Her Secret Life

“It’s against club rules for me to make a date with you, but that’s all that has kept me from trying to ask you out.”

For heaven’s sake, there are other ways, Jackie thought, but to him she said, “I appreciate your discretion, sir.”

“I don’t know how to take that,” he said, surprising her with his directness, “and please stop calling me sir. Are you saying you’re not interested?”

Jackie stared into his eyes, darker now than usual and with a fire blazing in them that she had no trouble identifying as passionate attraction.

“Is that the only conclusion you can come up with?” she asked, determined to keep him guessing.

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle or discreet. I merely stated a fact. And I’d be a lot closer to you this minute if club rules didn’t forbid that, as well.…”

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 a master’s degree 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.

Her Secret Life

Gwynne Forster

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading Her Secret Life.

Once I began to bring Jacqueline Parks—the heroine of this title—to life, she became one of my favorite female characters. I empathized with her, having at various times led a double life; I’ve been a teacher/ student/babysitter, student/disc jockey and grad student/waitress/vocalist. Remembering the different faces I’ve worn and the demeanors that I’ve adopted, I thought it might be fun to create a character whose double identity was at once necessary and a threat to her well-being.

I had to find a man who matched her in intelligence, accomplishments and concern for others, and I think Warren Holcomb fits the bill. I like most his humanitarianism, which is expressed primarily in his Harlem Clubs. In this story, Warren’s clubs get youngsters off the street and expose them to a life beyond boxing and basketball.

If you’d like to learn about other titles by me, please visit my Web site at www.gwynneforster.com.

Sincerely yours,

Gwynne Forster

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

Jacqueline Ann Parkton closed her laptop computer, put it into her desk drawer and locked it. She had one hour and twenty minutes in which to go home, change and get to her evening job on time. For the past three years, Jacqueline had worked two jobs in order to maintain her standard of living while providing the best possible care first for her mother, when her father’s resources had become depleted, and then for her father.

She stepped out of the building on Fifth Avenue and West 30th Street in Manhattan, which housed African American Woman magazine, took a taxi to her apartment on West End Avenue, and began the metamorphosis that she underwent every evening that she worked. Jacqueline Ann Parkton led a double life, and she was plagued by a constant fear that someone in one of her two worlds would appear in her other world and recognize her.

In less than two hours, she transformed herself from the conservative and sedate senior editor and crime reporter for AAW (African American Woman magazine) to a sexy bombshell who served drinks at the most prestigious private men’s club in New York City.

On that cold November day, Jacqueline Ann Parkton, known as Jackie Parks at Allegory, Inc., the men’s club in which she worked, adjusted her micro-mini pleated pink skirt, tied the strings of her tiny pink paisley apron and gazed down at the three-inch, pencil-slim heels of the sandals on her feet. “These things are a blueprint for curvature of the spine,” she said aloud and began brushing out the wig that nearly reached her hips. She put the brush on her dressing table and looked around at the sand-colored walls, the royal-blue and beige Kiernan carpet, the antique gold-framed mirror and her chair with the same antique gold finish. At least she had a comfortable and attractive dressing room.

When the bartender rang her bell, Jackie glanced at the mirror for a last inspection and went to work. With her right hand, she balanced a large silver tray filled with vodka martinis and gin comets against her shoulder and headed for the private lounge where Warren Holcomb entertained half a dozen business moguls.

As she approached the lounge, the unmistakable feel of a hand on her buttocks nearly caused her to spill the drinks. Normally, she showed the powerful men her perfect white teeth or winked when they became familiar and pretended not to mind, but that one had stepped over the line. He’d touched her. She had no tolerance for that order of brazenness and, by reflex, her left hand raised immediately as if in defense. However, her presence of mind returned just as fast, and she lowered it. Don’t forget girl. You need this job.

“Keep your hands to yourself, mister. No man paws me.”

“Do you know who I am?” It came out as a growl.

“Who you are makes a difference to me only when you stay in your place and keep your hands to yourself.”

She walked on, but she made a mental note to watch him. As far as she was concerned, he stood out in that group of men with a street quality that belied his status and position.

Ignoring the man’s face-saving remarks, she entered the private lounge and walked over to Warren Holcomb, a man with a commanding presence, but whose demeanor otherwise bespoke kindness, or was it sensuality? Maybe it was both.

“Good evening, sir. Would you like me to serve now?” She thought his smile should be patented, and that his large, almost obsidian eyes should be hidden. Every time she looked at him, carnal thoughts filled her head.

“Please. And thank you for bringing my order right away.”

“My pleasure, sir,” she replied and meant it. She pretended not to see Warren Holcomb discretely cataloging her feminine assets, but tiny, pinprick-like jolts of heat shot through her when his gaze landed on her breasts and settled there. She’d have given anything if she could rub them. Thank God, he didn’t pick that moment to shift his gaze to her face. She couldn’t even take a long, deep breath without giving herself away. A few minutes in the man’s presence would discombobulate her if she were less resolved.

