the thought scared the hell out of him, as sure as if he’d stepped into a pitch-black room with no telling what was inside.
“You ever been to the Soul Cafe?” Quinn asked, exiting at 42nd Street.
Nikita released a silent breath when he made his exit. At least they weren’t going too far uptown. “No. I never heard of it.”
“I think you’ll like it. It’s owned by that brother on New York Undercover, Malik Yoba.”
Her eyebrows raised. “Oh, really! I love that show. I watch it whenever I can. I hadn’t heard that he had a restaurant.”
“It’s a pretty new spot.”
“This is great. Maybe we’ll see him,” she added, sounding like a schoolgirl.
Quinn slanted his eyes in her direction and smiled, seeing the look of anticipation on her face. So that’s the kind of stuff she digs. This was nothing. He couldn’t count the number of famous faces he’d either met, eaten with or seen. Everyone at one time or another came uptown to get a taste of can’t-be-beat cooking, no matter how much loot they were making.
“Yeah, may-be.”
She breathed a silent sigh of relief. This wasn’t too bad. He’d had her a little nervous at first when he just took off from Zuri’s like that. Although she really did want to see where he was talking about, she just wasn’t sure if she wanted to see it today. She’d heard such awful things—the people, the violence, the filth. All she could imagine was what she’d seen on the evening news. Then again, anyone with a grain of sense knew that the news only showed what they wanted to show. They always interviewed the most snaggletoothed, illiterate black person they could find to represent whatever the issue was for the day. She promised herself she’d keep an open mind.
“So, what nights are you playing at the club?”
“I’m not.”
“Why? I mean, I thought you were. It was set.”
“Changed my mind.”
“Oh.”
“Problem?”
She shifted for a minute under his gaze. “No. Why should it be? It’s like you told me. I’m a big girl. You’re a big boy. Right? Do what you want.”
“Yeah. Exactly.” That was easy. No pressure. He should feel relieved. Then why did he feel like somebody had just let the air out of his steel-belted radials? He kind of wanted her to ask some more questions. He wanted to explain that he’d never played for anybody besides his sister, Lacy. That Lacy was dead. That things hadn’t been the same for him since. That the time in the club was the first time he’d played since her death. He wanted to tell her that the pain was still too strong, so bad sometimes that he just wanted to disappear so he could stop being afraid. He didn’t have anybody to keep him from being afraid anymore. He wanted to tell her.
He didn’t.
Nikita wrinkled her nose. She sure hoped he wasn’t one of those trifling Negroes. Supposed to do things, make commitments and then back out. If this was any indication of how he handled his business, well—well, she just didn’t know.
Quinn took the liberty of ordering for both of them. Lunch was a combination of hot and spicy jerk chicken, peas and rice, callaloo, fried chicken fingers, a side of homemade coleslaw, not that supermarket stuff, and melt in your mouth corn bread—cooked to a perfect golden brown and served up in healthy chunks.
“How’s the food?” he asked.
“Delicious,” Nikita mumbled over a mouthful of corn bread.
Quinn reached across the table and brushed the tip of his finger against the corner of her mouth.
A bolt of electric energy shot straight through her. She went perfectly still.
Quinn smiled. “That’s what I wanted to see,” he said in a tone so low it seemed to reach down to her soul, “what that pretty mouth would look like with golden crumbs around it.”
She swallowed. “What does it look like?” she whispered in a tone to match his.
“Very tasty.” He grinned.
She bit back a smile and shifted her gaze to her plate. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
He ran his finger across her lips again and the thrill was twice as strong. She fought down a shiver.
“So what are we gonna do about that?”
She put her fork down, folded her arms on the tabletop and leaned closer. Her cinnamon-colored eyes held his. “We’re going to have to work that out, Mr. Parker. One day at a time.”
“I like the sound of that. Night and day meeting at dawn.”
“You sound like a poet.”
“Naw. Ain’t nothin’ like that at all. Classy lady like you brings out the melody in a man. Sometimes,” he added. “So don’t get no wild ideas in your head.” His eyes crinkled, and she smiled in return.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
And Quinn thought about the fact that he’d never told her his last name. So she’s been askin’ about me. Nice.
He pulled up in front of the building where she worked exactly two hours later. He turned off the engine. They sat in silence for several moments.
Now what? Should she just thank him and get out? What if he tried to kiss her? She knew she probably tasted like some kind of spice and peppers. But then again, so did he. If he tried, she was going to let him.
He unfastened his seat belt and angled toward her, draping his arm along the back of her seat. His fingers played across her exposed neck.
Uh-oh.
“So why don’t you give me your number and I can call you sometime?”
“Is that another question or a command?”
The corner of his mouth curved up in a grin. “A question, your high-ness.”
“In that case, I guess I can give you my number so you can call me sometime.” She dug in her purse, found a pen, and tore off a piece of paper from her pocket notebook and wrote down her number. “That’s the number at my office.”
He took the paper and checked out the number, then stuck it between the sun visor and the roof of the car.
“Got a man at home that’s gonna get ticked if I call you?” he teased, fishing.
“No.”
“What if I feel like hearin’ your voice after hours?”
“One day at a time. Remember?” She smiled, closed her purse and pressed the button to release the lock on her door. “Thanks for lunch.” She got out of the car, shut the door behind her and trotted up the steps, giving him one last look at her legs.
“Thank you, Nikita Harrell,” he whispered, watching her disappear beyond the door. “Thank you.”
Chapter 6
From Here to There
Once again Parris was out of town, and Nikita desperately needed someone to talk with. She sat up in bed and dialed Jewel’s number. They’d met several years earlier when Jewel’s lifetime partner, Taj, started working at Nick’s club. Although Jewel was at least eight years older, they’d become fast friends. Jewel’d had her own battles to wage when she met and fell in love with her much younger mate. She’d bucked the odds and the comments, and come out on top. Next to Parris and Nick, there wasn’t a couple more perfect than Taj and Jewel. All she could hope for was to find the same kind of happiness one day.
The phone rang three times before Jewel’s eighteen-year-old daughter, Danielle,