The Eleventh Commandment (8 page)

F
rieda heard the doorbell ring. She wasn't expecting anyone and assumed that Cordella would send whoever had the nerve to solicit at her doorstep on their merry way. Having decided to end the suspense in at least one area of her life, she was busy researching DNA-testing companies. Earlier, she'd retrieved a few hairs from the comb that Gabriel had recently used and had placed them in a plastic bag. Gabe looked a lot like her, true, but the “good hair” on his dome was not the product of a texturizer, conditioner, or either person listed on the child's birth certificate. There were a couple of past partners whose genes could have been the source of that trait. She hoped it was Shabach, a multi-platinum gospel hip-hop artist—because in the event of a divorce, he'd keep the paper rolling—but it could be Gorgio, her former running buddy and casual sex partner for many years. Either way, a sistah had to know. Raised voices from the foyer area brought her out of her musings.

The female voice was clearly that of her house manager, Cordella. “I don't care what she told you. This is my place of employment and you cannot come strutting through the front door as though it's your due. Why didn't you call and tell me you were coming?”

The mumbled male voice sent a squiggle through Frieda's nana.
Clark!
She closed the browser of her latest search and made quick work of the distance between her shared office with Gabriel and the front part of the house. “It's all right, Cordella. I asked Clark to come here.” Actually, she'd had no idea that her lover would show up on the front door of the home she shared with her husband but ... okay. Gabe was sleeping, his father wouldn't be home for several hours, and it had been two days.

“What?” Cordella looked at her with both scorn and skepticism.

This witch has been tripping with me ever since I checked her about helping Gabriel get all up in my business.
She made up a story on the spot. “The last time he was here he, uh, told me about a new computer program. I asked him to come over and teach me how to operate it.” The lie came so quickly and so easily that had she been more limber, Frieda would have patted her own back.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Livingston, but I don't believe it is proper that my son visit you in this way.”

“And I don't think it's
proper
for you to question my behavior! Three months ago, when you needed to quickly get money to your grandchild, you didn't believe it improper that I gave you an advance on your salary, and that your son came over then, did you?”

“No, missus, I didn't.”

“Then don't try and check me on what I do. Your son helping me is working to your advantage. Do you understand me?” Silence. Frieda took a step forward. “I said, Do. You. Understand. Me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Livingston,” Cordella replied, hands clasped, eyes shifted downward. “I understand. My apologies.”

“And just so we're clear, I don't need you reporting back to my husband about this visit, just like I didn't need you running down my schedule to him before. If there is anything happening in my life that Gabriel needs to know, I will tell him.”

“Mrs. Livingston, I simply told him what he asked me.”

“If he asks you another question with my name in the sentence, you refer him to me. Okay?” Cordella nodded. Frieda was tempted to curse out the help, but considering the tongue-lashing in store for her lover, she chose not to die on this particular hill. Instead she fixed Clark with a pointed look and said, “Come on back to the office.” She turned and began walking, not waiting to see whether or not she was being followed. Her actions had clearly told him that he'd messed up. His obeying was a given.

As dramatic a move as it was, it may have been worth her while to look back. Had she done so, she would have seen the daggers that Cordella was shooting at her back. Unfortunately, out of sight was not out of mind. She'd feel more than the tip of these knives before long.

Frieda remained quiet until she and Clark had reached the office and she'd closed the door. Then she rounded on him like a boxer. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What? Me wanna see you.”

Trying to not let that sexy-ass accent, those juicy lips, or the outline pressing against his shorts get her off track, she continued her line of questioning. “Coming to my house without calling first, and ringing the front doorbell? Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Have you lost your nerve, woman?” Clark crossed his arms and anyone looking would have sworn that his chest grew another inch as he puffed it out. “You told me that you got it handled over here, that you were running things. Don't look like it, the way you're acting right now.”

His audacity was as sexy as his accent. Standing in her house, in her office, reminding her of words she'd boasted and making her feel like she was on the defensive in the process.
How did this script get flipped?
Frieda didn't know, but she was definitely getting ready to get the train back on track.

