A Sin and a Shame Read online

  “Besides the fact that you know nothing about him, he’s a preacher, Jasmine.”

  “That’s just what I need,” she said as if Malik should have known that. “Look, being a Christian hasn’t been easy for me.”

  “Tell me about it.” Malik took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes as if the conversation made him weary.

  She said, “I’m determined to make heaven my home and I know Reverend Bush can help me get there.”

  Malik rolled his eyes. “That’s supposed to be between you and God.”

  “In the meantime,” Jasmine continued as if Malik hadn’t spoken, “I can create a little bit of heaven for the reverend right here on earth. I’m sure of it; he’s going to be my husband.”

  “What about the fact that he’s probably ten years older than you?”

  Jasmine laughed. She’d be able to be forty now. “Like age matters? I’m telling you, he’s the one for me.”

  “You’ve decided all of this, even without having met him?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of love at first sight?”

  “Yeah, but don’t both people have to see each other? Reverend Bush doesn’t even know you’re alive.”

  “You’re going to take care of that. Aren’t you on the board or something?”

  “I’m on the building committee, but I’m not going to help you.”

  She leaned across the table and kissed his cheek. “Yes, you will,” she said. “Do you know why?”

  He moaned.

  “Because you love me. And you promised Dad that you would take care of me and Serena.”

  He shook his head. “Serena is easy. But you—”

  The waiter interrupted, “Are you ready to order?”

  Jasmine glanced at her watch. “Serena’s train is gone by now. So, let’s go.”

  “I thought you wanted to eat.”

  “I do. You’re taking me to the Shark Bar.” She stood, slipped her mink over her shoulders, and marched past the waiter.

  Malik shook his head as he stood. “Sorry.” He slapped ten dollars into the waiter’s hand. “We’re going to the Shark Bar.”

  Chapter 3

  The church was as electric as it had been last week, although Jasmine wasn’t sure if it was the sound from the church musicians or the sound of the harps that had played in her head since she’d jumped out of bed this morning. By the end of this day, she and Reverend Bush would have arranged their first date, and if God was on her side, it would be tonight.

  Jasmine filed in behind other parishioners, who, like her, had arrived early to get the best seats. She tossed her coat across her arm and then sauntered down the aisle in her canary yellow suede miniskirt with matching bustier and jacket, her eyes fixed forward—on the front row.

  Just as she passed the fourth pew, the usher put out his white-gloved hand, motioning for her to take that seat.

  She pointed her finger. “I’m sitting there,” she said, her eyes on her final destination.

  The usher smiled. “Those seats are reserved. You can sit here.”

  “You don’t understand,” she began, leaning in close. She didn’t miss the way his eyes wandered to her chest. “I’m Malik Kincaid’s sister.”

  The usher’s smile widened. “I didn’t know he had a sister.”

  “Yes,” she said with triumph. “I just moved here and this is my second week visiting your fantastic church.”

  “Welcome,” he said. Then, he pointed to the same row that he’d shown her before. “You can sit right there.”

  Jasmine frowned.

  “The front-row seats are reserved,” he said, as if her familial connections didn’t matter.

  She took a deep breath, but his taut smile stopped her further protest. She turned, and a woman in a hat as wide as her hips bumped her and slipped into the last available fourth-row seat. Jasmine’s eyes quickly scanned the space. The sanctuary had filled.

  She whipped back toward the usher, her eyes flashing.

  He said, “I can help you find a seat back there if you want.”

  She wanted to slap the smile off his face. Instead she stepped quickly, moving back, back, finally finding a seat in the middle of the last row, flanked by two women, who wiggled with irritation as she wedged into the small space between them.

  When praise and worship began, there was no joy in Jasmine’s heart. She’d spent almost three hundred dollars on her dressed-to-impress outfit and twenty-five dollars on the sheerest of hose to show off two of her best assets. Now, it was wasted.

