A Lover's Dream (15 page)

“Hmph, the twins,” Jamilla said, a soft smile capturing her lips. “They conquered so easily and could betray a girl so smoothly she never knew she was being made a fool of. They always got what they wanted, when they wanted it, and how they wanted it.”

“And they wanted Sera?” Mick asked, leaning forward a bit in the cushioned chair.

Jamilla shrugged and went to rearrange the potted plants lining the sill behind her desk. “I honestly don't know. I don't think Sera had any female friends she felt close enough to confide in.”

“Could she have been interested in any of the cousins?” Mick asked, leaving the chair.

“My guess is that she was interested in one of the twins. She practically swooned when either one was in the room. All us girls did,” Jamilla shared.

“And you say the other cousins are just as gorgeous?” Mick probed, grinning coyly when a devilish sparkle appeared in Jamilla's eyes.

“Oh, honey, yes! But with them…the danger they exuded was so blatant. They were outright bad boys, and if you wanted to keep your panties on and your virginity intact, you stayed away from them.” Jamilla slapped her hands to her sides and perched on the windowsill. “With Quest and Quaysar, you couldn't see the danger until you got too close and then it was too late. They had you and you were an all too willing captive.”

Mick's eyes narrowed. “You sound like you're speaking from experience?”

Jamilla shook her head. “Simply relaying the experiences of others. I've always been a bad girl and I went right to the baddest.”

“Which was?”

“Fernando Ramsey. The only cousin who'd done time in juvenile hall.”

Mick blinked. Clearly the Ramseys did carry secrets and consisted of some pretty dangerous characters. She couldn't help but wonder what secrets Quest may have harbored. The thought brought her back to Sera Black.

“Johnelle Black doesn't believe it was suicide,” she told Jamilla.

“Hmph,” the woman grunted. “No, Michaela, Sera didn't commit suicide. She was raped before she was tossed out that window.”

Because they were Ramseys,
Jamilla Stokes said when Mick had asked why and how something so terrible could happen to Sera Black and no one be brought to justice or, at the very least, investigated.

After all, this was the South, Mick pointed out. The Ramseys were still black, and didn't good southern, law-abiding mind-set demand that any opportunity to toss a black man behind bars be taken advantage of? Jamilla's response was simple and Mick grimaced that she'd allowed herself to be so senseless as to not come up with the answer on her own.

“They're rich,” Jamilla had stated simply and coolly.

Of course, in Savannah that meant everything. High-society cotillions, luncheons…no one was going to touch the Ramsey youth. Their parents may have given them a good talking-to, maybe something a tad harsher, but no handcuffs or jail time. Jamilla made a point to mention that even the juvenile delinquent Fernando Ramsey had often received little more than a slap on the wrist. Sadly, Fernando committed one of his
indiscretions
during an election year. The voters were getting testy about teen criminals going unpunished. As a result, the DA begged Fernando's father to help him
set an example. With at least the appearance of the Ramseys being treated like everyone else, the DA secured a victory in the election. Unfortnately, there never seemed to be enough to force Fernando to straighten his act, and his next offense resulted in a bit of jail time.

Mick looked up from rereading her notes in time to see Harriet Forman approaching her in the hotel lobby.

“Ms. Sellars, forgive my being late. It's been one of those days.”

“No problem,” Mick assured the petite thirty-three-year-old who was also a former high school classmate of the Ramseys. “It's a pleasure to be speaking with you,” she added.

“You wanted to talk about Sera?” Harriet asked, her close-set brown eyes dimming with slight sadness. “You know this is where the, um, accident occurred?” she said, taking a moment to look around the elegant interior of her family's hotel.

Mick followed suit, taking in the airy, gracefulness of the Forman. “It's a lovely place,” she complimented, taking in the historic murals, tall windows, and high ceilings.

Harriet sighed, her expression clouding her round face. “Yeah, Ramsey money has made a lot of dreams come true in this town.”

“So you were paid off?” Mick asked, watching as Harriet nodded.

“They told my father they'd give him a five-star hotel if he kept his mouth shut. They made good on their promise and he made good on his.”

Mick pulled her notebook from the burgundy Coach tote she carried. “Do you know everyone who came to the party?” she asked, her pen poised to write.

“Yeah, pretty much all the guys. The cousins and a few of their friends. There weren't many guys there,”
Harriet said, folding her arms across the square bodice of her periwinkle-blue dress. “They intentionally let the girls outnumber them. There were only a few boys I'd never seen before.”

Mick also produced a packet from her tote. She'd given a similar one to Jamilla Stokes at the close of their meeting. “These are photos and news articles that covered the story. If you'd just go through them a few times, let me know if anything sparks more memories.”

