Pleasure Seekers (19 page)

D
errick Warren was waiting for Alana when she alighted from the Bentley. A warm smile deepened the folds under his eyes. Despite his proclivity for a same-sex relationship there was something about Alana Gardner that made him question his decision not to sleep with a woman.

And it wasn’t that he hadn’t slept with women in the past, it was just he preferred men. Perhaps, he thought, he wasn’t homosexual but bisexual.

She was stunning in white: halter top, slacks and espadrilles. He’d heard someone in his entourage refer to her as the “black Anna Nicole.” Derrick agreed with him, but added that Alana was more intelligent, beautiful, natural and exotic than the buxom blonde.

Reaching for her hands, he kissed her fingers. “Welcome, Alana.”

A warm breeze coming off the Hudson River stirred wisps of hair around her face. “Thank you, Derrick.” Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek.

Cradling her hand in the bend of his elbow, he led her down a sloping hill to a moored yacht crowded with party
goers that had gathered at his White Plains compound earlier that morning for breakfast. He’d planned a leisurely sail down the river to lower Manhattan, before a return trip would culminate with a cookout on the lawn of his recently completed twenty-two-room mansion. Derrick had invited Marcus Hampton, but his financial manager had declined because of a prior commitment.

He escorted Alana up the gangway. “We’re ready to sail,” he told the boat’s captain.

Alana took off her shoes and placed them in an area with the others. The wood on the deck of the yacht was warm and soft as cotton under her bare feet.

“We meet again, sugah” crooned a voice close to her ear.

She turned to find Kris Dennison grinning at her. “Hey, playa,” she drawled as if she’d just come from the Deep South.

His hands went to her waist as he pulled her close. “Damn, baby, you get mo’ beautiful every time I see ya. I don’t care what Derrick says, but you is mine today.”

She glanced around his wide shoulders. “Where’s your wife, Kris? I don’t want no mess.”

“Ain’t goin’ be no mess, sugah. We done wit each other.”

Alana gave him a skeptical look. “Since when?”

Kris beckoned to another ballplayer. “Yo, man, tell this lady that me and Maeretha is done.”

“They’re done,” he confirmed.

“Okay, Kris. We’ll hang out together.”

“What you drinking, sugah?”

“I’ll have a mimosa. Champagne and orange juice,”
she explained when he gave her what she considered a
dummy look.

“Oh. Why didn’t you just say that?”

Alana groaned inwardly. It was only one in the afternoon and she knew it was going to be a very long day if she let Kris follow her around like a lost puppy. And there was no way she could lose him on the boat like she could in a club.

She stared at the other passengers and smiled. Young, talented, educated and fashionably dressed in white, they mingled in small groups, laughing and sipping cocktails as if rehearsing to take their place as the next generation of upscale African-Americans.

Kris returned with her flute, his white teeth gleaming in his smooth dark face. Lowering her gaze and smiling up at him through her lashes, she said, “Thank you, Kris.”

The point guard recoiled as if a heavyweight boxer had punched him in the gut. Alana Gardner was so damn sexy that he’d just gotten an instant hard-on. Shifting slightly, he attempted to conceal it from her. It was a good thing he’d worn the loose-fitting shirt outside the waistband of his slacks or he would’ve embarrassed himself in front of her.

He had to have her! And he would have her before the night ended.

“A
re you sure you know how to get there?”

Faye had given Bart her parents’ address when they’d returned from lunch the day before. They’d walked more than ten blocks to find a hot-dog vendor who hadn’t run out of hot sausage. Bart ate two franks to her one sausage before they shared a large salted pretzel. Both downed a bottle of soda, then lamented how good their unhealthy lunch was and offset their guilt with a long walk.

No one recognized the real estate mogul in a pair of jeans, T-shirt, running shoes, baseball cap and sunglasses. Only in Manhattan were the rich and famous able to blend in with the mass of humanity going about their business as if only they existed.

Bart took his eyes off the road for a couple of seconds to glance at his passenger. “Yes, I do. Could it be you want to drive?”

Shifting on her seat, she gave him a Cheshire cat grin. “Can I drive back?”

“I don’t know, baby.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“This car is like my baby.”

Folding her hands on her hips, Faye glared at him. “Didn’t you just call
me
baby?”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“How different, Bartholomew?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “What’s with the Bartholomew?”

“I’m pissed!”

“Pissed because I won’t let you drive my car?”

“Yes.”

Folding her arms under her breasts, Faye stared out the windshield. She’d thought because Bart had given Giuseppe the day off he would either get another driver or drive the Maybach himself to Queens. But when they exited the elevator at the garage level and he pulled a tarpaulin off a vintage two-seater, her breath had caught in her throat.

She’d grown up around cars because her father was a mechanic. Craig Ogden knew the specifications on every car ever built. It only took one glance for him to identify the year and model.

“Are you pouting, darling?”

“Yes. And don’t call me darling, because I’m not your darling.”

Bart accelerated as he entered the Queens Midtown Tunnel. “You could be my darling.”

