All I Want Is You (Kimani Romance) (5 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to promise me three things. You hear me?”

He nodded.

“You make sure your brother stays on the right path. Don’t let him break your mother’s heart. He’s a wild one and will get into trouble if he’s not watched carefully. You understand?”

JD nodded again. He knew what his father meant. His younger brother, Donnie, was a little too much like their uncle Billy, who’d spent three years in jail for fraud.

“Second, I want you to use that brain of yours to help people. There are enough selfish bastards in the world. I want you to leave a legacy of integrity. You have my name and I want you to use it well.” His father turned away and stared up at the sky and sighed, his energy waning. His shirt hung on his thin frame, and although the weather was nearing eighty degrees, his father wore a long-sleeve shirt and worn wool sweater because he was always cold now. JD moved closer in case his father needed to lean on him.

His father cocked his ear. “Hear that? That’s the sound of the gray catbird. It was named for its catlike call, but it can also mimic the sound of other birds and even some mechanical sounds. It likes to hide when it sings, too. Always reminds me that things aren’t always as they seem.” He looked at JD. “Whenever you hear it, think of me. And remember that things aren’t always what they seem.”

JD shifted from one foot to the other, feeling sud
denly restless. “What’s the third thing you want me to promise?”

His father knelt in front of him and gripped his shoulders. “Promise me you’ll fight for happiness over anything else.” He cupped his son’s chin. “I worry about you. You’re too focused, solemn and…” He sighed with frustration. “There are so many things I could show you about what life is. How you should live. I want you to smile at least twice a day, laugh at least five, whistle, listen to music.” He tightened his hold, his voice urgent. “Live. For. Me.”

It was too much. JD looked into his father’s face and kind eyes and saw how pale the cancer had made him and how his skin stretched over his bones. He thought about staring at an empty place at the dinner table, a vacant seat in the church pew, of never walking with his father again. It was a promise he couldn’t make. He’d never laugh or smile again. He shook his head and stepped away. “No.”

His father reached for him. “JD—”

“No!” He yanked himself free. “I won’t laugh. I won’t smile. I won’t whistle and you can’t make me ’cause it’s not fair. It’s not fair!” He turned and ran. He knew his father couldn’t catch him. He didn’t want him to. He ran into the nearby woods and stomped on broken branches and kicked a nearby tree then fell to his knees and wept. “I’ll never be happy again,” he whispered, feeling his heart harden. He never wanted to love if it meant losing that person and feeling the terrible pain he felt now.

His father found him nearly twenty minutes later.
His face was lined with worry and his voice tinged with fear. “Don’t ever run away from me again.”

JD kept his gaze on the ground. “Yes, sir.”

His father gathered him into his arms and JD felt tears filling his eyes, but this time he didn’t pull away. He hugged him back, wishing he could keep his father alive forever.

“Be strong for me, son,” his father said, his voice cracking with anguish. “Be strong for all of us.”

“I will,” JD said, knowing that was a promise he could keep. He would always be strong.

They left the woods and neither spoke about that conversation again. His father died a month later and as promised, JD looked after his brother, who continued to get into scrapes (nearly got shot for sleeping with a married woman, and was on his fourth job in two years) but nothing too serious.

His brother was now working as a building manager at one of JD’s properties, and their mother was happy. As promised, he had also used his brain to help others by helping companies grow and, when needed, protecting them from corporate takeovers. He was established and successful and had never sullied his father’s name.

But he knew he wasn’t the man his father was. His father was life embodied. He could sparkle and laugh. JD couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that carefree, but that didn’t bother him. He’d never been lighthearted. It wasn’t his nature and it wasn’t what had gotten him this far.

However, he did like to make other people happy. Tonight he’d take his grandmother out and treat her to a movie. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone
out to eat that wasn’t a business meeting. Even when he dined out with Stacy, those meetings always turned to business—her father’s business. But with his grandmother, he knew it would be different. Being with her always lifted his spirits. She was a vibrant woman who, like his father, could find joy in simple things: a sunrise, a spring breeze. She’d urged her husband to buy the farmhouse as a refuge from her job as a professor of mathematics.

