IF I WERE YOUR WOMAN Read online

  If I Were Your Woman

  By

  LaConnie Taylor-Jones

  4 C’s Publishing

  Copyright© 2010 LaConnie Taylor-Jones. Manufactured in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any e-books away.

  This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  “Love is stronger than death even though it can't stop death from happening, but no matter how hard death tries it can't separate people from love. It can't take away our memories either. In the end, life is stronger than death.”

  - Unknown

  Colin R. Jones

  1957-2009

  For thirty-five years wonderful years, I was blessed to be loved by a man who bulldozed his way into my heart to become not only my lover, but my best friend.

  Six days after celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary on January 7, 2009, he quietly passed way. Although he’s absent from me physically, his spirit will forever be anchored in my heart.

  PART ONE

  We come to love not by finding a perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.

  - Unknown –

  CHAPTER ONE

  Orinda, California

  “Daaayuuum…what is this?”

  Inside the master bedroom at his custom-built, hillside estate, Raphael Baptiste lay in the middle of a custom-made Tai bed, rubbing the dull ache between his abdomen and groin. The pain, which began shortly before Labor Day after a game of one-on-one with his childhood friend, Alex Robinson, was back. Hopefully, the physical exam he’d undergone yesterday would confirm the problem to be nothing more than a pulled groin.

  The insistent ringing of the cell phone diverted Raphael’s attention from his discomfort. With an arm draped over closed eyes, he listened. The familiar ring tone identified the caller, but why in the world had she phoned so early? Another thirty seconds passed before he sat upright. Groping the nightstand for a pair of rose-tinted Dior frames, he slid them on and pressed the talk button. Raphael took a deep breath and dragged a hand over two-day old stubble. “How you doing, lady?”

  “Fine, son. Ya wake yet?” Mama Z asked in a cheerful voice.

  The man the music industry knew as Ray LaSalle, pianist and founder of the jazz band Les Croisés, focused at the illuminated numbers on the clock. It was a quarter past seven. Was he awake? Hell no! Every member of his family and all his business associates knew the world didn’t come into existence for him until sometime after one in the afternoon, so this better be real good. He plopped back on the mattress and wondered what earth shattering news his grandmother, Zamora June Rousselle, whom the family called Mama Z, was about to hit him with. “I wasn’t,” he answered in a low rumble, “but I am now. What’s up?”

  “I needs a favor from ya, son.”

  “A favor,” Ray repeated hesitantly. Normally, he honored whatever request his grandmother tossed his way. The quip tone in the voice of the woman who’d reared him from the age of twelve was suspect. And this favor she wanted was on shaky ground.

  “Ya know Laney gonna be gettin’ in this evening.”

  Ray remained silent. It was two days before Thanksgiving, so the announcement came as no surprise. Since the day Laney’s grandfather, Charles O’Reilly, and Mama Z became a couple over a year ago, Laney spent every holiday in Oakland. She hadn’t merely bonded with his family. She was considered as much a part of the Baptiste Clan as if she’d been born a Baptiste.

  “Somebody needs to pick that child up from the airport.”

  Ray sucked his teeth.

  “Since ya ain’t doing nothin’ this evening, I figures ya oughta be able to go get her,” Mama Z instructed causally.

  Phone cradled between his neck and shoulder, Ray sighed. This was the very reason he never let every Tom, Dick, and family get too deep off into his schedule. Besides, being in close proximity to Laney was dangerous to his health. Never in all his thirty-eight years had any woman made him, Raphael Armand Baptiste, player extraordinaire, consider the foreign world of abstinence. From the moment he’d laid eyes on the gorgeous sista with the sweet Southern drawl, he’d been on lockdown.

  “No can do on that one, old lady.”

  “Why not, son?”

  “You know me and Laney don’t get along.”

  “Well,” Mama Z chuckled, “that ain’t what I heard.”

  “What—” Ray broke off and bolted to an upright position, again. He snatched his glasses off his face and jammed them on top of his head. “Who told you that?”

  Mama Z chuckled louder. “Ain’t rightly sho, son.”

  Annoyance threaded through Ray. He certainly hadn’t revealed his feelings for Laney to anyone, so how did Mama Z get the inside scoop? Suddenly, it hit him. His two older brothers, Marcel and A.J., had to be the moles.

  When Laney flew out for Labor Day, his brothers cornered him off, inquiring when he planned to ask her out on a date. He never answered the question because it was more information than his brothers needed to know. If Marcel and A.J. went back and shared that conversation with those three nosey women he claimed as sisters, on his mother’s grave, he’d kill them. Brie, Moni, and Aimee talked entirely too much for his liking. Plus Moni had designated herself as the family’s gossiper-in-chief. Anytime a news brief came up on her radar screen, the rest of the family knew the lowdown before sundown.

  With his brain on overload, Ray scrambled to find any excuse to get out of the request, but fell short. He offered one last argument. “Why can’t Charles pick her up?”

  “Charles went down to LA. He ain’t comin’ back till in the moanin’.” Mama Z paused before adding, “Thank ya, son. I knew I could count on ya.”

