Drive Me Wild

Justin grabbed Gina’s hand as sheets of rain drenched them. He pulled her to an abandoned storefront, wrapped her in his arms and turned his back to shield her from the pelting rain.

He held her closer, and she let him, pulling down his fences, laying wide his vulnerability. The rain pummeled his back, and he tucked her head beneath his chin, stroking her hair and her back as he did so. “Look, I…Something’s happening here, and I—”

She snuggled closer to him, and her arms went up to his shoulders.

“Gina, do you know what you’re doing to me?”

Her lips glistened, and her breathing shortened as she stared into his eyes with the hottest expression of female want that he’d ever witnessed. He would regret it, but he was human, and he wanted her worse than he wanted air to breathe….

GWYNNE FORSTER

is a national bestselling author of twenty-three romance novels and novellas. She has also written four novels and a novella of general fiction. She has worked as a journalist, a university professor and as a senior officer for the United Nations. She holds bachelor’s and master’s degrees in sociology, and a master’s degree in economics/ demography.

Gwynne sings in her church choir, loves to entertain at dinner parties, is a gourmet cook and an avid gardener. She enjoys jazz, opera, classical music and the blues. She also likes to visit museums and art galleries. She lives in New York with her husband.

Drive Me Wild

Gwynne Forster

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dear Reader,

Your continued support has made my novels for Kimani Romance outstanding successes. In the change from BET Books to Harlequin’s Kimani Press, I had wondered if you would find my titles. I, along with my fellow Kimani writers, am rejoicing that you have embraced this new line.

I hope you have enjoyed Gina and Justin’s story. After reading several newspaper reports of individuals whose lives were adversely affected by the acquisition of sudden great wealth (including one who inherited $342 million and who, two years later, was heavily in debt and without family and friends), I decided to explore the experience in this novel to demonstrate that the wise and responsible use of suddenly acquired wealth can bring happiness. I hope you’ve had a chance to read Just the Man She Needs, my latest Kimani Arabesque novel, released in June 2007. John Austin Underwood would light any woman’s fire.

Warmest regards,

Gwynne Forster

To Carole A. Kennedy, who never passes up an

opportunity to show me true friendship. To my stepson,

Peter, who is my solid rock and comfort and never-failing

support; and my thanks to Almighty God for my talent

and the opportunities to use it.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 1

Gina Harkness watched the preacher sprinkle what looked to her like gravel over the coffin of her dear friend Heddy Lloyd. “A wonderful, loving and God-fearing woman,” he said. Common words from a minister, but they fit Heddy. At least the first two words did. Gina had no idea how God-fearing Heddy had been, but the old woman had certainly been kind and loving to Gina. The preacher said, “Amen,” and Gina rose slowly, softly said goodbye to her friend and walked slowly toward the door of the funeral home. It didn’t seem proper to stride away as she longed to do. She’d found the solemn, almost dreary, atmosphere inside the parlor depressing. Certainly, Heddy would have detested it.

Halfway to the door, an older man—the only other human present when the preacher said the last words over Heddy’s remains—joined her and walked with her to the door. “How do you happen to know Heddy?” he asked her. She didn’t question his right to ask her, for she knew he found it odd that a young black woman should be the old white woman’s only other mourner.

“I met her in the reading room of the public library about six years ago. I discovered that the library was her second home. I saw her whenever I went there. She told me she was a widow and that she had no children. She wanted to be friends, and I liked her, so we saw a lot of each other.”

“She had no close friends, mainly because she wanted her friends to be like her, generous, tolerant and liberal. My name is Miles Strags. I was her lawyer.”

“Gina Harkness. Glad to meet you, Mr. Strags. For years, I went to the movies, dinner, the theater and concerts with Heddy, saw her two or three times a week, called her just about every day, and visited her daily during her final days in the hospital, but I didn’t know she had a lawyer. She didn’t talk much about herself except to say jokingly that she’d outlived everybody close to her, that she didn’t reminisce and couldn’t stand complainers. I loved her deeply.”