Harriet smiled, already peering into the ten-by-thirteen tan envelope. “No problem. I hope your investigation will finally give us some anwers.”

“So do I, Harriet. So do I,” Mick said.

 

“Q?”

Quest focused on his brother and fixed him with an irritated look. “What?” he snapped.

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About what I asked you.”

“You didn't ask me anything.”

Quaysar groaned, the muscle working feverishly along his jaw. He'd tried to give his brother space, knowing he missed Michaela. But this quiet, closed-off demeanor of his had even worn thin on Quay's easygoing persona.

“You know you're bein' a stubborn, brooding jackass,” he blurted, his gaze unwavering when Quest's eyes snapped to his face. “You're letting a great lady, not to mention fine and sexy as hell, slip right through your fingers. And everybody always called you the smart one,” he added with a soft snort.

A second later, Quest rose from his chair and turned the round table between him and his twin upside down.

Quay simply raised a brow. “Finally, a reaction,” he said.

Quest's chest heaved and he closed his eyes for a moment to give his temper a chance to cool. Finally, he looked down on Quay. “Leave this alone,” he breathed. “I've asked you before and I don't want to take this out on you, but you know I would and I'd damn well enjoy it.”

Quay acknowledged the threat, knowing his brother would show no hesitation in carrying it out. Still undaunted, he stood and was about to walk past Quest when he leaned close instead. “You love her,” he said near Quest's ear. “I can see it when her name is mentioned and every time you're in a room with her. You can barely concentrate, you can't focus on another damn thing besides her. Go after her, hmm? Before you go completely insane.”

Quay moved on, leaving Quest to stand there. After a second or three, Quest's shoulders slumped as though the anger and tension were leaving him.

“And offer her what?” he asked in the softest tone, then turned to meet his twin's dark stare. “And offer her what, Quay?” he repeated, spreading his hands in a helpless manner. “A family with so many secrets that—”

“Damn, Q, when are you gonna get it?” Quay snapped. “It's time to think about
you
for a minute. You been the protector too long and it's time for the rest of us to face our deeds and deal with 'em.
You
deal with findin' some happiness, man. You deserve it.”

Quest massaged the back of his neck. “She may not talk to me,” he admitted, feeling heated, even beneath the short-sleeved gray linen short he wore. “I damn well couldn't blame her.”

Quay grinned, instantly igniting his deep right dimple. “Damn, does Mick know how much power
she has over your ass? You're Quest Ramsey. You know how to persuade all the ladies.”

Quest returned his brother's grin. “I've never persuaded a woman like her.”

Quay closed the distance between them. “That's because you're not only attracted to Mick, you love her. You're a lucky man to have found that and you'd be an idiot to let it go without a fight.”

Quest watched his brother closely, considering his sage advice. Remaining true to form, Quay shed his serious demeanor and erupted in a roar of infectious laughter. Quest joined in, pulling his brother into a tight hug.

 

Quest had experienced momentary optimism following his talk with Quay. Sadly, it slowly evaporated when he'd called Mick's home only to be told she wasn't there and hadn't returned after leaving Seattle. He'd been going out of his mind and it scared him. Of all the women he'd known, she had somehow slipped past the walls guarding the part of his heart he'd deemed inaccessible. He hadn't even realized she was so deeply implanted into his heart—into his
being
—until he was without her.

Chicago, Illinois

Quest parked the rented Expedition and tightened his hands over the steering wheel. After a week's worth of calls to Michaela's home, he decided on a more personal visit. Besides, he'd been curious about the man answering her calls. He'd introduced himself as Driggers over the phone and promptly identified himself as Ms. Sellars's houseman. House-
man
was the part that had Quest curious and on edge.

Quest took a moment to size up Driggers when he finally found the nerve to knock on the front door. The man was probably in his late fifties, but didn't look a day over forty. Quest realized that he was more content with
his
version of what Driggers would look like.

“Is Michaela Sellars here?” Quest asked, acknowledging that he was there for more important matters.

Driggers fixed Quest with a cursory glance before offering a response. “I'm so very sorry, sir, but the lady isn't here just now.”

Quest studied the man just as closely, then shook his head and turned away. “You're telling me the truth,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I'm sorry,” Quest apologized with a wave of his hand. “I thought if I asked in person I'd know whether I was being lied to. I see that's not the case.” He cleared his throat and tugged on the sleeve of his lightweight Seahawks sweatshirt. “Can you tell me when she's expected back?”

Driggers offered a sympathetic smile. “But for the occasional call to tell me she's fine, she hasn't said when she'll return.”

Quest smothered a groan of disappointment by smoothing a hand across his face.

