After Hours (11 page)

He'd promised to protect and take care of her, and he would.

D
ina sat in a deep armchair in Lance's library, reading. She was waiting for a call from the concierge that her driver had arrived to take her to West Orange for her interview. She'd decided to wear the same skirt and blouse she wore the first time she'd met with Karla King.

“What are you reading?”

Her head came up and she saw that Lance had come into the library. The plush pale gray carpeting had muffled the sounds of his footsteps. He hadn't gone into his office earlier that morning because of his dinner meeting. Much to her surprise, he'd prepared breakfast and served it on the terrace. As with the night before, there had been no conversation as they ate, for which she was grateful because it afforded her the opportunity to observe the man whom she regarded as her personal knight. He wouldn't let her clear away the dishes, insisting she relax. He'd suggested she watch television or listen to music, but she'd opted to read. Dina knew the above average grades she'd earned while in school had been because of her voracious appetite for reading. Whenever she opened a book, it was to escape and fantasize about the mothers and fathers who loved and protected their children.

She'd graduated from the chapter books to novels with glittering locales and glamorous people who loved and lived for the next thrill. She wanted to become one of the beautiful heroines dripping with furs and jewels who had men falling all over themselves to get to her. However, life didn't imitate art, because she'd become a “tricked-out ho” who pimped men for an ex-con with an ax to grind. She'd helped Payne Jefferson perpetuate his raison d'être but at the risk of losing her own life.

Placing the book on a side table, she rose to her feet. “It's one of your legal thrillers.”

Lance walked over to Dina, his gaze lingering on her face. He'd found her a chameleon. Today she looked like a corporate sophisticate with her tailored shirt and skirt, but the night before she'd reminded him of a little girl with her baggy shirt and bare feet. Carefully applied makeup accentuated her luminous eyes and sexy mouth. The coral color on her lips complemented the sun-browned darkness of her olive face.

“You look very nice.”

Dina's lids slipped down over her eyes. “Thank you. You look nice too, Lance, but…” Her words trailed off when she realized what she'd been about to say.

Lance glanced down at his tan shirt with a contrasting white collar and French cuffs. “What's the matter?”

She glanced up, her gaze softening. She tried imagining Lancelot Haynes as a little boy. She assumed he'd been warned to stay out of the sun because, instead of tanning, his redbone skin burned, turning him a lobster-red. And there was something about his perfectly round face that afforded him a soft, boyish look. But that's where it ended. When she'd sat on his lap the night before she'd felt the bulge between his thighs. It wasn't an all-out hard-on, but it was obvious that he had no problem achieving an erection.

“The color of your suit,” she explained. “It's wrong for your complexion.”

Lance glanced down at the trousers to his suit. The custom-made tan suit was one of his favorites. Reaching for his hand, she laced her fingers through his. “You look like a solid wall of taupe.”

“Come with me.”

Dina wasn't given time to react when Lance pulled her along with him as they left the library and walked into his bedroom. The Asian-designed master bedroom screamed masculinity, from the California king platform bed with black sheets and white comforter piped in black, to black, white and gray silk pillows in varying shapes and sizes. A rug repeated the color scheme with black Chinese symbols in large squares on a background of white.

He slid back the doors to a walk-in closet. Recessed lights illuminated the efficiently organized space. Laundered shirts in every hue occupied three shelves above slanted shelves for shoes ranging from patent leather dress to leather slip-ons. Suit and sports jackets were arranged according to color, as were slacks and trousers. Her gaze lingered on silk ties too numerous to count.

Lance extended his free hand. “Take your pick.”

Easing her hand from his gentle grasp, Dina walked over to the suits in shades of brown. She needed to select a suit that would complement his shirt with the white collar and his silk tie dotted with minute chocolate-brown-and-white checks.

Her fingers touched jacket after jacket until she turned and smiled at Lance. “This one would look better on you.” She'd chosen one in a warm henna-brown.

He took the jacket off the rod and held it up close to his face. It was perfect for his coloring. Her smile was dazzling. “It looks wonderful.”

“What do I do with the suit I'm wearing?”

