Pleasure Seekers (14 page)

A
lana told the doorman her name. He checked his list then opened a stained-glass door. She made her way into Hoops, a new Harlem sports bar/club owned by a quartet of basketball players and a hip-hop record producer. She was met by the babble of voices and the driving beat of music from powerful speakers. The interior decor was a mix of East, West and Art Deco with neon lights and sculptures, stained-glass windows and steel-framed chairs with deep plush cushions. Pale blue votives flickered from every flat surface.

Couples crowded the dance floor, gyrating to the infectious rhythms, while others stood in line for a buffet dinner from which sumptuous aromas tantalized olfactory nerves. People gathered at the spacious bar were two deep. More than half the tables, with seating for eight, were occupied.

Astrid had called her midweek to inform her that she was to attend a private party at Hoops hosted by the partners to celebrate the NBA’s post-season playoffs.

She hadn’t met Derrick Warren, one of the cofounders of Bawdy Records, at the P.S., Inc. dinner party, and when
she asked Astrid where Mr. Warren had gotten her name the booker responded, saying, “Someone associated with Mr. Warren recommended you attend the soiree.”

Alana didn’t know who that someone was, but she was grateful for the referral. Becoming a partygoer at Hoops would serve a threefold purpose: she would earn several thousand in commissions, permit her entrée to a coterie of upwardly mobile young African-American men and women and give her more material for the book she’d been writing for years.

She’d begun a Jackie Collins–style novel, complete with the ubiquitous celebrity and scheming wannabe characters set in exotic locales spanning the globe; but she hadn’t picked up the manuscript in weeks because of writer’s block. She’d come up with reason after reason why she wasn’t writing but none were valid. The fact was, she had more time for herself now that she was alone, but if she were truly honest, she would have to admit the underlying reason was Calvin McNair.

It was three weeks and he still hadn’t called her; after a heart-searching session with her therapist she decided not to call him. Calvin had programmed her cell-phone number, her direct line at the magazine and even her mother’s number into his cell phone before he’d left for Europe. The only thing she knew was that he’d better have a good excuse for not calling; otherwise she’d put a
cussin’
on him that he’d never forget.

The lighting inside the club was dim but not so dim she couldn’t see where she was going as she followed a hostess
across a space crowded with young, beautiful people dressed in the ubiquitous New York City black. She’d also elected to wear black: a pair of stretch pants with a cuffed hem, a Lycra off-the shoulder top that hugged her ample 38D bosom like a second skin, and a pair of high-heel sling-back sandals. She’d stopped at Jade Nails after work for a manicure and spa therapy pedicure.

The blood-red color on her toes, fingernails and lush lips was certain to attract the attention she sought, along with the flyaway hairstyle with its profusion of curls that moved whenever she turned her head. She’d utilized Faye’s technique for making her dark eyes appear more mysterious by adding smoky-gray and soft black eye shadows. When she saw the results in the mirror, Alana was more than pleased with her new look; there was something about her eye makeup that reminded her of the late-actress/R&B performer Aaliyah.

A tall figure stepped in front of Alana and she would’ve lost her footing if a large hand hadn’t reached out to steady her. A swoosh of air escaped her parted lips when she found herself imprisoned against a body hard as steel.

“I’m sorry.”

“Watch it there, sugah.”

Alana raised her head to see the face of the man whose fingers were manacles around her upper arm. When she did look up it was into the smiling face of a high-scoring point guard for a Midwest basketball team she couldn’t remember.

Kris Dennison felt as if he’d been poleaxed when he felt
the bountiful curves pressed intimately to his body. The woman in his arms was exotic, beyond beautiful with curly black hair, red-brown coloring, slanting dark eyes and a lush, kissable full mouth.

“
Wassup,
sugah?” he asked, smiling.

Staring up at him through her lashes, Alana affected a sensual grin. “You, playa.” She stood close to six feet in her heels, and he towered over her by a full head. The ballplayer had to stand at least six-nine or perhaps six-ten.

“Who you here wit, sugah?” he asked, deep voice rumbling in a broad chest under a black silk tee and jacket.

You’re good-looking, talented and make millions of dollars a year yet you can’t talk worth a damn, Alana thought. “I’m a guest of Mr. Warren’s,” she said with a tight smile.

“Now, if you unhand the lady, Kris, I’ll make a proper introduction.”

Derrick Warren knew it impolite to stare, yet he couldn’t pull his gaze away from Alana Gardner’s face. Marcus Hampton had described Alana, but his friend and financial consultant hadn’t done the lady justice. She was drop-dead gorgeous.

Derrick kissed her cheek. Not only did she look good, but she smelled good, too. “I’d like to offer you a very special welcome to Hoops.”

Alana, assuming the man greeting her was Derrick Warren, pressed her cheek to his. “Thank you, Derrick.”