“Forget it, Bart.”

He smiled. “Oh, now we’re back to Bart. Does that mean I’m back in your good graces?”

“Dream on, mister.”

“I never figured you for a spoiled little minx.”

“That’s because you don’t know me.”

“You’re right. But before summer’s end I
will
know you.”

“And I you,” she countered.

Bart nodded. There was no doubt before the end of summer they would know a great deal more about each other. They’d begun the day before when they’d walked for blocks, holding hands and stopping to window-shop.

They’d returned home and spent several hours in the rooftop solarium reading while listening to an XM station that featured hits from the eighties and nineties. Faye had surprised him when she offered to cook dinner because Mrs. Llewellyn was in Southampton with her grandson. The highlight of the evening wasn’t her Caesar salad with pancetta and grilled salmon steaks but his sitting down to eat with her. It wasn’t until they sat at the table across from each other that he realized how much he missed sharing a meal with a woman he really liked—liked a lot more than he was able to openly verbalize.

“You can drive home,” he said after a lengthy silence.

“Thank you, Bart.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “Did you tell your folks you were bringing a guest?”

“No. I wanted to surprise them.”

“Why?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve brought a man to meet my parents. And it will be the first time they’ll see me with a man who’s not black.”

Bart gave her another quick glance. “Do you think that’s going to bother them?”

“It doesn’t matter, Bart, because they know they can’t tell me who I should date or not date. But there is something I should tell you.”

“What?”

“My father and I have been somewhat estranged.”

She told Bart everything, about her brother’s arrest, his plea and subsequent incarceration. “I told you that I signed with Pleasure Seekers to earn enough money to start up my own company, but the real reason was to earn enough money to hire an attorney to appeal my brother’s case.”

“Do you still want to set up your own company?”

“Yes. But that’s not my priority.”

“Do you have a lawyer willing to handle your brother’s appeal?”

“Yes. I sent him a check last week as an initial retainer.”

“Who is he and how much does he want?”

Bart listened as Faye told him how much she’d expected to pay for her brother’s freedom. The price was exorbitant, but he understood why she was willing pay up to a half million dollars for a loved one.

“Did you check him out thoroughly?”

“Yes. He’s the best in the state.”

“Our lives aren’t that different.”

“Why would you say that?” Faye asked.

“Your brother is in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, while my brother couldn’t keep his ass out of jail.”

She was caught off guard by the sudden hardness in Bart’s voice. “Where is he now?”

There was a swollen silence before he said, “Dead. Paul
was three years older than me. He was the meanest son of a bitch to walk the earth. There wasn’t a day when he wouldn’t get into a fight. One day I asked him why he fought so much and he said it was because he hated being poor white trash. He hated my father because he didn’t have much education, hated my mother because although better educated she lowered herself to marry him.

“I thought things would change once we were enrolled at Rhinebeck, but it didn’t. Paul found the worse kids to hang out with. They smoked dope, cut classes and vandalized homes and cars. The other kids got away with it because their parents paid for what they considered childish pranks, but my folks were barely getting by, so Paul spent many a week in the county jail because they couldn’t pay the fines.

“His juvenile infractions escalated to misdemeanors and finally to a felony when he burglarized a sporting goods store, stole several handguns and robbed a local convenience store. He took all of the money in the register before he pistol-whipped the store clerk. He was given a sentence of five to eight for armed robbery and assault and was granted parole after he’d served three years.”

Faye felt a shiver snake its way down her spine. “Did he stay out of trouble?”

Bart shook his head. “He couldn’t, not when he had a serious drug problem. He’d graduated from weed to heroin. He began snatching purses to support his habit, and when the police came after him he ran onto a pond that wasn’t completely frozen over and fell through the ice. By the time a rescue unit got to the scene he’d drowned.

“His death devastated my parents. My dad suffered a heart attack and died a week later. My mother willed herself to death, and within six months she was gone. Neither of them ever got to see me graduate college.”

Faye, leaning to her left, rested her head against Bart’s shoulder. She felt a shudder as he drew in a sharp breath. It was as if his life was mired with deaths: his brother, father, mother and wife.

She found herself mute, unable to say the words that could or would erase the pain and loss he’d encountered. At that moment she made herself a promise to make the time she would share with Bartholomew Houghton an experience he would remember long after their association ended.

F
aye pointed. “It’s the last house on the right. Pull up behind my father’s Volkswagen,” she said as Bart decelerated.

He parked behind a classic shiny yellow Volkswagen Beetle, smiling. It was apparent Craig Ogden also liked old cars. The smell of grilling food was redolent when he opened the door and came around to assist Faye.

“Something smells good.”

She sniffed the air. “That smells like Uncle Teddy’s barbecue sauce.”

“How can you distinguish one sauce from another? I’m willing to bet most people are grilling.” Smoke from outdoor grills floated from several backyards along the dead-end street.

“I know Uncle Teddy’s marinade when I smell it,” she said confidently. “He’s a caterer.” Faye waited for Bart to take a shopping bag filled with wine from behind her seat, then escorted him around the English Tudor-style house to a spacious backyard.

