Can't Stand the Heat (18 page)

Hank nodded, looking a little crestfallen, and walked toward her front door. As he did, she noticed that he was walking funny. Maybe she had overdone it a little with the spanking, but, hey, he had seemed to enjoy himself. She wasn't sure how he was going to explain those red welts that were probably on his ass to his wife, but that wasn't really Stephanie's problem.

Hank opened the front door and turned one last time to gaze at her. He gave a half smile. “Really, Stephanie, thank you for that. You don't know how much—”

“Don't mention it,” she said, waving a hand at him dismissively.

He stepped through the door into the August night and closed her front door behind him. Stephanie locked her deadbolt and sighed. She had definitely done her good deed for the day.

She didn't know why Lauren and everyone else in this town knocked her lifestyle so much. Gold diggers like herself were performing a public service. Hell, she was a damn goodwill ambassador! Who
else
was going to spank cheating husbands until it put a smile back on their faces, until they were willing to go back home to their wives to give their unhappy marriages another try?

With that she walked back to her bedroom to repaint her toenails.

“I think I'll go with fire engine red,” she said. “That's right. Red for Mistress Stephanie.”

C
ris slowly trudged down the steps to his foyer when he heard his doorbell ring. Even though he had been looking forward to seeing Lauren all week, he suspected he wouldn't be much company. For the past several days, he had been in a dark mood and unable to shake it.

He hadn't talked to Jamal since their spat at the country club. He had picked up the phone to call his friend several times, only to hang up.

Jamal should be the one calling
me, he thought angrily.
Jamal should be the one apologizing!

After all, Cris had only been standing up for Lauren. If Jamal knew what James had done to her, he would have been rushing to her defense, too. Cris was certain of it. But Jamal had disappointed him. Instead of having his back, instead of taking his word first—without question, Jamal had turned on him and taken James's side instead.

“Which is just bullshit,” Cris murmured as he walked across his marble floors to his French doors.

Compared to Cris, James was practically a stranger. James Sayers hadn't been Jamal's friend for more than fifteen years. That smug bastard hadn't played interference with Jamal's angry dates when Jamal forgot he had double booked, nor had he given Jamal the dire warning three years ago to check the neck of the hot club beauty who later turned out to be a transvestite! James hadn't driven Jamal home when he got so drunk he had puked on himself, subsequently messing up the newly vacuumed interior of Cris's Jeep Cherokee, and James damn sure wouldn't have Jamal's back in a fistfight, as Cris had on more than one occasion!

James hadn't done and wouldn't do
any
of those things, which is why Cris was so pissed. He had been a loyal friend to Jamal for many years. All he asked for was the same loyalty in return.

Cris opened the front door and was greeted by Lauren's smile.

“Hey,” she said cheerfully.

He rarely saw her out of her chef's clothes, but tonight she had on a white T-shirt, a short denim skirt that more than flattered her figure, and flat silver sandals. Her hair was down, cascading around her face and lightly brushing her shoulders. She was holding a cake box against her chest.

“Hey, beautiful,” he replied softly, ushering her inside. As her eyes scanned his face, her smile disappeared. “Are you all right?” He shut the door behind her and then took the box out of her hands.

He nodded, giving his best imitation of a smile. “Sure, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?”

He leaned down, linked an arm around her waist, and kissed her. Her lips were buttery soft and coconut sweet. He wanted to taste more, but she abruptly pulled her mouth away before he could.

“You're going to crush the cake,” she muttered with a giggle, pointing down at the box. She studied him again. “Cris, you really don't look fine. In fact, you look mad as all hell.”

“Why would I be mad?”

“That's a good question. I guess you'll tell me eventually.”

“So are you finally going to tell me what's wrong?” she asked, plopping beside him, tucking a foot beneath her bottom.

Cris let out a tired sigh.

They were sitting on one of the leather couches in the great room and had just settled in to watch a movie on the plasma-screen television. Slices of the whipped-cream-and-strawberry-covered shortcake she had baked sat on the coffee table, waiting to be devoured. Cris wasn't in the mood to talk, to rehash what had happened between him and Jamal. He wanted to eat his damn cake and enjoy his woman's company. But it seemed Lauren wouldn't let the issue drop.

“I told you that it's nothing.”