“Look, you got some good dick, but it's not the biggest one, the longest one, or the only one in LA. Don't think I'm sprung on your ass, 'cause I can blink my eyes and move you to the left faster than you can roll a blunt.... Feel me?” Clark lost that extra inch of chest that it looked like he'd gained moments before. “Your boy Spencer was looking pretty good when we were at the club last week. Don't think I won't hollah at him. As you know, since I met you because your mother is my nanny, I don't have a problem keeping it in the family.”

Mentioning Spencer was like striking a match. Born only months apart, Clark had had a love/hate relationship with his cousin—feeling he'd readily take a bullet for him, yet kill him at the same time. He closed the distance between himself and Frieda in one long stride. “What the hell you telling me, girl?” he asked as he placed a viselike grip on her arm and pulled her into his hard chest. “He say something to you?”

Umph. Ain't nothing like a take-charge man.
This type of delicious friction would never happen between her and Gabriel. He was too logical, too civilized. But this, this animalistic palpitation in the room, the sexual tension, the inevitable argument that precedes incredible makeup sex . . . only came with someone like Frieda dueling with someone like Clark. She knew this and, for whatever it was worth, Clark knew it too.

“No, he didn't say nothing. I'm saying that
I
might say something.”

“Don't push me, girl. . . .” Clark loosened his grip on her arm.

Frieda took a step away from him. “You better check yourself.”

“So what ... you kicking me out? You want this to be over? Or do you want me to”—he gave her the once-over while stroking his rod—“show you how to work that new computer program?”

Frieda got to within inches of Clark's face and dropped her voice to a low growl. “Don't you ever come to my place again unless I personally invite you. Not to see your mother, not because you're in the neighborhood, not for any reason. Do you understand me?” She pointed a finger in his face for emphasis.

“I understand this,” Clark drawled as he tweaked the hardened nipple beneath Frieda's strappy top.

She cursed the spontaneous wetness that occurred in her panties at Clark's touch, then swatted his hand away. “I'm not playing, Clark. This is my life we're talking about.”

“Your life . . . or your lifestyle?”

“Whatever it is, it's mine, nucka. You want to play with Frieda, you play by my rules. My way or the highway. Now which one do you want?”

Clark's response? Not a word. Just closed the gap between them with one step, and without breaking eye contact, wrapped his muscular arm around her waist and pulled her to him. It was a surprise move, and Clark swallowed Frieda's gasp in a bruising kiss, forcing his swordlike tongue into her mouth in a merciless assault. She wore a twelve-hundred-dollar Mondo original, but Clark scrunched the skirt up around her waist like it had been purchased on the clearance rack at a garage sale. His hand found her booty and squeezed each cheek before pushing her closer, slamming her pelvic area against his massive hardness. Swirling his tongue inside her moistness, he walked them over to the large cherrywood desk that anchored the left side of the room. Pushing books, files, and medical periodicals to the floor, Clark lifted Frieda by her booty and placed her on the desk. He stepped between her legs, slid a finger up her thigh and began circling motions precariously close to her heat. The oral assault continued.

Frieda shivered, totally caught up in the wave of feelings overtaking her senses. It was a heady combination of shock, anger, lust, satisfaction, and overwhelming need. For this. Sex. Hot, hard, and with Clark. A strand of her thoughts toyed with the question of what it was about this particular brothah that had her so twisted. A finger sliding between her drenched folds combined with a wet tongue creating a trail from her neck to her tank top provided a partial answer.

“Why didn't you call me back?” The voice was low, almost growling, breath hot and pungent—Newport Menthols—against her stomach.

The words, or at least their sound, wafted between the haze of her desire.
Huh? What? Did he just ask me a question? Does he actually believe I can think right—
“Ooh.” He'd parted her paradise to slide a long thick middle finger inside.

He slid his face closer to where his finger lounged. “Huh? Why didn't you call me?”

“Couldn't,” Frieda panted as she grinded against his finger.
Wait a minute. I'm in control, mutha—
“Ahh.” His tongue had found out where his finger was hanging out.

