Touch of Heaven (7 page)

Raina knew who to call to get in touch with Warrick. Once she received Tina's brother's résumé, she would contact Warrick. And once she had him on the phone, she wouldn't beat around the bush. She would simply pass along Alphonse's résumé and ask Warrick to kindly forward the information to his company's internship coordinator. If he decided, out of the goodness of his heart, to do more for Alphonse, then all the better. Either way, Raina would have kept her word to Tina.

She wasn't asking for much, she reasoned. After everything Warrick and his family had put her through, this small favor was the
least
he could do for her.

W
hen Warrick pulled up in front of Randall Mayne's lakeside house that afternoon, he found his uncle inside the detached garage with his head under the hood of a 1956 Ford Thunderbird sports car.

Since retiring from the Houston Police Department five years ago, Randall had enthusiastically thrown himself into his favorite hobby of collecting and restoring classic cars. The blue T-Bird was one of many such vintage vehicles he owned.

As Warrick approached the entrance to the garage, he could hear Frankie Beverly and Maze blaring from the stereo. Randall Mayne was crooning the lyrics to “Joy and Pain” in a deep, slightly off-key baritone.

A slow, mischievous grin stretched across Warrick's face. Sauntering over to the car, he joined loudly in the chorus: “Joy and pain are like sunshine and rain…”

Randall jerked at the sound of his voice, bumping his head on the roof of the hood and swearing. Warrick grinned, watching as his uncle straightened and stepped around the fender to stare at him.

“Boy, don't you ever sneak up on me like that again!”

Warrick laughed. “You must be losing a step, old man. The cop
I
used to know could hear a cat tiptoeing across a room.”

“Who you calling an old man?”

“There are only two people in this garage, and I sure as hell wasn't talking about me.” Though, at just fifty-six, Randall Mayne could hardly be considered old.

Randall looked at his nephew, his expression stern. But he couldn't hold it for as long as he used to. A moment later his lean, handsome face broke into a wide grin. He grabbed Warrick, dragging him into a bear hug that evolved into a playful headlock. Warrick laughed as he endured the familiar ritual, knowing that even if he were seventy years old and president of the United States, he would still be given headlocks by his uncle.

As Randall released him a moment later, his deep-set dark eyes—identical to Warrick's—skimmed over his nephew's black T-shirt and jeans. His grin turned teasing. “Good thing you're not wearing one of those
GQ
suits. Wouldn't wanna get grease stains on your fancy threads.”

Warrick chuckled, turning and walking over to the minifridge tucked into a corner of the garage. He snagged two cold beers and made his way back over to pass one to his uncle, who wiped his hands on a rag before accepting the bottle.

“I didn't know you were heading out this way today,” Randall said, lowering the volume on the stereo. “I could have thrown a couple steaks on the grill.”

“Sounds good. Later.” Although Warrick had eaten the same thing for dinner last night at the restaurant, he wasn't about to turn down one of his uncle's juicy T-bone steaks, which had always been a crowd-pleaser at summer cookouts and family reunions. His mouth watered just thinking about it.

“So you're staying for dinner?” Randall asked.

“Of course.” Sprawling lazily in a chair, Warrick took a swig of beer. “I was hoping we could shoot some hoops, but I see you're otherwise preoccupied.” Grinning, he hitched his chin toward the Thunderbird. “This the new love of your life? The one you were telling me about the last time we talked?”

“Yep,” Randall said, beaming proudly. “Two hundred sixty horsepower, three-hundred-twelve-cubic-inch V-eight. Did I also tell you the Fifty-six model was the rarest of the T-Birds, with a production total of only 15,631? Fifty-six was also the first year of
the continental kit and the porthole window in the hardtop. Ain't she a beauty?”

Warrick ran an appreciative eye over the convertible, admiring its sleek, classic lines and gleaming chrome finish. “She's a winner,” he agreed.

