Betrayal (14 page)

Cynthia sneered at him as he rounded the desk and came toward her. “Oh, I see what's going on. You must
want
her to seduce you. You must
want
to sleep with—”

Brandon leaned down and kissed her. He had to. It was the only way to shut her the hell up.

She instantly melted against him, curving her arms around his neck and parting her lips beneath his. As his tongue gently stroked hers, she shivered and moaned with pleasure.

Slowly pulling away, Brandon framed her face between his hands and murmured, “You need to stop stressing over everything. If I wanted Addison, I coulda had her a long time ago.”

“I know, but—”

“But what? You know she's not even my type, so why are you tripping?”

Cynthia pouted. “Because I hate the way she's always coming on to you. It's disgusting and disrespectful. She had no business lying on your sofa like that.”

“I agree,” Brandon admitted. “Before you arrived I was gonna let her know that we need to establish some boundaries now that I'm her supervisor. I'll have that talk with her tomorrow, a'ight?”

Cynthia nodded, not entirely appeased. “I'd still prefer that she not report to you.”

“I know, sweetheart, but you have to understand something. I may be one of the firm's top producers this year—”

Cynthia snorted. “There's no ‘may be' about it. You
are
one of the top producers, which is why you just received a cool two mil.” She was referring to the hefty bonus check that had been deposited into his account that morning. The firm's annual bonus pool rewarded partners who logged the most billable hours or won the biggest cases. Brandon's successful handling of a major lawsuit that year had made him two million dollars richer.

He smiled at Cynthia. “Top producer or not, I'm still a new partner. So I need to pay my dues before I start throwing my weight around and telling others what I can and can't do. And let's face it. Supervising a senior associate looks good on my résumé.”

“I suppose,” Cynthia grudgingly acknowledged.

“Mitch says he's grooming me to run the department someday, so he wants me to take on even more responsibility. I don't want to give him any reason to think I can't handle it. Feel me?”

Cynthia heaved a sigh of resignation. “Yeah, I feel you.”

“Good.” Brandon kissed her forehead. “How'd your meeting go?”

She smiled. “It went well.”

“I'm glad to hear that. You can tell me about it on the way home.”

“But we drove separately,” she reminded him.

“Leave your car here tonight and we can ride home together.”

“Really?” Cynthia's eyes lit up. “That'd be wonderful.”

“Cool. Go get your stuff and meet me in the lobby.”

“Okay!” Cynthia rushed off like an excited little girl who'd just been promised a trip to the zoo.

Brandon tossed some files into his briefcase, grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair, and headed from the room.

As he reached the door, some impulse made him pause and glance back at the sofa.

Instantly his mind was flooded with images of the night he and Tamia had made love for the first time since their breakup. They'd been frantic for each other. Insatiable. They'd started off on the sofa and worked their way around the room, fucking long and feverishly into the night.

Brandon swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the handle of his briefcase.

He wondered how long it would take him to get over Tamia.

How much time would pass before he stopped thinking about her, stopped lamenting what could have been?

Months? Years?

What if he never got over her?

Sobered by the thought, Brandon turned off the light and walked out the door.

At the end of her day of shopping and dining with Honey, Tamia stepped off the elevator and strode down the hallway toward her apartment.

As she neared the front door, she noticed a plain white envelope lying on the floor.

Balancing her purse and shopping bags, she bent down to pick up the envelope.

It was unmarked, making her wonder if it had been left on her doorstep by mistake.

She let herself into the apartment, bumping the door shut with her hip. Walking over to the foyer table, she switched on the small lamp, dropped her keys in the shallow ceramic bowl, and set down her bags.

Flipping over the envelope, she saw that it was unsealed. With mounting curiosity, she opened it and removed a piece of paper.

As she unfolded it, a prickle of unease skittered down her spine, giving her a split-second warning before she read the words printed on the page.

Tamia gasped, dropping the letter as her heart jackknifed into her throat.

She glanced around fearfully, half expecting an intruder to pounce from the shadows.

When no one did, she hurried to the front door and yanked it open, looking up and down the hallway.

It was empty. And eerily silent.

Trembling hard, she ducked back inside the apartment, locked the door, and grabbed her phone to call the police.

 

Two officers arrived shortly to take her statement.

One was a stocky Hispanic man who introduced himself as Officer Castillo. The other was Officer Greene, an average-looking brotha with a neat fade and smooth brown skin.

Tamia barely registered their names, and if she'd been asked later to identify them in a lineup, she wouldn't have been able to. She was too shaken up, her mind racing with questions. Who could have left the note for her? And why?

