IF I WERE YOUR WOMAN

This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property o
f
their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

-
Unknown

Colin R. Jones

1957-2009

For thirty-five years wonderful years, I was blessed to be loved by a man who bulldozed his way into my heart to become not only my lover, but my best friend.

Six days after celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary on January 7, 2009, he quietly passed way. Although he’s absent from me physically, his spirit will forever be anchored in my heart.  

We come to love not by finding a perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.

-
Unknown
–

CHAPTER ONE

Orinda, California

“D
aaayuuum…what
is
this?”

Inside the master bedroom at his custom-built, hillside estate, Raphael Baptiste lay in the middle of a custom-made Tai bed, rubbing the dull ache between his abdomen and groin. The pain, which began shortly before Labor Day after a game of one-on-one with his childhood friend, Alex Robinson, was back. Hopefully, the physical exam he’d undergone yesterday would confirm the problem to be nothing more than a pulled groin.   

The insistent ringing of the cell phone diverted Raphael’s attention from his discomfort. With an arm draped over closed eyes, he listened. The familiar ring tone identified the caller, but why in the world had she phoned so early? Another thirty seconds passed before he sat upright. Groping the nightstand for a pair of rose-tinted Dior frames, he slid them on and pressed the talk button. Raphael took a deep breath and dragged a hand over two-day old stubble. “How you doing, lady?”

“Fine, son. Ya wake yet?” Mama Z asked in a cheerful voice.

The man the music industry knew as Ray LaSalle, pianist and founder of the jazz band Les Croisés, focused at the illuminated numbers on the clock. It was a quarter past seven. Was he awake? Hell no! Every member of his family and all his business associates knew the world didn’t come into existence for him until sometime after one in the afternoon, so this better be
real
good. He plopped back on the mattress and wondered what earth shattering news his grandmother, Zamora June Rousselle, whom the family called Mama Z, was about to hit him with. “I wasn’t,” he answered in a low rumble, “but I am now. What’s up?”

“I needs a favor from ya, son.”

“A favor,” Ray repeated hesitantly. Normally, he honored whatever request his grandmother tossed his way. The quip tone in the voice of the woman who’d reared him from the age of twelve was suspect. And this
favor
she wanted was on shaky ground.        

“Ya know Laney gonna be gettin’ in this evening.”

Ray remained silent. It was two days before Thanksgiving, so the announcement came as no surprise. Since the day Laney’s grandfather, Charles O’Reilly, and Mama Z became a couple over a year ago, Laney spent every holiday in Oakland.  She hadn’t merely bonded with his family. She was considered as much a part of the Baptiste Clan as if she’d been born a Baptiste. 

“Somebody needs to pick that child up from the airport.”

Ray sucked his teeth.

“Since ya ain’t doing nothin’ this evening, I figures ya oughta be able to go get her,” Mama Z instructed causally.  

Phone cradled between his neck and shoulder, Ray sighed. This was the very reason he never let every Tom, Dick, and family get too deep off into his schedule. Besides, being in close proximity to Laney was dangerous to his health. Never in all his thirty-eight years had any woman made him, Raphael Armand Baptiste, player extraordinaire, consider the foreign world of abstinence. From the moment he’d laid eyes on the gorgeous sista with the sweet Southern drawl, he’d been on lockdown.       

“No can do on that one, old lady.”

“Why not, son?”

“You know me and Laney don’t get along.”

“Well,” Mama Z chuckled, “that ain’t what I heard.”

“What—” Ray broke off and bolted to an upright position, again. He snatched his glasses off his face and jammed them on top of his head. “Who told you that?”

Mama Z chuckled louder. “Ain’t rightly sho, son.” 

Annoyance threaded through Ray. He certainly hadn’t revealed his feelings for Laney to anyone, so how did Mama Z get the inside scoop? Suddenly, it hit him. His two older brothers, Marcel and A.J., had to be the moles.

When Laney flew out for Labor Day, his brothers cornered him off, inquiring when he planned to ask her out on a date. He never answered the question because it was more information than his brothers needed to know. If Marcel and A.J. went back and shared
that
conversation with those three nosey women he claimed as sisters, on his mother’s grave, he’d kill them. Brie, Moni, and Aimee talked entirely too much for his liking. Plus Moni had designated herself as the family’s gossiper-in-chief. Anytime a news brief came up on her radar screen, the rest of the family knew the lowdown before sundown.

With his brain on overload, Ray scrambled to find any excuse to get out of the request, but fell short. He offered one last argument. “Why can’t Charles pick her up?”

“Charles went down to LA. He ain’t comin’ back till in the moanin’.” Mama Z paused before adding, “Thank ya, son. I knew I could count on ya.”

“Now hold up here, Mama Z—”

There was graveyard silence.

“Mama Z…” Ray frowned and pulled the phone away. He stared at it and placed it to his ear, again. “Well, I’ll just be
daaayuuum.
”

Mama Z had hung up.  

Ray recovered from the shock and flung the phone toward the foot of the bed. He braced his back to two huge pillows near the headboard, angry. Angry over his inability to ignore Laney as easily as she’d ignored him. Angry his feelings for her had transmitted through loud and clear, even though he hadn’t uttered a word.   

On every level, Laney threatened him. From day one, he’d wanted her with an intensity that bordered on madness. As a celebrity, there’d never been a shortage of women at his doorstep. All he had to do was turn on a little charm and they landed in his bed faster than quarters at the bottom of a slot machine. But Laney…well, she was an entirely different story.

She’d refused to acknowledge his existence let alone share his bed, and he felt as transparent as a sheet of glass. Was his ego bruised? No, it was downright deflated.

When they’d first met, he thought Laney was aloof, and she instantly reminded him of the absent-minded professor. He quickly discovered not only was the woman scary-brilliant, but when pushed into a corner, she came out swinging. Plus, she’d dismissed the millions in his bank account as effortlessly as if she’d handed him a cold glass of water. She owned the largest communications conglomerate in the world and her petty cash account alone placed him below the poverty level.

However, the killer in all of this was that his reaction to Laney had been so out of character, he’d pushed her out of his mind, or at least tried to. Whenever she was around, he’d occasionally turn to find her gaze on him, but her expression always seemed guarded. He’d bet the three Grammys collecting dust on his shelf that she was clueless as to what her half-lazy smile did to him. The mere thought of her had caused him too many restless nights alone with nothing but a pillow at his side. Maybe it was lust. Maybe it was infatuation. Whatever it was had him at break-point.

Ray flung is head back and released a frustrated groan. Sleep was impossible now. He snatched the sheet back. The moment he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he winced.

Easing to his feet, Ray allowed his mind to drift away from his pain and to the woman who had the balls to challenge him with the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. At first, Laney’s week-long visits were short enough for him to hang onto what little sanity he had. Lately, each time she came to visit, it pushed him closer to the edge. Why was it that weeks after she’d returned home, he’d toss in bed, so frustrated he couldn’t sleep? And when he did manage to sleep, she invaded his dreams. How much more could
he take, he wondered.

This
visit, Ray thought resignedly as he headed off toward the shower, might very well cause him to topple off the mountain-top faster than a condemned soul on its way to hell.     

~ ~ ~

“Dr. Houston…” A male voice shouted from the doorway at earsplitting intensity.

Unfazed by the abrupt interruption, Laney sat behind an antique wooden desk in her office on the eighth floor at Methodist Hospital in mid-town Memphis. She closed the leather binder, which contained a report she’d been reading since arriving a little after seven. Pushing it to the side, she watched with idle amusement as the stout, gray-haired man crossed the threshold. “How are you today, Dr. Bryant?”