“Give it to a men's shelter.”

A smile spread across Lance's face at the same time a bell chimed throughout the apartment. His smile vanished quickly. “That's the concierge.” He walked out of the closet and pressed a button on the wall in the bedroom. “Yes,” he said into the small speaker. “Yes, thank you. Your driver's here,” he said to Dina, who'd followed him. These were the times he regretted—having to leave her. She took a deep breath, causing his gaze to linger on the roundness of her breasts under her blouse.

“I'd better get my things and leave or I'll be late.”

“Call me and let me know how it went.”

She nodded. “I'll call you when I get back to the motel.”

“You don't have a cell phone?”

“No,” Dina said, lying yet again. She couldn't call Lance from her cell phone because her grandmother's name would come up on the display, and she didn't want to have to explain Dora Jenkins.

“Don't leave yet,” Lance said cryptically as he left the bedroom, Adina in pursuit. He retrieved a cell phone and punched in a series of numbers. Picking up a charger, he handed both to her. “Use this one. I just programmed in the numbers where you can contact me.”

“What will you use?”

He smiled a thin-lipped smile. “I have another one.”

Her eyebrows lifted questioningly. “Are you sure you don't need it?”

“Take it, Dina.” Leaning over, he kissed her cheek. “Good luck with your interview.”

Resting a hand on his smooth cheek, Dina rose to tiptoe and kissed him. “Thanks for everything.”

“Call me, Dina.”

She stared up him. “I will.”

Cupping her elbow, Lance walked her to the door, where she picked up her bag and purse. He stood with her in the elevator as it descended to the lobby; when the driver took her bag and escorted her to the car, he rode the elevator back to his apartment, closing the door softly behind him.

He'd spent almost twenty-four uninterrupted hours with Dina Gordon, and still it wasn't enough.

S
ybil Cumberland stood in the doorway to her private office, waiting for Dina Gordon.
I'm going to hire her as sure as my name is Sybil Bernadette Johnson-Cumberland,
she thought.

A knowing smile found its way across Sybil's face with Dina's approach. She didn't know what it was about the young woman who'd arrived—on time—for her interview, but instinctively Sybil knew she'd hit the mother lode. Her male clients would love Dina.

Maybe it was her sexy slightly bow-legged walk, her perfect legs in a pair of high-heel pumps, her tiny curvy body or the too beautiful exotic-looking face, but she knew adding the petite woman to her staff would impact the business appreciably. Whether it was food, decor, centerpieces or waitstaff, it all came down to one thing: presentation.

Everything had to be dramatic, eye-appealing, and there was no doubt that Dina Gordon was eye candy of the finest quality. Now, if she could present as well as she looked, then SJC Catering will have hit the jackpot.

Extending her hand, Sybil gave Dina a warm smile. “Hello, Dina, I'm Sybil Cumberland.”

Dina returned the chef's smile with a friendly one of her own. She took her hand. She didn't know what to expect or how a female chef was suppose to look because all those on the Food Network ranged from stick-thin to full and curvy. Sybil wore a black tunic over a pair of black pin-striped pants. She broke up the somber color with a pair of bright yellow leather clogs. Her hair, pulled off her face in a ponytail, was so blue-black it looked dyed. The light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose was the only color in her bare face. With a little makeup and a new do, Sybil Cumberland was certain to garner her share of male attention.

“Dina Gordon.”

Sybil's smile vanished quickly as she eased her fingers from Dina's firm grip. Dina's voice was low, smoky, belying her age. She remembered her mother's voice, which was low enough for her to be mistaken for a man because of a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit. Her mother smoked and her father drank excessively—addictions she abhorred.

“Have you had dinner, Dina? I hope you don't mind if I call you Dina. I deal with enough formality when conferring with my clients.”

Dina hesitated, staring at Sybil Cumberland in confusion. She'd come to interview for a position, not eat. “No, I don't mind. And, no, I haven't,” she said truthfully. Lance had offered to prepare lunch for her, but she'd been too anxious to eat.

“What would you like?”

“What are my choices?”