“I expect a lot of people would have cared deeply for Heddy if she would have let them get to know her,” he said.

“I’m glad you came,” Gina said as they walked outside. “I was feeling very much alone in there until I saw you.”

“I’m executor of Heddy’s estate, Miss Harkness.” He handed Gina his card. “Would you please come to my office tomorrow morning for the reading of the will?”

“The…the will? She had a will? Uh, okay…Goodbye, Mr. Strags.”

“See you tomorrow,” he said, and she didn’t miss his bemused expression as he walked away.

Estate? What was Heddy doing with an estate, and why would she have a will? The woman had dressed as if she bought all of her clothes from a thrift-store bargain bin.

Gina took a deep breath and headed back to work. It perplexed her that Heddy could have left a will and she began to doubt the veracity of Miles Strags’s words. Perhaps he attended funerals in order to trap lone women. As soon as she sat down at her desk at the prestigious Hilliard and Noyes accounting firm, she opened her computer and located his Web site where she found enough information about him to convince her that the man was indeed an attorney.

The following morning at exactly nine-thirty, as agreed, a very curious Gina walked into Miles Strags’s office and sat down.

“I see you’re punctual,” he said. “Good. This won’t take long.”

Gina looked around for other beneficiaries, and saw none. “Isn’t anybody else coming?” she asked him.

“We’re all here,” he told her in an officious manner that her boss sometimes adopted and which she hated. He read:

“To Gina Harkness, my best and only friend, I leave all my worldly goods, including the building in which I lived, stocks, bonds, bank accounts, the furnishings of my apartment, jewelry and whatever I own that I’ve forgotten to mention here.”

When Gina gasped, he said, “There’s more.” He read on:

“If Gina accepts this bequest, for the first three years, she must live in the building that I owned and which she inherits, though not necessarily in my apartment, and she must have a car and chauffeur, participate in uplifting social functions and devote herself to the service of others. I am sure that Gina will find a way to help the neediest, for she is naturally a kind and giving person. Separate and apart from my bequest to Gina Harkness, I bequeath to my attorney, Miles Strags, a life pension from a trust that I have established for him. Heddy Lloyd.

“Well, that’s it,” Miles said. “You’ve just inherited about forty-three million dollars in addition to a building in the eight hundred block of Park Avenue. I don’t know what it’s worth.” He handed her a portfolio and several keys. “I’m here to assist you in any way I can.”

“What happens if I decide not to do those things and forget about all this?”

“Oh, you won’t entertain that idea for long. She wanted you to live as a wealthy woman should,” the lawyer said smugly.

“But why did she want me to live in that building?”

He walked over to the window and looked down on Lexington Avenue. “Heddy wasn’t happy living there after her husband died. While he lived, the tenants shunned her, but they couldn’t move against her because she and her husband owned the building. I guess you know her husband was African American. Made his money in shipping. He invested wisely, mostly in real estate, and died a very rich man. Her family disinherited her, and her neighbors never forgave her for marrying a black man. The codicil to her will specifies that if she outlives you, her wealth goes to support homeless and abused women and children.”

Gina shifted in her chair, feeling that a weight had come to rest on her shoulders. “You haven’t told me why she wanted me to live in that building.”

When he shrugged, she detected an air of impatience. “They’re intolerant, and she wanted to teach them a lesson. They love their apartments, and they won’t be able to force you to move.” He threw his pen up and caught it, as if he thought the conversation frivolous. “I once asked her why she wanted you to be uncomfortable there, but she never gave me an answer. Doesn’t make sense to me, but those are the terms of the will.”

Gina stared at him, trying to size him up. “What gives you the idea that I’ll be uncomfortable? Not on your life! Which one of these keys is the key to Heddy’s apartment?”

“They’re all labeled,” he said with raised eyebrows. “Remember that you must live as a wealthy woman for the first three years,” he added.