“Whenever you hear the gray catbird, think of me.”
He remembered his father’s words and the sound of his voice. They seemed to echo in the silence, and for a moment he was a child again looking up at his father’s face. But just as quickly, the image changed and he found himself staring up at a canopy of leaves. He didn’t listen for the sound of the catbird because he didn’t want to think about his father. Instead, he turned and walked back home.

H
e was a man of his word; she had to give him that. Monica watched JD’s car leave. He was on his way to take his grandmother to dinner and a movie. He’d offered to take her along, but Monica had politely refused. She’d stayed out of his presence as much as she could. After their first day together he’d busied himself with training Baxter, talking to his grandmother and roaming the property. Although she cooked dinner for two, they didn’t eat together. She ate in her studio and he ate in the breakfast nook.

It would work, Monica thought with a satisfied sigh as she turned from the window. He hadn’t asked to see her studio again, and she hoped he’d forgotten about it. A light tapping on the window caught her attention, and she saw that a light drizzle had started to fall. She opened the window and inhaled the scent of crisp, damp air and wet grass. She loved rainfall. She’d been
born during the first rain after a two-month drought. Her parents believed she’d brought them luck, and she did.

From a little child, her beauty garnered attention. Her mother gave credit to her Native American heritage for her height and good skin. Her father claimed her African-American ancestors had given her her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. But neither tried to take credit for her most unique feature—extraordinary hazel eyes that could at any given time be either emerald or gold. The women on both sides of her family had thick long hair, but hers cascaded down her back like an onyx river.

It was her grandmother who first saw her potential to make money and urged her mother to put her in modeling. Money was tight so her mother readily agreed. Monica didn’t even need to audition. Her mother took a snapshot and sent it to a few agents. Within days they had offers and within a week she was working. At six her childhood freedom came to an abrupt halt. Soon she was supporting the family with her work in print ads and commercials. She’d never been allowed to do what other kids did. She was kept indoors like a china doll. She was allowed to swim to keep toned but she could not climb trees, ride a bicycle or go skating. Nothing that could lead to scraped knees or elbows. Her skin had to be perfect.

Her mother and grandmother hovered over her like two protective hens, and she knew her importance to them and the family budget. She was the light while her younger sister, Nikki, was almost a shadow. Her sister didn’t seem to mind, because she was free to be
a regular child. She could go to the park and the playground. She even went to the local school while Monica was given lessons at home. Nikki would leave the house and come back with tales of her adventures at the jungle gym or school, and Monica eagerly listened to a life that couldn’t be hers.

It had been over a year since she’d last seen her sister, at Delong’s funeral. Nikki had been cordial to Delong. She found him fascinating but never really liked him. He’d discovered Monica at fifteen. He was a wealthy artist who first mentored her then became her lover and finally her husband. He exposed her to a world beyond her Oklahoma and New Jersey childhood. He made her more than a model. Through his guidance and brilliance he made her an icon. She was featured in music videos, movies and art exhibitions. She developed a clothing line and had enterprises in perfume and cosmetics. Together they owned several cars and five homes.

“But none of them are you,” Nikki once said when she came to visit Monica’s New Jersey residence.

“But I love them. Especially this one,” Monica said, wanting to convince her sister of her happiness.

“It’s not a true home,” she said, casting a glance at the stained glass and arched windows. “Your spirit and personality aren’t anywhere in this house. You’re just part of the collection.”

“I’m his wife, not his possession.”

“You think he knows the difference?”

“You just don’t understand him.” She knew Nikki couldn’t. Few people could. Delong was larger than life—a bold and passionate man. Their marriage wasn’t
normal, because Delong wasn’t a normal man. She knew there were other women but it wasn’t often, and she was his wife and that’s what mattered. When he strayed, he always came back to her with gusto. Besides, she needed him kept occupied because she had her own career and busy schedule, which at times could be exhausting. She knew there would never be any children. Taking care of Delong and his sometimes volatile moods was enough for her. Her sister was wrong. Delong loved her. He was a genius whose life was just as much his art as his work. She didn’t care what color he painted the walls or what furniture he bought. He took good care of her and life was perfect.

