“May I come in, Kisha?”

As she handed him the key, her hand shook and her nerves tingled. Inside her foyer, he flicked on the light and returned her key. For want of something better to say, and because she had never in her life been so nervous, she asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

He shook his head. “No thanks. All I want is you in my arms, and nothing else will satisfy me.” He stepped closer, and she gazed up at him. And waited. “I…I don’t understand it,” he said, “but I need you.”

Her left hand reached out to stroke his face, and his arms enveloped her. “Kiss me sweetheart.”

Kisha’s hands locked around his neck, and she thought she’d lose her sanity while he stared at her lips. “Craig,” she whispered, and his lips touched hers—gently at first and then with a powerful, seductive passion that shook her to the core of her being. His tongue searched every crevice of her mouth, plunging deeper in while his hands locked her so close that her nipples beaded. Her body jerked forward, and his right hand caressed her left breast. Heat plowed through her veins and pooled in her loins. She wanted his mouth on her body. Stifling a groan, she forced herself to resist moving her hips up to him. She wanted him then as she’d never wanted any man, but she knew that if she took him, she’d lose him. As he’d said, “Easy come, easy go.”

GWYNNE FORSTER

is a national bestselling author of more than twenty romance novels and novellas, as well as 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.

Holiday Kisses
Gwynne Forster

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my deceased parents, who gave me a legacy of faith

in God, instilled in me the virtue of honesty and the

importance of doing my very best at whatever I attempt,

and who shared with me and my siblings their love of

books and writing.

Dear Reader,

This has been a banner year for me. Holiday Kisses is my third Kimani Romance in 2009. I hope you’ve had a chance to read the other two, Private Lives and Finding Mr. Right.

As with all my books, the inspiration for Holiday Kisses came from my own experience. A dear friend of mine is terrified of going to the dentist, especially when needles are involved. So in this novel I imagined what would happen when a romance sparks over a root canal. I hope you enjoy it.

I have good news for all of you who have asked me time and again to continue the Harrington series. Telford, Russ and Drake Harrington soon find out that their extended family is larger than they think. Look for my next Harrington romance in the Arabesque line next September.

I enjoy receiving mail, so please e-mail me at GwynneF@aol.com. If you prefer to mail me a letter, you can reach me at P.O. Box 45, New York, NY 10044; if you would like a reply, please enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope. For more information, please contact my agent, Pattie Steel-Perkins of Steel-Perkins Literary Agency, at myagentspla@aol.com.

Warmest regards,

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

Kisha Moran walked briskly toward her Baltimore dental office, hoping to get some paperwork done before her first scheduled appointment. She wanted to get an early start on what was sure to be a very long day. Lost in her thoughts, she barely noticed the tall, casually dressed man leaning against the doorway of her office until she was close enough to make out his features. She approached him warily, but saw in his eyes and facial expression that he seemed to be in serious pain rather than a physical threat, despite the fact that he easily towered over her five-foot-seven-inch height.

“I’m Doctor Moran,” she said. “May I help you?”

“I sure hope you can. I’ve got a terrible toothache, and this thing kept me up all night.”

She unlocked the door, and led him into a waiting room with a large, flat-screen television. She turned on the television. “This should distract you for a minute.”

“Doctor, nothing is going to distract me as long as this thing is throbbing.”

“Try to relax,” she said, taking off her jacket and putting on a white lab coat.

“Look, can’t you just give me some pills for the pain? Last night I tried to quell the pain with some bourbon, but this thing is killing me.”

She ushered him into one of the patient rooms, where he reclined in the dentist chair. She guessed he must have been at least six foot four from the way he had to contort his frame to fit in the chair. With her mask in place, she moved closer to him and looked down at his face just as he opened his eyes and looked at her.

Until now she hadn’t noticed how beautiful the brother was—gorgeous was more like it. His long lashes and dark, deep-set eyes seemed to promise everything a woman could desire. His thin top lip was offset by a full bottom lip that made him look as if he were pouting. She imagined what it would feel like if she’d bent down and run her tongue across his lips. How would it feel to run her fingers through the silky curls that framed his face, which was the color of shelled walnuts? She tried to still the butterflies in her stomach and chided herself for her thoughts, but to no avail.

“I’ll give you a Novocain shot, and in five minutes you won’t feel a thing,” she said, trying to affect an air of nonchalance.

He nearly sprang out of the chair. “Novocain? In a needle? No way. Give me a pill or something.”

She resisted staring at his handsome face and let a grin float across hers. “What’s your name?”

“Craig Jackson. And I hate needles. Please give me a pill for this pain.”

“A pill will take too long, and the dosage I’d have to give you would be too strong. You’d be in no condition to leave the office by yourself and there’s no one to take you home afterward. Besides, in the time that we’ve been talking about this, Mr. Jackson, the Novocain could have numbed your toothache and you wouldn’t be feeling a thing. You want the needle, or would you rather take a pill and suffer for another hour?”

“Some choice you’re giving me.”

“Aw, come now. Don’t be such a baby.”

“Baby! I’d like to see you deal with a tooth that hurts the way mine does.”

“I’m not making fun of you. I know it hurts. Open your mouth please. I really should x-ray this first, but if I took the time to do that you’d be in pain that much longer. Close your eyes and keep your mouth open.” She didn’t dare let him see the needle. Men were such babies when it came to needles. She injected the Novocain quickly, but winced when he stifled a groan.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said, “but that’s the worst of it.” Waiting for the Novocain to do its job, she took some digital X rays of his teeth and then studied the images.

“Mr. Jackson, would you look at this. How long have you had this cavity?”

“Quite a while. I didn’t have time to take care of it. I had to finish an important project. Besides, I dread seeing the dentist.”

She told herself not to take it personally, but to think of him as a patient that needed help. Not that she expected it to work. “You need a root canal, Mr. Jackson, and it’s going to take a while.”

“I don’t care how long it takes or how much it costs. I just want to leave here feeling no pain.”

“Really?” she said. “I thought that only applied when you were three sheets to the wind.”

He’d begun to relax, so she tested the area for numbness. He didn’t need to know that if it took longer than usual, she might have to give him another shot. “He raised an eyebrow and said, “Hmm. What do you know about three sheets to the wind? I’ll bet you don’t even drink.”

“You’re right. I don’t, except for the occasional glass of wine at dinner and a cocktail on special occasions. Though I suppose you know that pleasure need not require alcohol. The best highs are enjoyed cold sober.”

“I’m not going there,” he said, his speech slightly slurred from the effects of the Novocain.

Now, what had she said to bring that on? She could tell by his expression that he’d taken her comment as a double entendre. Well, she wasn’t going there, either.

With her body pressed against the arm of the chair to steady her hand, she began to drill. But the deeper she went, the worse it got. She stopped and stepped back from him. “I don’t see how you tolerated this.”

“You still think I was being a baby?” he said, petulantly.

“I wasn’t talking about the pain when I said that. And, yes, you were being a baby about the needle. Open your mouth, please.”

He opened his mouth, and she resumed drilling. “Ow! Hey!”

“My goodness. I touched a nerve. I’m so sorry. Rest for a minute.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked in a disparaging tone.

In light of the pain he’d experienced, she forgave him. “I’m a doctor of dental medicine, a DMD. And I certainly did not imagine all those years and student loans I spent studying dentistry. Open your mouth.” She quickly gave him another shot of Novocain and patted his shoulder. “I know it’s unpleasant, but at least I’m a dentist who cares that you’re in pain.”

He looked intently at her for a long minute. “Yeah, I guess you do. Sorry if I’ve been giving you a hard time.” He tried to smile, and she could hear the sudden pounding of her heart.

Around one o’clock in the afternoon, nearly four hours after he’d walked into her office, she removed the towel that covered his chest, gave him a cup of water and asked him to rinse his mouth. He did. “Bite down hard on that side,” she said. “It should be fine now.” She opened a can of Ensure, poured it into a glass and gave it to him with a straw. It’ll be a while before that Novocain wears off, so don’t try to eat for at least another hour, but this will hold you.”

Craig stood and rubbed his hand gently over his left cheek. He stared down at her. “How much,” he asked.