“Anything else, sir?”

He didn’t seem to have heard her; a newcomer who sat nearby had his attention. That man, whom another guest had referred to as Mac, seemed out of place in Allegory, Inc., especially among Warren Holcomb’s guests. Jackie looked for a reason to linger. She wanted to observe the man closely.

“Did you say that was all, sir?” she asked, stalling for time.

“Well, perhaps you could bring us some hot hors d’oeuvres.”

She went to a phone about five feet from where he sat and phoned in the order, watching Mac as she did so. He was a misfit, and as a reporter, such characters always arrested her attention. Whenever she was in the club, her antenna didn’t stop working, for she had much to lose by working as a cocktail waitress in that high-profile, rich-man’s club, and she was always on the lookout for anything unsavory.

Where is my head? she asked herself when she was serving the hors d’oeuvres, suddenly aware that she moved at a much slower pace than usual. She justified it by telling herself that to move slowly and graciously rather than to gallop like a horse was more feminine. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to know what Mac was saying to one of the other guests. Never good at fooling herself, Jackie was smart enough to know that Warren was her main reason both for lingering there and for wanting to seem more ladylike than she appeared in the skimpy and revealing uniform.

Whenever she looked at him, or when he looked at her, she got a warm feminine feeling all over, and she couldn’t remember when last a man could lay claim to causing that.

“Anything else, sir?” she asked him, her right hand on the doorknob as she prepared to leave the private lounge.

“No. These are delicious. Thank you.”

“You are welcome, sir.”

She felt a small amount of pride as she noticed his failed attempt to appear businesslike. His furtive glances set her blood to racing, and what a pity that was. She had told herself time and again that she didn’t want an involvement with any man who frequented the club, and she believed she meant it, but Warren Holcomb was the epitome of temptation. Whenever she met him in the club corridors or saw him standing talking with someone, she thought of him as a young bull. Trim and powerful, the man’s six-foot four-inch physique made most of the club members suffer by comparison. It wasn’t his race but his bearing that distinguished him, and if he realized what a standout he was, he didn’t show it.

The following morning, she telephoned a former classmate, a law enforcement officer in Washington, D.C. “Hi, Clayton. This is Jacqueline. What can you get me on a guy named Mac with this description?” She described Mac.

“Right on, girl. Have it for you in a couple of hours. Why don’t you give up magazine editing and stick with crime reporting? You’re good at it, and I’ll bet it pays more.”

Let him think whatever he liked. “Because I like to eat, and AAW pays me a regular salary.”

“Marry me. You’ll be as poor as Job’s turkey, but when you’re in bed every night, you’ll be as happy as a little pig in hog heaven. How about it?”

Laughter flowed out of her as it always did minutes after she began speaking with him. “You’re a certified nut, but at least you’re a first-class one.”

“Thanks for nothing. Call me at one this afternoon.”

“Will do. Thanks, friend.”

By one-fifteen, she knew that Mac had been indicted twice for acting as a pimp for a Washington, D.C. madam, but had no convictions. She wondered whether Warren Holcomb knew Mac’s record. If he did, why would he associate with such a person?

At five-thirty each evening that she worked, Jackie Parks removed her eyeglasses, inserted prescription contact lenses that changed her irises from dark brown to dark hazel, donned a black wig that had hair that hung almost to her hips, put on a heavy coat of makeup, dressed and headed for the club. On this particular evening, to shorten the distance to her dressing room, she entered the club through a side door rather than through its imposing Fifth Avenue entrance, intending to take an elevator that she rarely used.

She was about to enter the elevator when Warren Holcomb charged out of it and sent her sprawling. Stunned, she lay on the floor, gazing up at him.

“Damn!” he said. “Have I hurt you? Are you all right?” Even as the words left his mouth, he hovered above her, reaching for her. And as if her five-foot, nine-inch frame didn’t weigh one hundred and forty-five pounds, he lifted her as he would a small child, cradling her in his arms.

“I’m…I’m okay. J-Just a little shaken up.”

He didn’t release her, but held her and stroked her back. “I’m so sorry. You’re the last person I’d want to hurt.” Jackie knew she should get out of the man’s arms, but her whole body tingled. Alive. Warmer and getting hotter. He had an aura of power, but to her, he communicated warmth and gentleness. Mastery. She wanted to put her head on his shoulder and rest it there. Her mind told her she was insane, but her body wanted to be close to him forever. Coming to her senses, she stepped back from him, found a spot beyond his shoulder and focused on it.

“Sure you’re okay?” he insisted. His voice, mellifluous, low and urgent sent tremors through her.