Lauren reached for the remote control beside him. She pressed a button and muted the television. “And I told you that you're full of it. I haven't known you for that long, Cris, but I think I've known you long enough to sense when you're acting differently.” She raised a hand to his face and lightly rubbed his cheek. She gave a small smile. “You can talk to me.”

“It's only going to piss you off, too.”

“So what? I've got a thick skin.”

He hesitated. “Fine, if you really want to know. . . . Look, I ran into your ex-boyfriend last week at the country club.”

Lauren's lips instantly tightened. “I see.” She closed her eyes. “So I'm guessing James said something to you.”

“Of course he did. Assholes like that can never keep their mouths shut. There was a lot of shit-talking on his part, but I stood up for you.”

Lauren opened her eyes and smiled. She squeezed his arm. “Thank you.”

“You don't have to thank me. I wasn't going to let him talk about you like that, not while I was there anyway. He was only seconds away from getting his ass whupped, but . . . a friend of mine who's a member of the country club, who is sort of friends with James, didn't respond too well. He said I embarrassed him.”

Lauren frowned.

“But you know what, to hell with him! Jamal and I have known each other long enough—nineteen years—that he should have had my back! If this ends our friendship, so be it.”

“I didn't mean to cause a rift between you and your friend, Cris. Are you sure you two can't work this out?”

“What is there to work out? Men aren't like women, Lauren. We aren't fighting one day and best friends the next. That's not in our makeup. It's certainly not in mine. It's not in Jay's, either.”

She tilted her head as she gazed up at him. “But if you've been close friends for
nineteen years,
Cris, that's more than just any friendship. He's kind of like a brother to you, isn't he? The crap you put up with from family isn't the same as what you would put up with from just any friend.”

Cris considered her words. Perhaps that's why he was taking this so hard. He and Jamal had grown up very differently. They had vastly different personalities. But he thought he had a strong enough bond with Jamal that they were kind of like brothers.

“You know, I really hate my sisters sometimes. And I mean
hate
—with a passion. Cynthia was at my apartment a few days ago, barking orders at me. She's been bossing us around since we were little. Stephanie can act like such a selfish princess sometimes and that drives me crazy. Dawn is the smart one, but she can be just as cynical as Cynthia. Some days I think if I could get as far away from them as possible, I'd be
so
happy.” She laughed. “But I love them, Cris, and they love me, too. For every bad side to them, there's a good side. Cynthia may be bossy, but she's also strong-willed and loyal to her family. Stephanie can be selfish, but she can also be sweet and kind when you need her. Dawn swears she knows everything, but I've seen her open her heart before. If I could put up with all their crap and still see what's good in them, in their core—you can definitely make up with Jamal. He doesn't sound half as messed up as they are.”

“What if I don't want to make up with him. Maybe I think he should come to me first.”

“Then men are more like women than you think.”

She leaned over and kissed him. As their lips met, Cris felt a familiar stirring in the pit of his belly. Their eyelids lowered. He opened his lips and so did she. She linked her arms around his neck as their tongues delved into one another's mouths, as she pulled his bottom lip between her teeth. Before he knew it, their sweet kiss had morphed into something a lot hotter.

Cris grunted hungrily as he lifted her from the couch and dragged her onto his lap. She adjusted, swinging one leg over the other side of him so that she was now straddling his waist. When he felt her pelvis grind into his hardened manhood, it was all he could do not to rip off her panties right then and there, part her legs, and enter the slick wetness in between her thighs. But Cris held back. He didn't want to rush this. He wanted to savor the moment: the smell of her, the feel of her against his fingertips, and the taste of her. He had to take his time.

He pushed up her T-shirt and tugged it over her head, revealing the red lace bra underneath. He quickly undid the clasps behind her back and pushed the bra aside, cupping one breast, squeezing it gently. He lowered his mouth to one of the nipples and she threw back her head and moaned.

He raised the hem of her denim skirt and felt her tense for the first time as his fingers began to explore past the elastic waistband of her silk underwear. He tested the moistness there, teasing her clit with his fingertips while sucking on her breasts. She breathed in sharply and her hands went from being wrapped around his shoulders to gripping the back of the couch. Her fingernails sank into the supple leather upholstery. He began to massage the wetness as he kissed her and her hips began to twist and buck, meeting his strokes. Oh, she was ready. He could tell. Now if only he could keep her going before she threw on the brakes again.