Driggers stepped closer. “Are you the Mr. Ramsey I've been speaking with this past week?”

“Guilty,” Quest admitted with a sheepish grin.

Driggers laughed and then reached out to shake hands. “Come inside for a drink, son,” he urged.

Quest hung back. “I probably shouldn't,” he said.

“Micky told me about meeting with a Seattle family named Ramsey. I assume you're one of them.”

“Yeah,” Quest confirmed, not appearing too proud of the fact.

Driggers stroked his jaw. “
The
one?” he inquired coyly.

Quest tilted his head. “Sir?”

Driggers waved off the sly probe and stepped away from the tall oak doors. “Come inside, son,” he insisted, smiling when Quest complied.

Quest surveyed his surroundings, having already approved of the beautiful three-story Spanish-styled home. Inside, it was just as lovely and shrieked comfort and warmth in spite of its open make up.

“What's your business, Mr. Ramsey?” Driggers asked, on his way to the built-in bar located in the sunken living room.

“Real estate,” Quest called, reading the bookshelves lining the opposite wall.

Driggers selected two glasses and a bottle of Hennessey. “Pay well?” he asked.

Quest grinned. “We do all right.”

“I'd say better than all right if my Micky wants to write a book about you.”

“Yeah,” Quest remarked, his tone less jovial.

“She told me how that turned out.”

Quest accepted the glass Driggers handed him. “In big families it's hard to get everyone to agree on what's best.”

Driggers nodded. “I can understand that.”

“So how long have you been with Michaela?” Quest asked, taking a sip of the dark liquid.

“Years.” Driggers sighed, looking off as though he was trying to calculate the exact time in his mind. “That girl,” he said, chuckling, “she didn't care what anyone had to say. She wanted a houseman and that was that.”

Quest grinned while shaking his head. “Sounds like her,” he agreed, staring into his glass as though he could see Mick's face amidst the sparkling ice and Hennessey.

“I suspect your visit is about something other than business?” Driggers pried again, taking a sip from his glass and motioning for Quest to have a seat.

“It is,” he admitted without hesitation and settled back against the cream suede sofa. “I was stubborn, keeping quiet about how I felt about her. I should've told her how much I wanted her to stay. I won't miss the opportunity again,” he swore, sealing the statement with another swig of the liquor.

Driggers was intrigued by the young man with the deep voice—a strong voice. He was sure that was just what his Micky needed—what she'd need
after
he left…. She deserved the best and yes, he thought this man seated to his right was just that.

“I'll keep you posted,” Driggers promised, knocking his glass against the arm of the sofa. “You'll know the minute she returns.”

Quest's appreciation was reflected in his gray eyes.

 

Mick returned home just a few days later. She raced out of the cab like a little girl, flinging herself against Driggers's hard chest and smiling when she heard his playful grunt.

“I missed you so,” she whispered, burying her face against the side of Driggers's neck and inhaling the spicy scent of the tobacco he used in his pipe.

“I thought I'd enjoy all that quiet. I hated it,” Driggers admitted, his arms tightening around her small frame. He pulled away and brushed his hand across her brow, easily detecting the weariness on her lovely milk chocolate face.

“I'm so tired, Driggs,” she said, knowing there was no need to put on airs of strength.

“How was Georgia?” Driggers asked, smoothing a curl from her cheek.

Mick smiled, sadness mingling with the weariness
in her eyes. “This is a painful situation. Johnelle Black needs answers. I don't know how she's survived this long without them. I have to help her,” she said, her lashes fluttering against unshed tears.

“I know,” was all Driggers said.

The simple acknowledgment made Mick all the more happy to be home. Driggers promised a freshly made bed, hot tea, and pastry waiting inside. Mick eagerly allowed herself to be led to relaxation.

By the next day, Mick was back to her old self and in need of a workout. She contacted the girls, who practically screamed the phone to pieces at the news of her return. They had two months before the season began and they had a lot of rehearsing to do if their most ambitious routine yet was to be all it could be. Mick discovered that the girls had not grown lazy during her absence. They'd been practicing hard, and it showed. Mick decided to keep her instructor's cap off that day and enjoy the dance.

 

As promised, Driggers kept Quest informed and was leading him into the house the following afternoon. Mick and the girls had gotten a late start that warm July day, but were in the throes of the routine by the time Quest had arrived. Driggers was full of mischief and had the unexpected guest wait in the den. The room just happened to offer the perfect view of the immaculate back lawn where the rehearsals were held. Driggers knew Mick would kill him for letting anyone—especially another man—gawk at the group. But, Driggers thought, well…he was an old man and he could get away with it.