Valentine's Dream: Love Changes EverythingSweet SensationMade in Heaven Page 9

  “Do you want to keep this apartment?”

  “It has its uses.”

  “I could get a bigger house.”

  “The kids will be leaving home soon. You don’t need bigger.”

  She chuckled. “Carter, Madison’s only six. He’s got a long way to go before he leaves for good.” She turned to look at him, with a loving, warm regard. “We’ve never talked about you and me having children.”

  “It’s on the list.”

  “Carter?” She was down to her underwear and pressed against him, with her arms around his neck.

  He kissed her nose, her mouth briefly. “What?”

  “I never told you before, but I used to be afraid that I would love you so much more than I did Benson.”

  “That was never a requirement. Come on. Take off your things and get into bed.”

  “Are we having dinner here?” She grinned, remembering the last few nights of the cruise, when they’d more or less barricaded themselves in their staterooms and lived on room service.

  “Maybe later,” he said, looking down at her as she curled up beneath the covers, waiting and watching him remove his own things. “I have something else in mind for now.”

  She pressed close to the long, hard warmth of his body. “Carter? What if you’d never gotten that promotion? And had never considered moving to New York?”

  “We would have found each other eventually, Grace. I always knew, it was you and no other.”

  * * * * *

  SWEET SENSATION

  Carmen Green

  To Donna Hill, Arisha Parker and Arianna Riviera,

  Thank you for the laughter and inspiration.

  To Tina, Nathan, Dani and Kameron.

  Your youthfulness drives me crazy and cracks me up.

  You inspire me to write daily.

  To the Sparrow: I’ll see you in the rapture someday.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 1

  Neesie Claiborne drew the hair color application brush along the strands of her hair and wondered again if she was applying it correctly.

  “This is right,” she assured her reflection in the antique oval bathroom mirror. “Definitely right.”

  The box and bottles that had held the product were on the side of the black porcelain sink and she raised the box and read the directions again.

  “Apply color to hair and let stand for twenty-five minutes.” She skimmed the rest of the instructions, bypassing the warning for users to perform a strand test 48 hours prior to dyeing.

  Neesie wrinkled her nose at the caution and lowered the box before covering her hair with a plastic cap. Dyeing it herself wasn’t any different than when her hairdresser did it.

  Peeling off the long plastic gloves, she lifted her wineglass, saluted herself and sipped while moving her body in time with Erykah Badu’s song “Tyrone.”

  The phone in her home office rang and Neesie scurried for it as she covered the glass with her hand. The large furry slippers that covered her feet slowed her progress, causing her to slip, but she caught the phone one ring before the answering machine picked up.

  “Neesie Claiborne here,” she said, lowering the glass to a coaster.

  “I realize it’s after business hours. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  The timbre of the voice resonating through the phone sent a thrill dancing down Neesie’s spine. She removed a slipper and curled her foot into her chair before sitting on it.

  “It depends on who you are and what you want. Who’s calling?”

  “Craig DuPont. Human resource director of Stadler Chocolate Company. Sorry to bother you so late.”

  “Not at all,” she said, still slightly breathless.

  Anticipation surged through her. About four months ago, she’d received a thanks-but-no-thanks letter from Waymon Stadler, president of Stadler Children’s Foundation on her bid to plan their annual fund-raiser.

  Nevana Southerland, her arch rival and high school tormentor, had beat her out again and won the account. So why was the sexy bass of Craig DuPont’s voice filling her ear?

  “What can I do for you, Mr. DuPont?”

  He cleared his throat. “I find myself in need of your services. The person we’d hired to plan the fund-raiser has taken ill.”

  “Nevana is sick?” Neesie began to pace the floor, her one slippered foot making a whooshing sound against the carpet. For four years of high school, seven hundred and twenty days, Nevana Southerland had never been absent or missed an opportunity to tease Neesie about her name, the fact that she was a vegetarian and that her mother was fat, among other things.

  Neesie had spent many years hating Nevana and rightfully so. Now that they were grown and in the same business, Nevana used every trick in the book and some she wrote herself to beat Neesie out of contracts.

  No love existed between the two, and Neesie knew if DuPont was calling her, Nevana had to be near dead.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s got mononucleosis.”

  She bit back a grunt. She wouldn’t die. “That can be serious.” Neesie’s curiosity piqued. “How can I help you, Mr. DuPont?”

  “We want you to plan the remainder of the fund-raiser and see it through to fruition. Can you do that in six weeks, Ms. Claiborne?”

  Could birds fly? Did chickens squawk? Did Mr. McHenry’s dog poop on her grass every day? Yes! She wanted to yell, but didn’t.

  “I can do more than that. I can plan the best event Stadler’s has ever seen. These are my terms...”

  Forty-five minutes later, Neesie laid down her pen and stared at the lucrative terms she’d etched out with the HR director.

  “Have we covered everything?” he asked, sounding relieved. “I think you got the kitchen sink, too.”

  A bubble of laughter rose within her from his unexpected humor and Neesie didn’t bother to squash it. Although Mr. DuPont complained, he’d been a tough negotiator sticking on points she’d thought negotiable.

