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  Shoes in hand, she padded out of his bedroom and downstairs to the studio area. On the back of his unopened electric bill she jotted, “Thanks. You were great. Stephanie.” Wait. I’m a writer. I can do better than this. Before she could think of something coyer and more suggestive, the shrill sound of Jack’s alarm sent her flying across the room and through the front door.

  She’d almost blown it. Seducing him into bed had been her game plan, not waking up with him in the morning. Another fifteen minutes and all the illusions she’d worked so hard to create these past three weeks would have been shattered.

  Morning was definitely not Stephanie’s best time of day. She was convinced that each night little gangs of trolls came out and beat her up, transforming her from a relatively attractive twenty-three-year-old woman into an unsightly beast.

  Her short brick-red hair, which crowned her head in thick Miss Clairol—enhanced curls when she climbed into bed, was matted and sticking up every which way when she climbed out. Her jade-green eyes were puffy and brown now that her tinted contact lenses were tucked away in their case. Her glowing skin, devoid of all makeup, looked splotchy and uneven. Worst of all was her breath. During last night’s pillow talk her mouth smelled minty fresh, but overnight it had turned into a toxic-waste dump, emitting fumes that could easily drop a herd of elephants, let alone a mere mortal.

  Oh, no, not the kind of sight you wanted the man you were trying to draw into your lair to see before your relationship was solid—rock solid. Stephanie had big plans for Jack Hollis. She wasn’t about to spoil them now.

  Stephanie suppressed the urge to burst into song as she slipped quietly through the front door of the Fort Greene brownstone and upstairs to her rented room. The last thing she wanted to do was to alert her landlady, Beatrice Braidburn, that she was just getting home. It wasn’t as if there were actual house rules that precluded her from staying out all night. It was just that Beatrice, self-appointed captain of the morality police, always managed to make her feel guilty as hell.

  Congratulations, Steph, she told herself. Finally something in your life is going right. Delicious, sexy Jack was the perfect remedy for what ailed her. There was something about him that made her forget how disappointing her life had been lately.

  Among other things, having Jack around helped ease her frustration and anger over the constant stream of rejection letters that flooded her mailbox. It irked her no end that she was unable to make a living at the one thing she loved to do. Her bank account was once again running on empty, and now she was forced to job-hunt—using up time she could better spend writing.

  Stephanie pushed all thoughts of her sputtering literary career into the “pending” file at the very back of her head. She didn’t want anything to bring her down. Last night had made her too happy. Jack Hollis was the one—the man who was going to turn her life around.

  From the moment she spotted him sitting on a barstool at the Mad Hatter, Stephanie had become the hunter and Jack her unwitting prey. She had sat at the very end of the bar, shrouded in the shadows of the dimly lit room waiting for a blind date that never showed. At the time she was livid, but in hindsight, if she ever met the imbecile who stood her up she’d have to thank him for delivering her to this cleverly disguised promised land.

  Writing had made Stephanie an expert observer, and what she saw pleased her immensely. Even in the dim lights she could tell he was attractive. The constant flow of women flocking to his side was also a dead giveaway. After a few moments of close scrutiny Stephanie noticed that none of the women managed to keep his attention for more than a couple of minutes. This could mean one of two things: He was either heartbroken or homosexual. The thought of his being gay was just too depressing, and Stephanie had immediately pushed it from her mind. Hey, for anybody else, fine. But not this man. Not Mr. Right. That would be too cruel. He must be heartbroken, she’d decided. Yes, some bitch has broken his heart and he needs me—the Krazy Glue of love.

  While her eyes watched the pencil-thin blonde with gigantic boobs giggle in his face, her mouth called to the bartender, “What is he drinking?”

  “Sidecar.”

  “That’s a new one.”

  “Not really. We don’t get too many requests for it. Shall I send one over?”

  “No, I think I’ll handle this myself.” Stephanie took a minute to freshen up her makeup before making her move. She slipped off the barstool just as the buxom blonde vacated the coveted chair. Stephanie rounded the bar and breathlessly slid onto the seat next to the object of her desire.

