The Beautiful Ones (Arabesque) (14 page)

Chapter 19

A
s always, Solomon was given the full VIP treatment when he entered Club Secrets. For one night only, the dance club was putting on a talent search à la
American Idol.
The prize was a one-single deal with T & B Entertainment. Needless to say, he really wasn’t in the mood for this.

And sure enough, his time and patience were wasted. Most of the acts couldn’t even win a karaoke contest, let alone a serious talent search. Solomon’s good friend and the club’s owners, Tee Bo, at least mumbled his apologies and claimed it was also his first time hearing the performers.

However, since the event drew a large crowd, Tee Bo vowed to hold another contest in the near future.

“You’re going to have to get another label, man,” Solomon said. “Get Jermaine Dupri or somebody. I can’t do this again. Maybe he’s looking for someone.” His candor obviously took Tee Bo by surprise. Between Marcel and Solomon, Solomon was usually the one who let people down easy.

Not tonight.

Minutes after the contest, the stage was cleared, the loud music returned, and dancers crowded the floor. While Solomon’s mood continued to spiral downward, he felt his cell phone vibrate against his leg. He scooped it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID screen.

Ophelia Missler.

He stared at the name while the phone continued to vibrate. When it stopped, he simply returned the phone to his pocket and then ordered a drink from a passing waitress.

Several drinks later, he was finally starting to loosen up, and was feeling pretty good. Damn good, in fact.

A few hot ladies from the dance floor gave him come-hither looks, while they gyrated to a new Usher hit. He was only too happy to accompany them.

Talk about feeling like a kid in a candy store. In no time at all, Solomon was surrounded and proving that at thirty-five, he still had a few smooth dance moves left.

Whenever he felt the buzz of his cell phone, the harder he danced and the more he drank. Tonight he was going to take a page out of his uncle’s playbook and have a little fun—and these ladies were going to be the ones to show him how.

* * *

Ophelia needed to apologize—to the point of desperation. But with every unanswered phone call, her anxiety intensified, causing a slight pain in her chest.

He was ignoring her calls, she was certain of it.

She brought this on herself, she realized, which made the pill that much harder to swallow. Her gaze fell to her hand and the heavy diamond ring pressed against her finger.

Extremely heavy.

“This is wrong,” she whispered, and then immediately tried to snatch the thing off her finger. It wouldn’t budge.

“Damn it.” She jumped to her feet and stormed away from the tons of swatches, menus, and magazines that she and Kailua had spent hours poring over. There were too many choices and too many decisions involved in planning a wedding. So many, in fact, it was a wonder that anyone ever made it to the altar.

Ophelia rushed into one of the downstairs bathrooms and turned on the faucet full blast. Plunging her hands beneath the stream of water, she tried again to pull the ring off.

It still wouldn’t budge.

“Oh, come on.” She gritted her teeth and pulled with all her might. It was more likely she would snap her finger off before the ring ever came loose.

“Oh, forget it,” she panted, giving up. The damn thing felt as if it were welded on. As she turned off the faucet, she locked gazes with her reflection in the mirror.

“What the hell am I doing?” she asked. She paused, as if waiting for an answer, and then slumped forward.

Jonas was right. She wasn’t being honest—with him, with herself, or with Solomon. But what was the truth? she wondered.

Was she in love with Solomon?

Or was Jonas saying it so much that she was starting to believe it?

How could she have told Solomon that she never wanted to see him again? And how could she have even considered Jonas’s ultimatum?

“I have to fix this,” she whispered, turning to leave the bathroom. Minutes later, she was in her car, speeding toward Solomon’s place. Her mind raced with all the things she needed to say.

Of course Solomon would forgive her. This wasn’t the first time in their twenty-five-year history that she had done something stupid.

What if he doesn’t?
The dubious voice in her head was so loud that she glanced up at her reflection in the rearview mirror. The pain in her chest returned, and she reached a hand over to her purse to check and see if she had some Tums or Rolaids. No such luck.

Why wouldn’t Solomon forgive her? He forgave her when she toilet papered his car, and when she accidentally gave him a black eye during a sparring match for charity—of course, it was his fault for trying to take it easy on her. The point was, Solomon always forgave her. He looked after her, cared for her, and had always been there.

Well, I love you, too, and look where the hell that has gotten me.

Ophelia’s foot eased up on the accelerator as Solomon’s voice rang in her head. Could it be that she, practical Ophelia, had overlooked the obvious? The old saying that you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone came to mind, and she was suddenly nauseous with fear.