  Neesie set aside the initial warnings that blazed within her that he wanted approval of expenses more than five hundred dollars.

  As soon as he saw how competent she was, she was sure those rules would be relaxed. Otherwise they’d be practically living together.

  “If this is acceptable, I’d like to get started right away.”

  “Good,” DuPont said. “I’ll email over the contract, and we’ll meet with Donald Stadler, the chief executive officer and owner, tomorrow at three. In fact, I’ll call him tonight and inform him of your verbal acceptance. Will such short notice for the meeting present a problem for you?”

  A quick consultation with her calendar revealed previously scheduled appointments. They could be moved. “Three o’clock sounds fine.”

  “Good. Uh, Ms. Claiborne, I’ve done some checking and you have a reputation for making the events you plan...how should I put this...unique.”

  “Is that a problem?” she asked with a tinge of attitude.

  “Stadler is a conservative company with high standards of excellence. We don’t do extravagant here.”

  His words hammered her shoulders into the upright and locked position. Crisply delivered, wrapped in brotha bass, she understood Craig DuPont was serious.

  “Now when you meet Donald Stadler,” he continued, “he may suggest something more carnival-like than his grandson wants. It’s important that you not agree to anything.”

  “Why? Isn’t Donald Stadler the man to impress?”

  “He’s the CEO, yes. His likes and dislikes are valued, but Mr. Stadler is pushing ninety.” Warmth softened Craig’s tone. “He’s a smart, old guy, but his grandson, Waymon, is the president and in charge of the foundation and this fund-ra
iser. Technically, we’re both here to follow through on Waymon’s vision.”

  So the old man was a little outlandish. She liked people who didn’t fit molds. Obviously Waymon had something else in mind. She shrugged. Making people happy was her business.

  “Tomorrow when I meet Mr. Stadler, I promise to leave my blond wig and Flo-Jo nails at home.”

  His laughter felt as good as a walk in a summer shower.

  “That’s reassuring. I’ll email the contract over right now, but I’ll need a hard copy for an early morning meeting. Is it all right for me to drop by your office at nine?”

  “That’s fine.” She gave him directions to her home-office in a section of Old Avery. “Mr. DuPont?”

  “Yes?”

  Neesie caught another thrill and trembled slightly. The word dropped from his lips and dripped unspoken meaning. Yes, I am capable. Yes, I am confident. Yes, I am self-assured. An invisible connection linked her and Craig DuPont. Low self-esteem had plagued her during her youth, and now that she’d overcome the insecurities, Neesie found herself attracted to confident people. The cool way he spoke the simple word had her admiring him.

  “Will I be reporting to the president? Although I didn’t get the job initially, I received a letter from him.”

  A short silence ensued and Neesie immediately regretted her question. She didn’t want DuPont to think she was after Waymon Stadler. Although she’d met the younger Stadler on several occasions, she was aware that he was a married man and had three small children.

  “Waymon is on sick leave. It seems he also has mononucleosis. You’ll be reporting directly to me. Good night, Ms. Claiborne.”

  “Night.” Neesie fell back into her chair and was glad no one was around to hear the burst of surprised laughter that escaped her throat. She kicked her feet in the air and watched the other slipper fly across the room.

  The plastic cap covering her head scratched the back of her high back leather chair and she touched it, remembering the process she’d been performing scant moments ago.

  The clock in the hall had ticked nine times, how long ago, she wondered as she quickened her steps over the large tile squares of the hallway back to the bathroom.

  Neesie caught the lift of her eyebrows in an almost surreal way as her gaze fixated on the blond strands of hair that curled beneath the cap.

  “No way,” she muttered as she lifted the plastic away from her hair and her normally black and prematurely gray tresses were now a matte Marilyn Monroe blond. Stumbling away from her reflection, Neesie slipped on the plastic cap that had fallen from her numb fingers and landed with a plop on her bottom. “How did this happen?”

  Disbelief surged through her and she could feel a combination of fear and shock take over her already stiff limbs. She blinked, horrified. What in the world was she supposed to do now?

  In less than twelve hours Craig DuPont would be standing on her doorstep and boy would he get the surprise of his life.

  She was going to lose the account if she didn’t do something.

  Shocked into action, Neesie scrambled up from the floor and stared at her hair. Maybe washing it would soften the brash blond.

  Seven washes later she fisted her hands in her wet blond hair, but let it go, realizing her hair looked exactly like Marilyn Monroe.

  Rinsing the cap, Neesie dragged it on and headed back to her office, taking the hair-color box with her. She dialed the toll-free number.

  “Hello, this is Antoine. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Neesie Claiborne, and I need help.” Neesie couldn’t stop sputtering. “I... My hair is wrong.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The color is wrong! It’s the color of sand.”

  “Did you not want that?” Antoine’s disinterested question rankled her.

  Neesie stared at the phone and wondered if she could reach through and strangle him. “No! I didn’t want this. I wanted black. I got blond. What happened?”

  “You say you wanted black and got blond. Mmm. What are the codes on the bottom of the box?”

  Neesie read them off, a sense of dread filling her.

