Bittersweet Chocolate (20 page)

“Boss, there’s more. Her father’s notoriety isn’t a secret. In his community, he’s well known, but no one can, or will say what that entails. People won’t talk about, or tangle with him.”

“Mob?”

“Can’t be proven, and no law enforcement agency has him on file. But he works for an Italian construction company,” Miguel remarked. “Go figure.”

“Damn. Gangbanger, father to be reckoned with...hell yeah, your charge will benefit from a relationship with Marissa,” Cuervo insisted. “I like what I’m hearing, and I trust your instincts. Unless something starts to seem out of sync, let the relationship progress naturally. Keep me posted.” He pressed the button and disconnected.

Eleven years later

What the hell am I doing here?

The Solo Lounge―could the name be more ironic. No one came there to be alone. Look at them. Men lined up on one side, women on the other. If the temperature dropped a few degrees, the only things missing would be meat hooks and rotating racks.

Marissa glanced around the room, shaking her head, disgusted with herself.

Why did she let Craig browbeat her into coming there? More to the point, what happened to Vi, who promised to meet Marissa there, and should have arrived first. Hell, Vi was the reason Marissa knew Craig.

Vi had introduced them, thought they would connect, and they did, but not the way Vi had imagined. Why Vi kept trying to hook her up with white men, Marissa couldn’t fathom. Vi knew the era they had grown up in continued to influence Marissa’s social conduct.

True, the taboos about segregation had clouded over the years, but hadn’t totally vanished. Conversely, of all the white men she’d met and dated, Craig—damn sexy and intelligent—could have converted her, and for him, she tried to overcome the conflict. Craig had been well worth the effort, and she blamed herself for the failure. She just couldn’t shake the
crossing the line
mentality, which kept her from getting emotionally involved with white men. Or God hadn’t made one who could jumpstart her pulse into permanency.

Girl, quit.

Okay, she had to stop blaming her lack of emotion on the male Caucasian population. What she had to do was acknowledge she hadn’t felt deeply about any man, black or white, since her final disastrous years in Philly. Something in her was missing. Even though she and Craig never clicked the way Vi had hoped, they had become good friends.

Marissa continued to look around the room. She appeared to be the only black woman there, again. All right, she did promise, so she’d at least stay for one drink, then she was out of—
damn it, what’s up with this.

Seeing Craig bearing down on her, she braced herself for another inane introduction. She fixed him with a level stare as he neared her table with one of his friends in tow, another white man. Craig was sweet, but he didn’t have a clue. He liked black women, heck, he liked all women, and he refused to admit all white men weren’t like him. When would these pointless overtures stop? He and Vi seemed to be competing to set her up. Did she look desperate?

Well hell...smile.

“Marissa. I’m glad you came. I’d like you to meet a friend,” Craig said, happily unaware his friend’s face had become a mask of desperation, little beady eyes looking anywhere but at her. “Donald Hughes, this is Marissa Wells, a good friend and colleague.”

She gave Donald a slow appraising glance, wanted to laugh, but refrained. He wouldn’t last any longer than it took Craig to make it back across the floor. If Donald lasted more than her usual standard of three seconds, and that was on the slow count, she’d stay until closing.

Mustering about as much enthusiasm as she had for a root canal, she mumbled, “Hi.”

“Hey girl, you don’t have a drink,” Craig remarked, subtle as ever. “I’ll go get you one.”

She wanted to laugh at his blatant attempt at matchmaking, like eventually a waiter wouldn’t come along, but she wouldn’t discourage him from leaving. The sooner Craig left, the sooner his friend would be out of there. She’d relax, enjoy her drink, and listen to the music. Definitely a win-win situation, since she had that bet with herself. Trying to keep the amusement from her voice, she remarked, “Thanks, Craig, I think I’m going to need a drink. I’ll have a whiskey sour.”

Craig nodded and walked away.

One. Two. Three.

“Excuse me, uh...Marissa. There’s a friend at the bar I need to speak to,” the Donald person mumbled and scurried away.

She grinned and watched him until he became lost in the crowd. That settled it. She’d leave as soon as she finished her drink.