There was something about his permanently furrowed forehead and the loose skin around his eyes that made
him look like a shar-pei; but what he lacked in the face department he more than made up for in his demeanor and style of dress. The brother was wearing the hell out of his Armani suit. The wool jacket was draped over his broad shoulders in the same manner as European men wore theirs.

Smiling, Derrick cradled Alana’s hand in the bend of his elbow. “Kris, this lovely lady is Alana Gardner. Alana, Kristofer Dennison.”

Alana gave the point guard a polite smile. “It’s nice meeting you, Kris.”

“I’m sorry to drag Alana away,” Derrick said, apologizing to Kris, “but there are a few people I’d like her to meet.”

“Is she coming on the July Fourth boat ride?” Kris called out as Derrick turned to lead Alana away.

Derrick stopped and stared at Alana as her lids slipped down over her eyes. “Are you available on that day?”

Alana raised her gaze to find Derrick watching her. She knew she was flirting with him but didn’t much care. She was alone
and
lonely. “Do you want me to be available?”

“Yes, I do.” There was no emotion in his reply or on his face. Alana nodded, and Derrick nodded to Kris. “Yes, she is.”

The smile that lit up Kris’s handsome face was as bright as Christmas lights. “Later, Alana.”

She smiled over her shoulder at him. “Later, Kris.”

Tightening his hold on the hand in the bend of his arm, Derrick led Alana over to a table on a raised platform in a secluded corner. He seated her, then sat down opposite
her. The flickering light from a votive cast long and short shadows over his face.

A waiter appeared out of nowhere. “Is there anything I can get for you, Mr. Warren?”

Derrick smiled at the woman sharing his table. “Would you like some champagne?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Cristal, Moët or Dom Perignon?”

“Dom Perignon.” She was flattered that she’d been given a choice. Usually men offered her whatever they drank.

“A bottle of Dom Perignon for the lady, and I’ll have my usual. Also, tell Hilda to put together a little something for me and my guest.”

Waiting until the waiter left to place his order, Derrick directed his full attention to Alana Gardner. “So, what do you do, Alana?”

Tilting her chin, she smiled at the record producer. What Derrick Warren didn’t know was that he would be perfect for her column. “I’m a magazine editor.”

“What magazine?”

“
British Vogue.
I’m the American Lifestyles editor.”

“You interview people?” She nodded. “Who have you interviewed lately?”

“I just completed one with a ninety-four-year-old French-Jewish woman who’d been Coco Chanel’s assistant. Madame Chartres escaped Paris within days of the Nazi occupation and lived in London for forty years before coming to the States to live with a distant cousin.”

Alana told Derrick about some of the other celebrities
and personalities she’d interviewed, stopping when a waiter arrived with bottles of chilled Perignon and Cristal, and another with a platter of assorted hors d’oeuvres.

A minute later, place settings and flutes filled with the bubbling wine were set out on the table. Derrick picked up his flute, extending it to Alana. “Here’s to the most intelligent and beautiful blind date I’ve ever had.”

Smiling, she picked up her flute. “Thank you, Derrick.” She touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to friendship.”

He paused, his flute inches from his mouth, as his soulful gaze moved with agonizing slowness over her face. Marcus had set him up with Alana Gardner not because he couldn’t get a woman but because Alana was different from those who came on to him wanting either money, fame or bragging rights that they’d slept with one of today’s fastest-rising music producers. It didn’t matter that he’d paid P.S., Inc. thousands for Alana’s company. He’d been willing to pay six figures because she provided the perfect cover for his sexual proclivity. No one knew, and that included his family, other than Marcus Hampton, that he was gay. He couldn’t afford to come out of the closet as some actors were doing, because homosexuality was looked upon as a scourge in the hip-hop community. Whom he slept with would remain his secret.

Derrick didn’t know if Alana had a boyfriend and really didn’t give a damn. The fact that she was working as an escort meant she was available.

“To friendship,” he repeated.

Derrick had offered his car and driver to see her home, and Alana waited for the doorman to open the rear door of the dark blue Bentley.

She’d spent four hours at Hoops, drinking champagne and spreading tiny spoonfuls of beluga caviar onto wafer-thin triangles of toast. Derrick ate most of the smoked oysters, clams on the half shell and mussels. When she asked him to dance with her, he’d politely declined, saying he didn’t dance. But that didn’t stop Alana from dancing with the ballplayers who stopped by the table to exchange pleasantries with the club owner.

She realized she was more than slightly tipsy from the champagne and exhausted from dancing, but she’d do it all again in a heartbeat because it brought her one step closer to her goal of saving enough money to have a mega-wedding
and
her dream house in the suburbs.

F
aye woke up to incessant knocking. She sat up, disoriented; then she realized that she wasn’t in her own bed and that brilliant sunlight came through shuttered windows. Smiling, she remembered where she was.

She’d felt like Alice in Wonderland the moment she boarded the Boeing Business Jet. The aircraft, large enough to accommodate eighteen passengers, had two full bedrooms, two and a half baths and nearly a thousand square feet of living space. Within minutes of takeoff they were served a sumptuous dinner of veal scallopini with lemon-parsley sauce, penne a la vodka, celeriac salad and white wine.