“Just let me decorate one room for you,” Nikki said.

“All right,” Monica replied, knowing that her sister, a top interior designer, wanted to do something special for her. Delong was in Venezuela, so Nikki could make changes without interference.

Monica allowed her sister to redecorate a small room near the back of the house in sweeping colors. Monica loved it. Delong didn’t. He never said so, but his silence was eloquent enough. Within a week of his return, Delong found a better use for the room. He used it to store his sculptures. And he didn’t stop until every hint of Nikki’s original design was gone.

“That bastard,” Nikki said when she saw the room later that year. “Your one little corner in this mausoleum and he took it.”

“It wasn’t deliberate,” Monica said with a tired sigh, not understanding her sister’s anger. It was just a room. She had plenty of others.

“Yes, it was. He has to be the center of everything.”

“I don’t know why you don’t like him.”

Nikki turned away. “And I don’t know why you do.”

Her sister had left angry that day, and at the funeral their meeting had been strained. Nikki tried but couldn’t hide her relief that he was gone, and that hurt Monica. She’d wanted someone to share his memory with, but her parents were dead. They’d had the two of them later in life and had passed away in their late seventies. They’d lived long enough to see Monica married and her career take off. They were proud and happy for her. Nikki wasn’t, and that sore spot hadn’t healed.

Monica looked around her bedroom with its simple decor. Delong would think that it was ugly and plain, and he’d think the same of the disguise she now wore. But it felt right. For a moment she wondered what Nikki would do to the room and what creative magic she would work in this small space. She missed her. It had taken time, but she now understood why her sister had so fiercely wanted her to have her own room. But she’d been so used to being an extension of someone else it had never crossed her mind to have something of her own. Now she wanted that and couldn’t.

The farmhouse wasn’t her home. Would any place ever be truly hers? She closed the window, as if doing so also shut out her past, and for the next hour and a half Monica worked in her studio. She stopped when she heard a car drive up.

She looked out her window and saw JD get out of the car. Her curiosity grew. What was he doing home already? She glanced at her watch and frowned. There was no way he could have done dinner and a movie in that short amount of time. What had happened? She
turned from the window and shook her head. It was none of her business. What he did in his spare time didn’t matter to her. But although she tried to focus on her work, her curiosity about his unexpected return wouldn’t disappear. Resigned, Monica went downstairs just in time to see JD refilling Baxter’s water bowl.

“Wasn’t the movie any good?” she asked him.

JD looked up, surprised to see her. She didn’t blame him. Except for cursory remarks like “hi” or “good morning,” she hadn’t engaged him in conversation.

“Gran wasn’t feeling well so I just ordered something in then played for her.”

“Played for her? What did you play?”

He folded his arms and a slow smile touched his lips. “I’ll tell you if you’ll show me your studio.”

Damn, he hadn’t forgotten.
“I’m not
that
interested.”

JD shrugged then went into the family room. Monica swore because she knew that he’d gotten her. Her imagination would race until she discovered what he’d played for his grandmother. She reluctantly followed him into the other room and saw him reading a book on dog training. Although he looked casual, something about him was different. More subdued. She again wondered why he was here. What was he running away from? She knew he had his reasons why he wanted to hide, but it wasn’t just overwork; she understood because she had her own dark reasons. “Okay, you win,” she said.

“Good.” He tossed the book aside and stood up as if she’d said exactly what he’d expected. For a moment Monica wondered if his subdued look had been a trap.

“Tell me what you played first.”

JD shook his head. “After I see the studio. I wouldn’t want you to change your mind.”

Monica rested her hands on her hips, affronted. “I wouldn’t—”

He held up his hand, firm. “That’s the deal.”

Monica sighed fiercely then marched up the stairs. If he wanted to see her studio, fine. He wouldn’t uncover anything exciting there. Just equipment and jewelry designs. She had nothing to worry about. He wouldn’t stay long. He’d just have a quick look around and then he’d be gone. But that thought didn’t stop her from being aware of how close he was to her as he followed and how he seemed to loom over her. It was an amazing feat, because he was only a couple of inches taller than she was, but he commanded the space around him. She took a deep breath then opened the door.