“My receptionist will take care of it. You’ll see her on your way out.”

He paused. “I can’t thank you enough, Doctor. The patients with appointments this morning must be furious with you. Thanks again. His gaze swept across the room and came back to her. Lights danced in his large brown eyes.

“You’re the definition of an angel,” he said, then winked at her and left.

Kisha sat down in the chair where Craig had just sat. It wasn’t just that she was tired. She wasn’t quite sure why she was so exhausted.

She knew Regine, her receptionist, would have him fill out the intake form and provide his personal information along with his payment. And for a fleeting moment, Kisha thought about using the information in his patient file to find out more about him.

She’d been around plenty of attractive men. In Key West, where she’d lived before moving to Baltimore, it was not unusual to see good-looking guys wearing the skimpiest of swim briefs. She enjoyed looking at them—after all she wasn’t dead. But she had never reacted the way she had toward Craig Jackson. His eyes! She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She’d love to experience what those eyes promised.

Three months ago, Kisha Moran had had all of her belongings packed and shipped to number 118 Palely Place in Baltimore, Maryland. She said goodbye to the never-ending Florida heat, the floods and the dreaded hurricanes. She loved living in the Keys, especially the casual lifestyle of fishing, swimming and tennis. But after seeing the damage from one too many hurricanes, she’d had enough.

Kisha had been concerned about opening her dental practice and starting all over again in a place where she didn’t know anyone. But Baltimore had a large African-American population and a number of institutions of higher learning. She planned to build her new practice by providing low-cost dental care, letting students pay on a sliding scale and offering free service to children from the poorest families.

By mid-September, she’d settled in, had a respectable number of patients. Her practice increased weekly, thanks to the proximity of her office to Morgan State University and its large student population to which she offered a discount. Not all of her patients attended the university, but many of them did, and they proved to be her best source of referrals.

Craig Jackson’s acquaintances thought of him as a loner, and to some extent, he was. In his undergraduate days at Howard University, his personality earned him the nickname of Stonewall. A brilliant, no-nonsense man, he was often brutally frank and always honest. Small talk annoyed him.

At age thirty-three, Craig’s career was about to take off, or so he hoped. He anchored a local five o’clock TV news program and prided himself in writing all of its scripts. His habit of including a “human interest” segment in each of his daily programs made him a favorite with viewers.

Back in his office at TV station WWRM, Craig cast a rueful glance at the chocolate bar, the refuge from desperate hunger, that he kept in his top desk drawer, and shook his head. If he had to choose between hunger pain and the return of that toothache, he’d welcome the pain in his stomach. He answered his phone.

“Jackson speaking.”

“Hey, son, how’s it going?”

He knew his dad hadn’t called to make small talk, so he asked, “What’s up, Dad?”

“I’m wondering how far you are from deciding that you want to be a lawyer after all. I just looked at a piece of prime office space that would be perfect for Jackson and Jackson. It’s—”

“Dad, I thought we agreed that if I don’t become syndicated or get a network-level job within a year, I’ll join you. Right now, I’m the only anchor on my level who writes his own news scripts. That ought to tell you something. I’ve got nine months to go.”

“All right. I want you to succeed at whatever you undertake, but this is my dream. I want to see you successful and happy, but, well, I’m between a rock and a hard place.”

“I’m beginning to think I’d make a lousy lawyer, Dad. The more I work as a journalist, the more I love it.”

“You got your law degree with distinction and passed the bar on the first try.”

“But I got my journalism degree at the top of the class. Look, Dad. If I don’t have a network-level program in nine months, I’ll join you. I’ll be as miserable as a wet puppy in freezing temperatures, but I’ll keep my word. But you know I have no intention of failing at this.”

He told his father goodbye and hung up. He didn’t blame his dad. By not joining the family firm he was breaking a tradition that had begun with his great-grandfather. He looked at his watch. She’d said an hour, but he still couldn’t feel a thing on that side of his face. Hunger pangs reminded him that he hadn’t eaten any solid food since the previous evening.

Thinking about what he could eat that didn’t require chewing, he went down and got a container of milk and a muffin from the snack shop. He soaked the muffin in the milk and managed to make it slide down his throat. Then, he busied himself editing the five o’clock news.

That doctor had a tender, caring touch. “I wonder what her first name is,” he said aloud, as he got his suit jacket and found the card that the receptionist gave him. “Kisha.” He pronounced it several times. She was a looker. And sweet, too. “I can’t believe I left that woman and didn’t even ask her for a date,” he said to himself. “I must be getting old.” He realized that the effects of the Novocain had finally worn off entirely when he felt a dull ache. A glance at his watch told him that he had an hour and forty minutes before news time. He closed his computer, locked his desk and headed for the restaurant at the end of the block.

Kisha couldn’t get Craig out of her mind and, for the remainder of the day, she thought of various reasons to call him. That night, she slept fitfully with intermittent dreams of Craig Jackson and the way his long-lashed, dreamy eyes teased her. She tossed in bed until her shoulder ached and awakened the next morning, sleepy, groggy and with an aching head. For the first time since she opened her practice, she arrived late to work. Her first patient needed front caps for cosmetic purposes, and after taking X rays and measurements, she got down to the business of making a forty-five-year-old man who should never smile look like Prince Charming. She attached the temporary caps and went to lunch, but not even a good crab salad improved her mood.

When she returned to work, she pulled Craig’s file, wrote his phone number in her address book, went into her office and closed the door. Using her private line, she dialed Craig Jackson’s phone number.

“Mr. Jackson, This is Kisha Moran. How are you feeling?”

She wondered at his silence. “Uh…thanks for calling. I guess I feel like a guy who just lost the inside of a tooth.”

She didn’t know what to make of that comment. “I’m not sure I know what that means. Does it hurt? I mean are you having any discomfort? You had very extensive surgery yesterday. I’d like to know how you’re getting along.”

Craig’s antenna shot up. She didn’t call him to ask how his tooth was. A dentist would expect him to call if he had a problem. He suspected that she was exceptional, but her modus operandi couldn’t be that different from the ways of other dentists.

“Did you have any discomfort after the Novocain wore off?”

He didn’t want to believe that Kisha Moran was just like all the other women who chased him, but he was taking no chances. “My tooth is fine, Doctor Moran. If it bothers me, you’ll be the first person to know, and you can trust me on that. Thanks,” he added, wanting to terminate the conversation with a measure of civility.

A minute of guilt plagued Craig for having treated Kisha to a brush-off. He resented women who assumed that he was available for their enjoyment, a dressed-up television turkey for their gourmet meal. He didn’t want to believe that Kisha was that type. He was as human as the man who worked in overalls, wore a hard hat, dug ditches or drove a bus. He had wants, needs, hopes and dreams just as they did. He worked in front of the TV camera, but when the cameraman put it aside, he turned off the smiles and the charm. His private life was his own, and he didn’t mix his personal affairs with his public persona.

Taken aback by what she regarded as a put-down, Kisha busied herself developing fliers to post in the neighborhood and at the university to attract patients. She hoped to have as much of her clientele as possible from the neighborhood in which her office was located. Days passed, and she made no progress in her efforts to forget about Craig. So it stunned her to receive a call from a member of the WWRM Channel 6 TV news staff telling her that she had been chosen citizen of the week and asking if she would come in for an interview.

“Thank you for the honor,” she said, “but I can’t imagine what I’ve done to earn it.”

“Citizen Of The Week is our regular Friday news feature,” the man said. “We chose you, because you’re offering free care to indigent children one afternoon each week. That’s a noble thing to do.”

“I never realized that it would be newsworthy. I only want to help the children. Thank you. I’m delighted to accept.”

“Great! We’ll send a car for you. Please be ready Friday at two-thirty.”

Onstage and on camera, Craig looked at the name of his guest and nearly swallowed his tongue. Kisha Moran was his citizen of the week. He read the notes that his staff had prepared for his interview and put them aside. That gibberish would never reveal Kisha Moran’s warm and feminine personality. He made a few notes for the interview and, surprisingly, looked forward to seeing her again.

