Enchanted Heart (9 page)

“Maybe.”

“Viv?” Dakota got up and came around the side of the desk. “What's wrong?”

Viv rubbed her temples. “I've got a lot on my mind.” Crowding out all other thoughts was Lance Heart Smith. She'd managed to placate Julian, but Lance was the one who'd been on her mind.

Had she blown the deal by sleeping with him and then bolting the way she'd done?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Once again, she'd let hormones get the best of her . . . and this time her business was at stake.

“Did you give him the packet?”

“Yeah. He didn't even look at it.”

“I'm sure he will.” Viv reached for her appointment book. “I think I have a program tonight.”

“I placed the order with Lucia Allen today. She's excited about the response we've had to her jewelry. Hey, is she any relation to Lance Heart Smith?”

“I don't think so. Why?”

Dakota shrugged. “I thought her middle name was Heart, too. Where did I see that?” She shrugged again. “I may have her mixed up with someone else.”

Wouldn't that be destiny? She'd heard about a boutique one of them opened in Virginia Beach, but she hadn't checked it out. Maybe she should get to know that shop owner if she was seriously considering a financial connection with Lance. She made a note in her book to get the owner's name and a second one to ask Lucia if she was related to Lance. Later she'd work out how to fit that into a conversation without tipping her hand.

“Do you want to work on the pajama party? We still need a theme.”

“Is Leticia still on the floor?”

Dakota nodded. “She'll ring back here if she needs any help.”

“Okay,” Viv said. She pulled a legal pad from a drawer and wrote
PJ Party
across the top. “Themes?”

“Arabian Nights.”

“Done to death.”

“What about a masquerade?” Dakota offered.

“We don't want people to get the impression they should hide behind anything.”

“Mardi Gras.”

Viv tilted her head. “That works.” She wrote it down. “What else?”

“How about if we get a bunch of guys who look like Lance Heart Smith to be the waiters? They could wear loincloths or G-strings. The women could take pictures with them.”

“Fantasy night, huh?”

Dakota grinned. “Exactly.”

Viv wrote it down. “Raggedy pj's.”

“Huh?”

“We tell the women to come in their raggedy pj's and we do makeovers. When they leave—with their new purchases—they're transformed into sirens.”

“I like it. But I like the idea of a naked Lance Heart Smith even better.”

Viv did, too, but she wasn't about to admit it. She had a healthy, active sex life, yet Lance had managed to teach her a thing or two. The main lesson being that she was weak-willed.

Dakota snapped her fingers.

“Huh?”

“You were gone again,” Dakota said. “Are you sure everything's all right. Vicki's okay?”

“Yes. I . . .” She shook her head. “What about a patriotic theme?”

Dakota frowned. “With lingerie?”

“You're right. That one sucks.” She tapped her pen on the desktop, reluctant to admit that the idea featuring the men had some merit, if only because it sent her thoughts roaming back to Lance.

Tonight she'd take something from the shop home to Vicki; maybe a gift would help eliminate some of the “I told you so's” she was bound to hear.

“It should be about pampering,” Dakota said.

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

Dakota leaned forward, propping her arms on the desk front and solemnly regarding Viv. “I volunteer to see if Lance Heart Smith lives up to his looks. He said to tell you he's interested.”

Yeah, Viv thought, that was the problem. Despite knowing better, she, too, was interested. The difference was she wanted his money more than she wanted what he did to her in bed.

7

“I
t's your fault I have these pangs.”

Vivienne and her twin sister, Vicki, were in their large kitchen preparing the evening meal. Vicki made quick work of slicing marinated chicken breasts.

“Turn the broiler off,” she said. “And those pangs are good for you.”

Viv watched her sister navigate the kitchen. “You missed your calling as a chef.”

“Nope,” Vicki said. “I'm happy doing what I do.” She grated mozzarella.

Viv filched a piece of romaine and considered that for a moment. “Why don't you come with me tonight? I think you'll enjoy the author's presentation. It's on self-actualization.”

“No thanks. I'm as actualized as I'm going to get. Besides, I have some work to do.”

This was a sore point between them. Viv always invited; Vicki always declined. Usually with work as an excuse. For a long moment Viv didn't say anything, then, “All right. I should be home by eleven.”

