Meet the Carter brothers, five hard-working men with a lot to offer. They may not be wealthy but they're rich in integrity and loyalty--not to mention sex appeal. They just need the right women to share their world. . . At thirty, eldest brother Byron hasn't dated seriously in a while--not since he became a single dad to his beloved baby girl. Besides, he's found that most women can't see past his job as a bus driver, and he's not interested in that type of superficial foolishness. When he meets Cynthia Hall, her disinterest is obvious. Still, there's something about her. . . Cynthia has been successful in her career and unlucky in love. But those two worlds collide when Byron ends up in her office on business. It's a coincidence that casts him in a very different light than she's previously seen. Too bad he's not the upscale professional Cynthia had in mind. Yet given the chance, she might discover that while money can't buy happiness--a loving and passionate man can. . .
Release date:
April 1, 2015
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
384
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“Is it?” Cynthia side-eyed Ivy, her eternally effervescent assistant.
“Absolutely! I’m reading a self-help book that says what you think about you bring about. So I’m thinking that this is going to be an excellent day!”
“We’ll see.” That girl is entirely too cheery for a Monday morning. Cynthia decided to wait until after downing her supersized mocha latte to form an opinion.
She unlocked the door and walked into her office, determined to change her dark, Monday morning mood. Any number of reasons could be blamed for it: LA traffic, the oncoming monthly, a feud with her mother, a love life so bleak that her coochie had cobwebs. But all of those took a back seat to today’s mandatory meeting. The H.E.L.P. Agency, a social service organization funded through grants and private donation, was reorganizing. The director of the agency was taking an unexpected early retirement. The position she’d set her sights on two years ago was suddenly coming available and at least one other applicant wanted it as much as she did. Considering her background, that of a privileged, upper-middle-class debutante who didn’t have to work, one might wonder why her career meant so much. But those who knew her understood her passion to help young people, particularly young girls. This news, delivered on the previous Friday, could have been assuaged with a bottle of wine and a clearing of cobwebs. Instead, she’d gone home to an eight-year-old, his good friend Bobby, and video game mayhem. Not a good formula for a great weekend. It had gone downhill from there.
What you think about you bring about!
With hopes that some of Ivy’s positive energy would waft into her office, Cynthia fired up her laptop and waded into the day’s agenda. An hour later, she pushed the intercom button. “Ivy, has my nine o’clock appointment called?”
“Not since I arrived at eight-fifteen. There were no messages either.”
“Okay. Give her a call and make sure she’s on her way.”
“Will do.”
A few seconds later, Ivy walked into Cynthia’s office. “The call went to voice mail. I left a message for her to call you ASAP.”
Cynthia’s brow creased. “This client is truly irritating. She’s two seconds away from a jail sentence and is still acting irresponsibly. We’ll give her another thirty minutes and if she’s not here by then, I’ll need you to go over and deliver the warning letter.”
“My daughter has a doctor’s appointment. I’d planned to leave for that in thirty minutes.”
“Right, I saw that on the schedule and forgot that quickly.” Cynthia drummed her fingers against the desk, searching for a solution and finding none.
“Too bad we can no longer use messenger services.”
“The agency dodged a bullet with that Anderson case. I doubt anyone other than staff will be able to handle these formal notice deliveries for the next ninety days. There’s no way I can miss today’s meeting.”
Ivy stole a quick glance behind her and lowered her voice. “Speaking of, she came by this morning?”
So much for Ivy and positive energy in the room. “Margo?” Ivy nodded. “What did she want?”
“Snooping, I’m sure. Asked if you were here, looked at her watch when I said you weren’t.”
“I so don’t have time for her right now, or to wait for Ms. Thompson. The last thing I need this week is a client getting probation revoked on a technicality. Print out a final notice form. Get it notarized. I’ll take it over. If I leave right now, I’ll be fine.”
Fifteen minutes later, Cynthia left downtown Los Angeles and headed for Compton Boulevard on the city’s south side. Even with a stack of cases needing attention and traffic still fairly heavy, she welcomed getting away from the office. The mere thought of Margo and her underhanded tactics could make her blood boil. For today’s meeting, she needed a cool, clear head.
Cynthia’s thoughts were interrupted when an eighteen-wheeler drifted into her lane, almost sideswiping her car.