After checking her apartment for any signs of an intruder, the police officers followed her to the living room, where she perched tensely on the edge of the armchair while they sat on the sofa. As Officer Greene took out a small notepad, she stared numbly at the patch sewn into the shoulder of his light blue uniform shirt. The patch read S
PACE
C
ITY
, U
SA
, with flight paths circling a globe to represent NASA's presence in Houston.

“You did the right thing by calling us,” Officer Greene assured Tamia. “It's not uncommon for people to receive threats after they've been acquitted of crimes. This note may have been left by someone who followed your trial and didn't agree with the verdict.”

Tamia nodded mutely. The same thought had occurred to her. Except the note suggested that she shared a personal connection with the sender. Someone who believed she owed him or her something.

Who could make that kind of claim?

“Other than this note,” Officer Castillo asked, “have you received any threatening phone calls or emails?”

“No,” Tamia answered.

“Have you noticed anyone following you or loitering around the building?”

She shook her head. “You should talk to the front desk. They're supposed to call us whenever we have visitors. And there are security cameras in the lobby and on every floor—”

Castillo was nodding. “We've already questioned the front desk attendant and told him we need to review the visitor log and the security tapes from today. We'll let you know what we find out.”

Tamia nodded.

“The wording of the note makes me think you might know this person,” Greene said, echoing her own thoughts. “Does anyone come to mind?”

Tamia hesitated, nervously moistening her dry lips. She didn't want to implicate an innocent man. But if her life was in danger, she had to explore any and all possibilities.

“One of the jurors from my trial,” she began haltingly. “His name's Lester McCray . . . . I've run into him twice over the past month, and both times he's asked me out on a date. I turned him down.”

Castillo and Greene exchanged speculative glances.

“How did he take your rejection?” Greene asked, scribbling in his notepad. “Did he seem angry?”

“No. I think he was more disappointed than angry.” Tamia paused. “But he told me that he lives around here, and I found out that he doesn't.”

Greene frowned at her. “So he lied?”

Tamia nodded.

The officers shared another glance, pondering the implications.

“Since McCray served on the jury that found you not guilty,” Greene ruminated, “it
is
possible that he thinks you owe him something in return.”

Tamia shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I don't want to jump to any conclusions, but he's the only person I could think of.”

Greene nodded, closing his notepad. “We'll talk to him, see what he has to say.”

“All right,” Tamia murmured.

After asking her a few more routine questions, the officers rose to leave.

“If you think of anything else, or if you receive any more threatening notes, please don't hesitate to call either one of us.” Castillo patted the front pocket of his shirt. “Crap. I'm all out of cards.”

“I have some.” Greene pulled out a card and handed it to Tamia.

“Thanks.” She glanced down at his name—and froze.

Keyshawn Greene.

Keyshawn . . .
Honey's boyfriend?

It couldn't be.

“Is something wrong, Miss Luke?”

Tamia looked up, meeting Officer Greene's curious gaze. The fine hairs lifted on the back of her neck.

He frowned. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” She set his card down on the coffee table, then walked him and his partner to the front door. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate it.”

“We'll be in touch,” they promised before leaving.

As soon as Tamia locked the door, her phone rang, startling her.

Pulse thudding, she walked over to the foyer table and cautiously picked up the phone. She felt a surge of relief when she saw Shanell's number.

Exhaling a shaky breath, she pressed the talk button. “Hey.”

“Hey, girl,” Shanell greeted her cheerfully. “What's going on?”

“You don't even wanna know,” Tamia muttered, raking trembling fingers through her hair as she returned to the living room.

“Why? What happened?”

Tamia sighed heavily. “Someone left a threatening note on my doorstep.”

“
What!
What did it say?”

As Tamia relayed the message, goose bumps raced across her skin.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Shanell wondered.

Tamia shook her head. “I wish I knew.”

“Damn.” Shanell sounded worried. “Did you call the police?”

“Yeah. They just left.” Tamia picked up Officer Greene's card and frowned at it, speculating.

“You need to pack a bag and come stay at my house,” Shanell told her.

Tamia smiled wanly. “Thanks, girl, but I don't want to impose. Besides, aren't your parents coming for Christmas?”

“They don't arrive until Tuesday. And you're not imposing.”

Tamia glanced around the apartment. There was no use pretending she felt safe there. She didn't.

“Tamia,” Shanell growled warningly. “Don't make me come after you.”

Tamia needed no more convincing. “I'm on my way.”