  “Now hold up here, Mama Z—”

  There was graveyard silence.

  “Mama Z…” Ray frowned and pulled the phone away. He stared at it and placed it to his ear, again. “Well, I’ll just be daaayuuum.”

  Mama Z had hung up.

  Ray recovered from the shock and flung the phone toward the foot of the bed. He braced his back to two huge pillows near the headboard, angry. Angry over his inability to ignore Laney as easily as she’d ignored him. Angry his feelings for her had transmitted through loud and clear, even though he hadn’t uttered a word.

  On every level, Laney threatened him. From day one, he’d wanted her with an intensity that bordered on madness. As a celebrity, there’d never been a shortage of women at his doorstep. All he had to do was turn on a little charm and they landed in his bed faster than quarters at the bottom of a slot machine. But Laney…well, she was an entirely different story.

  She’d refused to acknowledge his existence let alone share his bed, and he felt as transparent as a sheet of glass. Was his ego bruised? No, it was downright deflated.

  When they’d first met, he thought Laney was aloof, and she instantly reminded him of the absent-minded professor. He quickly discovered not only was the woman scary-brilliant, but when pushed into a corner, she came out swinging. Plus, she’d dismissed the millions in his bank account as effortlessly as if she’d handed him a cold glass of water. She owned the largest communications conglomerate in the world and her petty cash account alone placed him below the poverty level.

  However, the killer in all of this was that his reaction to Laney had
been so out of character, he’d pushed her out of his mind, or at least tried to. Whenever she was around, he’d occasionally turn to find her gaze on him, but her expression always seemed guarded. He’d bet the three Grammys collecting dust on his shelf that she was clueless as to what her half-lazy smile did to him. The mere thought of her had caused him too many restless nights alone with nothing but a pillow at his side. Maybe it was lust. Maybe it was infatuation. Whatever it was had him at break-point.

  Ray flung is head back and released a frustrated groan. Sleep was impossible now. He snatched the sheet back. The moment he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he winced.

  Easing to his feet, Ray allowed his mind to drift away from his pain and to the woman who had the balls to challenge him with the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. At first, Laney’s week-long visits were short enough for him to hang onto what little sanity he had. Lately, each time she came to visit, it pushed him closer to the edge. Why was it that weeks after she’d returned home, he’d toss in bed, so frustrated he couldn’t sleep? And when he did manage to sleep, she invaded his dreams. How much more could he take, he wondered.

  This visit, Ray thought resignedly as he headed off toward the shower, might very well cause him to topple off the mountain-top faster than a condemned soul on its way to hell.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Dr. Houston…” A male voice shouted from the doorway at earsplitting intensity.

  Unfazed by the abrupt interruption, Laney sat behind an antique wooden desk in her office on the eighth floor at Methodist Hospital in mid-town Memphis. She closed the leather binder, which contained a report she’d been reading since arriving a little after seven. Pushing it to the side, she watched with idle amusement as the stout, gray-haired man crossed the threshold. “How are you today, Dr. Bryant?”

  “Not well, thanks to you,” Ashton Bryant barked.

  Laney offered Ashton a crooked smile. She knew the reason for her research colleague’s early morning tirade. What she hadn’t figured out was why it had taken so long for the confrontation to come to a head.

  Ashton stood on the opposite side of the desk and shook his finger in mid-air. “I have a right to know.”

  “We all have rights, Dr. Bryant.” Laney made a face and her nose twitched. “What specific right are you referring to?”

  “Why did you reject the research protocol I submitted to you?”

  Laney settled in her chair and grabbed a bottle of water off the corner of the desk. She took a liberal sip, then responded to her decision to disallow Ashton’s submission of a proposed medical research project, which was substandard at best. “It was incomplete. If memory serves me correctly, we reviewed the guidelines, together. Am I correct, Dr. Bryant?”

  “No, you’re not correct. It’s just like your kind to do something as underhanded as this. Without your approval, my project won’t be funded.”

  Your kind? A crease settled in the center of Laney’s forehead once the meaning of the two words sunk in. At thirty-two, she was the first female physician and the youngest researcher to be named as director for the General Clinical Research Center for the University of Tennessee Health Science Center. As chair of the scientific advisory committee, one of her primary responsibilities was to approve all proposed research projects.

  Laney straightened and opened the right bottom desk drawer. She pulled out a single sheet of paper from a file folder and placed it in the center of her desk. “Did you receive this memo from me, Dr. Bryant?”

  Ashton snatched the paper off the desk and scanned over it. Two seconds later, his face turned beet-red.

  “I sent it to you after our meeting, the one you regrettably can’t recall, outlining—”

  “What’s your point, Dr. Houston?”

  Laney ignored Ashton’s hostile tone. “My point is simple. Make the changes I recommended and I’ll approve your funding.”

  “You half-breed—”

  “I wouldn’t finish that statement if I were you,” Laney warned in a soft, deadly fierce tone.

  “And if I do?”