Decked out in a feminine yet tailored red suit with black accessories and her hair around her shoulders, Kisha Moran was stunning. He did a double take as she walked toward him, but he had the presence of mind to stand and take a few steps to meet her as she crossed the small stage. None of the entertainment community’s habit of kissing any and everybody for her, he noted. She extended her hand for a cool and very businesslike handshake.

“How do you do, Mr. Jackson. Thank you for this wonderful honor.”

Both of his eyebrows shot up. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Moran. Do you treat any child whose parents demonstrate an inability to pay?”

She leaned slightly forward. “Absolutely. I’ll only do it once a week, but I’ll treat all children under age fourteen that I can fit in on Thursdays between twelve and five-thirty.”

“That’s remarkable. I don’t know of another private citizen who’s made such a gesture. Was this among your plans while you studied dentistry?” He held his breath, hoping that he’d given her a question that would enable her to open up and reveal herself to the viewers.

“Not specifically. But I spent a lot of thought on the most effective way that I could give something to the community in which I earn my livelihood. I had wanted to spend one afternoon a week at a senior citizen center, but I couldn’t make the necessary connections. I suppose I wanted results too quickly.”

“I imagine you’ll have more than you can handle on Thursday afternoons.”

“Treatment is by appointment. I require that the children get follow-up exams. All patients should have follow-up care. Dental surgery is surgery. Just because a doctor doesn’t use a scalpel doesn’t mean that aftercare isn’t essential,” she said, looking him in the eye with a cool and impersonal expression on her face.

After they talked for fourteen of the allotted fifteen minutes, he stood and presented her with the plaque. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I’m honored to have been chosen for this award.” She extended her hand for a shake. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Doctor Moran. Thank you for coming.” She had flawless manners, he thought, and he felt as if he’d just had a blast of sleet in the face while trudging against the wind in a winter storm.

He reminded himself that when he sat down again he would still be facing the camera and that he should keep his reactions to himself. But that was easier said than done. Neither by word nor action did she let on that they’d met before. He had expected her to indicate that she was his dentist or at least to say it’s nice to see you again. But, oh no. The lady had cloaked herself in a thick layer of professional ice and stuck to the point. She looked as feminine and sexy as he remembered, but that was as far as it went.

He completed the program and went to his office. Sitting at his desk, he reached for a candy bar and unwrapped it. Damn! She’d just showed him that she was as expert as he at giving the brush-off. He wasn’t frivolous enough to go after her for the sport of paying her back. Besides, as he’d just discovered, he wasn’t immune to her. He saw a lot in her that he liked, but he didn’t have time for a relationship. He put his heart and soul into whatever he did, so he’d placed that part of his life on hold while he drove toward his goal. But Kisha Moran was definitely getting his attention.

He picked up his copy of the station’s daily journal and glanced through it while he munched on the candy. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright. The six o’clock local news anchor would be moving to a managerial post, and the job was up for grabs. He put aside the candy and typed a note to the station manager, giving his credentials and stating that he believed he was the best person for the post. It was not a network position, but six o’clock anchor beat five o’clock in status and seven was even better than six. Telling himself to put his best effort on the table, he got busy editing material that he had planned to air the following week and when he went on the air that evening, he presented his program on Baltimore’s homeless and the rate at which their numbers were swelling.

At the end of the program, viewers’ calls jammed the station’s telephone lines, and he knew he’d done the right thing. Still, three days passed before he received a call from his superiors.

“Come in, Craig, and have a seat,” Milt Sardon, the station’s manager said. “I have your application here, and I’ve given this a lot of thought.” Those words sent chills down Craig’s back, but he didn’t flinch.

“I have to tell you that I never thought you capable of the kind of warm repartee in front of a camera that would make you a good ad-lib mixer with your on-camera colleagues or when conducting interviews. But seeing you sit on the ground beside those homeless people and talk with them as if you were one of them moved me. And your interview with that dental surgeon was an eye-opener. You displayed a lot of warmth and caring, and your viewers could see that. Although you asked her some tough questions, you wanted her to make a good impression.

“We think you deserve to anchor the six o’clock news. Congratulations. I’m expecting great things from you in the years to come.”

He resisted letting out a long breath. “Thank you, Milt. I’ll do my best.”

“That will be good enough,” Sardon said. “The office on the sixth floor is much larger and has a better view. I’ll have your things moved up there.” They shook hands, and Craig walked out into the hallway where, at last, he could let out a long breath of pent-up anxiety.

Kisha loved the six o’clock news. And seeing Craig in the chair that first night, surprised her, though she didn’t think much of it. The regular anchor probably had the night off. However, she took notice when he announced that he intended to change the program’s format and devoted a short segment to the questions that viewers wrote or called in about Kisha and the location of her office.

Hearing his voice when she answered her phone at around seven-thirty that evening stunned her. “Hello, Mr. Jackson. This is a surprise, albeit a nice one. Congratulations on your promotion to six o’clock news anchor.”

“Thank you, Dr. Moran. You were so formal when we last met that I wasn’t sure you’d welcome a call from me.”

“Come now. I just watched your program, and I want to thank you for airing the letters, questions and comments about my appearance on your program. You were very generous.”

“I…I was filling up my hour with the best material I had. You were a wonderful guest, quite a bit different from the Kisha Moran that I remembered, but that’s…I think we’ll just leave that until you and I are up to airing it out. Right?”

She laughed. So he got the drift of what she’d said. Good. “If you say so.”

“Say…look. What do you say we let bygones be bygones, and you have dinner with me. I want to celebrate my promotion, and I’d like to celebrate it with you.”

“I don’t know. Socializing could impair the doctor-patient relationship.”

“Don’t even think it. Good dentists are much easier to find than women who are intelligent, accomplished and beautiful, not to speak of some attributes that I’d as soon not mention. Will you have dinner with me? I’ll take you home the minute you say the word.” He didn’t know why he’d called her. To see her again was an easy answer, but did he want to prove to her that she couldn’t ignore him as she’d done at the station, even when she was looking at him? Or was there something else, something that he hadn’t defined?

Her answer surprised him. “No chitterlings, brains or rhubarb, please.” What a way to say yes. Nothing coy about this woman, he thought, feeling as if he’d had the benefit of a warm fresh breeze.

“How about seven tomorrow evening, Friday, while my promotion is still fresh?” He was pressing his luck, but he didn’t want to give her time to think about it. “I’ll be at your home at six-fifteen.” This time her answer was to give him her home address. If she didn’t like the word yes, she certainly was adept at avoiding its use.

When she opened her door to him, he wondered how many different Kisha Morans there might be. He’d heard that women wore green when they didn’t want to stir a man’s libido. But on her, green was as sexy as if she’d worn fire-engine red. He opened the front passenger seat of his silver Mercedes CLS 550 coupe for her and waited until she had fastened her seat belt, walked around and got in the car. “What do you think of Roy’s. I don’t have reservations, but I know the maître d’ will seat us.”

“I like Roy’s. If this one is anything like Roy’s in Naples, Florida and Philadelphia, I’m in for a treat. The crab cakes are to die for.”

If he made her happy, she’d have good thoughts about their time together, and he would at least have made amends for brushing her off. “Then that’s where we’ll go,” he said, opened his cell phone and dialed the restaurant. “This is Craig Jackson, I’d like a table for two at seven o’clock, please.”

“This is Maynard, Craig. Is your guest a woman?”

“Yes, indeed, brother,” he said, knowing that Maynard would get the hint and do his best to get him a table overlooking the water in spite of his having called at the last minute. At the restaurant, he gave his key to the parking attendant, went inside with Kisha and led her to the bar.

“Since I’m driving, I’m having lemonade. What would you like?”

“Tonic water with a slice of lemon over ice, please.”

He couldn’t help laughing. “Anybody looking at that drink would think you liked gin and tonic or a Tom Collins, right?”

“You get the message. I honestly believe alcohol is overrated.”

“Yeah. I think you alluded to that right after you stuck that needle in my gum. Look, I don’t want to call you Dr. Moran, although I assure you I respect your title. My name is Craig.”

“I’d like you to call me Kisha, if you want to.”

If he wanted to. Laughing wouldn’t make sense, but he could hardly resist it. The waitress brought their drinks, and he focused on her as he sipped the lemonade, seeing more in her than he’d seen before, more that he wanted to see.