Craig returned, seemed to recognize her smirk for what it was, and grouched, “Okay, what was wrong...what’d you do to him?”

“Craig—”

“Oh no, miz thang, I know how you get,” he said with a straight face he couldn’t maintain, and burst out laughing. “Sorry, I really thought he would be different. You win.”

“Well. Thank. You. Maybe you and Vi will quit with the matchmaking. I’m not looking for anyone at this time.”

Eyes narrowing, he regarded her for several seconds before he begrudgingly replied, “Okay! Will you be all right by yourself while I make the rounds?”

“Craig, pul-
lease,
go. If I’m not here when you get back...”

He kissed her mouth. “At least finish your drink. This is not happy hour. That cost me.”

“Go. I promise I’ll finish my drink.”

Marissa watched with admiration as he worked the room like a politician during election year. From time to time, he’d stop at a table for a few minutes, his five-foot-ten-inch muscular frame bending solicitously to speak to friends, mostly women. She watched muscles ripple beneath a fine, tailor-made shirt, her gaze traveling downward to the enticing view of a tight ass and long legs. For a moment she felt a twinge of regret that she couldn’t make it work with him.

Her gaze remained on him until he sat down. Turning her attention to the dance floor, patting her foot to the rhythmic beat of the music, she watched the dancers. She loved music, and loved to dance—
shh-yit
―now she was thinking like a personal column ad. Did that mean she needed to get out more, or less?

Leaning back, she relaxed, sipped her drink, and scanned the room. A sudden flash of light illuminated the entrance and drew her attention. Four young black women, dressed in snazzy nine-to-five outfits, stepped inside and stood poised in front of the closed doors, looking around, then moved off toward the bar.

Marissa had started to turn back to the dance floor, but once again light flooded the entrance. A man stood in the entryway, a silhouette outlined by the luminescent backdrop. Mmm...over six feet, with long legs encased in fitted jeans, narrow waist, and a broad chest―nice. Her pulse quickened and she moistened her lips. Even from a distance, she could feel the sensual pull of his presence and couldn’t take her gaze off him.

The door closed behind him and he stepped out of the shadows. Her lips curled in disgust, and she angrily turned away. Hands trembling, heart tripping, she looked down at her drink, willing herself not to look at him again.

What was her problem? It wouldn’t work, not with her. She never managed it before. First Carl, then Craig, and no matter how hard she tried to get her feelings involved with Craig, it never happened.
Maybe Craig knows him. Listen to you.
Hell, why was she considering it, when even if they were introduced―
he’s white.

Oh yeah, she knew the routine, but she couldn’t resist looking again. He stood there, looking around, apparently searching for someone. His glance slanted across her face, and for a moment their gazes locked. An unparalleled surge of desire rocked her senses. She couldn’t recall the last time any man made her feel that way, with just a look.

For a second she closed her eyes, reopened them and shifted her position, turning her back on him.

* * * *

Tristan Corbett stood at the entrance, peering into the dimness, scanning the room. Damn it! Where was Craig? Why had he let Craig browbeat him into coming there? These get-togethers always ended with Craig trying to foist some woman on him. Hell, he was only twenty-seven. He had occasional dates, and he was content with his life as is. He had no interest in meeting anyone or even short-term commitment. Oh yeah, Craig always assured him it would be a bunch of men getting together for a drink.

Well hell, he liked music, and did like to dance. He’d have one drink, and leave.

Tristan continued to scan the room. His glance briefly touched on a woman sitting alone near the door, immediately came back, and their gazes converged. A spark of sexual awareness made him quickly turn away. By the time he looked at her again, her attention seemed focused on the dance floor. Just as well. In his neck of the woods, people kept to their kind, so to speak. Perhaps he imagined that spark of awareness.

Annoyed with himself, he returned to scanning the room and saw Craig approaching.

“Hey, Tristan, glad you came. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Tristan groaned as they shook hands. “Come on, Craig, not tonight.”

“Just say hello, have a drink, then it’s up to you. Okay?”

Voice an unenthusiastic monotone, he mumbled, “Yeah, which one?”

Craig laughed. “Hey, it’s not that bad.”