When Cris slipped two fingers inside her, Lauren breathed sharply, opening her eyes. She looked down at him with a heady gaze. The gyrations of her hips became swifter. Minutes later she started to moan against his lips and he took that as his cue. Using his fingers wasn't enough. He wanted to be inside her. He shifted Lauren from his lap to the couch's cushions where she laid back. Just as he pulled down the zipper of his jeans and nestled between her thighs, he felt her push hard against his chest.

“Cris, stop,” she murmured against his lips. “It's too soon.”

Cris raised himself to his elbows and gazed down at her with panting breath.
“Huh?
You're not ready yet? Want me to go down on you?”

If it meant getting her in the mood, he'd happily “dive” right in.

She laughed. “I don't think my body could take that right now if you did,” she answered, breathing hard. “No . . . it's too . . . soon. All of it! I can't . . . I can't do this.”

He gazed at her in disbelief.
“What?”

She pushed at his chest again. “Get up.”

He did as she asked, begrudgingly. He sat up and went to the other side of the couch and watched as she pushed down her skirt and put her bra back on.

“Look, in the old days, I would do it,” she said, reaching for her shirt. “I would have been all over you
weeks
ago, but I'm different now.”

“How different?”

“Different enough that I know you can't use sex to get a man, to convince him to care about you.”

“But you've
already
got me, Lauren!” he shouted, then paused, pushing down his frustration. “I care about you. You know that. You don't have to convince me of a damn thing!”

“Yes, I do. I have to convince you that you're different . . . and I can't do that if I give it up this soon.” She sighed. “Look, I'm not trying to play mind games, Cris. I'm done with that, but I think you'll respect me, you'll
understand
me more, if we wait a little longer.”

He slowly shook his head. “Well, how much longer are we talking?”

She hesitated, then shrugged at him helplessly.

“Well, when you figure it out, tell me. I want to mark it on my damn calendar,” he mumbled, adjusting the front of his pants.

T
hree days later, Lauren stepped onto the cracked cement and into the warm August sun. She let the kitchen's steel door slam shut behind her as she strolled into the cooler shadows of the alleyway.

Phillip was the only other one out there. He was smoking a cigarette and lounging back against the alley's soot-covered brick wall. The lit cigarette now hung limply from the side of his mouth.

Lauren leaned against the wall beside him. She gazed up at him quizzically. “Should you be smoking?”

“Probably not.”

“You're only going to make yourself sick again.”

He glanced down at her. “So you're a sous chef
and
a nurse, huh?”

They had just finished the morning prep and were appreciating the couple of coveted hours before the lunch rush began. Lauren had told Cris yesterday that she would try to sneak to his house to spend some time together if she could. She badly wanted to. She had been so busy for the last couple of days that she hadn't seen him since that night when they had come dangerously close to having sex on his great room's couch.

“You say that like it's a bad thing,” a voice in her head mocked.

Well, it is,
she thought indignantly. Gold diggers were easy. Girlfriends were not, she resolved. If it meant her being celibate for a few more weeks, so be it.

“That thinking's a bit antiquated, isn't it?” the voice in her head replied.

Maybe,
Lauren thought. But so far she had stuck to all the other rules of her new life, her new self. She couldn't just ignore this one because of her raging hormones.

“Walk with me,
chérie
,” Phillip said, breaking into the bubble of her thoughts. “It's too nice of a day to be standing back here with a bunch of stinky Dumpsters.”

She followed him out of the alleyway onto Main Street. It was teeming with people this close to lunch hour and she and Phillip quickly blended into the crowd.

“So how do you like working here?” Phillip suddenly inquired as they walked along the sidewalk. “I haven't scared you too much with my crazy ways, have I?”

“Do you really have to ask? I
love
working here, Phillip. You know being a chef has always been my dream. I don't mind the long hours, the burns, and the cuts. It's totally worth it.”

“I thought you would love it. The first day I met you, you had that hungry look. I know it when I see it. But in the beginning, I wondered if you could hack it. Out of all the people who applied for the line-cook job, you definitely were the most green.”

“So . . . why did you hire me?” she asked cautiously. Part of her was scared to hear what he was going to say, but the question was already out there.