An expletive accompanied the blast from her horn. She quickly switched lanes and accelerated. As it lurched forward, her car made a loud, knocking noise.
“Oh!” What the heck is that? She checked the instruments on the dashboard. They all looked fine to her, which, given that she barely knew the brake from the gas pedal, didn’t mean much. A few miles down the highway and she heard the sound again. Just as she began to worry that something serious might be wrong, the noise stopped and the car settled back into its normal smooth ride. The scare was quickly forgotten. She exited the freeway with the missing client on her mind.
Though it was her first time in this area, GPS made finding the address easy. Cynthia pulled to the curb of a small, yet well-kept home on what appeared to be a quiet, established block of similarly designed residences. She was embarrassed at her surprise. All she’d heard of Compton was what had been made popular by rap artists and news reports. She’d half expected to find gang members walking down the street smoking blunts and blaring rap music. After a quick look around (after all, they could be hiding), she exited the car and walked to the door.
She wasn’t sure the doorbell worked. So after pushing the button several times, she knocked and then pounded on the front door, with no response. Cynthia pulled out her cell phone.
After reaching the mother and learning that she had no clue as to her daughter’s whereabouts, Cynthia continued. “Ava, for legal reasons I am required to tape this portion of our conversation. Do I have your permission? Okay, thank you.” She tapped the Record icon. “Ms. Thompson, I, Cynthia Hall, am attaching the final warning notice for your daughter to appear in our offices near the bottom of your inside door, the part hidden by solid metal. Is that okay? Good. I will also send a copy to the e-mail address listed in our files.” She confirmed the e-mail address. “She needs to contact our office ASAP and get this meeting rescheduled. It has to happen this week, per the conditions of her probation. If she does not comply, a warrant will be issued for her arrest. Do you understand?”
Mission accomplished, Cynthia headed back to her car. “I understand, Ava. This isn’t something I want to do, but unfortunately it isn’t up to just me. These actions have been mandated by the court. If she makes it to my office, I’ll do whatever I can to keep her out of jail.” She opened her car door and stepped inside. “You’re welcome. Have a good day.”
Cynthia placed her key into the ignition and turned. A whining, grinding noise accompanied the car’s attempt to start. This is different. Undaunted, she tried again. This had been a pre-owned purchase, but this regularly washed, regularly serviced vehicle had not given her an ounce of trouble since its purchase two years ago.
Whine. Grind. No start-up.
“Really? When the meeting starts at one? Come on. Please start.”
Following Ivy’s suggestion and as best she could, Cynthia thought about turning the key and hearing the car engine rev, imagined pulling away from the curb and heading downtown. But after a third attempt with continued silence, she admitted the obvious—the car wasn’t going to start.
Stay calm, Cynthia. Just call Triple A. She pulled out her phone, dialed the 800 number, and received the disheartening news that because of an unusually high number of calls and where she was located, her wait time would be anywhere from ninety minutes to two hours.
She called a taxi company and scheduled a pickup. The operator said it would be fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes later, she called another company. They said she’d be picked up in ten. Ten minutes after this lie had been told, Cynthia’s calm threatened to join positive attitude, which had already disappeared. It was almost noon. Time was running out!
She banged the steering wheel. “Dammit!” This cannot be happening right now!
A slight tap on her window almost caused a heart attack. She turned to see a kindly older man with a pleasant smile.
She eased down her window. “Yes?”
“Good morning, miss. Having car trouble?”
She nodded. “Cab trouble, too.”
The older man scratched his scruffy black and gray beard, smiling to show even, white teeth. “Hard to get a cab on this block.”
“Why? This seems to be a nice, quiet neighborhood.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” the old man responded. “A driver who was resisting a robbery got killed a month or so ago. Haven’t seen one on this block ever since. One young fool makes it hard for everybody.”
With head in hand, she muttered, “How am I going to get back to work?”
“Where do you work?”
“Downtown.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard. The number 53 runs about every thirty minutes and will take you straight there.”
Cynthia looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Did he just suggest that I walk down a street where a man got killed . . . and then catch a bus ?
“Did you say take a bus?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Like . . . a city bus?” Even though she’d never ridden one, Cynthia hadn’t meant for the question to sound snobbish. This unexpected delay on a most important day had thrown her for a loop.
