Exit Strategy (15 page)

Tristan smiles when he remembers his mother’s teasing speculation about the beautiful children he would someday have. He knows now that having his own progeny was just a pipe dream that died right along with his mother. He has no intention to procreate. Since his mother’s death, he’s decided he doesn’t want the burden or responsibility of that kind of attachment.

“You’ll have a better chance of getting that from Nate, Dad. My five-year-plan doesn’t include marriage or children.” Tristan shudders. “And I don’t think it’s wise or appropriate for me to bring Ms. Beale to a family gathering.”

“I seem to recall she had
you
over at Christmas.”

“That was different.”

“I don’t see how. The matter is settled. Lydia and I will expect Ms. Beale in attendance with you on Friday for dinner.”

Tristan realizes he’s not going to get anywhere with his stubborn father. “I’ll ask Keisha when I see her at lunch today, but don’t blame me if she says no.”

“Good. I’ll call Nate and make sure he invites Senator Jameson’s daughter, as well. Good-bye, son.”

“Bye, Dad.”

This has become a reverse version of the old Sidney Poitier movie
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner
. Keisha would be proud he’d recalled an old movie to mirror the occasion. Since meeting her, he’s probably watched more movies than he had since college. She’s almost childlike and rather nerdy in her ability to recall at will random facts and trivia from movies.

He smiles, takes the photo of them out of his desk drawer, and sets it prominently on his desk again. Since all of Chicago, and one homicidal lunatic, still thinks they're a couple, he might as well flaunt it. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit he likes having a picture of Keisha on display to fuel his fantasies. However, thoughts of the threat remind him he has a meeting with Velasquez after lunch to report any findings he’d been able to glean from the evidence sent to Quantico.

In the meantime, he’s off to deliver lunch and a Huáng sports watch to his girl.

My girl? No, my submissive.

That Freudian slip is proof positive that he’s insane for taking Nathan’s advice and intentionally romancing Keisha like this. However, he really can’t argue with the results. The night before had been spectacular. After a quick hit of vanilla in his bedroom, he’d enticed Keisha back into the role-play room. He understood her apprehension, but he promised to proceed with caution and had taken punishment off the table altogether for the night because he didn’t want to risk her having a panic attack.

Just thinking about their activities from the night before has him hard, yet again. They should have satisfied his deprived libido but apparently not. Maybe a full weekend immersed in the role-play room with Ms. Beale would do the trick. Then he remembered the family gathering on Friday.

Damn!

They will just have to grin and bear that little soiree before making their apologies and leaving. But first, he has to get Keisha to agree to go with him.

As he puts away the Huáng contract, he remembers the ill-conceived conversation he had with Bryce about taking KSR on, and realizes he’d been too hasty in pursuing a new backer. He and Keisha are back on track now, so a transfer would have been unnecessary, after all.

He picks up the lunch basket, and flanked by his security detail, he exits the building and slides into the limo.

“KSR North, Moses.”

“Yes, sir.”

With two-man security teams in front and behind them, they’re traveling with more of an entourage than Tristan is used to. He’s always prided himself on his ability to hold his own in a dust-up. Belted in martial arts and trained in boxing, both he and Nathan learned the rudiments of self-defense at their father’s insistence.

“You will be men of great means when you come into adulthood,” his father said. “Others will respect a man who can take care of himself.”

His mother hated violence in any form. Their introduction to martial arts spawned one of his parents’ most memorable fights. But now, with his life and the lives of his family and friends threatened, he’s thankful for his father’s unwillingness to compromise.

On the way over, Tristan calls and leaves some instructions on Darryl’s voicemail regarding the Huáng contract and recites the high points of a letter for him to draft. Since the Hong Kong trip is pushed off until March, he’ll take his time negotiating that troublesome clause.

When he arrives at KSR, the sales staff gawks like he’s a celebrity but go on about their duties once they realize he’s just their boss’s business partner. He carries the basket while shadowed by only two of the security team.

As he passes, the employees greet him, and he returns the greetings with enthusiasm. He’s gotten through the gauntlet of the sales floor and is in the hallway, headed to the studio, when he realizes how eager he is to see Keisha. She just left his place at nine, but already he’s excited to see her again.

Calm the fuck down
.

But it’s almost as if his taciturn Dominant personality has left the building. Tracey, the receptionist, is on the phone but smiles and waves him on.

“Wait here,” he says to the security team.

One of them scans the waiting area and says, “Velasquez ordered us not to leave your side.”

Tristan gives him a look. “There’s only one way in and one way out. Tracey will offer you some refreshment when she’s off the phone. I’ll be about an hour.”

He enters the studio to find Keisha in the largest booth, directing a small orchestra laying down a track for what sounds like a beautiful ballad. Her back is to him, so he sets the basket down and takes a seat to watch her in action. She throws her whole being into the music, much like she does when they’re fucking, and it is a sight to behold.

He crosses his legs, hoping to conceal the growing hard-on, when the guy on lead guitar approaches Keisha and plays his ass off, mugging for her as they finish the track in a resounding crescendo. Then the cheeky bastard slings the guitar behind his back, throws his arms around Keisha, and lifts her off the floor in a bear hug.

Before he realizes it, Tristan stands, his hands formed into fists at his sides. He stalks through the door to the booth before the recording light goes out.

“Keisha.”

She pulls away from the guy and turns, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Tristan!” She runs and leaps into his arms. “Did you hear any of that?”

He catches her and brings her close, molding her to him like he does when they’re alone, sending Guitar Guy a subtle message.