“I’m fine.”

The first to reclaim her wits, she tried to smile, but failed. She bent to pick up her pocketbook but, simultaneously, he attempted to retrieve it, and their heads collided.

“Ooh,” she said and, immediately, his arms went around her as if to soothe her.

“Looks as if I’m trying to kill you, but believe me, I’m not.” It seemed to her as if he hugged her; at least, she’d swear that he held her closer. He gazed down at her, his eyes ablaze, less with concern than with desire.

“I know that. Accidents will happen.” He was dragging it out, playing it for all it was worth, she knew, but she didn’t feel like calling him on it.

“Am I forgiven?”

“Of course.” Oh, the glorious feel of his hands on her, strong and masculine! Possessive, as if they had a right to her body. Man. All man. Lord! She had to straighten out her head. After a minute, she managed to step out of his arms.

“Where on earth were you going at that rate of speed?” she asked him. At his height and with his solid build, she was lucky to be conscious.

At her question, a troubled, almost frightened expression settled over his face. “Shoot, the parking meter. It would be my luck that the traffic cops would have my car towed.”

She frowned. “The parking meter? You mean you don’t have a chauffeu?”

“No. Why would I need one? I know how to drive.”

“B-But every man here has a chauffeur. I thought…never mind what I thought.” Hmm. So Mr. Holcomb was one big-shot who didn’t have an inflated estimation of himself. He’d just gone up several notches in her opinion.

Warren Holcomb had begun life at the bottom of the heap, so to speak, and remained there for almost half of his life. However, by his wits and ambition, he became, by age forty, sole owner of luxury hotels in Washington, D.C., Nairobi, Kenya and Honolulu. He was currently planning to build one on Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard in Harlem. He’d accepted membership in Allegory, Inc. to show that success and manners meant more than skin color, and he was always happy to inform anyone interested that he hadn’t applied for membership, but had been invited to join. So far, he wasn’t sorry that he was a member.

“I told the traffic cop that that Lincoln belonged to a brother, one of the very best,” the doorman said to Warren when he rushed down to check on his car. “She said you shouldn’t park it so close to Fifth Avenue, but she didn’t ticket you.”

“Thanks,” he said to the doorman, greatly relieved. “I’ll do as much for you sometime.” He handed the doorman a twenty dollar bill. “I’m not trying to pay you, but I am truly grateful for your help.”

“Yes, sir, and I do appreciate it.”

He walked back into the club, took a seat at the bar and ordered coffee and two aspirin. He didn’t have a headache. He needed to settle his libido, and a pain killer usually did the trick. Jackie didn’t know it, but when he’d had her in his arms and she’d looked up at him with lips parted and glistening, he’d come close to an erection. He couldn’t remember when he’d last reacted in that way to a woman he hadn’t kissed or fondled. It was his good fortune that she hadn’t seemed eager to move out of his arms. If he was lucky, it meant she was attracted to him. He cocked an ear when he heard her name.

“Man, that woman could melt snow in a blizzard just by showing up,” one man said.

“Yeah. I’ll bet she’s got a forty-inch top, and that’s just about the sweetest little ass I ever saw in my life. How tall would you say Jackie is, Ben?” the second man asked the bartender.

Warren drained his cup and stood, disgusted. He hated to hear men speak that way about women, and it doubly irritated him that Jackie was the object of their lewd expressions of admiration.

Wanting to put an end to it, he answered for Ben. “She’s about five-nine, and you guys sound as if you’re still living in Hell’s Kitchen.”

The offender stood and looked up at Warren. “Just because she’s black doesn’t mean you own her. She’s a hot piece. And I never lived in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Aw, knock it off,” Warren said. “You’re CEO of a big company, and it ought to show someplace other than in your wallet.”

“Come on, guys,” a fourth man said. “Jackie’s the reason I come here every evening. After I look at my horse-face secretary all day, I need to see that chestnut-brown beauty with those long legs that go on forever, that neat little waist and…” He looked at Warren. “Not to worry, buddy, I’m not touching the rest.”

Warren decided to call it a night. Hearing other men talk about Jackie in that way stuck in his craw and made him think of shortening the distance between their ears. He didn’t see himself attached to a cocktail waitress whose skirts barely covered her flawless hips, but that woman had something special, and he had a mind to investigate it.

He left the club, got into his Lincoln Town Car and headed for his home in Brooklyn Heights. As he drove, it occurred to him that the reason why the men had such loose tongues around Jackie was because they considered her a sexy bombshell who didn’t have a brain. He’d bet she would surprise them.

Warren couldn’t know the accuracy of his assessment. With a superior memory, Jackie knew more about some of the club members than they would guess or wish. At home, after a long and tiring day, she sat before the mirror of her dressing table, massaging her temples and relaxing, ruminating about the day’s happenings before preparing for bed.