Vicki waved a hand, shooing Viv out of the way. “I'll leave some salad for you.”

When Viv left, Vicki halted her busy work and slumped into a chair, closing her eyes. It was so hard pretending. Each day seemed harder than the last. And each day Vicki just wanted to give up. She wouldn't, however, let Viv see her weakness. Viv was the strong one, though she'd readily deny it, ceding that attribute to Vicki. Vicki knew that her twin looked at her and saw strength, resolve and a determination to succeed despite the odds. Vicki, however, knew how much a sham that was. She rarely, if ever, let Viv see how hard it was to walk in her shadow. Viv had fought so hard for both of them, even when Vicki thought the cause lost.

So Vicki owed it to her sister—and herself—to fight back the darkness and to rise each day, though it be a new struggle, out of the abyss of her misery.

Viv had no idea. No way to grasp even an iota of what it was like to be the other sister. Clayton was the only person who seemed to truly understand her. He was the highlight of her day. Every night she could shed the mantle of her self-loathing and desolation to become a beautiful woman who lived life to its fullest, free of inhibitions, free of . . .

She touched her face and sighed.

Dwelling in self-pity never accomplished much, and wouldn't change tonight. Besides, Clayton waited for her. She completed her salad, snagged a wineglass and a bottle of Chardonnay and carefully made her way to the room she'd claimed as her workspace. A few minutes later, with the glass topped off and the salad next to her, she entered the world where she was free and unencumbered.

Her breath caught and her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she stopped in mid-chew. He spoke of the small town in a familiar way. Was he
from
Ahoskie? That was just about an hour from her house. So close. She didn't dare let him know. Though they'd been e-mailing for six months, Clayton Rollings—if that was his real name—was in the end, just a sig line in cyberspace. Vicki of all people should know not to trust anything anyone said online.

Her gaze darted to the time display on the monitor.

Six-thirty.

Viv wouldn't be back until eleven. Or even at all. She hadn't come home last night. Vicki had the house to herself.

She took a deep breath.

She stared at the flashing cursor. But she didn't press Enter to send the instant message.

Did she dare? It would be so liberating . . . and so foolhardy.

Vicki quickly deleted the line before she changed her mind. In its place, she typed,

Clayton worked in the security division of an undisclosed multinational company—or so he said. Vicki's own work kept her chained to a computer all day. Monitoring chat sites and troubleshooting for list moderators kept her pretty busy.

That she'd even managed to get sucked into a cyber-pseudo relationship amazed her. She knew the pitfalls. Yet, his posts about vanity in a chat room debate so intrigued her that she'd sent a private message one night while the arguments raged over whether actress Halle Berry would have won an Oscar had she been an ugly woman. They'd kicked up an ongoing discussion on physical appearance, media and ad agency definitions of beauty, and the unrealistic expectations both created. And that was the beginning of their friendship.

Despite the odds, and the initial half-truths she'd written, Vicki did consider Clayton a friend.

Vicki frowned.

It took him longer than normal to respond to the message. Vicki sat there, waiting. Wondering what game he played. Then...

She looked at the question and the coy wink sign for a bit. He hadn't answered the question. She smiled.

She'd established the ground rules. No last names—though the profile he'd filled out listed his name as Clayton Rollings of the USA.

No cities of residence. No physical contact. No phone numbers. No photos.

Was it time to rethink that?

Vicki's eyes widened. She typed in
?????

Her breath caught. A photo? He'd suggested as much before, but she'd always balked. A picture was so personal, so telling.

So truthful.

How many times had Viv said people saw her photo on a billboard or magazine cover and decided they
knew
her. Vicki didn't want anyone having that sort of connection with her.

Sure enough, a message popped up in her e-mail. She stared at it for a long time.

Vicki stared at his message and then at the e-mail that carried the subject line Clayplay in color.jpg.

Vicki clicked out of the instant messaging program.

He'd sent his photo and it was very possible he lived just a ways south of her.

Usually, talking to Clayton gave her a boost. Tonight though Vicki was troubled, and some of the joy she took in their conversations diminished. He wanted to move to the next obvious step in the relationship. But Vicki couldn't do that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Then a thought darted through her mind, a delicious, wonderful, why-didn't-I-think-of-that-before kind of thought. It was wicked and she knew she shouldn't do it, but its very appeal was its simplicity. And who would know?