“I have a question for you. Is the maître d’ a close friend of yours? You have to make a reservation well over a week in advance to get a table here. I’m really impressed that you accomplished this with one phone call.”

“I like this place, so I try to stay on the good side of the maître d’, and it pays to do that.” She evidently didn’t know that he enjoyed a kind of celebrity status, and that made him feel special. What a joy it was to go out with a woman who agreed to have dinner with him because she liked him and not because of his reputation.

“I’ve never been here alone,” she said, “so I haven’t had that option.” She sat forward, devilishness dancing in her eyes.

“You’d only have to walk in here and look unhappy. Maynard would rush to you and get you whatever your heart desired.”

“You’re joking. I think I’ll try it one day. I’ve never been made to feel queenly. Not that I’ve minded, but it seems to wear well on the women who get that treatment.”

He looked hard at her. The woman was almost as frank as he. A straight talker. He liked that, and he liked her more and more. “The guys you’ve known must have been a few bricks short of a full load. Where did you study dentistry?”

“New York University. Where did you study and what? Actually, I’m more interested in what than where.”

It was a fair enough question, since he obviously knew more of her schooling that she did of his. “Howard University undergraduate, and I majored in Philosophy. Then I got a degree in journalism.” If she didn’t probe, he wouldn’t mention his law degree from Harvard.

“If I knew how to whistle, and if we were in the woods, I’d whistle,” she said. “As a philosophy major, I’ll bet you were what we used to call, ‘loaded.’”

“I can hold my own. What was your undergraduate major?”

“Chemistry. I began my freshman year by majoring in boys, but when I discovered that all the guys were in school to major in girls, I lost interest in the fun. I was orphaned the summer after my sophomore year, and that changed everything.”

“I’m sorry. Do you have older siblings?”

“I don’t have any siblings, so it was kind of rough. But let’s not linger on that.”

He looked at his watch. Precisely seven o’clock and a perfect opportunity to change the topic. “It’s time to claim our table. If you’re still enjoying the drink, leave it there, and we’ll get another at the table.”

She followed the maître d’ to their table and gasped in awe at the sun, a big, round red disc sinking into the Patapsco River. He had seen it from that table before, but somehow, it looked different, more magnificent as he stood beside her. If it was an omen, he wasn’t sure that he welcomed it.

Being comfortable with a man of whom she knew nothing about other than where he worked and what he’d told her should have made her question her sanity, but she could read people, and she liked what she saw in this man.

He asked her which chair she would prefer to sit in, something new in her dating experience. “I like to face the door,” she said, “but I suppose it would be better for you to sit in that chair so that you can see the waiters approach.”

“You’re the most thoughtful person I know,” he said. “I usually prefer to face the door. Thanks.”

The waiter took their orders. Both of them chose the Maryland crab cakes. For a first course, Kisha ordered a sampling of barbecued shrimp, baby back ribs, scallops and buffalo wings.

“Are you going to eat all of those ribs?” he asked her.

“Tell you what, you give me half of your Portuguese pancake, and I’ll give you one rib, two shrimp, a scallop and one buffalo wing. It’s too much for me anyway.”

“Sure you don’t mind?” he asked, but he was already dividing their appetizers. “Gosh, this is a real treat,” he said. “I get to have both of my favorites. Choosing is always a problem.”

“Here’s something to commemorate your promotion. Congratulations,” she said, watching him closely.

“You brought me a present? Really?” His eyes widened, and his face creased into a smile. “Can I open it?”

“Why not wait till later? I hope you’ll like it.”

“I know I will. I love presents. Any kind of present. Thanks.”

They finished their meal, walked out into the night air, and he held her hand while they waited for the parking attendant to bring his car. He walked with her to the front door of her house, opened the door with her key, entered with her and flicked on the light in the foyer.

“This was wonderful, Kisha. I want to see you again. I want to get to know you.” His gaze seemed to bore through her.

I should say something, she thought, but nothing came to mind. His elegant style, his charm and good looks were reducing her to a simpleton. She told herself to get it together. “I enjoyed the evening, too, Craig.” She opened her bag, got a business card and wrote her home phone and cell phone numbers on the back of it. “I look forward to hearing from you. I work late some nights, so if you don’t get me here, call my cell.”

He gave her his business card. “I’ll call you tomorrow evening. Thanks for a most pleasant evening. Good night.”

“Good night, Craig.”

She closed the door. “Well I’ll be damned. Not even a peck on the cheek,” she said aloud. She’d have to think about that. True, she took a chance when she allowed him to come inside, but she wasn’t one for making out in public. She had expected a light kiss, since he didn’t seem the type to make a nuisance of himself. But a simple good-night and may I see you again? Would miracles never cease!

She sat on the sofa in the darkened living room and kicked off her shoes. Would she have kissed him? Probably. A sensible woman did not get involved with a man who looked like Craig Jackson, a towering Adonis with long-lashed dreamy eyes, a well-toned body and a voice that could lull a woman into a stupor. She rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. She had needed that to remind herself of her resolution to never again fall for a man who looked too good to touch.

Chapter 2

Craig sat in a big beige leather lounge chair in his living room with a bottle of cold beer numbing his fingers. He shook his head from side to side, wondering what he’d been thinking. He didn’t have time to get involved in a relationship with Kisha Moran or with any other woman. He knew that if he did, he’d focus on the relationship, giving it everything he had, and if he did that, his career goals would slide down the drain. In his business, a man had to be on his toes every waking minute. He had to keep his eyes open and his wits sharp, or he’d spend the rest of his life as a lawyer. Opportunities were rare. You didn’t have any friends at work, because it was every man for himself. He let out a long, sharp whistle. He’d been with her three times, and he’d need a hell of a lot of willpower to prevent himself from trying to see her again.

He looked at the small, elegantly wrapped package that she had given him in the restaurant along with her softly spoken congratulations.

He opened the package and gazed at its contents. He had several palm-size tape recorders, but when he read the information on the side of the small box, he gasped. None of his old recorders were equipped to download to his desktop computer.

He telephoned her. “Kisha, this is fantastic. Where did you find it. I didn’t know anybody had made one of these. This is…I’m speechless.” He actually whispered the words.

As if she’d given him a little nothing, she said, “My receptionist’s brother works for the company that makes them. They will begin marketing it next month. I ordered it from the company.” It wasn’t the cost, but her thoughtfulness in finding something unique and especially useful to him that made the gift so special to Craig.

It wasn’t Kisha Moran’s beauty or that suggestive body of hers that seemed to make his clock tick faster and louder. Physically attractive women were a fixture in his life. What set her apart was the sweet softness of her personality, her intelligence and that way she had of engrossing him in conversation. The woman was like a magnet. He put the bottle to his mouth and downed a swig of beer.

He’d watched her mouth all evening as it moved when she talked and at one moment, he’d imagined kissing it, but when he had the chance, he hadn’t. A schoolboy would at least have kissed her cheek, but all he’d done was bid her good-night. He finished the beer, took the empty bottle to the kitchen and disposed of it. Heading up the stairs, he stopped midway and chuckled. For once, his head had ruled his hormones. Still, he wouldn’t mind if he could get her off his mind one way or another.

After a rough, sleepless night, Kisha dragged herself out of bed, remembered that it was Saturday and took her time getting dressed. She liked the autumn. The crisp air, the trees’ paintbrush colors and the fresh apples made it her favorite time of the year. She made coffee and went out on her deck to drink it. Looking at her backyard, she remembered the thing she liked least about autumn. She disliked raking and discarding the leaves that drifted down from her tree and those nearby.

“May as well get to it,” Noreen King, her next door neighbor said. “There’ll be that many more tomorrow.”

“I know, but raking leaves was not on my agenda this morning. How’re things?”

“I’m firing on all cylinders, friend. I got that job, and I’m gonna be pitch woman for Dainty Diapers. I got a two-year contract. Would you believe that? Poverty go ’way from my door.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m happy for you. What does the job entail?” Kisha asked her.

“Some public appearances. I was one month from foreclosure. Girl, I’ve used up all my savings, and I’ve been eating grits three times a day. The Lord will provide.”