At every point of their lives, she was able to rationalize or unearth some new statistic as to why a relationship with Solomon would never work. In college it was the “sow the wild oats” speech and the “low percentage of high school sweethearts surviving campus life.” In their mid-twenties, Marcel and Solomon had gone into the entertainment field, and the odds of a relationship’s survival dipped so low on the chart that it was laughable.

Why subject herself to worrying about ambitious female artists and groupies when she knew she couldn’t handle it? She had a hard enough time letting him go the morning after her twenty-first birthday. She should have received an Academy Award for that performance.

It hurt like hell.

But did any of this mean that she was
in
love with Solomon? “What’s not to love?” she whispered, and then felt the threat of tears rise from the backs of her eyes.

Her cell phone rang, and she nearly jumped clear out of her skin. She reached for her purse again and then swiped out her cell phone. “Solomon, where the hell are you?”

A long pause, and then, “This is Jonas,” he said thickly.

Her heart dropped. That was what she got for not reading the caller-ID screen. “Oh, hi…sweetheart.”

There was another long pause before Jonas’s stiff tone returned to the line. “I was just calling to let you know I’d just checked in at the Beverly Wilshire, but I see you were expecting another call.”

She didn’t answer. What could she say?

“Anyway, I’m in room 623 if you need anything.”

“Jonas—”

“I’m going to hit the shower. I’ll talk to you later,” he said, and then disconnected the call.

Ophelia held the silent phone a few seconds longer, and then finally, after mumbling a few curses she flipped it closed. She was almost afraid to ask if things could get any worse.

Solomon’s estate came into view, and by the time she reached the gate, she still didn’t have a clue as to what to say. And what was she going to tell Jonas after this? Undoubtedly, she would suffer through more accusations of her being in love with Solomon, which was ridiculous.

Wasn’t it?

She entered the security code and waited patiently for the gate to open.

“Am I in love with Solomon?”

Driving onto the property, she took her time going down the long, curvy pathway to the main house. She glanced at the clock in her car and frowned. It was nearly three in the morning. It was definitely too late to be visiting.

And yet she didn’t turn around. “Am I in love with him?” She sat still and listened to her own breathing while laboring over the question. However, it didn’t take long before an answer tumbled faintly from her lips.

“Yes.”

Sighing in relief, she glanced up at Solomon’s large home. A few of the lights were still on in the house. Maybe there was a good chance Solomon was still up.

She opened her car door and stepped out into the cool morning air. Her knees trembled and her stomach twisted into knots as she approached the door. She still had no clue as to what she was going to say or what she was going to do if he refused to speak with her.

“Of course he’ll speak to you.” She forced up her confidence, rang the doorbell, and waited.

The wind picked up velocity, rustled her hair, and sent a cold shiver down her spine. After a while, she tried the bell again.

No answer.

Disappointed, she turned and walked down the steps. She supposed he could be out of town, but she really wished she could talk to him tonight.

Music suddenly caught her ear, and she turned to glance back at the door.
He’s home?

Walking back, she dug through her purse, retrieved her spare key, and entered the house.

“Hello?” she called out from the foyer.

Nothing but music drifted back to her. Curious, Ophelia followed the sound, periodically saying, “Hello.”

Giggles reached her ears at the same moment she stopped inside the archway to the living room. Three barely dressed women stopped dancing to gape at her.

Solomon’s deep baritone drifted from somewhere, while his footsteps drew louder. “Looks like we’re in luck, ladies. You’ll never guess what I found down in the wine cellar.” He stopped at the archway on the other side of the living room and glanced up. His smile froze in place. “Ophelia?”

Her face heated with embarrassment. “I—I guess this is a bad time.” Her faint smile quivered before she turned and walked away.

“Wait!”

She quickened her stride at the sound of Solomon racing behind her. It didn’t help. He still caught up with her before she slipped out.

“Ophelia, wait.”

His hand clenched her arm and spun her around.

She lost her balance and fell against him. His chest was rock hard, just like it was back in college. She pushed him away, ignoring how her body seemed to short-circuit in his close presence.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Staring up into his dark eyes, she suddenly lost the ability to speak.

Solomon’s frown deepened. “Ophelia?”

Regaining some of her equilibrium, she forced on another smile. “I wanted to talk to you.”

He loosened his hold. After a few strained seconds of silence, he said, “So talk.”

Uncomfortable about being put on the spot and worried about the hard glint in his eyes, she concluded, “Maybe I should come back at another time.”

“I’m not busy at the moment.”

Her brows rose. “You have company.”

“They can wait.”

“Where’s Selma?”

“She went home.”

Ophelia pulled her arm away and squared her shoulders.
Just say it.
“I came over to tell you that—”

“Solomon,” a feminine voice sing-songed across the foyer.