“Damn straight. Got her at auction for a steal.” Randall chuckled. “Those amateurs didn't know what they were parting with.”

Warrick grinned. He remembered, as a teenager, watching in awed fascination as his uncle bargained down the price of a used car he had purchased for Warrick to drive his mother and siblings around. The vehicle had been in fairly good condition and could have fetched a higher asking price, but Randall Mayne, with the fluid ease of a maestro conducting an orchestra, had somehow talked the salesman down. The poor bastard never stood a chance. By the time Warrick and his uncle had driven off the lot, the salesman was red-faced and flustered, undoubtedly wondering what had just happened.

Over the years, whenever Warrick found himself applying the same technique during contract negotiations with a tough client, his mind flashed back to that day at the used-car lot, and inwardly he smiled.

Randall Mayne's negotiating skills and killer instincts weren't the only things Warrick had apparently inherited. If he had a dime for every time someone had told him he was the spitting image of his uncle, he'd be even wealthier than he already was. Looking at Randall—tall and broad-shouldered, with a sprinkling of gray at his temples—Warrick realized he was seeing a future version of himself in twenty years.

He imagined his own father must have resembled Randall as well, but every time Warrick tried to recall what his dad had looked like, all he remembered was a faceless man passed out on the bed, or sofa, or floor, or wherever he'd managed to crawl and collapse after getting high.

How many times had Warrick wished that Randall were his father? Randall was the one who had stepped in and rescued Warrick when he had veered onto a collision course with disaster at fourteen, getting suspended from school and becoming involved with notorious drug dealers around the neighborhood. Warrick had often wondered how his life would have turned out if his uncle hadn't pulled him over that fateful night twenty-two years ago. There was
little doubt in Warrick's mind that he would have ended up a pusher, or a junkie like his father. Or worse, dead. But his uncle had put a stop to all that, altering the course of Warrick's life forever. Randall was the one who had taken Warrick and his family out of the projects and set them up in a better neighborhood. Randall was the one who'd taught Warrick the meaning of an honest day's work when he made his nephew spend hours after school washing squad cars down at the police station, mowing lawns, cleaning storm drains and volunteering at homeless shelters. And it was Randall who had adjusted his schedule and worked overtime as needed just so that he could attend Warrick's high-school basketball games—he'd never missed one.

For as long as Warrick could remember, his uncle had always been there for him, never asking for anything in return. Even when Warrick made his first million, and other relatives began crawling out of the woodwork and hitting him up for money, Randall refused to take a dime from his nephew. He wouldn't let Warrick buy him a new house or give him the funds to retire early from the police department. Randall's stubborn pride was a tremendous source of frustration to Warrick, who, though he knew he could never repay his uncle for saving his life, wanted to try anyway. But no matter how often they argued or how gently he cajoled, Warrick couldn't persuade his uncle to take his money. Angry and frustrated, he'd finally given up.

And then, six years ago, Warrick had been attending a car auction while on a business trip to Italy. The moment he'd seen the red 1967 Ferrari 330 GTS Spyder sports car, with its powerful V12 engine and sleekly muscled body, he knew he had to get it for his uncle, whose passion for vintage cars had dominated more than a few conversations over the years. Without batting an eye at the seven-figure starting bid, Warrick had outmaneuvered several other buyers, purchased the car and had it shipped to his uncle in time for his fiftieth birthday.

The arrival of that car had done what nothing or no one had ever accomplished in Randall Mayne's life. It had rendered him speechless.

He had immediately picked up the phone and called Warrick, who was still on business overseas. Warrick, groggy from sleep, hadn't known what to make of the strangled, inarticulate noises coming through the phone line, half afraid his uncle was having a heart attack
or stroke. When Randall finally got his bearings, he lit into his nephew.
Boy, how many times have I told you I don't want or need your money? And how do you expect to hang on to your fortune when you blow half of it on old sports cars?