Gina remained seated and smiled inwardly when she noticed Miles staring at her swinging leg with what appeared to be a frown. The man didn’t like the thought of her with all that money. Too bad. She stood, slung her shoulder bag over her shoulder, walked toward the door and then reversed her tracks.

“Why for the first three years only?”

“I suppose she figured that’s more than enough time for you to get used to being rich. I suspect that once bitten, the disease will stick with you.” His plump fingers caressed his chin. giving the impression that he was deliberating about something. “You know where I am, and I’m here to assist you in whatever way you need me. It’s all taken care of.”

She walked into her apartment half a block from Broadway and 125th Street, closed the door, put the chain on it and dropped her body into the nearest chair. It was true. She was now a very wealthy woman. She opened the large manila envelope, looked through its contents and saw among the stock certificates and other papers a letter addressed to her in Heddy’s handwriting.

My dear Gina,

By now you are probably in shock. I loved you dearly, for you were the only person to befriend me in the nineteen years after my husband’s death. Most people thought me weird, laughable and treated me that way. But not you. Miles is a pompous ass; don’t let him upset you. He’s white, a man and a lawyer, and that seems to be all he needs from life. And I want you to teach my neighbors that all human beings are equal. You can do that just by being yourself. I lived for ninety-some years, and no matter what happens, I shall die happy.

Love, Heddy

Gina folded the letter and returned it to the envelope whose contents testified to her new status as a rich woman. She rested her elbows on her thighs, cupped her chin with both hands and closed her eyes. It occurred to her to give prayerful thanks, but as she did so, tears rolled down her cheeks. She’d been reasonably happy—well, at least content—earning forty-three thousand dollars a year, saving ten percent of it for her old age and living in a modest apartment. Now, she had a bundle of money and the responsibility that went with it.

What on earth was Gina thinking? She reached for the telephone and dialed her aunt Elsa. “I hope you’re sitting down, Auntie,” she said.

“I’m not, so wait till I get a chair.” She imagined that her aunt was somewhere near her sewing machine. Elsa Bowen’s wizardry as a designer-cum-seamstress had provided Gina and her aunt with a pleasant enough life, even if they hadn’t been able to move more than three blocks from the projects in D.C.

Gina told her aunt first about Heddy and Heddy’s death. “But that’s not really why I called you, Auntie. I just learned that Heddy wasn’t poor. She was very rich, and she left everything to me.”

“What? Child, you go ’way from here,” Elsa said in awe.

“It’s true. I just left the lawyer’s office, and he turned over everything to me. Auntie, she owned an apartment building on Park Avenue and had a lot of money. You can stop sewing, and you can—”

“Now, you wait a minute, Gina. I know you mean well, but I sew because I love it. Anyhow, I don’t know anybody named Heddy.”

“Well, Auntie, I hope you’ll at least let me buy you a nice house on Sixteenth Street. I can’t live on Park Avenue like the will says I have to do if you’re living next to the slums. As soon as I get things organized, you can find a house you like and you can keep on sewing.”

Elsa’s laugh rang out loud and clear over the wires. “God bless you child. You be careful now. If you act the fool, you could be broke in less than a year.”

“Don’t worry, Auntie. You’re the only person I’m telling about this money. I’m just taking care of it for Heddy. ’Bye for now.”

“Well, I’d better get started. I suspect Miles would give anything to deprive me of this blessing,” Gina said to herself. She phoned the Daily News and placed ads for a chauffeur, wrote a letter of resignation from her job, mailed it and took a taxi to the building on Park Avenue that, according to Heddy’s will, belonged to Gina Harkness. One look at Heddy’s mammoth three-bedroom apartment, and Gina threw up her hands. She definitely would not live in that cheerless place, even if it did overlook some of the most expensive real estate in the world. She phoned Miles.

“I have no use for most of this stuff. I’ll get somebody to catalog it and put it on e-Bay for sale,” she said.