“That’s what you always say. If she’s so wonderful, why aren’t you with her?”

“Hey, man, I tried. We didn’t connect.”

“Great.” Muttering under his breath as he trailed behind Craig, Tristan’s verbal self-abuse came to a halt when he noticed the direction they were taking. His pulse quickened and his breathing developed a hitch as they neared her table. He couldn’t stop staring.

She had long hair, brushed away from arresting features. Swept up into what looked like an elaborate ponytail, her hair cascaded down the back of her head in soft waves, stopping just below her shoulders. Damn, he’d like to know the feel of that, and the taste of her full, sensuous mouth, and pursed lips inviting kisses. Heart tripping and palms sweaty, his cheeks warmed and the fit of his jeans became uncomfortable, biting into sensitive flesh.

Inherent beliefs warred with sensual reality. He felt like a heretic.

* * * *

She glanced up, saw Craig approaching, and a soft groan escaped her lips. Not another one of his—her train of thought derailed when she glimpsed the man behind Craig. Heat strafed her cheeks and she tried to calm her racing pulse. Why get excited, she knew this scenario. After the introduction, the man would wait her prerequisite three seconds and leave.

Damn it, why him, the first man in a long time who made her feel alive. No, he was the first man who made her feel, just looking at him. Why did he have to be white?

Grin shameless, Craig said, “Hey, sweetheart, I want you to meet a friend. Tristan Corbett, this is Marissa Wells.”

She wanted to slap Craig. Instead, she resigned herself, extended her hand, and waited for the usual sissified handshake where the man barely grabbed two of her fingers, for a second.

“Hello, Marissa.”

She gave a start of surprise when Tristan clasped her hand in a firm grip, cupping it warmly with his other hand. Not only willing to touch her, but he held on, and
ooo,
his voice―a mellow baritone with a slight southern inflection, way too sexy for her peace of mind.

Distracted by Tristan’s mesmerizing fine self, she’d forgotten Craig’s presence, until the ostentatious clearing of his throat drew her attention. Realizing Tristan still held her hand while she candidly stared into his eyes, she eased her hand from his grasp. Her subdued hello preceded Craig’s laughter, and she turned away from both men. After suggesting Tristan sit down, Craig left, and she struggled to contain her temper. Teeth clenched, she started the ritual countdown.

One. Two. Three.

She glanced over her shoulder and received her second shock of the evening. Soul-stirring happiness made her smile more broadly than she’d intended. Across the table, Tristan regarded her with a quizzical expression, no doubt trying to figure out her contradictory behavior.

First she appeared interested, hand trembling while he’d held it, then callously she turned her back on him when he released his hold. Now she sat there staring at him with a goofy-ass smile. What should he make of that? Hell, her actions confused her. If the man had any sense, he’d run, get as far away from her as possible.

Instead he returned her smile, stood, and extended his hand. “Want to dance?”

Dumbfounded, for several seconds she stared at his outstretched hand before glancing up into his eyes. What she saw there, the promise, the intent—she grinned, put her hand into his, and stood. Halfway across the floor, she realized the fast rhythm had morphed into a slow tempo, and silly adolescent memories flooded her mind...sweaty palms, sweaty face. She considered pulling back, but baser instincts kicked in, overriding good judgment. The man’s body had it going on and she had an overwhelming urge to make contact.

Tristan swept her into his arms, their bodies merged, the intimate contact unbelievable—no, unnatural. She couldn’t get enough of touching him. Beneath the cover of his leather jacket, she smoothed her hands up and down his back, feeling corded muscles, and heat radiating through his shirt.

Damn, he smells good.

If they hadn’t been in public...hell, overruling common sense, not to mention long-standing uncertainty with white men, she wasn’t about to let the possibilities end with one dance. And she wasn’t too proud to do the asking.

He could only say no.

* * * *

The contradictions were baffling.

For him, the casual handshake had sent a surge of sexual desire along his nerve endings, and he’d thought she’d felt the same. But she’d snatched her hand from his grasp, retreated behind an icy façade of indifference, and ignored him. Curious, while he’d continued to study her, she had looked back at him with such an infectious smile he couldn’t resist a need for closer inspection.