Sybil's face was impassive. Dina's query told her a lot about her. She was cautious. “You can have fish, chicken, beef, lamb or pork.”

Dina glanced at the chef's hands. She wasn't wearing any rings. “I'd like the fish, Ms. Cumberland.”

“Will grilled red snapper do?” Sybil asked.

Dina nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Sybil extended her hand. “Please come with me.”

Dina followed Sybil down a narrow hallway to a set of double doors and into an enormous gleaming stainless-steel industrial kitchen. Pots, pans and cooking utensils hung from overhead racks, while steam from a tall pot on a stove top filled the space with a mouthwatering aroma. A tall black man stood at a large double sink, spraying water from a retractable hose over a colander filled with spinach leaves.

Adina had never been interviewed, so she didn't know what to expect. Were all potential bosses as informal as Sybil Cumberland? Did she treat all applicants the same by offering to feed them? Or was she being tested? She waited while Sybil whispered something to the man; he nodded in agreement.

Sybil returned to Dina. “We'll eat and talk over there.” She pointed to an alcove at the opposite end of the kitchen with a round table and four chairs.

“I'm sure you're wondering why I'm interviewing you in the kitchen,” Sybil said once they were seated.

Dina gave her a direct look. “Yes, I am. I've never been interviewed in a kitchen. No, let me correct that—I've never been on an interview before.”

A flicker of one black eyebrow was the only indication of Sybil's response to the younger woman's disclosure. “I interview all applicants in the kitchen because I want them to see up close and personal what they're going to have to deal with. The kitchen is the heartbeat of every restaurant and catering business. It's hot and it's noisy. There are chefs screaming at one another, waitstaff and busboys. You'll have to be on your toes at all times. In other words, don't bother to come in if you don't intend to bring your A game. Do I make myself understood?”

Dina nodded. “I understand.”

Sybil flashed what could pass for a smile. “It's against the law to ask you your age, but I'm going to do it anyway. How old are you, Dina?”

“I'm twenty-seven.”

“You're twenty-seven and you don't have any work experience?”

“Yes, I've worked, but not at a traditional job.”

“What I can ask is if you've ever been convicted of a felony?”

A smile stole its way across Dina's face. “No convictions
and
no arrests.”

Sybil gave Dina a long, penetrating stare. “I'm going to need you to complete an application for employment. If what you put down is proven to be false, then I can and will let you go without warning.”

Some basic instinct for self-preservation seized Dina. There was no way she could fast-talk or con Sybil Cumberland into hiring her. She had to be straight or get up and walk out.

“I need a job, Ms. Cumberland. I also need an apartment, a legal address so I can apply for a social security card and a driver's license. I'm currently living in a motel in Irvington, and although it's not the Waldorf-Astoria, the room rate is eating away my savings. I have no experience working in a restaurant, but I'm a quick learner and I work well with other people. You don't have to worry about me being late, because I'm always on time. I don't smoke or drink, so you—”

“Enough, Dina,” Sybil said, cutting off her passionate plea. “I'd go to church if I wanted to hear a sermon.” The brown color in the hazel eyes disappeared, leaving them a cold, frosty green. “Is that your hair or are you wearing a piece?” she asked, knowing she'd startled Dina when her eyes widened.

Dina touched the coil of hair she'd secured with pins on the nape of her neck. “It's mine.”

Sybil nodded. “Good. When you come to work, I want you to wear it down and in a ponytail. The first time I see you with a matronly bun, you're out. I'm going to hire you to check coats because right now I have nothing else.”

Biting down on her lower lip to still its trembling, Dina whispered a silent prayer of thanks. “But it's almost the summer, Ms. Cumberland. Will people still need coat check?”

Sybil's small mouth tightened into a hard line. “Do you or don't you want to work, Dina? Don't forget that you're meeting with me today because I'm doing it as a favor for Karla King.”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, I do want to work for you.”

The seconds ticked off as the two women regarded each other. Dina was the first to drop her gaze. Sybil's glare softened noticeably. “Now that we've resolved that misunderstanding, I'll give you some background on SJC Catering.”