Authors: Maureen Smith
“Not really. It makes it that much sweeter
when I dazzle them with my investment knowledge and instincts. More water?” he
offered, lifting a large glass pitcher.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” Rebecca grinned,
eyeing the crystal wineglasses Vince had removed from a box labeled
FRAGILE DISHES
. “Sorry all I
have is water. I didn’t plan to go shopping for groceries until tomorrow.”
“Why are you apologizing? You just moved in.
Besides,” Vince said with a mischievous wink, “water’s the best thing for the
body. Water—and great sex.”
Rebecca arched a brow. “
Great
?”
Vince gave her a slow, sexy smile.
“Mind-blowing.”
“That’s much better.” She grinned, taking a
sip of her drink. “I’m looking forward to hitting Lexington Market in the
morning. I promised my brother I’d bake him a peach cobbler as payment for
helping me move today.”
“You have a brother?”
Rebecca nodded. “His name’s Rasheed. He’s eight
years younger than me, but we’ve always been close. Anyway, he’s been craving
my peach cobbler, so I promised to make him one in exchange for his services.”
Vince chuckled. “I’m sure he would’ve helped
you move without being bribed.”
“I know,” Rebecca said with a soft smile,
“but he hardly ever lets me spoil him anymore. So I take every opportunity I
can to do it on the sly.”
Vince smiled at her. “I hope Rasheed knows
how lucky he is to have such a wonderful big sister.”
“Oh, we’re lucky to have each other.” She
paused, then quietly confided, “We lost our parents to a boating accident seven
years ago, so we’ve pretty much had to depend on each other for everything. I
honestly don’t know how I would have gotten through those tough times without Rasheed.”
Vince’s expression was full of gentle
compassion in the flickering candlelight. “I’m sorry to hear about your
parents. That must have been devastating for both of you.”
“It was, but somehow we survived. Thank God
for siblings.” Smiling a little, Rebecca ran her finger around the rim of her
wineglass. “What about you, Vince? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He nodded. “An older sister named Venetta.
She lives in Los Angeles.”
“Are you two close?”
“Yeah, we’re pretty tight. We talk on the
phone at least once a week.”
“That’s good,” Rebecca said warmly. “What
does she do?”
“She runs her own beauty salon.”
“Really? Well, the next time I’m in L.A.,
I’ll have to look her up and get my hair done.”
Vince smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”
“And what about your parents?” Rebecca
inquired, wanting to know as much as possible about her new lover. “Do they
live in L.A. as well?”
“No,” Vince said quietly. “They passed away
several years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca murmured. “I
shouldn’t have assumed—”
“That’s all right. It was a long time ago.” Vince
gazed at her across the table. “It seems we both know what it’s like to be
orphans.”
“It seems so,” Rebecca agreed, as the words
kindred souls
whispered through her mind.
She reached for her glass and took another sip of water.
They fell silent for a few moments, listening
to the crackle and hiss of the logs in the fireplace. Although the Chinese food
was delicious, Rebecca found she wasn’t as hungry as she should have been,
considering the lovemaking marathon she and Vince had just completed.
“You said earlier that you don’t do well with
roommates,” he said, breaking the silence between them.
Rebecca glanced up from her plate with a
teasing smile. “Still trying to figure out a way to move in with me?”
His eyes glinted with mischief. “Maybe. So
which is it? Have you had lousy roommates in the past, or are
you
a lousy roommate?”
She laughed. “For your information, I’m a
very
good roommate.”
“Yeah? In what ways?”
“Help me clear the dishes,” Rebecca drawled,
her lips curving naughtily as she rose from the table, “and I’ll
show
you.”
“Okay, it’s not as bad as I thought it would
be.”
Rebecca glanced up from unpacking a box of
glasses to smile at the tall, honey-toned woman who stood at the living room
window that overlooked a view of downtown Baltimore. “What were you expecting, Cherelle?”
Cherelle Hagans turned from the window to
flash a dimpled grin at her. “When you told me you were downsizing to a cheap
apartment in Baltimore, I was afraid I’d find you living in some roach-infested
tenement in the projects.”
Rebecca arched a brow at her. “Do you realize
what a snob you sound like?”
“Uh-huh. Now ask me if I care?”
Rebecca laughed, shaking her head. “Girl, you
are a mess. Get over here and help me unpack these damn dishes like you’re
supposed to be doing.”
With one last glance out the ninth-story
window, Cherelle started across the room, her chocolate leather Birkin swinging
from the crook of her arm. She was a beautiful, statuesque woman with large,
heavy breasts and wide, ample hips that swung as easily as a well-oiled door as
she walked. Her long dark hair was stylishly braided, and she wore a burgundy
cowl-neck sweater and a pair of rhinestone-studded designer jeans that hugged
her thick, shapely legs like a second skin. The spiky heels of her black
leather boots added another three inches to her height, so that when she stood
beside Rebecca—who was five six—she practically towered over her.
The two women met as freshmen at Morgan State
University in Baltimore. Paired together on a sociology project, they’d
discovered a mutual affinity for African art, conspiracy theories, and anything
written by Audre Lorde.
In no
time at all, they became so close that some of their peers began speculating
that they were lesbians. They’d laughed at the rumors, and every so often when
they were feeling particularly mischievous, they’d strolled across campus with
their hands in each other’s back pockets—much to the amusement of friends
who knew they were anything but lovers.
They’d always been there for each other,
through bad breakups with boyfriends to the tragic passing of Rebecca’s
parents. While Cherelle was studying feverishly for the bar exam, Rebecca had
furnished her with meals and an endless supply of Starbucks coffee, a favor Cherelle
returned as Rebecca worked toward her doctorate. As far as she was concerned, Cherelle
Hagans was the sister she’d never had.