She pushed the salad aside and downed the remaining wine in a single gulp. She'd need more than the false courage brought on by half a bottle of Chardonnay to take this next step with her cyber boyfriend.

Glancing back at the glowing monitor, she contemplated the e-mail from him. It would be so much easier to know just with whom she was dealing. Sorely tempted, she positioned the mouse on the e-message.

Then she double-clicked.

 

 

“So am I tripping?”

Lance accepted a boxful of tennis rackets from Tyrone “T.J.” Joplin. He'd just filled T.J. in on the salient details of the I'm-cutting-your-ass-off lunch he'd had with his grandmother. Next to Cole, T.J. was his best friend. On the surface, the two men had little in common.

“I don't know, bro. You know your relatives better than I do. Sounds like a power play to me.”

Lance put the box on a table and grunted when an even larger one was thrust in his arms.

“How many kids are coming?”

“I can usually count on about twenty-five regulars, but they all won't be playing tennis.”

“That's a lot.”

Tyrone nodded. “Yeah, but I'd rather have them here than hanging out on Twenty-third and Chestnut or Thirty-sixth Street.”

As director of a recreation center in one of the city's most crime- and drug-ridden neighborhoods, T.J. led a one-man crusade to give kids and teens an alternative to crack habits and rap sheets.

“What's wrong with Thirty-sixth Street?”

“Man, don't you read the paper or watch the news?”

“I told you, I've been a little preoccupied.”

“Two boys got shot last night. One of 'em died. Fifteen and seventeen. That stretch over there is a killing field.”

T.J. jumped down from the chair he'd been standing on to reach the sports supplies. He locked the gate that led to the equipment room then hefted his own box and followed Lance to the gym floor of the rec center.

They deposited the boxes at a side door that led to the two outdoor tennis courts.

Located in the heart of the city's East End, the recreation center was one of the few shining spots in the community. A lot of that was due to T.J. Joplin's work as athletic director. He'd started out with the Boys & Girls Club. Then, when an abandoned grocery store was turned into a recreation center, he'd applied for the director's job and got it. He'd told more than one reporter if he could get a kid turned on to sports, the kid would be less likely to turn to a crack pipe.

Lance glanced around. A few boys were playing a pickup game of basketball at the far end of the gym. “You think some of your kids were involved?”

T.J. shrugged. “I don't know. Chances are they knew one or both of them. The kids who go to school will know. Word is those two were arguing over a girl. The dispute started in the cafeteria at their high school.”

“And ended with bullets.”

“That's how a lot of things end around here. That's why the center is so important. It gives 'em something else to focus on.”

“So what do you do? Have a counselor in to talk to them?”

T.J. shook his head. “Not this time. Funding got pulled. If she comes back, it'll be on volunteer time. But that's where you come in, bro.”

“Huh?”

“Look, you're a businessman. You've got money. You've been to college. You can be an inspiration for a lot of these kids. A third of them won't finish high school. Half of them will never leave the projects where they were born and raised. And a lot of them are just gonna be negative statistics. State and federal numbers on unwed mothers, drug addicts, criminals. Unless . . .”

Lance eyed him with suspicion. “Unless what?”

“Hey T.J., send the ball back,” somebody yelled. A moment later, a basketball rolled toward them. T.J. grabbed it and tossed it back down the court on a jump shot.

“Unless there's somebody there to run interference, to show them there's more to the game than hoop dreams.”

Lance shook his head. “I'm nobody's role model, T.J. I just finished telling you my grandmother is cutting me off because she thinks I'm a fuck-up.”

Tyrone tapped his head with a single finger. “Doesn't matter what she thinks, man. What do you think?”

Lance was starting to think Cole and his grandmother had a point about him. His primary interests in life—all carnal—had little to recommend him for anything of lasting value. On the outside, his main purpose appeared to be strolling from one good time to another.

He wasn't like T.J., committed to a cause. T.J. grew up in the East End of Newport News. He felt a connection to the people and the streets. If it hadn't been for a flat tire years ago in the parking lot of the gym where they both worked out, the two probably would never have met. Unlike T.J.'s hard-scrabble early years, Lance had been groomed at prep schools and polished at expensive private colleges, all so he could be steered into the family business, a business he'd been expected to lead one day.