“You can’t do that, Gina,” he said. “No woman in your position would consider such a thing. She would choose what she wants to keep, and give the rest to a charity. A charitable organization will go there and collect whatever you don’t want.”

“Thanks, Miles. I suppose you’ve counseled a lot of heirs about the disposition of unwanted items. What charity do you suggest?”

The lawyer offered a couple of suggestions and she thanked him, hung up and called Harlem Children’s Zone. With considerable difficulty, she dismissed her suspicion that Miles enjoyed letting her know he thought she was out of her class. Still, she needed Miles. And, until she got a firm footing in her new life, she would call upon him. She didn’t know the value of Heddy’s belongings and couldn’t decide what to keep and what to give away, so she asked Miles to help her.

Immediately, she realized that she could and should have engaged an expert, for Miles delighted in providing her with advice that she didn’t need and that didn’t interest her in the least. Furthermore, she suspected that his knowledge was less broad than he led her to think.

Even so, she stopped by Miles’s office one Tuesday morning at the end of March to show him her lease for the Park Avenue apartment, evidence that she had fulfilled that term of the will.

“So you have chosen an apartment for yourself,” Miles said, aware that she had closed Heddy’s apartment and had the managing agent list it for rent.

She told him she had and enjoyed letting him know that she had engaged a decorator without any advice or assistance from him. She had begun to suspect that not only her status but her five foot nine inch height, that placed her well above him when she wore three-inch heels irritated Miles. The man was a shade under five-eight. Gina suspected that her height wasn’t the only thing that irritated Miles. He probably wished that Heddy had left her money to almost anybody, as long as the person was white.

“What’s the proper salary for a chauffeur?” she asked him.

“Hmm. I’d say around forty grand,” he said.

Gina had interviewed several men for the job, but none of them suited her. Heck, she didn’t even need a car in New York, much less a chauffeur, but she was determined to abide by the terms of the will.

“Haven’t you found a chauffeur yet?” Miles asked her one afternoon when she visited his office to get a paper notarized. “You’ll soon be moving into that apartment, and you want to make a good impression. You’ll need that driver,” he said.

“I don’t need any such thing.” She flung the words at him, angry that he thought she needed the trappings of wealth to meet the expectations of her narrow-minded neighbors. “Incidentally, I fired my decorator, and I’m going to furnish my apartment according to my own taste, so it’ll be a while before I move in. That decorator’s taste would send me to an asylum.”

His left eyebrow lifted slowly and remained up. “Gina, a woman in your position does not run from store to store looking for furniture and vases.”

“I don’t give a damn,” she said in exasperation. “Maybe women in my position don’t have my level of competence. By the way, I’ve rented office space on Madison Avenue, and the name on the door reads, Heddy Lloyd Foundation For Homeless And Abused Children And Women, Inc.” She handed him a card that identified her as president of the charity.

“Well,” he said through pursed lips, “you don’t seem to need me.”

She refused to dispute him and remained silent.

Gina didn’t enjoy the trip from her apartment on Broadway at 125th Street to her office on Madison Avenue at Thirty-eighth Street. It was either a long bus ride that included a transfer, or she could take the subway plus two buses. “My Lord,” she said to herself one morning as she walked to the subway in a heavy downpour, “I can afford to take a taxi to and from my office. What have I been thinking?”

Before the end of the day, however, the taxi was a moot point. At 5:00 p.m. her destiny walked into her office. One look at the man—tall, smartly dressed and drop-dead handsome—and her heart turned somersaults.

“I’m Justin Whitehead,” he said, offering to shake hands. “You advertised for a chauffeur, and I want the job.”

Gina simply stared at him.

“Mind if I sit?” She nodded toward the chair. “Before you say no, please check my references. I need this job. I’m a good driver, I only drink when I’m off duty, I don’t smoke and I’m punctual. I was raised to be respectful to all human beings and I am loyal.” He leaned forward. “Ms. Harkness, I promise you will not regret hiring me. I’ll always support you in every way that I can. You can depend on me.”

