Pleasure In His Kiss. Pamela Yaye

was looking forward to socializing and networking with foreign businessmen and obscenely rich entrepreneurs.

      “Can you please take me home? I’m tired, and I’d really like to chill out in my room,” she explained. “I’ll visit with Grandma and Grandpa tomorrow.”

      He took a moment to consider her request. “Fine, but I don’t want anyone in the house. No friends, no loud music, and if you decide to go out you have to be home by curfew.”

      She sighed deeply, her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted in a frown.

      “I know you think I’m hard on you, but everything I do is for your good—”

      “Okay, okay, I get it. From now on, I’ll obey your every word. Now, back to you and Ms. Karma. When are you going to ask her out?”

      Morrison kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “Come on, Uncle Morrison, keep it a hundred.” Facing him, she tucked her feet under her bottom and tapped an index finger against her cheek. “You’re feeling her, and you know it. You were staring at her hard when she left. It’s a miracle you didn’t pop an eye vessel.”

      Morrison wanted to laugh, but he wore a straight face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his niece this happy, and was amused by her jokes. The truth was out. He was interested in Karma, sexually attracted to her, but he’d never act on his feelings. His focus was on raising Reagan and advancing his career, not pursuing a feisty, provocative woman from Brooklyn.

      Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he thought about his ex-girlfriend. Their relationship had ended because the anesthesiologist didn’t get along with Reagan, and none of the females he’d met in recent months appealed to him. They were all savvy career women with graduate degrees, but there’d been no spark, no fire. Morrison realized he had the opposite problem with Karma. Their chemistry was so strong every time their eyes met he wanted to kiss her, to stroke every inch of her body. There was nothing sexier than a woman who was comfortable in her own skin, and Karma moved with the ease of a runway model.

      “Uncle Morrison, you have to bring your A game to win Ms. Karma over and, even though you play chess and watch CNN religiously, I have complete faith in you.”

      Morrison scoffed, and Reagan giggled. He didn’t mind her poking fun at him, and chuckled when she started clapping and singing off-key.

      “Uncle Morrison and Ms. Karma sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” Reagan sang, dancing around in her seat, her voice strong and loud. “First comes loves, then comes marriage, then comes triplets in a Gucci baby carriage!”

      Wearing a wry smile, Morrison turned into his estate and drove up the driveway.

      “Men are always hounding Ms. Karma for her number, so you have to come correct when you ask her out. And don’t be late for your date. Ms. Karma hates that.”

      “Bye, Reagan,” he said, unlocking the doors. “Don’t forget to put on the alarm.”

      “I will. Bye, Uncle Morrison. See you later!”

      Reagan threw open the door then rushed inside. Morrison was pressed for time, but he sat in his SUV for a moment, thinking about his conversation with his niece. She’d promised to be on her best behavior, but Morrison didn’t believe her. To assuage his fears, he’d call Duane and ask him to check up on Reagan tonight.

      Karma’s words came back to him, playing in his ears like a song. Mistakes are a part of growing up, and if you don’t give Reagan the room to fall she’ll never learn to fly. He’d disagreed with Karma that morning in her office, still did. He knew what was best for Reagan, and his job was to protect her, to make sure she didn’t make the same mistakes his sister did as a teenager. He’d convince Karma to fire Reagan, and when she did he’d show his appreciation—in the bedroom. Encouraged by the thought, Morrison drove back down the driveway, whistling to himself. Considering his next move, he broke into a broad grin as a plan formed in his mind. Karma was no match for him, and he’d prove it.