  “And where did you purchase that product?”

  “From the cart man,” she practically whispered.

  “Is that a store?”

  “No. From an old man who pushes a cart along the street. He’s been in the neighborhood for years and we all support him.”

  Swallowing, she tried to keep the desperation from completely taking over. Mama Lou, her mother, had always accused her of being melodramatic. Well, even her mother wouldn’t be able to stop the storm she’d create if her hair didn’t turn back to its normal black-and-gray state.

  “Antoine?” Muffled voices through the phone made her hesitate as she listened.

  Antoine kept saying, “That doesn’t sound good...that won’t work... Don’t tell her that, she’s already hysterical.”

  Neesie nearly pulled out her hair. “Antoine!”

  “Yes, Neesie?” he asked calmly.

  “How can I fix my hair?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Your number is on the back of this box for a reason.” Her bank of patience had finally overflowed. “You’re supposed to know everything. Help me fix my hair!”

  “I can’t.”

  Neesie’s knuckles hurt from the grip she maintained on the phone. She relaxed long enough to grip it with her other hand.

  “You can’t. What does that mean?”

  He sighed. “It means that product was recalled and destroyed two years ago. How you got a box, I don’t know. Since you didn’t buy it in a store, you have no recourse. If you give us the man’s name you purchased it from, maybe we can find him and confiscate the remaining boxes, if there are any.”

  Neesie caught her reflection in the glass-framed picture of her sister’s kids. She looked positively horrid. And her scalp was starting to itch. But that would be the least of her problems if she turned in the cart man. He relied on the community for support, and some people, especially the older folks of Avery relied on him, too.

  “This was the last box. I remember feeling lucky I’d gotten it.” Her voice hitched. “What can I do to get rid of this awful color?”

  “It should be all right to blow dry and sleep on. But get to a professional first thing tomorrow.”

  Neesie scratched her itchy scalp. “Those are my only choices?”

  Antoine’s sympathetic chuckle made her feel even sorrier for herself. “You could learn to like your new look.”

  “I’ll call somebody tonight and see if I can get an appointment for in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s Monday and most salons are closed, but good luck.”

  “I need more than that,” she moaned after hanging up the phone. The phone books were stacked under the gutted dresser that now served as a cabinet. She flipped open the book with a snap. Somebody in Avery was going to fix the catastrophe sitting on top of her shoulders if it took all night to find them.

  When she dialed the last number listed and listened to the recorded message, Neesie wanted to cry but wouldn’t indulge in the luxury. She had less than ten hours to find somebody who could fix the mess she’d made or she was sure she would lose the biggest and most important account of her career.

  Chapter 2

  Neesie patted the red-banded straw hat down on her head more firmly and caught her reflection in the stained-glass mirror on her way to answer the door chimes. Craig DuPont was on time.

  She brushed her arched eyebrows with her fingertips and swallowed before reaching for the knob. If she presented a confident front, DuPont’s first impression would be solid and he would feel good about choosing her despite the summer hat in the dead of winter.

  She hid the negative thought behind a bright smile, took a breath and opened the door.

  The man who stood on the other side gave her a quizzical stare, taking in the hat all the way down to her red leather
shoes and Neesie knew she was busted.

  Still she didn’t let her smile waver. “Mr. DuPont. Come in.”

  He crossed the threshold and Neesie backed up as he seemed to grow into the space of her foyer. He was tall. Taller than her cousin Jimmy who at six foot two played guard for the Houston Rockets.

  DuPont’s astute obsidian dark eyes missed nothing of the shabby chic style she’d created throughout the house.

  He wore a well-made gray suit, accented by a white-collared shirt with cuff links that winked at her. His shoes glistened in the streaming prism of colors from the stained-glass window and she caught a whiff of soap and cologne that made provocative thoughts traipse through her mind.

  Neesie couldn’t stop herself from cataloging his strong facial features that blended a plump nose with wide cheeks and a high forehead. There was so much to see and like on the handsome man’s face, but like a needle on a scratchy seventy-eight record, her eyes stuck on his full lips. They were sexy enough to die for. He turned to shut the door and Neesie regained consciousness enough to gather her wits. She had to get rid of him and soon.

  The Hair Dicery down on Juniper Avenue was opening in thirty minutes. If she was lucky, somebody in there would know how to work with black hair and could fix her disaster.

  “I know you must be in a hurry,” she rushed, “so if you give me the hard copy, I’ll be glad to sign it and let you be on your way. You don’t want to be late for your meeting.” Neesie heard herself babbling, but couldn’t stop. “I should have met you halfway. That way you wouldn’t have had to go so far out of your way.”

  “You’re on the way.” He brushed his hands together. “Do you have any coffee?”

  “You’re thirsty?” she asked weakly.

  “I have time for a cup of coffee. I also wanted to discuss a possible theme with you,” he stated, going over her again with his gaze.

  She couldn’t stop her hand from patting the hat down more firmly on her head. “Right this way.”

  The foyer was long and Neesie walked quickly toward the back. Off to the right was her office and creative haven where ideas came to life. But she turned left toward the kitchen.