She opened the portfolio, read his letters of reference, put them back into the envelope and looked at him. She had no basis for turning him down, and especially not in view of the other seven applicants she’d interviewed. But why would this gentleman take a job as a chauffeur? She had a feeling that she was about to make her first big mistake as an heiress. He might be a gentleman and a good driver, but he was also a sexual tornado. Considering her limited experience with smooth-talking, knock-out-your-eyeballs men, she didn’t think it wise to hire him.

She started to tell him that he was overqualified for the job, but his hopeful expression stopped her. She knew what it was like to look for a job and have door after door closed to her. He wasn’t the potential problem—she was.

“All right. The job involves irregular hours. The pay is forty-thousand dollars a year and you don’t have to wear a uniform, although I expect you to wear a jacket and tie. Get the picture? Does that suit you?”

His eyes lit up with a brilliant twinkle, and his wide grin exposed a set of perfect, sparkling white teeth. “It’s more than I hoped for. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

His happiness touched her charitable heart, and she couldn’t help smiling in return, for nothing pleased her more than to have been able to brighten someone’s day. He raised himself to his full height, which she guessed to be around six foot four, and walked over to her desk. She wouldn’t swear that she didn’t shiver at the thought of touching his hand. When he extended it, she hesitated, though only briefly. Gina felt rush a of excitement when he grasped her hand in a strong and reassuring handshake.

Still smiling, he turned to leave, but stopped. “When do you want me to report for work, Ms. Harkness?” She could get used to his deep, mellifluous voice, she thought. When he spoke, it seemed to caress her.

“Monday will be fine,” she said, assuming an officious manner.

He frowned. “Monday? That’s April Fools’ Day. If you don’t mind, I’d rather start Tuesday. No point in jinxing my chances for success.”

“Tuesday it is,” she said.

He smiled again. “Thanks a lot. I’ll see you Tuesday morning at seven-thirty.”

“Eight-thirty will be fine. See you then,” Gina said, and closed the door behind her new driver.

Justin Lyle Whitehead braced his lithe frame against the March wind and headed up Madison Avenue on the short walk to the Yale Club to keep a luncheon date with his editor-in-chief.

“Well, how’d it go?” Mel Scott asked him when they met at the elevator.

“Great. She’s a down-to-earth, intelligent woman, and her inheritance won’t change that.”

Mel bunched his thick shoulders and leaned against the wall of the elevator. “I see she impressed you.”

“She did, but mainly with her honesty and her desire to be fair and accommodating.”

“Just don’t let your sympathy for her get in the way of your story,” Mel said.

Justin stared down at the little man, his face devoid of even a hint of friendliness. “I’m a reporter. Remember?”

“Sorry man. I didn’t mean to ring your bell. Is she the old lady’s illegitimate child?”

Mel Scott was a good editor, but there were times—like right now—when he’d like to wipe the floor with the man. “Mel, you’re way off. You only have to look at Gina Harkness to know that neither of her parents is white.”

Mel shrugged as they seated themselves in the dining room. Mel loved to dine at the Yale Club, because it made him feel important. Justin perused the menu, certain that his companion would order the most expensive entrée, and he did.

“I’ll have a hamburger on a whole-wheat bun,” Justin told the waiter.

“Man, you can’t order a hamburger in the Yale Club,” Mel said.

Justin leaned back and eyed the other man with amusement. “I can order anything that they serve here,” he said pointedly. “I do not eat a big lunch, and I do not drink midday, because I have to work after I eat.” The hamburger arrived, and he realized he’d forgotten to order French fries.

Mel regarded Justin with slightly narrowed eyes. “If you weren’t such a good journalist, you’d be somewhere eating dirt.” He savored the lobster bisque. “You coulda had this, and it wouldna cost you a cent. As I was saying, your attitude could use some fixing.”

“Probably could, depending on whose company I’m in. What about the six months’ leave? Do I get it or not? I promise to send you an occasional piece, but this job and this story will take up most of my time.”