“When I call, you need to answer.” His breath teased the inside of her thighs. “You know who this belongs to.” As she spread her legs to allow better access, Frieda was vaguely aware of a knocking sound. It crept into her lust-filled conscience, a nagging distraction that gained in intensity even as Clark's tongue strokes gained in speed.
What is that? His legs against the desk? My head next to the ... no . . . wait . . . it's the door!
She placed her hands on the sides of Clark's head, forcing him to stop. “Shh!”

The knock again, followed by a rattling of the doorknob. “Mrs. Livingston, your husband is on the phone.”

Damn! Thank God I locked that door!
“Okay, Cordella. Thanks.” With both sets of lips quivering, Frieda slid off one side of the desk and wobbled over to where the phone sat on the other side. “Hey, baby.” Her voice was far more breathy than she'd hoped, but it was what happened when one was literally at the peak of orgasm, and then unexpectedly interrupted.

“Frieda? What are you doing?”

“I just ran into the house from outside—trying to catch my breath.” Five seconds passed. Ten. Twenty. “Gabriel?”

“You were outside?”

Frieda knew the deal; Cordella had disobeyed her orders and again talked out of school. But just how much did Gabriel know? “Yes, I'm working in the office, but heard a weird sound out by the pool and went out to investigate. I didn't see anything so . . . maybe it was a bird or something.” No back pat this time; the answer was lame at best.

“What's going on, Frieda?”

“Why do you think something is going on? I told you what I was doing so what do you want?”

“Never mind.”

“Gabriel, wait!”

But he didn't. Dead air was Frieda's confirmation that he'd ended the call. Frieda charged to the door.

“Where are you going?” Clark asked.

“To fire your mother.”

He closed the distance between them in three strides. “Wait! What did she do?”

“She needs to mind her own business, but keeps getting into mine!”

“Come here, baby,” Clark said, once again enveloping Frieda in his long, strong arms. “Let me talk to her.” When she squirmed a bit he continued. “She needs this job, baby. My brother's back home and you know my sister's baby has been sick. . . . She's their only support.”

Frieda's eyes narrowed as she gave Clark's body—tall, lean, taut—the once-over. “Cordella has one more time to cross me, Clark,” she huffed, one lone finger in the air for emphasis. “One more time to get out of line and she is out the door.”

Needless to say, the thrill was gone, so Clark left within minutes. But the moment would prove pivotal for everyone involved.

Frieda decided that along with a DNA specialist she needed to shop for a new nanny/house manager.

Cordella decided to begin collecting proof of what she believed were her employer's infidelities.

Clark decided it was time for Frieda to know who was really in control.

And Gabriel decided it was time to spend less time with his patients, and more time with his wife.

C
y sat in his office, sipping a cup of green tea and staring at the computer screen. He'd had a restless night, due in no small part to the conversation he'd had yesterday. With Trisha. The fact that she hadn't immediately answered his e-mail to her, the second one he'd sent the day after she'd decided to reconnect with him out of the blue, had left him thinking that he wouldn't hear from her at all. But he had. Yesterday. She'd told him she'd been busy, had expressed her excitement that they'd reconnected, and ended the e-mail with her phone number. He'd had an appointment in Los Angeles and when he arrived at his LA office . . . he'd called her.

 

“Trisha Underwood.”

A long pause and then a question. “Who's calling, please?”

Cy smiled, realizing that the feisty skepticism that Trisha possessed had not diminished. “Trisha, it's Cy.”

“Cy! Oh my goodness!”

I don't remember your voice being so hoarse, but then again, it has been almost twenty years.
“How are you, Trisha?”

Again, a pause before answering. “I'm okay. Wow, after all these years of thinking about how you've been and where you are, I can't believe I'm actually talking to you.”

“I've thought about you too . . . over the years.”

There was a palpable intensity to the moment, even though both struggled to sound casual and nonchalant. Later, both would learn that it was for very different reasons.

“So, Cy Taylor, what have you been up to the last decade?”

“Ha!”

“I should add besides becoming a very successful businessman. That's how Jeannetta tracked you down, you know.”