“Brandon! There you are, darling.” Gwen Chambers strode purposefully through the crowded lobby of Redeemed Life Ministries. Her hair was elegantly coiffed, and she wore a string of pearls with a tailored plum skirt suit and matching pumps. Whether she was garbed in designer clothes or her judge's robe, she was always the epitome of sophistication and class.

“Hey, Mom,” Brandon greeted her as she reached him and Cynthia.

“Hey, yourself.” Gwen embraced him warmly and kissed his cheek, then did the same to Cynthia before drawing back to look them over. Her dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction and approval. “You two make such a beautiful couple. I can't
wait
for your wedding day.”

Cynthia beamed. “That makes two of us, Mrs. Chambers.”

“You mean three,” Gwen corrected, deliberately smoothing a hand down Brandon's silver tie.

He gave her a brief smile before glancing around. “Good turnout.”

“Good? It's fantastic. We're all very pleased.”

The bustling lobby was filled with prominent politicians, business leaders, community activists, and clergymen of all faiths and denominations. Reporters roamed around interviewing attendees, snapping pictures, and feeding live coverage to their respective television stations. The event had been billed as a prayer breakfast, but everyone knew it was nothing more than a political forum to showcase Bernard Chambers's gubernatorial campaign—which was why he'd received the honor of delivering the keynote address.

“Where's Dad?” Brandon asked, scanning the crowd.

“He and Cynthia's parents are speaking with Bishop Jakes. You know he's doing the opening prayer. Anyway, I stepped away to track you and Cynthia down. I have several people I'd like you to meet.”

“Of course you do,” Brandon said wryly.

“Oh, hush.” His mother laughed, affectionately patting his cheek. “Thank you for showing up on time. I know I can't expect your brother and sister to do the same.”

“Just be glad they're coming,” Brandon drawled, knowing how much Beau and Brooke despised these social and political functions. He wasn't too crazy about them either, but he understood that they came with the territory when your last name was Chambers.

“Don't forget our holiday dinner at the governor's mansion tomorrow evening,” Gwen reminded Brandon. “Your father and I want you and Cynthia to ride with us to Austin.”

“We'd
love
to,” Cynthia gushed before Brandon could open his mouth.

Gwen smiled with pleasure. “We're all spending the night there and returning on Monday.”

Brandon shook his head. “Cynthia and I have to work on Monday.”

“No, you don't. Your father already cleared it with Mort.” Gwen was referring to Mort Chernoff, one of the firm's founding partners and Bernard's longtime friend.

Brandon frowned at his mother. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a child who needs a note from home to get out of going to school. I'm a grown man with a job and responsibilities—”

“Darling, the governor and his wife insisted that we spend the night at the mansion. It would be rude to refuse their hospitality. Besides—Oh, look, there's Congresswoman Lee.” Gwen smiled warmly and waved to an attractive black woman standing across the lobby. “I'm so glad Sheila was able to make it. Let me go say hello to her while you two mingle.” She patted their cheeks and smiled before moving off.

Brandon watched her leave, his eyes narrowed with annoyance.

“Your mother's right,” Cynthia said. “Turning down the governor's invitation
would
be rude.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Brandon muttered sarcastically.

“What?”

He glared at her. “Is there anything you and my mother
don't
agree on?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you and Gwen Chambers can bond all you want, but she's not the one you're marrying and coming home to every night, know what I'm saying?”

“No,” Cynthia said archly, “what
are
you saying?”

Brandon snorted. “It's not complicated, sweetheart, so I'll let you piece that one together. Oh, and last I checked, you're an associate at the firm and I'm a partner. So if I say we're going to work on Monday, guess where we're going?”

Cynthia smirked at him. “Pulling rank, are we?”

“Yup.” He cocked a brow, unapologetic.

She grumbled under her breath, “Someone's really smelling himself.”

Brandon smiled narrowly, satisfied that he'd put her ass in check. He'd deal with his mother later.

From across the lobby, someone called out a greeting to him, which he returned with a nod and a smile before murmuring to Cynthia, “Time to socialize.”

With Cynthia glued to his side, he moved through the crowd shaking hands, slapping backs, and making small talk with everyone who stopped him. Doing her best impersonation of Michelle Obama, Cynthia smiled charmingly, laughed at corny jokes, asked all the right questions and gave the right answers.

Eventually they made their way inside the grand banquet hall, where they were seated at the head table with their parents, T. D. Jakes and his wife, and other VIP attendees.

The catered breakfast featured a lavish selection of crêpes, eggs Benedict, French toast, omelets, and fresh fruits. Cynthia practically sat on Brandon's lap as she fed him forkfuls of food while her mother looked on with unconcealed delight. In contrast, Joseph Yarbrough watched them with a guarded expression, making it clear to Brandon that he hadn't completely forgiven him for abandoning his daughter at the altar.