“I knew it was rough. Over a year out of work and a mortgage to pay…Well that’s over now. Maybe we should celebrate.”

“Sounds good to me. I thanked the Lord, and now I’m ready to kick up my heels. How about eating at Red Maple and then checking out the club?”

Kisha frowned and leaned against a post. “I hate going to places like that without a male date. Some guy always hits on you.”

“That’s not so bad. I met my ex-husband at a place like that one, and we stayed married for seven years, till he reached the age of forty and decided that he’d get all the use possible out of his happy rod while it still worked. Great, if he’d confined his fun to me, but he needed variety. I ditched his butt.”

She was not going to touch that one. “Nobody likes to have fun more than I do, Noreen, but I’m not sure about Red Maple. I like to dance.”

“Don’t be such a homebody.”

Kisha had no enthusiasm for Noreen’s idea, but she didn’t have a better one. “My coffee’s gotten cold. I think I’ll rake some leaves. Suppose I make a reservation for dinner at seven-thirty. Okay?”

“Works for me.”

She went inside, put on a pair of jeans and some sneakers, hooked her portable radio and her cell phone to her belt, got the rake and some black plastic bags from the cellar and began raking leaves. When the voice of Billie Holiday singing “Easy Living” drifted from her radio, her thoughts went to Craig and the impression he’d made on her after being with him only three times.

Even though he was something of a local celebrity, Craig seemed unaffected by his celebrity. On the air, he was sharp and assertive, but with her, he was more…well…lighthearted and personable and didn’t use so many four-syllable words. Not that she had anything against them. She prided herself on her vocabulary. She let the garden rake lean against her belly and threw up her hands. How much more time and energy was she going to waste mooning over Craig Jackson, she admonished herself.

She worked until she’d stuffed all the leaves into two big black plastic bags. “If any more fall,” she said aloud as she rubbed her back, “they can fertilize the garden.” She’d just sat on the edge of the deck to rest and breathe deeply of the morning air when her cell phone rang.

Thinking that Noreen probably wanted to cancel their date with a bizarre excuse, as she often did, Kisha rested her elbow on her knee, expelled a long breath. “Hi. What happened?”

“This is Craig. Who did you think it was?”

“Noreen. My next-door neighbor. She’s a drama queen. How are you, Craig?”

“You sound as if you’ve been up for hours. It’s just a little bit after eight. I’d planned to sleep until noon, but it wasn’t to be. I woke up at seven.”

“I got up early this morning, too. I just raked and bagged a gardenful of dry leaves.”

“If you had promised me a cup of coffee, I would gladly have done that for you.”

“Are you telling me you’d come over here on a Saturday morning to rake leaves in my garden?”

“I’d go farther than that to be with you, coffee or no coffee.”

Taken aback, she nearly dropped the phone. “Oh!”

“Is that all you have to say? A guy tells you he likes your company, and you show no interest. Lady, I am wounded!”

She laughed, more from nerves than from any humor in his words. “You’ve put me on the spot. Obviously I wouldn’t like to wound you. First time I saw you, you looked like a bird with only one wing. Far from me to bring about a repeat of that scene. Of course, the last time I saw you, your wings were in full strength and—”

He interrupted her. “May I see you tonight? I want to see you.”

The urgency with which he spoke it sent ripples of excitement through her. What was it about this man that made her want to stretch herself with him, do things she’d never done, see life through different eyes?

“What did you have in mind?” Surely that cool voice didn’t belong to her.

“We could go to dinner and dance later, or dinner and a concert, or we could go down to the harbor and watch boats. I don’t care what.”

She thought for a minute. The less money he spent on her the better. “Let’s see. We could go down to the harbor and watch the boats?”

“Are you serious?” he asked as if he hadn’t included that among his suggestions.

“Yes, I love the water.”

“In that case, I know a delightful restaurant on the edge of the Patapsco River, and it’s not too cool to dine outside at the river’s edge. If the moon is shining, it’s idyllic.”

The more he talked, the more eager she was to see him. “That sounds wonderful, Craig. What time…Oops!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I just remembered that I promised Noreen, my neighbor, that we’d go out tonight and celebrate her new job.” She pulled air through her front teeth. “Maybe we can do this another time.”

“Girl, you still out here?”

“Excuse me a minute, Craig,” Kisha said and covered the mouth piece. “What’s up, Noreen?”

“Girl, I just remembered a hot blue dress that used to be too small, but with these depression-era meals I’ve been eating, I’ve lost a lot of weight, and this baby fits perfectly. Let’s dress up tonight.”

“All right. I’ve got someone on the phone.” She removed her hand from the mouthpiece. “I like my neighbor a lot, but right now, I’d love to put her out of commission,” she said to Craig, her voice colored with laughter.

His deep and musical chuckle gave her a warm, feminine rush. “You don’t strike me as being a woman who walks on the edge, Kisha, but there’s something about you that leans that way.”

“I suspect that’s something you and I are unlikely to explore.” He was right, if he meant she didn’t sit on the side of the road and watch life dance past her.

“Kisha, there’s an old proverb that says ‘Never declare war, unless you mean to do battle,’ so don’t force me to demonstrate your recklessness to you. When I play, I play for keeps, and I like to win.”

And she believed him. He was determined, and very self-confident. “Craig, although I like games sometimes, I am not inspired to play Gotcha with you. But I would like to know why you think I’m reckless.”

“Your comment about Noreen and the joy you’d have in putting her out of commission slipped out. You said you love the water, so I assume you enjoy swimming.”

“I enjoy the atmosphere around water, not so much beaches as the vegetation, the natural aspects. And I love to fish. I’m just a so-so swimmer, but the laid-back attitude of the people and the wonderful life close to nature are what I miss about Key West.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I got tired of the storms. After my house was damaged during a posthurricane tornado, I decided to leave while I was ahead. I’m reasonably content here.”

“Big cities can really stress you out. Wrap yourself tightly in that contentment until I see you.”

“Craig, you’re like a whirlwind.”

“Really? You don’t know how wrong you are. I’m sorry I won’t be seeing you tonight. Promise me you’ll go with me to that restaurant on the banks of the Patapsco. I know you’ll love it, and I’d enjoy showing it to you. We have to do it soon, though, because it’s getting to be cool for eating outdoors. Will you go with me?”

“That should be a lot of fun. Ask me again. Okay?”

“With great pleasure. You mind if I call you?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Then, I will. Bye for now.”

Craig hung up, and a feeling of pride washed over her. She could have canceled her date with Noreen, but she hadn’t, and something told her that it was good for him to hear the word, no. He’d brushed her off once, and although she wouldn’t give anyone the chance to do it a second time, her refusal to go out with him that evening was not payback. That would have been childish. But refusing to be convenient for a man reputed to be aloof wouldn’t hurt her relationship with him. And a relationship with him was high on her agenda. Something about the man moved her.

She didn’t know what to make of his unceremonious goodbye. She dialed Noreen’s phone number. “Hi. Do you have any coffee over there?”

“Just put on a fresh pot. Come over. I made some buttermilk biscuits, and they’re great with jam and margarine. I don’t use butter. It clogs up my arteries.”

“Be over in five minutes.” She washed her hands, put on a pair of loafers, put the figs she bought the day before in a bag and went to Noreen’s house, where she found the door unlocked. She liked that house. Although the design duplicated her own town house, Noreen had used pastel paint and large colorful paintings on two of the living room walls and one dining room wall, making the house uniquely hers. Kisha strolled through the hallway to the kitchen.

“We can have it on the deck,” Noreen said. “I had dreams of sitting out there in my negligee on Sunday mornings eating fancy breakfasts of imported cheeses, champagne and such with my darling husband. But what he wanted on Sunday mornings didn’t have a thing to do with food. Same old routine week in and week out, day in and day out, in bed and out of it. Looking back, I wonder why the hell I didn’t get bored with him.

“I was relieved when he finally didn’t want to take me to bed the minute he got in the house, but that was because I didn’t know he’d just gotten out of bed with some chick and didn’t have any energy left. I’m prepared to talk about something else. Thinking of him depresses me.”