Warrick had silently laughed through the lecture, then swallowed a hard knot of emotion that had lodged in his throat when, at the end of the tirade, his uncle had whispered humbly:
Thank you, son.

A year later, Randall, who had always dreamed about collecting and restoring classic cars, retired from the police force to do just that. Because he'd always been savvy with his money and had made some wise investments along the way, he'd retired with a sizable nest egg that enabled him to live comfortably and fund his somewhat expensive passion.

Watching him tinker under the hood of the T-Bird, Warrick realized that he hadn't seen his uncle this happy since his divorce had been finalized more than twenty years ago.

Chuckling to himself, Warrick set aside his beer, stood and walked over to Randall. “Rebuilding the engine?”

“Trying to,” Randall said gruffly, his heavy black brows furrowed together. “This one's giving me a little trouble though.”

Warrick shook his head, leaning down beside him. “It's always the beautiful ones,” he muttered, and he and his uncle grinned at each other.

After Randall explained the issue he was having, the two men spent the next several minutes peering into the guts of the engine and trying to diagnose the problem. Randall, who'd been rebuilding engines since his early teens, had taught Warrick everything he knew. Warrick had spent many summer afternoons under the hoods of cars his uncle repaired for friends and colleagues, jobs Randall did on the side to supplement his income. It was under his uncle's tutelage that Warrick had discovered an affinity—and an innate talent—for taking things apart and rebuilding them, which eventually had led him to a career in engineering.

“Run into any of your old high school buddies since you've been back in town?” Randall asked conversationally.

Warrick shook his head, absorbed in an inspection of the cylinder, an original part in surprisingly good condition. “Not yet. No, wait. What am I saying? I had dinner with Deniece Labelle last night.”

Randall arched a brow. “Oh, is that right? How's she doing? She writes for the
Chronicle,
right?”

“No, one of the other papers.
The Ledger.
And she's doing great.”

Randall nodded. “How was dinner?”

“Good, good.”
What happened afterward was even better,
Warrick silently mused. Of course, it would have been that much better if he hadn't been thinking about Raina—
Raina!
—practically the entire time. There had to be a special place in hell reserved for a guy who fantasized about one woman—a woman he didn't even like—while making love to another.

Warrick frowned darkly at the thought.

Randall shot him a warning look. “Now, don't you go breaking that young lady's heart again, War. You know her parents still blame you for their daughter not being married by now.”

Startled, Warrick stared at his uncle. “Whose parents?”

“Deniece's.” Randall frowned at him. “Who did you think I was talking about?”

“Deniece. Of course.” His gaze slid away. “How do you know her parents blame me for Deniece being single?”

“Well, don't forget her father was the police chief before he retired. I still see him around from time to time, and he always asks me how you're doing and makes some joke about how you broke his daughter's heart after high school, how she won't settle down with any man she's dated over the years because she keeps comparing them to you and finding them lacking.”

Warrick grimaced, even as Deniece's wistful words echoed in his mind.
You're the only man who ever really took the time to get to know me. The real me.

Randall continued, “You know I'd be the last one to lecture you about your love life, considering I couldn't make my own marriage work. But when it comes to women, I like to think I've learned a thing or two along the way. You're a good-looking, intelligent, highly successful young man. As I told you when your business started taking off, all kinds of women—black, white, yellow and green—are going to be throwing themselves at you like nothing you've ever seen before. And I was right. Now, no one can blame you for having some fun. You work hard, you deserve to play hard. Hell, even
I
was impressed when you started dating that pretty actress with the long
name, the one who was in that movie a couple years ago with Forest Whitaker. What was her name again?” Randall looked askance at his nephew.

Warrick actually drew a blank.

His uncle laughed, wagging his head reproachfully. “You just proved my point, son. Messing around with those Hollywood types is one thing, but when you start messing around in your own backyard, you open yourself up to a world of trouble. You've known Deniece since you were sixteen, and you know good and damn well how she still feels about you. Don't start something you can't finish.”