  “Matt? I’m Stephanie. Sorry I’m so late.” She hoped she sounded genuine. From the description she’d been given of her date, getting these two mixed up would be like mistaking Danny DeVito for Johnny Depp.

  “Sorry, wrong number.”

  “How embarrassing. I was sure you were somebody I’m supposed to meet,” she explained, perfectly pitching her voice between irony and sincerity.

  “No problem.”

  “What can I get you?” the bartender interrupted.

  “My usual—a sidecar,” Stephanie requested with a conspiratorial smile.

  “You got it.”

  “This guy, Matt, he’s a real loser,” Jack announced. “Any woman who drinks a classic should never be kept waiting.”

  “Six-fifty’s the damage,” the bartender announced, setting down her glass.

  “This one’s on me.”

  “Thank you …”

  “Jack Hollis.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jack Hollis,” Stephanie said, enjoying the taste of his name in her mouth.

  “To sidecars,” Jack said, raising his glass in a toast.

  “And the sidekicks that fill them.” Stephanie lifted the amber-colored drink to her mouth and took a sip. THIS TASTES LIKE SHIT, screamed every taste bud on her tongue. Smiling weakly, Stephanie drained the contents of her glass—partly for courage, but mainly because she didn’t want to sip on that vile concoction all night. She closed her eyes as the alcohol blazed its way down her throat. When she opened them, Jack was smiling at her.

  “Whoa, slow down. These things are pretty potent. You know, most people have never even heard of a sidecar, let alone tasted one. How is it that you’re so enlightened?”

  “It’s my father’s favorite drink,” Stephanie lied, smiling broadly.

  Two hours later, Stephanie and a very drunk Jack were in a cab headed for Greenwich Village. Immediately after arriving at his studio, Jack excused himself and stumbled up the narrow stairs to the loft, which doubled as his bedroom. “Have a sheet. I’ll be right down,” he told her, slurring his words. Stephanie sat on one of the two oversized leather chairs that dominated the studio area. Busy checking out her surroundings, it was several minutes before Stephanie realized that all movement upstairs had ceased.

  “Jack, are you okay?” She climbed halfway up the ladder and peeked into the loft. Jack, having parked one sidecar too many, was passed out, leaving Stephanie alone to explore his abode.

  In less than twenty minutes, having peered into every closet and cupboard in the place, Stephanie learned everything she needed to know about this thirty-one-year-old graphic artist she’d decided to make her own. He was self-employed, a sports enthusiast—namely golf, windsurfing, and the New York Rangers—loved Chinese food and the James Bond films starring Sean Connery. He appeared to be single, and if he was involved with another woman, he wouldn’t be for long. Whatever it took, Stephanie would transform herself into his perfect woman, his soul mate. She wanted Jack Hollis, and come hell or high water, she was going to have him.

  3

  “Invitation, please,” the man requested, stopping Felicia as she turned into the Potomac, Maryland, driveway.

  “I don’t need an invitation. I live here,” Felicia informed him, stepping on the gas. Technically, she had lied. She hadn’t actually lived in the residence since graduating from Georgetown University six years ago, but Bedside Manor, as the house had been dubbed when her f
ather was named Holy Cross Hospital’s chief of neurosurgery, would always be home.

  Instead of following the circular driveway that led to the brightly lit front doors and into the waiting arms of the valet team hired for the evening, Felicia sped her rental car past the tennis court and parked behind the house. She walked through the tall black iron gates that separated the parking area from the pool.

  “Hey, Coltrane, Miles,” she called out to the two barking Doberman pinschers confined in the dog run. Though the guests had already begun to arrive and she should be upstairs getting dressed, Felicia paused by the gurgling goldfish pond and enjoyed the familiar surroundings. The pool was lit just under the cascading waterfall. Steel drums were set up to the left of the hot tub, signaling the entertainment yet to come. The doors to the cabana were thrown open, and the rich, smoky voice of Sarah Vaughan overflowed softly onto the patio. Plush towels, monogrammed BEDSIDE MANOR, were stacked neatly by the bar waiting for any guest wanting to dip into the hot tub’s warm, inviting waters.