“You said you’re over him. What I can’t understand is how two people can think they want to sleep in the same bed, eat at the same table, share children, money, bills, vacation, television, radio and everything else for as long as they live, and then something happens and they get over it. Or nothing happens and one of them falls for somebody else. Thinking about it just reinforces my intention to avoid involvements.”

Noreen poured the coffee into mugs, put the mugs along with the figs, biscuits, jam and margarine on a tray and went out on the deck. Kisha followed her with plates, spoons and knives.

“It’s not as simple as you put it, Kisha. If you care enough for a man to marry him and take those vows, and he cares the same for you, it should work. I say should, but here’s the caveat. Both of you have to be fully, I mean totally committed to your spouse and to the marriage. The hot stuff doesn’t last, but love should deepen. If you can’t be friends with a man, don’t marry him. A lot of women and men follow where that itch leads them, but a smart person will realize that an itch is just an itch and feels the same no matter who scratches it.

“Good sex is essential, but alone, it’s not a good basis for marriage. Some men and some women are ready to cut and run at the first sign of a problem. They’re not committed to the marriage. When bills make you choose between paying the mortgage and having the drainage system overhauled, or when one of you wants to save for a down payment on a house and the other wants a European vacation or a mink coat, that’s when the rubber hits the road. One of you is going to decide to be sensible and see the light or both of you are going to be miserable. Then, when you look at each other, you don’t see a lover but an adversary.”

Kisha sipped her coffee. She wouldn’t have guessed that Noreen King had such depth. “Would you marry again?”

“I’d be more careful, and my feelings about what I want and need in a man have changed, but yes. Given the right conditions, I would. Were you talking with a prospect a few minutes ago?”

“I don’t know. I met him recently, and I don’t know anything about him except where he works and what he’s told me.”

“What’s his name?” Kisha told her. “Sounds famil…Not that handsome stud who serves up the news at five o’clock on Channel 6.”

Kisha cleared her throat, half-afraid of Noreen’s reaction to her answer. “I don’t know whether he’s a stud, but he was the five o’clock anchor for Channel 6. Now, he’s on at six o’clock.”

“Then that’s him. Honey, I’d run from a man who looks like that brother. How could he be single, or if he is still single, is he straight?”

She had wondered the same, but she didn’t articulate it then. “I went to dinner with him, and he was the epitome of a gentleman.”

“Yeah? Cool as he is, I’m not sure his being a perfect gentleman would’ve cut any ice with me. That guy’s a honey. I hear tell he sponsors a program that gives kids free guitar and piano lessons, and he helped build a playground in South Baltimore right where a hideous trash and garbage dump used to be. He does his civic duty, but…he sure lays it out there on his newscast. Girl, he’s big-time.”

“Where did you see him? In person, I mean.”

“He’s been the emcee at a bunch of galas, fund-raisers, awards ceremonies and heaven knows what else. That guy’s a big name around here. You say Craig Jackson, and even the kids know who you’re talking about. You new in town, but you’ll learn.”

“Interesting. We’ll see.” She went home later with plenty to think about. She hadn’t learned anything uncomplimentary about Craig, but she wasn’t sure that she could keep up with a man who had such a public life. On the other hand, she had decided that she wanted him, and that was that. He’d said she was reckless. Maybe, but in his case, she didn’t think she was taking too big a chance. She knew a man when she saw one, and Craig Jackson defined the gender.

That evening, as she sat with Noreen at a table in Red Maple enjoying the floor show, memories of Craig flashed through her mind while she looked at couples dancing and playing the age-old male-female games.

“Would you like to dance?”

She looked up at the neatly dressed man, extended her hand to him and stood. “You looked about as lonely as I feel,” he said. “Otherwise I would never have gotten the nerve to ask you to dance. My name is Josh.”

“Mine’s Kisha. How are you, Josh?”

“Pretty good. I just moved here from Lake Charles, New York, and somebody told me that nice folks come to the Red Maple. Meeting people in this place is easy, but getting to know them is practically impossible. I won’t ask if you have a guy, because that would be silly. Where is he tonight?”

“I’m helping my neighbor celebrate her new job after a year out of work,” she said, hoping to steer the conversation away from personal issues.

“I’m glad for her. That’s why I’m in Baltimore. My company moved down here, and I had a choice of moving or looking for another job.”

The music ended, and he walked with her to her table. “Thanks, Kisha, for a real nice dance.”

“Thank you, Josh. I hope you find your niche here.”

“I told you you’d get a guy,” Noreen said. “The place is full of men.”

“Yeah, and one of them finally asked me to dance,” Kisha said drily. “How’s it going with the guy you’ve been dancing with?”

“He’s pleasant, but the poor guy’s looking for a fast one, and that is not my style. Ready to go when you are.”

“That was fun, Noreen,” Kisha said when they got home. “Good night.”

“And thank you for being my friend, Kisha. That’s the first time I’ve been out in a year. It was wonderful. Good night.”

Kisha went inside and plodded up the stairs to her bedroom. Being alone was getting to her, but until she met Craig Jackson, she had enjoyed it. She should either go after what she wanted or forget about him and get on with her life. But how did one go after the hottest, most eligible man in town?

When Craig woke the next morning, he was not having misgivings about Kisha, his problem was himself. He had asked her to dinner on an impulse. But he suspected that he’d wanted subconsciously to do that from the day she mended his tooth.

He went to the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face, donned a robe and headed downstairs for a cup of coffee. “I shouldn’t make phone calls before noon,” he said to himself with a derisive jab at his own ego. After pouring a little milk into the coffee, he took a few swallows and dumped the remainder into the sink. Leaning against the kitchen table, he happened to look at his hands, turned them over and examined his palms. He’d once played the violin, carved beautiful images and been fairly good at sketching. What had he done with his artistic talents? He’d let all of them fall by the way while he raced to be the next Walter Cronkite.

He’d gotten so used to ignoring his feelings and needs that he failed to appreciate the attractiveness of a woman who had precisely the traits he admired in the opposite sex. And he gave his subconscious a flogging when it led him to do what was reasonable and perhaps in his interest. Instead of being annoyed at himself for having invited Kisha to the River Restaurant, he decided to look forward to it and see if he enjoyed her company as much as he had during their evening at Roy’s. It was time to lead a fuller life, but that didn’t mean he’d put anything ahead of his goal to have a network-level job within a year. For him, change would not be a simple matter, and he knew it.

Women of all ages had pursued him ever since his voice changed when he was thirteen years old. Fortunately for him, his father had pounded it into his head that what came easily went just as fast. “Easy come, Craig, easy go,” he’d said. He couldn’t count the times his father had lectured to him about the travails of a man who, having spent his life trading on a face that was his only virtue, reached the age of wrinkles, thinning hair and sagging jowls and discovered that he had nothing. He had never wished he wasn’t handsome, because his face opened doors for him. But he’d worked hard to justify his good fortune, to accomplish something meaningful that would enable him to help others. From childhood, he had wanted to earn respect by stature and deed, and not by the length of his eyelashes, or by the achievements of his father.

Nothing pleased him more than the fact that Kisha seemed to like him for himself. She’d soon learn more about him, and she might not like what she learned, but he’d take that chance. They needed to talk. She agreed to go out with him for the second time, but neither had asked the other that most important question. She hadn’t asked him if he was married. And she had the trappings of a single woman, but he also had to be sure.

He rushed to answer the house phone when it rang. “Hi, Mom. How are you, and how’s Dad?” He always asked that question.

“We’re fine. We’re having a rather heated argument about the Dred Scott Decision. He says Roger Taney was chief justice when he wrote the majority opinion that blacks, whether slave or free, were not and never could be citizens of the United States, and that an angry Lincoln retaliated with the Emancipation Proclamation. Is he right? I thought John Marshall was chief justice at the time, but that Taney wrote the majority opinion.”

He had to laugh. “Mom, not even a college law professor would argue with Dad about Supreme Court decisions. Remember he’s argued cases before the Supreme Court, and he’s correct, but I give you credit for guts. Taney succeeded Marshall as chief justice, and he was chief justice when he wrote that opinion.”