Brandon knew he'd eventually have to make amends with the bishop, but right now it wasn't high on his list of priorities. Staying sane was.

During the opening remarks by some renowned rabbi, Brandon found his gaze wandering around the banquet hall. He spotted his brother and sister seated with other dignitaries at a nearby table.

Anyone observing Beau and Brooke's rapt expressions might have been fooled into thinking they were totally into what the esteemed rabbi was saying.

But Brandon knew better. Though he couldn't tell from this distance, he knew his siblings were texting each other back and forth beneath the linen-covered table.

When his own phone vibrated, he reached inside his pocket and discreetly pulled it out. He wasn't surprised to see a message from Beau.

Don't bore us to death when you get up there to speak.

Brandon smirked as he tapped out a reply. Just listen and learn, boy.

Beau wrote back. LOL.

Brandon smiled, returning his attention to the speaker.

Moments later he received another text.

Awww, look at you and wifey. Can't you just feel that chain tightening around your neck?

Brandon frowned, contemplating his brother's words.

Beau had the luxury of teasing Brandon about his pending nuptials because he didn't have to walk in his shoes. Beau would never carry the burden of being the firstborn. He'd never have to be the mature, responsible, dutiful son who nobly sacrificed his own needs and desires for some greater good. Beau's broad shoulders would never bear the full weight of their father's hopes, expectations, and dreams.

These thoughts ran through Brandon's mind as he sat there staring at his phone, anger and resentment welling inside him.

Fuck you
,
he typed back.

He watched as Beau received his acerbic reply and grinned, then leaned over to show the message to Brooke. She cupped a hand over her mouth to smother her laughter.

Brandon shook his head, dismissing them as he returned his attention to the phone. He was deleting Beau's obnoxious messages when the touch screen suddenly froze on him.

He frowned.

After several seconds he began pushing buttons, trying to reactivate the phone.

And then suddenly, without warning, there was Tamia.

Brandon sucked in a breath like he'd been punched in the gut.

It was a photo he'd taken of her that night in his office. She was lounging in his chair with her feet propped up on the desk, legs crossed at the ankles, wearing nothing but a sexy pair of stilettos.

Brandon swallowed tightly as he stared at the screen, his eyes tracing every inch of her smooth caramel skin, every curve of her luscious body. He felt himself drowning in her sultry beauty . . . her hypnotic gaze . . . her captivating smile.

God, that smile . . .

“What're you doing?” Cynthia hissed.

Brandon glanced up to find her glaring accusingly at Tamia's naked picture.

“Glitch,” he murmured by way of explanation.

Cynthia twisted her lips, giving him the side eye.

He reluctantly clicked off the photo, turned off the phone, and stuffed it back into his pocket. As the rabbi finished speaking, Brandon grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his mimosa, wishing it were Johnnie Walker.

Before long, Bishop Yarbrough was at the podium waxing eloquent about his friendship with Bernard Chambers. Then it was Brandon's turn to get up there and address the crowd before he introduced his father as the keynote speaker.

Standing at the podium, he spoke from his heart about the man who'd raised him. He described a relentless taskmaster who'd demanded excellence from him and pushed him to be the best, because all the money in the world could only take a black man so far. He fondly reminisced about sneaking into his father's study at night and climbing into his lap to hear stories about the ancestors who'd come before him. He called Bernard the guardian of the Chamber legacy, the anchor of his family, a faithful husband and a devoted father. He talked about his accomplishments as lieutenant governor, and he spoke passionately of Bernard's vision for unifying the people of Texas and leading them into an era of unprecedented economic prosperity.

Brandon delivered the speech without notes because the words were pouring out of him, springing from a well of deep conviction.

By the time he introduced his father, the audience was on its feet cheering and clapping loudly, his mother was dabbing tears from her eyes, and Cynthia was beaming from ear to ear. Even Beau and Brooke were visibly moved.

Bernard strode toward Brandon with a broad smile on his face, his eyes glowing with pride and adoration. As he and Brandon shared a strong hug, Bernard whispered in his ear, “Don't think all this excitement is for me. You're a natural, son. You had them eating out of the palm of your hand.”

Brandon merely smiled.

But then his father took to the podium and exhorted, “How about another round of applause for my wonderful son?”

The applause was thunderous. Almost deafening.

As Brandon looked out into the sea of smiling faces, he felt somewhat dazed.

His father winked at him.
Told you
, he mouthed.

Brandon couldn't get off the stage fast enough.