  Felicia took a deep breath and let the sweet night air invade her lungs. It felt good to get away from New York’s hustle and bustle, the trash-ridden streets, from her husband, Trace, and their marital problems. But as good as it felt, Felicia knew it was only a matter of time before she would miss the excitement and exhilaration of the city’s frenetic pace. And eventually she’d have to come to a decision about her marriage. But not tonight. Tonight belongs to Papa, she reminded herself as she headed into the house.

  Walking through the mudroom, Felicia could smell the delectable aromas of Caribbean cuisine wafting from the large kitchen. There was a flurry of activity going on as the catering staff, dressed in colorful island garb, concentrated on preparing her father’s favorite dishes. As the doorbell chimed and the welcoming cries of her parents’ guests rang out, Felicia hurried up the back stairs to the second floor and straight to her old bedroom.

  “Licia, is that you? I was getting a little worried,” her mother said, coming out of her room to give her eldest daughter a warm embrace. Jolie Wilcot looked positively regal in a fuchsia Isaac Mizrahi evening gown. Her youthful appearance belied her fifty-five years; tennis, swimming, and a busy social calendar kept her mind and body fit.

  For as long as Felicia could remember, friends and relatives had commented on how much she resembled her mother—a charge Felicia couldn’t deny. From the five feet, six inches of lean build to the large, doelike eyes and intense passion for sourdough bread, Felicia was proud to acknowledge that she and her mother shared the same designer genes.

  “Sorry, Mama. My flight was late.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now. Where’s my handsome son-in-law?”

  “Trace sends his apologies. He’s tied up with an important client this evening.”

  “You two are always so busy. It’s no wonder I don’t have any grandbabies.”

  “I still have a few good years left, Mom. So, who’s on tonight’s guest list?” Felicia asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “Colin and Alma Powell, though the general will probably be late. Vernon Jordan and Ann are coming and bringing Congress-woman Maxine Waters. I’ve been dying to meet her. Jesse and Jackie Jackson said they’d try to stop by. Kweisi Mfume RSVP’ed. Then there’s the Neilsons, the Strains, and Susan Mitchell. She’s bringing her latest find—some hot new film director, Richard something. Susan says he’s the next Spike Lee, so he might ultimately be a good contact for you. Other than that it’s just the usuals.”

  The “usuals” were an eclectic mix of family and old friends, many of whom constituted the wealthy and influential members of the country’s black elite. “Is Lindsay here yet?”

  “Your sister is downstairs rummaging through your father’s music collection and hiding all the Frank Sinatra CDs. And downstairs is exactly where I need to be.” Mother and daughter shared a smile before Jolie floated out of the room, leaving a whisper of her signature scent, Chanel No. 19, lingering behind.

  Felicia crossed the hall into the bathroom she and her sister had shared since they were children. She showered quickly, not giving in to the temptation to linger under the hot, relaxing spray. Pushing aside her sister’s makeup, she took a minute to enhance her flawless skin. With practiced expertise, she applied blush to her high cheekbones, shadowed and lined her light-brown eyes, and set her full lips aglow with fire-red lipstick. In one deft move she swept her copper-colored hair into an elegant French twist. Pleased with the face smiling back at her, she hurried back to her room and slid into her dress for the evening. Another thing Felicia had inherited was her mother’s love of beautiful clothes. Tonight she was wearing a black fitted slip dress, accented with three strands of pearls that crisscrossed in the back. Diamond and pearl studs adorned her ears, and Felicia wrapped her slender wrist in a cuff of pearls before heading downstairs to surprise her father.

  Drifting through the hall toward the main staircase, Felicia stopped to admire her parents’ prized art collection. The wall was lined with a brilliant display of the artistic efforts of the Wilcot children. Framed as elegantly as any Romare Bearden were handprints, finger paintings, family portraits, and other “impressionist” art whose emotional value far exceeded that of any priceless museum piece.

  Descending the staircase, Felicia immediately spotted her father among the party guests. He was standing near the ficus tree chatting with a well-dressed woman, his arm draped amicably around her shoulders. Dr. Albert Wilcot was a handsome man, with broad shoulders and an athletic build. His salt-and-pepper hair, short-cropped beard, and small wire glasses gave him a distinguished, intellectual look.