“You lawyers always gang up on me, but remember more people need doctors than lawyers…or journalists.”

He imagined that she shook her finger at him. “Go hug Dad and tell him that he’s right as usual.”

If he could have the kind of relationship with a woman that his parents had shared for as long as he’d known them, he shouldn’t ask for anything more, including a network news job. But he knew himself, and he’d never give up his dream.

He didn’t question why he thought of Kisha just then as if she were the one, because he knew himself and his responses to women. She could be if their relationship developed. Hampered by the worst pain he’d ever experienced, he opened his eyes, imagined looking up at her and felt a charge all the way from his head to his toes.

Kisha didn’t question the reason for the casual phone call she received from Craig. It was as if he’d phoned her so that she wouldn’t forget about him. But she would be patient, and when he made a move—as he surely would—she’d be ready. His call had come the previous morning around eight o’clock. When she got to know him better, she was going to ask him what time he usually awakened. She’d bet good money that he woke up around seven o’clock and called her before he got out of bed.

She got up a little later than usual that Sunday morning, too late for church, so she stuck her hand outside the front door, and picked up the Sunday newspaper. She thought of Craig, and his love of fresh coffee floated through her mind while she sat on the kitchen stool waiting for hers to percolate. She wondered why he didn’t buy a percolator and learn to use it. After toasting a bagel and spreading margarine and apricot jam on it, she ate what passed for breakfast, drank a cup of coffee and headed back upstairs. Unsettled, and at a loss as to why, she’d decided to go to the museum and read the paper later.

Dressed in dark blue stretch jeans, a red-cashmere turtleneck sweater, a knee-length gray storm jacket and a pair of Reebok shoes she covered her hair with a red knitted cap and headed for the Baltimore Museum of Art. She frequented the museum as much to study as to enjoy the work of great artists, and she especially enjoyed going there on Sunday afternoons. On her way to the European collection, she glimpsed paintings by Jacob Lawrence, a noted African-American, and turned into that hall. For more than an hour, she let her eyes feast on the works of Lawrence, Joshua Johnson, Horace Pippin, Henry Tanner and other African-American painters.

As she left that hall, she bumped into a hard, moving object and would have fallen backward if a hand hadn’t grabbed her and steadied her on her feet.

“Well, I’ll be damned. I nearly killed you, Kisha, for goodness’ sake. I’m so sorry.”

She couldn’t say whether it was his weight or the excitement of seeing him unexpectedly that had knocked her out of sorts. “Craig, you must weigh a ton.”

“Well, not quite. Two hundred pounds is more like it.”

She flexed her arms to be sure she still had both of them. “Two hundred moving pounds is a heck of a lot of power.”

He stepped closer to her and grasped her with both hands. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine, if I can ever breathe normally again. Don’t tell me you like to hang out in museums, too.”

“I like museums, but I’m working on a story about the museum’s relationship to the community, and I came here to observe the free Family Sundays hands-on workshop. This particular program is unusually creative. I’ll be reporting on it in a segment of an upcoming newscast. Are you heading any where special after you leave here?”

Seconds before she opened her mouth to say yes, she was busy, she remembered her resolve to either get things going with him or to forget about him. So she said, “What did you have in mind?”

Craig stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, looked down at her and grinned. “It’s a wonder I recognized you.” As discombobulated as Kisha, he stared at her for a minute. “Look. Could we go somewhere for coffee or a drink?” he asked her, more as a gentlemanly gesture—he assured himself—than as a means of appeasing his ever-growing attraction to her. “I…uh…it would be nice if we could spend a little time together.”

“It would be nice, but you’ve got on a business suit and tie, and I’m dressed for the supermarket.”

“You look great to me. We don’t have to go to the snazziest place in town. What about the Barbecue Pit. It’s practically empty on Sunday afternoons.”

“I…All right.”

He took her hand as they walked down the steps. “It’s not too far from here, so we can walk. My car is closer to the restaurant than it is to the museum.” He hoped that she wouldn’t attach too much significance to such a casual invitation, but the woman was not stupid, and she could figure out a man’s motives from his behavior.

“Since I’m here,” he said when they had seated themselves, “I may as well have some barbecued ribs. I doubt I’ll ever get enough of them.”

“Excuse me a minute, please.” She left and a few minutes later returned with her knitted cap in her hand and her hair swinging around her shoulders.

“I was wondering if I was going to get used to your little-girl look,” he said. “What would you like?”

“You’ve influenced me. I’ll have barbecued ribs, a biscuit and coffee.”

“So you like art, Kisha. That says a lot about you. Do you see it as beauty or as a technical achievement?”

“Both.” She described what it expressed to her. “It’s like the Empire State Building reigning over the skies of mid-Manhattan, or a sleek airplane speeding through the clouds, or Joseph Addai streaking toward the goal line for the Colts.”

“You’re a football fan? What other sports do you like?”

“Tennis. I’m a tennis freak. I play fairly well, but I can watch it for hours, even on television. It’s universal. My favorite recreational things to do are visiting art galleries, traveling overseas, reading and tennis.”

He shook his head in wonder. “I’d put travel first, and if you added water sports, we’d be on the same page. Where have you traveled?”

“Most of Western Europe. One of my fondest memories is being nineteen in Paris and subsisting on bread, cheese and water. When I got back home, I didn’t want to see any cheese or bread. I wouldn’t have drunk water if I could have lived without it.”

“It’s amazing, Kisha, how much we have in common. I lived like that in Paris, Rome, Spain and Copenhagen. I slept on the street, in doorways, churches, you name it, and when I got back home, I was ready to do it all over again. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.” They talked about their experiences, shared moments of joy and adventure. He realized that they had talked for hours when he noticed that the restaurant was full of patrons. A look at his watch told him that it was a quarter of seven and time for dinner.

“It’s dinnertime, Kisha. I’m not hungry, but we can eat dinner if this place suits you.”

“I’m not hungry enough for dinner. Let’s go somewhere and get a great dessert.”

“Girl after my own heart. How about a huge warm peach cobbler topped with two scoops of vanilla ice cream?” Her smile of approval made him feel like a king.

When he took her home almost two hours later, he wanted more than he knew he would get, but his mind told him that, in Kisha’s case, less was more. And while he stood in her foyer staring down at her, seeing what he knew he wanted, he made up his mind to get her. But he merely took her hand, kissed the back of it and left her.

Chapter 3

Kisha did not expect to hear from Craig after he left her that night. She brushed off her annoyance at him for heating her up with his desire-filled eyes and making her ache for a sample of what he promised almost every time he looked at her. So she took her time answering the telephone.

“This is Doctor Moran. How may I help you?”

“Hi. This is Craig. Is it too late to call you?”

She’d have to get used to his voice. It did strange things to her. She sat up in bed and turned on the light. “Hi, Craig. If I don’t go out, I try to get in bed by ten-thirty, because I get up early. I just crawled in, but I was not asleep. Are you safely at home?”

“Yes. I’m home. I called because I want to do something that I thought I’d better not try when we were together.” She held her breath and waited. “I want to kiss you good-night.”

“Oh,” she said, after gathering her wits.

His laughter rolled through the wire, exciting and arousing her. How she wished she could see his face when he laughed like that. “Are you saying you’re glad I didn’t kiss you or that you don’t want me to kiss you now? Which is it?” he asked her.

“Neither. And stop trying to push me into a corner. Kiss me and let me go to sleep.” She wanted to bite her tongue, but a lot of good that would do.

“Part your lips just a little,” he said in a low, whispered tone. “Just enough for me to slip in. Feast a little bit and let me know you enjoy it. Now, take me in fully, and let me love you. Good night, Kisha.”

“Hey, don’t you dare hang up!”

“Why not. That was the sweetest kiss imaginable, so I thought it was the perfect time for us to say good-night.”

“You practically hypnotized me, and I’ve never heard of anybody doing that over the phone.”

“Are you angry with me because I kissed you?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Next time, I won’t kiss you over the phone. I’ll kiss you in person. Will that be all right?”

“That will be fine, and if I’m not happy with it, I’ll let you know.”

His laughter wrapped around her, warming and comforting her. “Sleep well, baby. I’ll phone you tomorrow.” He hung up.