“I did, and it was awesome,” he says. “Did you write it?”

She pulls back to look into his eyes. “Yeah, I did.”

“Then I love it,” he says. Guitar Guy is still standing there, not responding at all to the glaring darts Tristan is shooting his way. In fact, he ignores the warning altogether and comes closer.

“Okay, you guys, that’s a wrap,” Keisha says to the room at large. “Let’s reconvene here at say... two thirty.”

As everyone else puts their instruments away and files out, Guitar Guy invades Tristan and Keisha’s personal space.

“You must be the infamous Tristan White,” he says with a smile, his hand extended to Tristan. He’s like a Slash lookalike with a little darker skin, and he’s too damned familiar with Keisha for Tristan’s taste.

Keisha is animated as she makes introductions. “Tristan, this is Carmelo Rojas. Carmelo, Tristan White.”

Tristan finally takes Rojas’s proffered hand and gives it a strong shake.

“Whoa, you’ve got quite a grip for a white-collar dude,” Rojas says with a grin.

“Don’t let the suit fool you.” Tristan gives him a toothy smile that isn’t meant to put the other man at ease. Then he pulls Keisha back to his side and puts his arm around her waist, his hand resting proprietarily on her hip.

Rojas sees the move and backs up a tad. Keisha finally gets the awkwardness and launches into an explanatory spiel.

“Carmelo and I were in the music program at DePaul together. We’re both black Brazilians, so we became fast friends. He graduated a year before I did and went on tour with the Chi-Town Hawks.”

“Really?” Tristan says. “So why are you laying tracks for newbies?”

Keisha looks up at Tristan, eyes narrowed and lips parted in disbelief. Carmelo answers the question as if it isn’t offensive.

“I got burned out on the road, man, and Chicago is home.” He smiles at Keisha, whose mouth also relaxes into a smile. “I heard my
namorada
had started her own business, so I called her over the weekend to see if she needed my ax.”

“And it’s a good thing you did. Briana is lucky to have you playing on her album, and KSR is lucky to get you between gigs.” Keisha says.

“Well, I guess I’d better grab a bite to eat,” Carmelo says while backing away. “Good to meet you, Tristan.”

Tristan blanches when Rojas uses his first name. He almost says, “That’s ‘Mr. White’ to you, asshole,” but he’s sure that wouldn’t have gone over well with Keisha. He knows he’s probably going to be dressed down as it is, given his less-than-friendly interaction with Guitar Guy. Yes. He liked that name better than Carmelo. Who the fuck names their kid Carmelo, anyway, besides Mrs. Anthony?

As soon as the door closes, Keisha turns on him, as expected. “What the fuck was that?”

“You mean ‘What the fuck was that,
Sir
?’ ”

“We’re not in a scene, Tristan. And you don’t get to come in here and go all caveman on my musicians.”

“Guitar Guy wants in your panties, Keisha. But I was there first, so he needs to back the fuck up.”

He shared a submissive only once in the past and quickly realized he didn’t have the fortitude for it. The very idea that some other guy had used his submissive before, after, or in between pissed him off. When Keisha’s background had only included a few guys and she hadn’t had a lover in almost four years, he’d been elated. It was like deflowering a virgin but without the romantic attachments women place on their first lovers.

Her forehead wrinkles. “So this little passive-aggressive pissing contest is all because you’re jealous?”

Tristan stiffens then cocks his head to the side. “No, this is me being pissed off because another guy’s got his eye on
my
submissive.”

“Believe me, Carmelo is not a threat to you, Your Domness. He dated one of my suitemates when we were in college. He and I have always been like brother and sister.”

“Brothers don’t get as close as he got to you, waving their guitars like a fucking phallus.”

Keisha bursts out laughing. Hard.

Tristan is not amused. “What is so damned funny?”

She continues laughing so hard she has to hold on to his arm to keep from collapsing.

Tristan folds his arms, glancing down at her with disdain.

“You—you said ‘fucking phallus.’ ” She laughs again, but he refuses to laugh at himself.

“Well, a guitar has often been construed as a phallic symbol.”

“But the words ... together.” Keisha’s laughter wanes, and she looks up into his eyes.

“So, you’ll let Guitar Guy know you’re off the market again?”

“Let who know what?” Keisha wrinkles her brow, playfully.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

Keisha laughs again.

Tristan’s mouth tightens, and his eyes take on a stormy blue hue. “I don’t see the humor in anything I just said. If you’ll recall, sharing is not one of my strong suits.”

She takes a deep breath and puts on a semi-serious face, and just like that, they’re back to normal again. Whatever normal is for them. “So what else, besides your unfounded notion that there’s something between Carmelo and me, brings you to KSR North today?”

He gestures toward the basket on the chair outside the booth. “I brought you lunch.”

“Oh, really?” She eyes the basket then pulls him out of the booth with her and tears into the basket, taking out containers and setting them on a side table.

While she’s busy doing that, Tristan surreptitiously locks the door. He wraps his arms around her from behind where she’s bent over the food.

“Tristan ... I’m starving,” she says even as she turns in the circle of his arms and lays a wet one on him. She tastes like the grapes and cheese she just nibbled before nibbling on him. Despite her protests, they wind up christening the studio of KSR North.

It takes some improvisation to clean up after their session of afternoon delight, but they manage to make themselves presentable again and dispose of all the evidence of their tryst.

“Before I forget.” Tristan pulls her into his arms again. “Friday is my mother’s birthday, and my father is having a dinner in her honor.”