  Racism riled her. This wasn’t the first time Ashton had made a snide comment in reference to her ethnicity. Usually, his comments fell just short of racist, so she hadn’t been able to nail him. Her counter attack was to display zero emotion. Someone else’s ignorance didn’t constitute her worry. This time, though, his statement was clear and left little doubt for interpretation. With an arrow straight spine, the only child of a Caucasian father and an African-American mother rose to her feet. “If you do, I’ll make certain your career at this institution is over.”

  “Who do you think you are?”

  “Let me tell you exactly who I am. I’m a Harvard graduate and board certified physician, just like you. I’m a Ph.D. trained researcher, just like you.” She sat, satisfied she’d won the exchange, but it was her final point that scored. “But unlike you, I approve the funding for all research projects.”

  “You won’t be back until January.” Ashton ran a hand over his partially bald head. “W-what am I suppose to do until then?”

  “Hmmm, let’s see. Bringing your protocol up to an acceptable level of standard might not be such a bad idea.”

  “You can’t do this to me!”

  Laney had hoped to squeeze in at least two uninterrupted hours of work before her flight to Oakland. Oh well, she’d finish reading the report on the plane. She stood and gathered the binder along with her purse and keys, then headed toward the door.

  “Wait,” Ashton called out from behind with the paper still clutched in his hand. “You can’t walk out while we’re in the middle of a discussion.”

  Laney stopped and faced Ashton. She was good at a lot of things, but reasoning with irrationality wasn’t one of them. “I can and I will.”

  “You’ll pay for this,” Ashton spat through gritted teeth.

  Laney ignored the threat, and a smile tugged at her mouth. “Oh, by the way, Dr. Bryant, for future reference—” she paused, aiming her finger at the paper in Ashton’s hand. “That’s how my kind does things.”

  With that, she walked out and quietly shut the door.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Maestro, Code Blue!”

  Later in the morning around ten, Ray opened the door at his estate. The urgent announcement from his business manager, Joseph “JoJo” Hennings, sounded as loud as an atomic bomb detonating. At the very least, he expected some type of greeting. There was no “Good morning” or “How are you doing?” from the five men before him, just ten pair of angry eyes flashing lethal glares. Creases between the brows, tight lips, and a meeting before noon meant only one thing. Trouble was on the horizon and a major decision needed to be made—and fast. He stepped back as the men marched single file across the marble-tile floor inside the foyer into the living room.

  Ray followed and braced his back against the wall, feet crossed at the ankle. He observed the crew he’d known for over twenty years. None of them were happy campers, and he hoped their anger didn’t ignite the nine thousand square feet, seven bedroom-seven bath structure he called home.

  JoJo paced in a tight circle. Ray thought he’d blow a gasket any second. Winfred “Spooky” Nelson was the controlled, detail-oriented one. The drummer stood against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes exuding assault with intent to do bodily harm. Ace “Double A” Alexander made a saxophone blow with a mere look, but prowled around like a caged animal that’d missed a meal or two. The quiet one in the group was Mack Bonner. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he heaved as he gently polished an AE5 Fretless, the custom-made bass guitar he carried everywhere.

  Hiking a pair of yellow-tinted Prada frames on his head, Ray settled his gaze on Henry Goldberg. “It’s your dime. Talk to me.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly categorize the situation as a Code blue, yet. However, it bears watching.” Henry fished his Blackberry from the inside pocket of his suit coat. “This e-mail was sent courtesy of Evangeline Williams last night. And qu
ote, I want contract negotiations for Les Croisés to begin immediately.”

  Double A halted mid-stride and glared at Ray. “She’s whacked, Maestro. Who does she think she is?”

  JoJo snorted. “She’s more than whacked. That tinsel-town barracuda! My sources tell me she’s a bitch to work for.”

  “Settle down, Jo.” Ray focused his gaze on Henry, again. “What kind of dilemma are we talking about here, Goldberg?”

  “Well, Evangeline wants you guys to sign the contract renewal ASAP,” Henry stated calmly.

  Everyone focused their gaze on Henry and shouted at the same time, “No.”

  Although Ray always concentrated his efforts in the recording studio and stayed out of the politics of the boardroom, curiosity got the best of him. He wondered what had gone down to prompt this offer from Universal Entertainment, the recording label Les Croisés had been under contract with the past seven years. Six months ago, he along with Henry and the rest of his band members met with the new CEO after she’d landed the top spot following a messy shake-up with the board of directors. Talk about thoroughly unimpressed. During the meeting, Evangeline brought up the possibility of a renewal option. Les Croisés declined the offer. They’d all agreed to pour their energy into establishing a non-profit organization to provide music education to under-privilege African-American youth in urban cities.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Henry rattled off the terms of the renewal, which included one hundred percent ownership of their music masters. It was a deal most artists only dreamed of. He slipped his Blackberry back into his suit coat. “Well?”

  Ray shrugged. “Well, what?”

  “When do you want me to schedule a meeting with Evangeline?” Henry asked.

  Ray sat heavily on the sofa with his hands clasped between his legs. “Look, Goldberg. What part of N-O isn’t getting through that thick skull of yours?”