And she fell asleep. What would have happened if he had kissed her for real?

He telephoned her the next morning at eight o’clock, minutes after she smelled the coffee beginning to perk. “Hi. If you didn’t sleep well, don’t tell me. I know you’re in a hurry, so I’ll only take a minute. I have an invitation to the Admiral’s Service on one of the harbor cruise ships. It’s really nice. Will you go with me Saturday evening?”

“What should I wear?”

“A dressy dress would be perfect. After the dinner, there’s dancing to a live band. What about it?”

The more he talked, the more eager she was to see him. “That sounds wonderful, Craig. What time?”

“I’ll be at your place at a quarter of six. Don’t forget.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Great. But we’ll talk before Saturday. Have a very good day. Bye.”

“Till the next time, Craig.”

After what seemed like years, Saturday finally arrived. He rang her doorbell at exactly five forty-five. He had the impression that she’d waited for him, for she flung the door open at once with a beaming, expectant expression on her face. Craig knew his face betrayed his delight in her. Throwing aside caution, he wrapped her in his arms. “You make me feel great, Kisha, and not because you’re so pretty. It’s just…you make me feel good.”

Wondering if she was witnessing a change in him, she hugged him in return, stepped back and looked at him. “You make me feel good, too.” She’d never known a man who played it so close to the vest. If he had secrets, she didn’t want to think about them right then. She wanted to enjoy the evening.

“You look lovely. This is a beautiful dress.”

“Thank you. Dusty rose is my favorite color. I like the way you look, too, Craig. Very nice, indeed.”

He didn’t like compliments about his appearance, but wanting to please her, he’d dressed in one of his most flattering blue suits, a white shirt and a royal blue and dark pink-striped tie with a matching handkerchief in his pocket. He couldn’t help feeling special. A man wanted his woman to be proud of him.

Kisha pinched herself. Nothing like being sure that you were wide-awake. She had to stop imagining that she was in a fairy tale when she was with Craig or she’d find herself head over heels in love with him. He’d hugged her in the sweetest and most…well, protective and unthreatening way, and she had ached for a kiss. Fortunately, common sense had not deserted her and she had stepped back.

They boarded the harbor cruiser, and when he gave the maître d’ his reservation card, the man led them to the Admiral’s Service. She gazed around at the seductive decor with the twinkling chandeliers, upholstered chairs and table centerpieces of candles banked with red, yellow and white roses. Soft music played in the background. On an impulse that she suspected he’d call reckless, she leaned toward him.

“This place is elegant, wonderful. I’d give anything if I could dance with you.”

He focused his eyes on her, and she’d swear that they darkened and seemed to gather clouds as he sucked in his breath and breathed deeply. “And I’d give anything to have my arms around you this minute for any reason whatever. I’ve planned for us to dance after dinner, if you’d like.” He seemed to say the latter mostly as an afterthought.

“I’d like it very much.” She waited while the waiter took their orders before saying, “All of a sudden, we’re moving so fast, Craig, and I’m not sure it’s a good thing. I don’t really know that much about you. For instance, are you married?”

“I have never been married, Kisha, and I am not living with any woman, nor have I ever done that. What about you? I decided that you were single, but I want you to tell me.”

“You’re right. I am single, and I’ve never been married or lived with anyone. Not that I think that last part is important here, but since you laid it all out, so did I.”

“And I told you, because I wanted you to know that I don’t have any ties.” Their food arrived, he tasted the crown roast of pork that they both ordered and a smile flashed across his face. “As far as I’m concerned, we hit the jackpot. This is good stuff.”

“Delicious,” she said a minute later. He ordered a pinot grigio wine, and they ate in silence for a while. The waiter poured their wine, and Craig raised his glass to her. “You’re a most refreshing companion.”

“Thank you. And you’re delightful company,” she said, sipped her drink and put the glass back on the table. Surreptitiously, she watched him as he ate and drank, always swallowing his food before speaking, using his utensils flawlessly as if it were second nature to him. The summer after graduating from high school, she’d gone to Miss Mabel’s School for Girls to learn manners and dress, thanks to a small scholarship, but she suspected he’d learned etiquette and manners at home.

“What do your parents do, Craig? Mine were public school teachers descended from blue-collar workers.” Surely that was not a slight frown on his face.

“My dad’s a lawyer, and my mother is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle, Washington. What would you like for dessert?”

In other words, he’d finished with the discussion of his parents. She conceded that he had the right not to talk about his parents, though she couldn’t imagine why, since she doubted there was anything to hide. Well, if he wanted them to talk, she decided, he would carry the burden of conversation.

“I’d like to have the floating island. I want to know if they make it the way I do with a floating meringue and crème anglaise. It’s a delicious dessert.”

“I’ll have the same,” he said and ordered the dessert. “I don’t remember another dinner date whose choice of food was identical to mine. It’s almost as if we’re dining at home or as if the meal was prepared especially for us.”

She wanted to ask him where he lived, but instinct told her that it was not the time for any more personal questions. “Yes,” she said. “This is very intimate, or maybe it’s the ambience.”

The waiter served their floating island from a scalloped silver bowl and pitcher. Their dessert dishes were nestled in bowls of cracked ice. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d think I was in the White House. I’ve never considered serving this over ice. I serve it as cold as possible, but…well, this is great.”

He sampled the confection and crème, put his spoon down and looked hard at her. “Are you telling me you can make this?”

She ate another spoonful and wondered about the propriety of asking for seconds. “Sure I can and have on a number of occasions.”

“May I invite myself to your house? You don’t have to cook dinner, just make this dessert. Plenty of this and coffee will do the trick. It’s one of my favorites.”

“I’ll let you know. Probably when I have time to make it. It takes two days, because you have to freeze the island.”

“I will definitely encourage you to find the time. Would you like coffee or espresso?”

“Espresso.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He ordered two large cups of espresso. They finished the meal, and he suggested that they sit in the lounge. “The band begins at nine, and we can dance, if you like.”

She got the impression that he took nothing for granted, because he always asked her what she would like and, when it was relevant, he asked how she would like it.

I could get used to this man in a big way, she said to herself. “Craig, would you excuse me for a few minutes?”

He stood, held out his hand and helped her to her feet. “Of course. This sofa is pretty low. It must have been designed for children or elves.”

She smiled and, without thinking, blew him a kiss as she hurried off to the ladies’ room to make certain that none of that pork remained between her teeth. She freshened her lipstick and perfume, checked her dress and was about to leave when a woman rushed into the room.

“Uh, miss, is that Craig Jackson you’re with?”

Momentarily speechless, Kisha smiled at the woman as she collected her wits. Before the woman could ask again, Kisha left the room.

Craig met her as she entered the lounge. “The band has started playing. Shall we go?” She nodded, and he slid an arm around her waist. She liked the feel of his large hand on her body and could hardly wait for their first dance.

An usher led them to a table, but he only sat for a minute before standing and opening his arms. She walked into them, unaware that their movements gave an intense feeling of intimacy. At that moment, she wished for a long swirling skirt to fit her romantic mood.

Four or five steps took them to the dance floor, and he held her close to him as the strains of “Midnight Sun” floated from an alto saxophone. The band played it like slow jazz, and every note of it primed her for the man who held her and who danced as if he did nothing else and had always danced with her. Her head told her to sit down or she’d be lost, but her body said stay. As they danced, a new and wanton feeling took hold of her, and she rested her head against his shoulder and moved to his beat.

She could almost feel his reticence slipping away from him as his hold on her became a caress. She welcomed it, swung her body closer to his, and their relationship changed irrevocably.

“Don’t think for a minute that this thing is temporary,” he whispered. “You are in my blood, and I intend to know what you can mean to me.”

She missed a step and then another. “I’m not going to respond to that,” she said, but she knew he had his answer when she snuggled closer to him, not to make a statement, but to satisfy her hunger.

They danced piece after piece without leaving the floor and, to her, it was another world, one that included only the two of them. Finally, the orchestra played a seductive slow piece that Craig sang softly. “It’s an old Fats Waller song,” he explained, “‘Two Sleepy People.’ It’s a favorite of my mother’s.”

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