Phillip blew a cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth. “Because I thought you were talented. I still do. A lot of people can learn how to cook, go to fancy schools, and mimic technique, but it takes true talent and skill to be a great chef,
chérie
. When you came to my house with that platter, I knew you had the potential in you. And . . .” He paused, tapping his cigarette so that the ashes fell onto the concrete. “I don't like people tellin' me what I should and shouldn't do. Phillip Rochon don't take orders like some errand boy.”

“Huh? Who tried to give you orders?”

“That ex-boyfriend of yours.”

Lauren stopped walking, wondering if she'd heard Phillip correctly. “My ex-boyfriend? You mean
James?”

“The one and only.” They started to walk again. “I guess he found out that you were tryin' to get the line-cook position at my restaurant. I don't know how he found out, but he did. He came strollin' in one day with his big talk.” Phillip sneered. “He told me that it would be ‘in my best interests' not to hire someone like you. He said you had a bad reputation around town, that you were an ‘unsavory character.' He said you took money from him.”

“I didn't take his money! He's a damn liar! He
gave
me that money! I was just stupid enough to . . . to . . .”

Her words drifted off. She glared at her feet with anger and humiliation. Her face felt like it was on fire.

James had actually gone to Phillip to slander her, to try to keep her from getting hired? The hate she now felt for her ex-boyfriend she couldn't put into words. She wished he would just leave her alone. Why did he keep lingering, haunting her like a malevolent phantasm? She finally took a deep, calming breath and tore her gaze from the sidewalk.

“Phillip, look, I'm . . . I'm sorry for that. If you want to know the truth, I did accept his money. But it's not like I stole it from him. He gave it to me freely because he”—her cheeks warmed again—“because he got something in return. I'm not proud of it, but—”

Phillip waved his hand. “You don't have to explain it to me,” he assured mercifully. “That's your business. It ain't got anything to do with me, and I told him as much. I said what people do at home behind closed doors don't make a bit of difference in why I hire them to work in my kitchen. I don't hire junkies and I don't hire drunks, but everything else doesn't matter. I'm certainly no angel. That's for sure! I don't have room to judge.”

Phillip took another drag from his cigarette. He blew out the smoke through his nostrils.

“Well, that's when your ex-boyfriend upped the ante. He said he could make it worth my while if I would just
forget
your resume, pretend like I never saw it. I let him show me the check. It was for fifteen thousand dollars. He went through the whole production of sliding it across the table. He thought he had got me then, but I shoved the check back at him and said I'm my own man. I have my own money. Nobody buys me and nobody sure as hell tells me what to do. And I didn't like how eager he was about the whole thing. I felt like if I took the check, I would be making a deal with the devil.”

“He's not the devil,” Lauren mumbled as they passed another Main Street storefront, “but he's probably as close as you can get to it here on Earth.”

“Well, I'm glad he pissed me off enough to hire you. I didn't do it just to spite him,” Phillip quickly added, “but he certainly made me want to give you a chance. I hate smug sons of bitches like him.”

“Thank you for being strong enough to stand up to him, Phillip.”

“Oh, don't worry about it,
chérie
.” He waved his hand again. “I hope your new man is a lot better than the last one, though.”

“He's light years ahead of James, Phillip. There's no comparison between the two.”

“Glad to hear it.” He let his cigarette hang out the side of his mouth. “Because I don't need another man comin' along tryin' to bribe me. I wouldn't bother with pleasantries this time. I'd just kick him out on his ass.”

She laughed.

They continued to walk down Main Street, both falling into a silent reverie as a cool breeze briefly abated the sweltering heat, allowing them to appreciate their surroundings.

Lauren had walked this street so many times in the past thirty years that she could close her eyes and still see it: the two-story brick fronts, the perfectly trimmed bushes, the oversized ceramic flowerpots filled with pansies and marigolds by the glass front doors, and the old-fashioned streetlamps. Feldman's Ice Cream Shop was still at the intersection of Main Street and Poplar Avenue with the “Flavor of the Day” advertised on the washable board in front. Across the street was Mimi's Coffee Shop and next door was Exquisite Florist. A block down was a bridal shop with the same three wigless mannequins in the windows. Only the bridal dress fashions varied from year to year.