  All week, Malik had refused her pleas to make a personal introduction. When he’d gone to L.A. on Thursday, she’d decided to take care of Reverend Bush herself. This morning, she’d risen with the sun, and hurried to church confident that Reverend Bush would ask for an introduction afterward—after he’d eyed her sitting in the front pew.

  Now as Reverend Bush sauntered into the sanctuary, hundreds of parishioners sat in front of her; there was no way she would be seen.

  As the reverend ministered, Jasmine opened her Bible and willed herself not to be upset. This was not the end. She’d just have to create another opportunity. She didn’t like it, but if there was one thing she’d learned since she’d been saved, it was that being a Christian often called for patience. How often had she heard her father, Serena, or some minister talk about God’s timing?

  After the benediction, she stepped outside the pew and took a final glance at Reverend Bush. She paused. The reverend stood at the altar, greeting a woman. Three others stood in line as if they were waiting to speak to him too.

  Jasmine strode toward the reverend, but almost made a U-turn when the usher from earlier moved in front of her.

  “May I help you?” he asked with his never-ending smile.

  Her chin jutted forward. “I’m going to say hello to Reverend Bush.” She braced herself, ready to barge past him, knock him straight to the ground if she had to.

  “Of course,” he said, stepping aside.

  It took a moment for his words to register as he motioned for her to proceed to the end of the line that was now seven deep.

  Her thoughts went from cursing this man out to wanting to say a prayer for him. But she kept her eyes on Reverend Bush. He oozed compassion—the way he gently touched the woman’s hands. The way his thick eyebrows furrowed with concern as he listened to the woman speak.

  With each step forward her heart beat faster. All week she’d planned for this. Knew the words she would say. Knew how she’d smile, tilt her head, capture him with her mere presence.

  “Hello, I’m Reverend Samuel Bush,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Jasmine didn’t miss the way his eyes quickly took in all of her. He frowned—just a bit—when his eyes paused at the gold-studded edge of her cleavage-raising bustier, and regret filled her. She hadn’t thought this part through. If she was going to be a reverend’s wife, she would have to be more conservative.

  She took the reverend’s outstretched hand. “I…I…” she stuttered, and tried to recall all she’d practiced. His grin warmed her; she said, “I’m Jasmine Larson. Malik Kincaid is my brother.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, throwing his head back a bit. “Malik’s godsister. He told me you were moving to New York. How do you like our city?”

  “It’s wonderful. It already feels like home.” She parted her lips in the fashion she’d practiced and lowered her eyelids so he could see the length of her lashes.

  “Well, welcome to New York and City of Lights. I hope we’ll be seeing a lot of you here.”

  “Oh, yes. In fact—”

  “Reverend,” her nemesis usher interrupted her moment. “Deacon Marshall needs to see you before the next service.”

  “Ah yes, Brother Hill.” He turned his smile back to Jasmine. “I hope to see you again soon,” he said, already stepping away.

  By the time her lips parted, he was too far away to hear her. She moved to follow him, but before she could get close, Brother Hill stopped in front
of her.

  “What is your problem?” she snapped.

  “Reverend Bush has finished greeting visitors.”

  Jasmine raised her chin. “I’m not a visitor,” she said, trying to step around him.

  “Whatever you are,” he said, blocking her, “Reverend Bush is not available now.”

  Jasmine’s glance turned toward the closed side door that Reverend Bush had gone through. Even if she were able to slay this giant standing in her path, she wouldn’t know where to go. She turned back and stood square before the usher.

  With his eyes, he told her he knew what she was up to.

  With her eyes, she told him that she was ready to rumble.

  Only Jasmine spoke. “See you next Sunday,” she said, as if the two had just had an agreeable exchange.

  Without moving, he said, “I’m looking forward to it. Have a blessed week.”

  Jasmine smiled. He had no idea that by the end of the week, his words would be prophetic. She was going to have a very blessed week.

  Chapter 4

  It was difficult to balance on one foot with the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear.