“You can't possibly mean Jeannetta Harris.”

“The one and only.”

Now it was Cy's turn to pause as memories rushed in. Jeannetta Harris, the woman who'd lured him into her bed while he was dating Trisha. What he hadn't known at the time was that Jeannetta was insanely jealous of Trisha and would do anything to dim the sunshine that seemed to follow Trisha around. Simply put, she set him up, and made sure that Trisha found out about it. To say she was hurt was an understatement. Trisha not only broke up with him, but during the remainder of their college years acted as though he was not alive. For years Cy had detested Jeannetta as the cause of the breakup with his first true love. Even after graduation he'd tried to obtain Trisha's whereabouts, but her friend's lips were tighter than Spanx on a fat chick. Finally he gave up and moved on.

“Jeannetta?” he finally said. “You've got to be kidding.”

“I ran into her a couple years ago. She'd found God and I guess as a result of that, was full of remorse about what she'd done. She asked for my forgiveness, and whether you and I had kept in touch with each other. When I told her no, she told me that she'd seen your name from time to time on various social media sites, namely LinkedIn, which I'd never joined. Lately, she saw you on Facebook and gave me your e-mail address.”

Cy knew there was a reason he'd held out on joining the popular website. There were some people from his past with whom he'd rather not reconnect. Trisha was not one of them. Jeannetta was. “Wow, I don't even know how to respond to that story. After the one and only time we were together, and after I found out her true motives, she and I were never even in the same room, much less talked to each other.”

“Well, you may be surprised to know that she is living on five acres of rural land in North Carolina, married to a cattle rancher, and the mother of three rambunctious boys.”

“I'm very surprised.”

“I saw her at the ten-year reunion, but we didn't talk. Then a couple years ago she looked me up on the classmate Web site, reached out, and I responded.”

“Why?”

“Beyond anything else, Jeannetta and I are not only sorors, but we're human. She asked for my forgiveness, I gave it, and she felt that reconnecting us was a sort of restitution.”

“I must say I was more than surprised to get your e-mail, but after all these years, it is truly a pleasure to talk with you again.” A comfortable silence ensued before Cy continued. “I notice you're still using your maiden name, Trisha. Are you one of these new age women who maintain their independence even after marriage?” This time, there was no mistaking the pause. It lasted so long that Cy checked his connection. “Trisha?”

“Nope, never married. No children.”

Thinking of his wonderful wife and beautiful twins, Cy was immediately uncomfortable, and somewhat saddened. “Well, you always were a go-getter. I imagine you opted for the successful career.”

“Not exactly.”

Hmm.
Cy wondered what he was supposed to do with that response.

Turns out, he didn't have to do anything with it. Trisha wasn't finished. “I never stopped loving you, Cy.”

The raw energy surrounding her honest answer caused Cy's stomach to clench. “You can't possibly be saying that your single status, all these years later, is because of me.”

Trisha chuckled to try and lighten the moment. “I guess I was always trying to find someone to replace you. And no one ever did.” Cy had absolutely no answer for that, so he remained quiet. “I'd like to see you, Cy.”

“I'd like to see you too,” Cy responded, with no hesitation. “I'm married with children and happily so, but I never forgot you, always wondered how you were doing and prayed that life had given you what you wanted. Has it?”

“In a way. Seeing you would be a great booster.”

“Then it's settled. I've got business that will have me in and out of New York for the next few months. The next time I'm headed that way, I'll let you know.”

 

Cy hadn't told Hope about this conversation. It wasn't that he was trying to hide anything, but having had his share of experiences with women, he just felt that whatever was said to Hope regarding Trisha would be delivered on a need-to-know basis. Cy looked down at the one-sentence message he'd discovered upon opening his e-mails this morning.

 

I need to see you, Cy. As soon as possible.

 

The words were simple, but for whatever reason, Cy felt an urgency beneath them. He wanted to see Trisha, felt that he
needed
to see her. And when it came to his wife, his heartbeat, Hope Jones Taylor, this situation was now a definite need-to-know.