JD walked in and looked around. Monica quickly scanned the space to make sure everything was in its place. She liked to keep things meticulous. A large magnifying glass stood attached to her drawing table, and several old clothes and a worn apron hung on pegs off to the side. Sheets of silver sat sorted by size and were filed neatly in a freestanding organizer. Several pliers, a small hammer and a torch for soldering lay neatly on a workbench situated in the middle of the room directly under a skylight. Several bottles, clearly labeled, were lined up on the table next to small remnants of jewelry she had been working on, and at the back of the studio was a double sink.

Monica couldn’t read anything from JD’s expression. She folded her arms, regretting letting him in. Was he going to judge her or be politely condescending?

“I’m the artist, darling, and you’re merely my creation,”
Delong liked to say in an indulgent tone when she offered him a design or tried to sketch something of her own.
“Why do you need to create art when you’re a masterpiece?”

“These are just sketches of new designs,” she said when JD lingered over her drawing table. His silent study grated on her nerves.

“And this is a custom-made design for a client. I sell my items on consignment through a small gift shop in town, and I have an associate who takes several of my pieces to local art shows and sells them there.”

JD watched her with such intensity she suddenly felt tongue-tied. “It’s a good business,” she said defensively.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” he said in a low voice.

“You haven’t said anything.”

“Because I don’t know what to say. You sell locally?”

“Yes,” she said, proud that her work was selling.

“Why not expand?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“You should.” He shrugged. “I’d expected some cute homemade trinkets, but these are stunning. Museum quality. You shouldn’t only be selling them to tourists and secondhand shoppers. These are world class. It’s evident that you’ve studied internationally. I haven’t seen patterns like this since my trip to Benin and Nigeria.” He lifted a sketch and moved over to the light. “This one makes me think of Marrakech—the fusion of artistic vision captured in one small object. What’s your company called?”

“The Silver Stone.”

He nodded. “Good. It rings true.” He sat down at her drawing table. “What was the inspiration behind this?” He gestured to a set of earrings.

“The peacock. I was traveling in Malaysia and I saw one and it captivated me. The colors were extraordinary.”

“Yes, I can see that. Put them on for me.”

Monica stared at him for a moment, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “Why?”

“Because I’m thinking of buying them as a gift for a friend and want to see if the set will work.”

An intimate friend? Monica wanted to ask then scolded herself for even caring. Of course he did. He probably had several. He was an attractive man. Even she had nearly fallen under the spell of his casual flirtation. And she wouldn’t think about the kiss. He’d never mentioned it because it had been an impulsive act that hadn’t meant anything. But there was no way she’d put on her creations and be compared to the glamorous and stylish women he knew. “Use your imagination.”

“I just want to see them on a real person.”

“It will be like draping crystal around a tree trunk.”

“You’re a lot prettier than a tree trunk and this will take less than a minute. Your ears are pierced, so you must have worn jewelry at some point. Come on,” he said in a silky, persuasive voice.

Monica sighed then put the earrings on. He helped her clasp the matching necklace, the knuckles of his hand brushing against her skin, causing it to tingle. She abruptly turned to him, steeling herself from his affect on her. “There,” she said in a sharp tone, trying to be nonchalant. “Doesn’t that give you an idea?”

JD rubbed his chin, letting his gaze roam over her in a slow, lazy appraisal, making her body grow warm as the seconds stretched. “No, that won’t work.” He looked at another pair. “Try this set.”

She hesitated. “I don’t—”

“Just one more,” he said in the same silky voice.

Reluctantly, Monica obliged, and again his penetrating gaze seemed to undress her, peeling the layers back off her ugly paisley dress and tinted glasses as though he could see who she really was. He looked at her as if she was stunningly beautiful, and it frightened her.

He shook his head again and smiled. “Why don’t we—”

It was the smile that did it. It was superior and smug, and she realized it had all been a game. JD hadn’t been looking at her with any real interest. She’d let her vanity make her a fool. She wasn’t Venus. Just Monica, and Monica was a laughable, pitiable creature who no man had glanced at in months. The sharp sting of humiliation pierced her then turned to anger. “Get out.”