  “I’m on my way, Malik,” Jasmine said, trying to squeeze into the leg-hugging boot.

  “Jasmine, this is an important meeting. You said you’d be here before eight.”

  “I’m doing my best, Malik.”

  “If this is your best, Jasmine, I need better than your best. We’re opening in less than three months and I don’t have time—”

  She cut into his tirade. “I’m really sorry, Malik,” she said, wishing she’d gotten out of bed when the alarm first rang. But fatigue had encouraged her to hit the snooze button over and over.

  The past week had been beyond tiring. Between working with decorators for her apartment and the restaurant, and adapting to her new position with her more-than-demanding godbrother, her days had been too long and her nights too short. It was only thoughts of Reverend Bush that had made the week tolerable. And it was only the exhaustion that yesterday’s disappointment had brought that kept her in bed far longer this morning than she planned.

  “Malik, I’m walking out right now. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Without a good-bye, Malik hung up. Both knew she was at least twenty minutes away—and that was if she could find a cab the moment she stepped outside.

  Jasmine grabbed her coat and briefcase, fumbled with the lock on her door, then dashed to the elevator.

  “Come on,” she said, leaning on the button.

  Just as the elevator arrived, Jasmine heard “Hold the elevator!” The voice boomed through the hallway.

  Jasmine rushed inside, held down the Close Door button, and then watched the door slide slowly shut. Then, just as quickly, it sprang open.

  The heavy fragrance of perfume wafted inside first, and then a woman followed, donned in a mink coat that swept the floor and a matching fur headband.

  “You can close the door now,” the woman instructed as if she’d known what Jasmine had been doing.

  Jasmine pressed the button and focused on the In Case of Emergency instructions on the elevator’s panel. But she couldn’t resist stealing a glance at the woman.

  It usually took seconds for Jasmine to assess women, but this one was difficult to judge. She stood at least a head taller than Jasmine. She was as erect and elegant as a dancer, shoulders squared, head high, with her hands—holding a small purse—crossed in front of her. Her mink, although probably several years old as revealed by the shawl collar, was obviously expensive.

  Yet, at the same time, her makeup was caked on so thick, Jasmine was sure it would take a scalpel to scrape it off. And the foundation, a few shades too light for her mocha color, didn’t cover the roughness of her weathered skin. But her eyebrows fascinated Jasmine the most. They had been shaved and replaced by a thick black penciled line that almost looked like an inverted V.

  Without looking at her, the woman said, “You’re new to this building.”

  Jasmine didn’t know if her words were a statement or a question. And she didn’t know why the woman sounded angry. But she responded, “Yes.”

  For the first time, the woman looked at her directly. She frowned. “Yes? Is that all you have to say?”

  Now Jasmine frowned, confused.

  “Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?” the woman blurted as if she were a teacher reprimanding an unruly student.

  Jasmine’s eyebrows raised. Who do you think…

  The woman continued through Jasmine’s thoughts. “Don’t you know to say, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ to your elders? My goodness, you’re as rude as that woman, Sheila, who used to live in that apartment.”

  It was because of her manners that she didn’t tell the woman what she really thought at that moment. She crossed her arms and only said, “Yes, I’m new. Just moved in two weeks ago.”

  The woman stared at Jasmine for a moment and then one side of her mouth upturned into half a smile. When the elevator doors opened to the lobby, the woman motioned for Jasmine to exit first.

  Fine, she thought, anxious to get as far away from this ornery old lady.

  “Good morning, Ms. Larson.”

  She barely nodded at Henrikas, the Lithuanian doorman who seemed to be in the lobby whenever she came or left, no matter what the time.

  “How are you today?” he asked, as he moved toward the glass doors. “Do you need a cab?”

  Given that she was already late, her only choice was to say, “Yes.” But not before she eyed the sleek limousine parked at the curb. She sighed with longing. “One day,” she whispered, imagining the time when a car would be waiting for her.