Craig Ogden, manning a large gas grill, nearly dropped his tongs when he saw his daughter. His dark brown eyes
narrowed slightly then crinkled in a smile when she approached, arms outstretched.

Handing the tongs to his sister, he swept Faye up in his arms, kissing her cheek. “Thank you for coming, baby girl.”

Biting down on her lower lip, Faye willed the hot tears behind her lids not to fall. “Don’t, Daddy.” She kissed him above the short, neat salt-and-pepper beard he’d affected the year he’d turned fifty.

“I’m so sorry, baby, for fighting with you,” he whispered close to her ear.

“If you start, Daddy, then I’m leaving,” she threatened softly.

“Okay.” He set her on her feet, holding her at arm’s length. “You look beautiful, Faye.”

“Thank you.” She wore one of the dresses Bart had purchased for her. She’d paired the eggshell-white linen sundress with spaghetti straps and a pleated bodice top tied in the back and leaving the small of her back bare, with a five-strand ruby torsade with diamond spacers. Her earrings were cushion-cut rubies suspended from bezel-set diamonds.

Shirley came out of the house in time to see her husband and daughter embracing. Carrying a tray of marinated spareribs, she straightened her spine as she neared them.

“I’m glad you made it, Faye Anne. Where’s your friend?”

Faye turned to find Bart cradling the bag with the bottles of wine to his chest. She walked over to him. “Mama, Daddy, this is my good friend, Bart Houghton. Bart. These are my parents, Shirley and Craig Ogden.”

There was a pulse beat of silence before Craig wiped his hand on his apron and extended it to Bart. “Welcome, Bart.”

Bart shook the proffered hand. “Thank you.” He smiled at Shirley. “Here’s a little liquid refreshment, Mrs. Ogden.”

“I’ll take that,” Craig offered, peering into the bag.

Shirley forced a smile. She hadn’t expected her daughter to bring a white man to her house,
and
she hadn’t expected him to be that much older than her.

“Welcome to our home, Bart.” Her voice was shaded in neutral tones.

“Somebody parked a fly-ass ride behind your car, Uncle Craig. You’ve gots to see it!”

Faye frowned at her young cousin while Shirley shot him a warning look. “Watch your language, Hassan,” Shirley cautioned softly.

“Sorry, Aunt Shirl,” the teenager apologized. “Uncle Craig, come take a look.”

Craig gave Shirley the bag and tongs. “Please look after the grill, baby.” He’d always referred to Shirley as “baby” and Faye as “baby girl.”

Shirley lifted her eyebrows at her daughter. “Why don’t you get Bart comfortable under the tent, and then bring him something to drink. As soon as the others get here we’ll be ready to eat. Even though I told you not to bring anything I do want to thank you for the flowers and the filet mignon.”

Faye’s jaw dropped when she looked at Bart, then her mother. “I didn’t send any…” Her words trailed off when she realized why Bart wanted her parents’ address. “It was Bart who sent them.”

Shirley gave Bart a friendly smile. Earlier that morning a messenger had delivered a box marked Perishable. She’d opened it to find more than twenty pounds of fork-tender filet mignon cut into half-inch slices. Minutes later, there was another delivery of an enormous vase filled with white roses and tulips.

“Thank you.”

Bart returned her smile. “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Ogden.”

“Please call me Shirley.”

Faye and Bart exchanged amused glances. It was apparent her parents had survived the initial shock of seeing them together. She felt he was appropriately dressed for an outdoor gathering: raw silk off-white shirt, navy slacks, and a pair of oxblood slip-ons.

She led him over to a large tent shading several picnic tables and matching benches. He sat down. “What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have a beer.”

“Hey, Bart, is that your car?” Craig called out as he returned to the backyard.

Bart stood up. “Yes.”

Craig’s face lit up like a spotlight. “A 1939 Ford roadster with a three-hundred-five-cubic-inch engine.”

“Do you want to look under the hood?”

“Yeah, man.” Craig dropped an arm around Bart’s shoulders as he led him out from under the tent. “Faye, please bring the man a beer. We’ve got business to discuss.”

“You better not sell it,” Faye said in a threatening tone.

Craig and Bart exchanged a glance. “Are you going to let your woman tell you what to do with
your
car?”

Bart shook his head. “Oh, hell no, man.”

Craig patted his back. “Good for you. Put your foot down in the beginning and there won’t be
no-o-o
trouble.”

Shirley waved the tongs in the air like a rapier. “You keep mouthin’ off, Craig Ogden, and Bart’s going to find himself in more trouble than he can shake a stick at.”

“He ain’t scared, Shirley.” Craig glared at Bart. “Are you scared?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t forget to get the beers, baby girl.”

Resting her hands on her hips, Faye stared at her mother. “First it was a beer, and now it’s beers.”

“Go get them, Faye Anne. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen your daddy act a fool. There’s no doubt he’s glad to see you.”

“And it’s good to see him, too,
especially
when he’s acting a fool.”