a bad seed, baby. Just like Quentin Stanfield. You don’t have to end up like your father because of him.”
Diana wanted to tell her mother how ridiculous and unlikely it was for her to end up like her father. Suicide at the age of forty-two had left behind three children and a mentally precarious wife. No one could do that to her, but because of what his father had done, she couldn’t see Marcus again. She just couldn’t.
Her fingers curled into the edge of the kitchen counter. “I’m fine, Mama. I just woke up too soon, that’s all. I’m going to get off the phone now. I’ll talk with you later, okay?”
“Okay. But call me. Otherwise I’m coming over.”
But they both knew how idle that threat was. Her mother had created a stable life with her second husband and rarely left her house.
Diana could only nod as she clutched the phone to her ear. She stared down at the newspaper with the photo of Marcus and his father. The two men looked nothing alike. Nothing. But that didn’t prevent the truth from being what it was. Quentin Stanfield had killed her father as surely as if he had put the gun in Washington Hobbes’s mouth and pulled the trigger himself.
She slowly put the phone down, seeing in her mind’s eye her clinically depressed and suicidal father walk out of their house for the last time. Cheated out of his pension and unable to work, Washington Hobbes had only seen one route to escape his troubles. And it was a route Quentin Stanfield had shown him.
Because of this, Diana couldn’t have anything to do with his son.
Marcus woke late for his own party. By the time he roused himself from his bed, practiced his tai chi and made it outside for the brunch festivities, it was well past two in the afternoon. But his efficient staff had worked their usual miracle, creating a shaded oasis on the grass with tables, tents to shade his fifty plus guests from the sun and more food and drinks than they could reasonably consume while a DJ played smooth R&B from the raised stage. Maxwell, fresh from his recent European tour, stood by the side of the pool, shades over his face, while a few groupies and members of his entourage gathered around him. He was set to perform after brunch.
Biscayne Bay glimmered in the afternoon brightness, its waters splashing with a soft and soothing sound against his tethered yacht and the dock. A small boat floated past the house in the water, its sails a sharp whiteness against the Miami cityscape.
Marcus was chill—mellow and relaxed from his night with Diana. And although his body had been primed to have sex with her, in the light of morning, he still felt satisfied. Refreshed. Her effect on him was damn near miraculous.
But he knew he should leave her alone. She was nothing like the cotton-candy women who floated in and out of his bed, glad for a taste of the luxurious life before they went on to something else. Diana was serious and passionate, and eventually she would want something from him. Something he couldn’t give.
For now, though, he ached to get his hands on her again.
Standing on the pool deck, Marcus stretched under the bright sun, felt the thick muscles in his back flex and release under his shirt and his abs tighten, pecs leaping and settling with his movements. He released a long breath. It was already a good day.
“Are you showing off that sexy manliness just for us?” A vaguely familiar voice broke into his thoughts. He turned from his view of the bay to see a woman he’d once spent a long weekend with. Cassandra something. Or was it Christina?
She was a pretty girl with long, loose black hair, wearing a red bikini top and tiny shorts. She had a friend with her—a blonde with a short, asymmetrical haircut but otherwise similar to his former playmate. Her white bikini showed off well-augmented breasts and a flat stomach decorated with a diamond belly ring.
Marcus knew he once thought Cassandra/Christina was gorgeous, definitely sexy enough to invite into his bed, but compared to Diana’s understated elegance, both women looked like they were trying too hard.
“Not this time,” he said in response to the question.
“Why, honey? We’d love to see what you’ve got to show.” She approached him with a bold look on her face, wetting her lips.
Her friend was a little more cautious, but he could see from the way they were looking at him what was on their mind. Not long ago he would have taken them up on their offer, but he wasn’t interested. Marcus stepped back and jerked his head toward Maxwell, who was laughing with a couple of guys from the band.
“I’m not feeling that today,” Marcus said. “But maybe the star could use some love.”
The friend shook her head, bangs fluttering down over one eye. “We already tried. We’d have to get in line.” The woman’s eyes drifted over Marcus’s body, then settled for a long moment at his crotch before meeting his eyes. “The line is shorter over here.”
Marcus was instantly repelled. “Sounds like a nice offer,” he said sardonically. “But I’m not taking any applications today. It’s all about the party and Maxwell.”
She bit her lip, still looking him over. “That’s too bad.”
Cassandra/Christina pressed her luck, too. “Come on, Marcus.” She stepped close to him, slid a hand under his shirt and touched his bare stomach. “We can spend some time in the pool house, all three of us. Then maybe go shopping in the morning.” The muscles of his belly clenched at her touch, and he just barely stopped himself from shoving her hand away.
“Like I said before, no, thanks.” Then he removed her hand from under his shirt and walked away.
* * *
By six he was ready for everyone to leave. But, of course, they were just getting started. Women were already swimming naked in the pool while half the party danced on the long patio to the DJ’s sounds. All Marcus wanted to do was talk to Diana.
When he finally got a free moment, he took his phone from his pocket, walked away from the sounds of the party and dialed Diana’s number. But Marcus got her voice mail. He called her three more times throughout the evening but never reached her.
By the time the party ended at nearly six in the morning, he was half wondering if she’d given him the right number. But it was her voice that greeted him each time.
Bleary from alcohol and not enough sleep, he called the private detective he kept on retainer and asked for everything about Diana. Her address, all her phone numbers, where she worked, even her parents’ information. Tomorrow, he would find her.
* * *
Marcus pulled up to the large, white, two-story Craftsman house that looked newly built, a graceful building that stood out like a swan among the older, weathered ugly-duckling houses on the street. The house’s only resemblance to its neighbors was the presence of black “burglar” bars over every one of its wide windows. A sign nearly as tall as the house itself with the words Building Bridges stenciled across it in dark blue stood proudly in the front yard.
The neighborhood held the quiet of late morning. It was too early for the kids to be out of school, too early even for the lunch crowd that would walk the streets to the nearby corner store. Not far from the building, a group of boys leaned against a front gate. Their pants sagged and hair was knotted up in dreadlocks, and most of them wore the uniform of backward baseball cap, white undershirt and oversize shorts.
Marcus gave them a nod as he strode toward Building Bridges, pocketing the keys to his car. Three empty rocking chairs waited to be filled on the front porch of the immaculate house. The wooden floors of the porch gleamed with polish, and a bronze mailbox sat just above the doorbell. Marcus rang the bell and waited. A young woman appeared in the doorway.
She was slender and short with skin the soft brown of the outside of a coconut. The girl had her hair pulled back in a ponytail that emphasized her doe eyes and rounded cheeks. Wearing a white blouse,