  “Did you say something, Ms. Larson?”

  “I need a cab, please.”

  “Certainly.” He closed his overcoat and then pushed open the door for Jasmine’s elevator partner. “Good morning, Ms. Van Dorn.”

  The woman nodded at the doorman and then turned to Jasmine. “Do you need a ride somewhere?” she asked in the same tone that she’d used in the elevator.

  You’ve got to be kidding. There was no way she was going to get into any car with this cantankerous biddy. And anyway, Jasmine could imagine what this woman drove—probably a barely moving Lincoln Continental that was as old as her coat, and that probably held the fragrance of the perfume that had overwhelmed her since the woman stepped into the elevator.

  “No, thank you,” Jasmine said, resisting the urge to add a sarcastic, “Ma’am.”

  The woman did it again—stared for a moment and then one side of her mouth curled into a smile. “You have a good day anyway,” she said, still sounding as if she were pissed off.

  Jasmine’s eyes followed Ms. Van Dorn as she rushed through the door. The driver jumped from the limousine’s front seat and a moment later, Ms. Van Dorn disappeared into the back.

  Minutes later, when Henrikas waved for Jasmine to come to the cab he had flagged for her, she was still standing in the middle of the lobby with her mouth wide open.

  “I’m jealous, Malik. If Jasmine had been with us when de Janeiro first opened, it wouldn’t have taken two years to break even.”

  Jasmine tilted her head to the side, letting her bone-straight, auburn-streaked hair swing over her shoulders. She smiled as J.T., Malik’s friend from his ball-playing days, licked his lips.

  J.T. said, “What would a man like me have to do to get a woman like you?” He paused. “For our club, of course.”

  Before she could answer, Malik interjected, “Don’t get any ideas, J.T. Jasmine is with me for the long haul. She’s a partner, you know.”

  “That’s right,” she added with a smile, knowing that there was a lot more to J.T.’s question. She was aware that Malik knew that too. But her godbrother was all about the business.

  “Too bad.” J.T. grinned. “We could make beautiful menus together.”

  Jasmine’s glance wandered to the platinum band on his left hand.

  “Well, I think that covers
it all,” Malik said and stood.

  Jasmine packed up her computer as the friends exchanged parting words. She’d been almost an hour late for the meeting, but blessedly, Malik, J.T., and J.T.’s partner, Lamont, had used the time to bond over talk of basketball and women. Once she rushed into the conference room and began reviewing the final plan for Rio with the three men, she knew her godbrother (and his boys) were beyond impressed. She’d pulled together the budget and the timetable, and pointed out all the areas that still needed to be developed to meet the April 15 opening.

  “Well, Ms. Jasmine.” J.T. took her hand and brushed his lips against her skin.

  Oh, brother. But she smiled because she knew that’s what J.T. expected. Of the three, he’d been the biggest star in the league. And that’s why Jasmine could never understand the way he dressed. She could see the suit he wore was tailored—just about sewn onto his body. But who told the curly-head pretty boy that wide-stripe suits looked good on a seven foot, three hundred pound man?

  Lamont offered Jasmine a soft smile and squeezed her hand. “Nice meeting you, Jasmine.” He glanced at Malik before he continued, “He was right about you. You certainly know your stuff.”

  Before she could respond, J.T. asked Malik, “So, you got the honeys lined up for later?”

  Jasmine smirked. She may have changed, but times had not. J.T. and Lamont both wore wedding bands but obviously subscribed to the theory that “all men cheat.” Two years ago, she would have been begging Malik to arrange a night for her with J.T. He was the kind of man she’d once craved—attractive, powerful, rich. The fact that he’d exchanged marriage vows with another woman wouldn’t have been any kind of deterrent.

  “That’s my clue to go.” Jasmine stuffed the laptop into the case and hoisted the bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll see you in L.A., hopefully by the end of the week.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” J.T. said, stepping close to her. “I’ll make sure you have a good time. We’ll tour the city.”