Those rich men think a cocktail waitress is so empty-headed that they can discuss their business and personal secrets in her presence, and she’s too stupid to pick up on it. Well, this one isn’t. I’m not interested in disabusing them of their ignorance; they may one day become victims of their prejudices, and I hope I’m around to see it.

She fought the rising anger that welled up in her as she recalled how careless some of those men were with their manners and their talk, because they thought she didn’t deserve better. Not all of them. Holcomb respected her, and so did Ben, the bartender, and most of the older men.

Holcomb, how she wished they’d met in different circumstances. She had just completed that thought when the telephone rang. “Hello,” she said into the receiver.

“Hi,” her older sister, Vanna, said. “You’ve been on my mind lately. How’s Papa?”

“Pretty good. I’m going to see him tonight. How’re the children?”

“What can I say? Raising three kids by myself isn’t what I thought I’d be doing when I had ’em, but they’re precious, the little darlings.”

They talked for a while, and when Vanna said good-night and hung up, Jackie looked at her watch. If she hurried and pretended that Charlie Rose and Tavis Smiley didn’t exist, didn’t turn on the television, merely said her prayers and went to bed, perhaps she wouldn’t be so sleepy when she awoke the next morning.

As she did every morning at eight o’clock, Monday through Friday and an occasional Saturday, Jacqueline left her home for her office unrecognizable to the members of Allegory, Inc. On that morning, dressed in a conservative business suit and wearing medium-heel shoes, her shoulder-length hair in a braided chignon and her skin devoid of makeup, a smile settled on Jacqueline’s face when Jeremy, the guard, rushed to meet her as she entered the building that housed African American Woman magazine.

“’Morning, Dr. Parkton,” he said, tipped his hat and, as usual, took her briefcase and walked with her to the elevator.

“Good morning, Jeremy. You spoil me.”

“Yes, ma’am, and I’m gon’ do that every chance I get. You the nicest person that comes in here. Have a good day.”

“Thank you, Jeremy. You, too.”

“’Morning, Dr. Parkton,” the secretaries and clerks called out as she walked through the section. Jacqueline smiled as she greeted them, aware that each of them treated her as if she were special, different from the other editors who were her subordinates. She hung her Do Not Disturb sign on the door of her office, sat down and checked her mail.

“That man is boneheaded,” she said aloud and, for the second time, returned a short story to an Edmond Lassiter as unacceptable. “Please don’t send this to me again. It’s more suitable for a men’s magazine,” she wrote across the top of the page. Jacqueline hated to reject a manuscript for she empathized with writers, but what else could she do with that one?

Warren parked the Town Car in his garage and went to the deli two blocks away on Montague Street to buy his dinner. He hated eating alone in restaurants, and he disliked the idea of making a date with a woman when he only wanted company while he ate. Dressing up, going across the city, or even farther, to get the woman, making reservations at a fancy place and talking intelligently when he was so tired he felt like falling into the food? Give him the deli or the Chinese take-out window any day.

While he waited for his shrimp salad, rolls and cheesecake, his mind settled on Jackie Parks. How would she look if she wore less eye makeup and rouge? She had a body to die for and, at times, it seemed as if he would die wanting it. He didn’t allow himself to get hooked on the idea of having a particular woman with whom he didn’t have a relationship. But he wanted Jackie Parks.

“Here you are, sir,” the Korean lady said, handing him the bag that contained his supper. “Have nice day.”

He thanked her and left. What was he going to do about Jackie? Was she the one? He wanted eventually to have children, and he couldn’t imagine that hourglass figure swollen with a pregnancy.

The following afternoon, Saturday, found him where he spent most of his afternoons, at Harlem Clubs, Inc., his financial and personal investment in keeping children off the streets of Harlem and en route to a productive life.

“Come here, Charlie,” he said to a potential troublemaker. “Sit down. Would you like to fence in the Olympics two years from now?”

The boy’s shrug expressed a careless lack of concern. “Yeah.”

“Well, you are not going to.”

Charlie jumped up from his perch on the edge of the windowsill. “What? What do you mean? I’m the best here.”

Warren stared hard at the boy, having discerned that only challenge motivated him. “But your attitude is the worst, and I’m sick of dealing with it. Furthermore, I am not going to hire a coach for you any longer if you don’t work hard and practice. Got that?” Immediately, Charles shed his arrogance, grabbed a foil and began to practice.

On a sunny weekend, approximately ten days later, Jackie was Dr. Jacqueline Ann Parkton at Hampton University giving a sorority-sponsored lecture on the deleterious effects of teen pregnancy and crime in contemporary society. She noted that her audience included several men and a number of older women. In response to her question, half of the young women present were sexually active, and yet less than one fifth of those had had an orgasm.