Lauren's eyes drifted to an antique store that had opened a few years ago. Old furniture wasn't really her thing, so she had never been inside the establishment, but it was nice to see something new on Main Street. She glanced at the window and then suddenly did a double take. She stopped and stared. Her eyes scanned the cherrywood Queen Anne secretary writing desk and chair in the center of the window display of wares and furniture. She thought she recognized the set. It looked eerily similar to a desk and chair set that her mother owned. It was almost uncanny. She wanted to take a closer look.

“Phillip, I'm going to take a little detour,” she mumbled distractedly, making him frown.

“Everything all right?”

“Oh, everything's fine. I just want to check out something.” She finally tore her gaze away from the window. “I'll catch you later, OK?”

“All right,
chérie
.”

She waited for a car to go through the intersection before crossing the street. As she drew closer to the store window, she realized it wasn't her imagination. The writing desk and chair were definitely her mother's. She could tell for sure by the pattern on the upholstered seat, the gold stitched roses and the red and navy blue stripes. But why would her mother's furniture be in a store window? Her eyes then shifted to an English grandfather clock at the other end of the window display. It also looked familiar: the mahogany case, the brass arch dial, and the rolling moon phases. She wasn't as sure about it, but it
could
be her mother's clock.

Lauren opened the antique store's front door. A bell rang overhead as she entered. She hesitated, frozen on the green WELCOME mat. The shop was dark and slightly dusty with a mothball and wood varnish smell that she always associated with old things. There was a heavy oak desk and an old-fashioned wooden cash register toward the front of the store, but no salesperson stood behind the desk. In fact, no one else seemed to be in the store but her.

“Hello,” Lauren called out, her voice echoing in the silent room. “Hello?”

She stood awkwardly at the entrance, unsure whether to tap the brass bell by the cash register or turn and leave. Suddenly, an older white man with tufts of thinning white hair and thick glasses emerged from a room toward the back. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and saggy brown corduroys held up by red suspenders. He came shuffling in with a stack of antique books with cracked bindings in his hands. Lauren stepped forward. She loudly cleared her throat.

“Umm, excuse me.”

He almost dropped his books as he turned to her in surprise. He pushed his sagging spectacles up the tip of his nose and gave an awkward smile.

“Sorry, miss. I didn't know you were standing there.” He placed the books on the oak desk. “How can I help you?”

“Well, I . . . I noticed the writing desk and chair in your window. I was trying to find out more about them?”

His smile widened. He walked toward her. “Are you a collector?”

“No, not really, but . . . my . . . my mother sort of is.”

“Well, they are a wonderfully well-preserved writing desk and chair from the early 1900s,” he explained, shuffling toward the window. He pointed at the chair. “The upholstery on the seat isn't original, though. That was added several decades later.”

“Who sold it to you?”

His smile faded. He stiffened visibly and squinted at her uneasily from behind the lenses of his glasses. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Just curious. Like I said, my mother's a collector. She, uh, she likes the story behind the pieces as much as she likes buying the pieces themselves.”

Lauren could tell she gave the right answer. The old man instantly relaxed his rigid shoulders. His awkward smile returned. “Well, unfortunately, there isn't much of a story behind this one. A woman sold them to me a few weeks ago, but she didn't have many details. She was quite lovely, but . . . she didn't seem to be one for conversation. She didn't seem very interested in haggling, either.” He glanced back at the desk. “She said she was eager to get them off her hands, along with the grandfather clock in the window and the lovely French medallion-back sofa over there.”

Lauren followed the gnarled finger that he pointed across the room. She instantly recognized the sofa in the shop's corner with its lush red velvet upholstery. The last time she saw it, it was sitting in her mother's living room.

“I just couldn't resist her offer.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Do you think your mother would be interested in any of those pieces?”

Why had her mother sold the furniture? Her mother
loved
those pieces. She coveted them more than she would a Cartier watch or a diamond necklace. All her antiques were treasured finds for her, one of a kinds.

“If none of these fit your fancy,” he said, mistaking Lauren's shake of the head for a no, “the woman said she'll bring me more pieces next week.”

Lauren gazed at him in surprise. “What did you say?”

“If you come here next Tuesday, I can show the other pieces to you and your mother. Bring her along. I could give her a good deal.”

Lauren nodded blankly, still stunned. She turned and walked toward the shop door.