood was somber, which wasn’t abnormal for Sean. He was the quieter of Bruce Donovan’s sons, the reserved and serious one. It was true that he preferred to be alone the majority of the time, but there were times, more lately than he cared to admit, that he craved company. He’d turned thirty last year and since that time had been seriously thinking about his future.

Along those lines, work had been really on his mind lately.
Infinity
was his baby. It was his father’s creation, and Dion ran the magazine with his smooth expertise. But this magazine meant something to Sean he doubted his family could ever imagine. He was in control of distribution and the daily supervision of the writing staff. He kept a close eye on their bottom line, making sure they were always operating in the black. This job was his purpose in life, the one he’d seemed born into. His father and his brother were counting on him to do his very best at all times. And so that’s what he tried to do.

But Sabine was moving in on them. Her distribution was way up, and her sales were getting dangerously close to
Infinity
’s. And she was trying to get close to him. Even though there was definitely no interest there. She was older than he was and carried it well, but her tone could become vicious in mere seconds, and she wasn’t worth his time.

Just like that, a mental picture of another woman appeared. She was about five feet five with a pretty caramel complexion and eyes that he presumed held every emotion she felt at any given time. She’d been flustered when he was there, then a tad annoyed. Tate Dennison was definitely not what he’d pictured when he’d thought of the “Ask Jenny” column. She was too damned pretty to be holed up in that small office all day answering questions about someone else’s relationship problems. She should be out enjoying a fulfilling relationship of her own.

Then he’d seen the picture of her daughter and a few things had clicked into place. What he hadn’t seen was a wedding ring on her finger, and that added to his assessment of her. Single mother, bitter female, believes she knows the secret behind every man and is out to expose them.

He could find that unappealing, but he didn’t. He could be just a little bit angry at the woman who took her time to write detailed articles on why a woman should ditch a man that wasn’t treating her right. Yet, he found himself more than a little intrigued.

The doorbell rang, which Sean would normally consider a distraction. Tonight, however, he thought it might actually be more like a sign that he should stop thinking about his mysterious columnist.

Pulling the patio doors closed behind him, he took his glass of wine with him as he walked through the living room and down the steps to the foyer. When he finally opened the door, it wasn’t a huge surprise to see his cousin Parker. In addition to the fact that he lived about ten minutes from Sean, Parker was a free spirit. He worked hard and played even harder, and he never stayed still long enough to grow entanglements—as some might call women with definite ideas of what they wanted from a man.

“What’s up, man? You didn’t return my call,” Parker said as he entered.

“Right, my apologies. You flying solo tonight?” Sean asked as he closed the door and followed his cousin to the kitchen.

Parker had the appetite of an entire football team, or at least that’s what they’d all thought since they were kids, when he’d been able to eat more than all of them combined.

“Nah, I’m heading to pick up this new lady.”

Sean’s kitchen was straight down the foyer, past the steps to the left and the bathroom and first floor bedroom to the right. The walls were painted a muted beige while the contemporary look of cherrywood cabinets and stainless-steel appliances added a bit of splash.

Parker was already poking his head into the Sub-Zero refrigerator.

“Jaydon seems to think I should meet this girl.”

Sean pulled out a chair and sat at the island watching his cousin pull out a beer and a piece of sweet potato pie left over from last Sunday’s family dinner at the Big House. That’s what they called his parents’ home in Key Biscayne. The entire family, or at least the Miami portion of the Donovans, usually gathered there on Sunday afternoons, after church, for dinner.

“Your ex-wife is setting you up now?” Sean asked with a chuckle.

Parker had already devoured half the pie. “Right? I was asking myself the same question. But apparently she’s some ex-model from Connecticut that was referred to DNM.”

“By whom? And what are we supposed to do with an ex-model?”

“Remember that guy Trent went into business with? What’s his name? Desdune, I think.”

Sean nodded. “Yeah, his family owns Lucien’s, those Creole restaurants. They just opened a new one in Orlando. Great food.”

“Right. Right. I remember them.”

Of course Parker remembered good food, Sean almost said.

“Well, they married into this other family from Bennett Communications. She’s the daughter, Adriana.”

While Parker emptied his beer, Sean tried to piece together everything his cousin had just said. Jaydon was Parker’s ex-wife. She ran Donovan Network Management, providing agents and talent scouts throughout the country. It still amazed Sean that his cousin, who was only a year older than he and two years younger than Dion, had been married and divorced before he’d turned thirty—a subject no one was allowed to talk about beyond the fact that the two remained friends and Jaydon still worked for them. Now, at thirty-two, Parker was a bachelor in great demand.

“I still don’t get why Jaydon’s setting you up on dates.”

“I don’t know, man. Women are crazy. She said something about maybe giving her a host job on the network. I don’t know. I’m going to check her out tonight to see if she’s got any potential.”

Sean leaned back in the chair. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Savian’s asking when we’re going to be ready to propose our idea for the magazine show. I think we’re solid, but there’s another part of the magazine we should include,” Parker said, leaning over the island to pull a napkin from the stainless-steel holder.

“I know. Dion told me you were asking about our ‘Ask Jenny’ columnist.”

Parker slammed a hand on the marble countertop. “Right. You know how many hits that column is getting online? More than any other page of the magazine. People seem desperate for the kind of help she’s dishing out.”

Sean nodded. He couldn’t argue with the facts.

“I hope she’s not some old chick, speaking from a past of broken hearts. That’s not going to be a good visual.”

“She’s not old,” Sean said.

“Good. Is she married? That’ll make her seem more stable, like she’s achieved the dream.”

He shook his head. “She’s divorced. She has a kid though.”

Parker looked like he was contemplating that fact. “We don’t have to broadcast that.”

“I just don’t know,” Sean said, even though he was not really sure what his objection to this idea was.

“Look, we’ve got to boost ratings. Reality shows are kicking butt all over the networks. We’ve got to jump in while the water’s still clear.”