Bart had suggested they rest during the flight, and both retreated to their bedrooms, where she’d fallen asleep. The jet touched down at the Owen Roberts International Airport, where they were whisked through Customs and escorted to an area where a driver awaited their arrival. The scent of saltwater and blooming flowers flowed through the automobile’s open windows during the drive to a private villa overlooking the ocean where the wedding and reception were to be held on the beach at sunset.

She slipped out of bed. “I’m coming.” Reaching for a peach-colored silk wrap at the foot of the bed, she pushed her arms into the generous sleeves. Walking on bare feet, she crossed the room and opened the door. Bart stood there in a pair of walking shorts, T-shirt and a pair of sandals, smiling at her behind the lenses of a pair of sunglasses.

“I thought you would have been up by now.” There was a teasing quality in his voice.

“What time is it?”

Bart glanced at his watch. “It is exactly five-fifteen.”

“Five…fifteen,” Faye repeated, sputtering. “We’re on vacation and you wake me up at five freakin’ fifteen in the morning!”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he angled his head. “Has anyone ever told you that you look very sexy early in the morning?”

Faye glanced down at her chest. She hadn’t bothered to close her wrap and there was no doubt he was talking about the lacy décolletage that was anything but modest. She closed the robe, tying the sash around her waist.

A slight frown creased Bart’s forehead when his gaze traveled downward. “What size shoe do you wear?”

She wiggled her bare toes. “Five. Why?”

“Will you be able to find women’s shoes in your size?”

Faye’s expression registered disbelief. “Yes, Bartholomew.”

He flushed under his light tan. Her calling him by his full name was no doubt a reprimand. “How would I know, Faye? I’m not in the habit of buying shoes for a woman.”

Faye felt properly chastised. She had no right to assume that he shopped for women. “I’m sorry—”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he said, cutting her off. “I’ve arranged for us to eat breakfast at six. At seven we’ll be given a full body massage, facial, manicure and pedicure. We’ll leave around eleven to go shopping. After that you’re on your own until the wedding. Let me know now if this meets with your approval…or whether there is something else you want or need?”

Heat found its way up Faye’s chest to her cheeks. Bartholomew Houghton had just verbally spanked her. “Your plans sound wonderful.”

Lowering his arms, Bart glared at Faye behind the dark lenses. There were times when he wanted to raise his voice to her, this being one, and there were many more times when he wanted to kiss her. Not a mere brushing of the lips, but a kiss that would make her swoon.

“I will see you on the veranda at six.” Turning on his heel, he walked away.

“Aye, aye, boss,” Faye called out to his retreating back, then pulled in a quick breath when he turned around, closed the distance between them and stood over her like an avenging angel.

“Is that how you see me, Faye? You think of me as your boss?”

She’d argued enough with Norman not to be intimidated by any man—and that included Bartholomew Houghton. “Why shouldn’t I? After all, you’re paying me to entertain you.”

“Wrong! I’m paying you to keep me company. Women I pay to
entertain
me I sleep with. So let’s not confuse one with the other.”

Folding her hands on her hips, Faye lifted her chin in a defiant gesture. “I’ll be ready at six.” Stepping back, she closed the door, shutting out his thunderous expression.

She took off the wrap and flung it on a rattan chair. “The arrogant son of a bitch,” she mumbled as she headed for the bathroom. Bart sought to ease his conscience by making what he did morally correct when in fact he was no different from any man who paid a woman to spend time with him. They weren’t sleeping together, but the fact remained, she never would’ve dated Bart if Enid Richards hadn’t brought them together.

After a breakfast of sliced fruit, poached eggs, a fluffy croissant and rich Jamaica coffee, Faye lay on a table enjoying the expert ministrations of a full body massage and hydrating European facial. She opened her eyes to meet Bart’s amused gaze as he lay nude on a matching table; a towel covered his hips.

“Feeling better?”

She smiled at him. “Yes, thank you.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You have to let me know when it’s your time of the month so I’ll know to keep my distance.”

She stared wordlessly at him. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she said, “You’re basing what I say to you on hormones?”

Bart winced when the masseuse kneaded a knot in his
shoulder. The slender man had fingers like steel. “What other reason can you give for snapping at me? When are you due to get your period?”

“That’s none of your business,” she hissed between clenched teeth. Faye couldn’t believe he was asking her something so personal, and in front of two strangers.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Faye. Whenever we’re together everything about you is my business.”

There he was again, subtly reminding her that she was a bought woman. “Next week,” she said reluctantly.

“I thought so,” he said, closing his eyes.

Faye didn’t want to tell Bart that whenever she experienced PMS she sometimes went into bitch mode. She closed her eyes as her masseuse’s hands worked their magic.

She lost track of time and when she finally opened her eyes it was to stare at the man asleep on a table less than a foot away, a man who’d become the answer to all her prayers and dreams.