  “Happy birthday, old man,” Felicia laughed, sneaking up on her father with a hug.

  “Bright Eyes,” he called out, his delight in her presence obvious. “I thought you were in Atlanta meeting with those producer folks.”

  “Papa, nothing could have kept me away tonight.”

  “Well, I couldn’t have asked for a better present. Licia, let me introduce you to Councilwoman Mable Lun. Mable, meet my eldest daughter, Felicia. This girl abandoned her father and ran off with some big-time lawyer to start her own Madison Avenue firm.”

  “Are you in advertising?”

  “Public relations.”

  “How exciting. You must be doing quite well, and Al, you must be very proud.”

  Both father and daughter acknowledged the remark with a polite smile. Albert Wilcot was indeed proud of his enterprising daughter. Felicia, on the other hand, knew that while people who heard her address had visions of luxurious office space and a thriving business dancing in their heads, the hole in the wall that housed the office of Wilcot & Associates didn’t quite live up to the avenue’s lofty image.

  It might be small now, but Wilcot & Associates was definitely growing. In just one year she had gone from renting a mailbox address and working out of the apartment to having actual office space. She was also in the process of hiring her first part-time employee. Right now she was just squeaking by, but Felicia was determined to make it. She was going to prove to Trace that she didn’t need his money to buy her success. She could make it on her own. But once out of his controlling grasp, what kind of state would her marriage be in?

  “Where’s Trace? Why didn’t he come with you?” her father asked, following the councilwoman’s departure for the buffet table.

  Because I’m being punished for putting my work ahead of his.

  “His biggest client flew in unexpectedly, and he couldn’t get away. He sends his best, Papa.”

  “That’s too bad. We haven’t seen much of the two of you as—”

  “Where did you park your walker, you old fart?” boomed a familiar voice.

  “Uncle Joe! I thought you were still in France,” Felicia cried, giving her godfather a heartfelt hug. “Where’s that fabulous wife of yours?” she asked.

  “Libby’s over there laughing with Jesse. Honey, you know we wouldn’t miss your daddy’s sixtieth-birthda
y celebration. We were taught to respect our elders. Lindsay, is that you?” Joe interrupted himself to pull Felicia’s sister to his side. “You two girls get prettier every day.”

  “Uncle Joe, you know I was always the pretty one. It was Licia that Mama wouldn’t take out in public.”

  Felicia laughed as she studied her younger sister. Although the traditional elegance of Felicia and her mother had escaped Lindsay, in its place was an unabashed uniqueness. Tonight her lithe dancer’s body was sheathed in a purple silk body suit with matching harem pants trimmed in gold thread at the waist and ankles. Flat gold sandals adorned her feet, and her chosen jewelry for the evening was a wide gold cuff and three small hoops in each ear.

  “Oh, Lord, there’s Scooty Ross. Joe, come let me introduce you,” said Albert as he spirited his friend off.

  “How’s business? Are you still working on that black rodeo thing?” Lindsay asked.

  “Yes. Things are slowly coming together. I’m still looking for a major sponsor. I’m also working on a pitch for the Montell Spirits account.”

  “As in ‘The Wine of Our Times?’ ” Lindsay asked referring to the company’s popular slogan.

  “That’s the one. They’re about to introduce a new wine cooler, and we’re one of three minority firms being considered.”

  “And naturally they want to target the black market,” blurted out a combative and distinctively male voice.

  “Not exclusively. That’s just one market they’re after,” answered Felicia, turning to face her unknown inquisitor. Her eyes came to rest on an unfamiliar black man. Short dreadlocks covered the crown of his head, and his mouth was framed by a well-groomed goatee. His tall, lean body was dressed in jeans, a faded denim shirt worn open to reveal a white T-shirt, and sneakers. Around his neck he wore an encircled X the size of a quarter. He was conspicuously out of place in this room of elegantly dressed guests, but the fact that he was so inappropriately attired seemed not to concern him in the least.