“How are things going at The Sultan’s?” Cherelle
asked, reaching for a box filled with plates. “Are you making any progress on
your research?”
“Some,” Rebecca said, lining a cabinet with
glasses. “Not all of the girls like being the subject of my dissertation.”
Cherelle snorted. “Who can blame them? You’re
doing a study on how society exploits strippers.”
“Well, not exactly. My dissertation explores
gender differences in societal reaction and conventional support among exotic
dancers in a large metropolitan area. In other words, what I’m trying to
establish is that female dancers are less likely than male dancers to receive
community support for dancing as a way to earn a living.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have told the girls what
you were working on,” Cherelle said simply. “People get nervous when they’re
asked to speak on record, especially about their private lives. Maybe there’s a
way you could have interviewed them without them knowing they were being
interviewed.”
This time it was Rebecca who snorted. “Do you
really think I could have asked these women a bunch of personal questions
without arousing their suspicions? They would’ve thought I was a reporter or an
undercover cop, and either way they wouldn’t have talked to me. Besides, you
know very well it would have been unethical of me to gather information on those
women without their knowledge or consent.”
Cherelle grinned. “I’m a lawyer. What do I
know about ethics?”
“I see your point,” Rebecca said dryly.
“Anyway, I just need a little more time to gain everyone’s trust. I’ve only
been waitressing at the club for three months, and some of the girls have
already given me plenty of empirical data.”
Cherelle’s light-brown eyes twinkled with
mischief. “So when are you gonna start working at a club with male strippers?
That’s
when I’ll start dropping by to
meet you for lunch.”
Rebecca laughed, tossing a wad of newspaper
at her friend. “You’re such a freak!”
Cherelle laughed. “Oh, please. You know you’d
much
rather be watching a group of
buff, gorgeous guys strip down to G-strings than a bunch of chicks with sagging
tits and nasty stretch marks.”
Rebecca chuckled. “First of all, I’m too busy
serving customers to be watching
anyone
on stage. And just for the record, The Sultan’s has some of the most attractive
dancers in Baltimore. Bruno pays those girls to keep their bodies in shape and
maintain healthy eating habits. He even pays for their membership to Gold’s
Gym, and don’t think he doesn’t periodically check in with the manager to keep
tabs on who’s showing up to work out and who’s not.”
Cherelle frowned. “Sounds like a dictator to
me. Or an obsessive pimp.”
Rebecca shrugged, slicing open a new box.
“He’s a businessman, and a very savvy one at that. He’s built his reputation on
having the best exotic dancers around, and whether or not you agree with his
methods, he delivers on that promise.”
Cherelle paused in the middle of unwrapping a
plate to study Rebecca through narrowed eyes. “Are you absolutely sure there’s
nothing going on between you and Signor Rossi? He’s very good-looking, if I
recall. And—perhaps more important—he’s rich. That is, if you don’t
mind wondering where all his money comes from.”
Rebecca shook her head. “You sound just like
those feds who kept auditing him to find discrepancies in his financial
records. If Bruno Rossi is a criminal, then I’m a long-lost heiress to an
African dynasty.”
“You might be. Remember how our history
professor used to tell you that you carried yourself like a queen?”
Rebecca made a face. “He was also eighty
years old and half blind.”
Cherelle snickered. “Seriously though, Beck.
What makes you so sure Bruno Rossi is on the up-and-up?”
“What makes you so sure he
isn’t
? The fact that he’s an
independently wealthy Italian-American? Does that automatically mean he has
ties to the Mafia or some other criminal enterprise?”
“Of course not. You know I’m not
that
narrow-minded.”
“A lot of people are, though.” Lips pursed, Rebecca
tipped her head thoughtfully to one side as she looked at her best friend. “You
want to know why I’m convinced of Bruno’s innocence? Because he told me. Seriously,”
she added when Cherelle shot her a cynical look. “I know it’s hard for you to
believe I’d be that trusting or naive. You make a living defending corporate
executives you know damn well are guilty as sin. Your cases have made you
jaded, and I understand that. But
I’m
not jaded—or I try not to be.
“On a slow night when I was working late at
the club, Bruno and I got into a conversation about our families. He told me
how his relatives immigrated to this country from Sicily with nothing more than
the clothes on their backs. He talked about his grandfather working night and
day at a factory to feed his large family and resisting pressure to get
involved with organized crime, as many of his friends had done.
The Rossis were dirt poor, and they
never quite realized the American dream. But Bruno’s grandfather died knowing
he didn’t have any man’s blood on his hands, and that he’d led a life of
integrity and honor that would impact future generations. Bruno Rossi’s success
today can be attributed to his grandfather’s legacy, as well as the good head
for business he was blessed with.”
When Rebecca had finished speaking, Cherelle
began to clap slowly. “That’s one of the best oral summations I’ve ever heard.”
Rebecca laughed. “All I’m saying is that Bruno
is a self-made millionaire who got where he is through hard work and
determination. He took business courses at the local community college, saved
up his money and made some smart investments along the way, including the
purchase of a failing nightclub he breathed new life into. I don’t know what
kind of so-called evidence the government has on him, but obviously it hasn’t
been enough to bring him down. My gut tells me they’ll never produce the kind
of evidence they need to indict him, because it simply isn’t there.”
Cherelle looked vaguely amused. “Your gut
tells you?”
“Yeah.” A soft smile curved Rebecca’s mouth
as she remembered Vince’s words. “I have a sixth sense about these things.”
“All right. I’ll take your word for it.
However, if Signor Rossi ever needs legal counsel, be sure to drop my name.
Landing a client like that would put me on the fast-track to making partner at
the firm, and you know I need all the advantages I can get being one of the
youngest attorneys
and
a woman.”