“You could catch the blue line, the train, but you’d have to walk farther.”
What he’d said about robbers and murderers made a long walk in these parts about as attractive as getting a root canal without Novocain. “Where do I catch the bus?”
“Right on the corner there, just two short blocks up. There’s a bench and a sign on the light post. You can’t miss it.”
The old man found humor in Cynthia’s horrified expression. “It’s clear you’re not the type to take one much, having this fine car and all. But short of walking, that’s the best option.”
With every other option exhausted, Cynthia reached for her purse. She exited the car and locked it. “You say the stop is at the corner?”
The friendly neighbor nodded as he pointed. “Not this corner, the next one. That main intersection where you see the traffic lights.”
“Thank you so much.”
“You’re very much welcome, pretty lady.” He winked. “What about your car?”
“I’ll have it picked up later.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine until somebody comes and gets it. I’ll make sure of that.”
Cynthia headed for the bus stop. Her four-inch heels quickly helped her forget that Grandpa had tried to flirt. Had she been planning a stroll today, she would have worn sensible shoes.
Just before chucking all decorum and walking a public street in bare feet, she reached the corner and an empty bench beneath the bus stop sign. Here the area’s blight was more noticeable: empty fast-food bags, broken bottles, smashed cans, and cigarette butts littered the street. Pulling her purse closer, she prayed for the bus, a bit embarrassed at the fearfulness among her own. A homeless man pushed his worldly possessions in a red cart bearing a Target logo. She gave him a dollar when he passed. She continued to watch this area’s meager every day unfold amid liquor stores, pawn shops, nail salons, and check-cashing establishments, and realized she often took her comfortable salary, spacious Culver City condo, and pristine neighborhood for granted.
The relief she felt as the express bus pulled up was palpable.
“Are you headed downtown?”
The bus driver gave her the once-over. “Even if I wasn’t, I’d give you a ride.”
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she got on, almost falling when the bus pulled away from the curb. The quick reflexes of the bus driver kept her upright. “Careful now.”
She leaned against the meter to steady herself and pulled out her wallet. “How much does this cost?”
The driver glanced her way again. “Metro card only. No cash.”
“Will a debit card work?”
“I said Metro card, not debit card.”
At the end of her patience, Cynthia snapped. “I don’t have a Metro card!”
He reached the end of the next block where more passengers waited, and pulled to the curb. “Guess you’ll have to get out here, then.”
“You can’t be serious. What business doesn’t take a debit card these days?”
Cynthia stepped aside so that Metro card–carrying passengers could place what she didn’t possess into the metal machine. Once they’d all entered, the driver looked at her.
“I have got to get downtown,” she said softly. “It’s important, for work.”
“You’d better be glad you’re fine and I’m in a good mood,” he said, looking into his rearview mirror and pulling away from the curb. “Sit down, gorgeous. You’re a pleasant distraction that could become a liability if you trip and fall in those nice-looking pumps.”
First gramps and now the bus driver. She ignored the comment, but was totally aware of how his sexy eyes framed by curly lashes had caused her core to clench. And how the scent of whatever cologne he wore teased her nose. A shame, she admitted, as she slyly eyed the short, thick fingers that had gripped her arm so tightly. That’s the first time I’ve been manhandled in about nine months. She was tempted to fake a fall again, just so he could catch her.
“Why are you still standing here? It’s not safe.”
“Oh, um, I need to be sure I’m on the correct bus. Do you go to Seventh and Wilshire downtown?”
The bus driver slid his eyes down her body once more, with a crooked, confident smile. “You’re on the right bus.”
Cynthia looked to her right and took the first available seat. She covertly eyed the cocky driver, wondering why he was smiling and even more why did she care? She knew guys who were way better looking, passed them in her office building every day, and her body didn’t react this way. He couldn’t be a DHOP—degreed, home-owning professional—and after where breaking the rules and “dating down” had gotten her the last time, she had no desire to go there again.
So opening an app where notes were stored, she tried to focus on the talking points for her department that she planned to present at the meeting. But unless they included big brown eyes, juicy lips, thick fingers, and a smile, her attempt was not at all successful. Something this important coming up and yet her attention was on a man she wouldn’t see again? The dictation drought was worse than she’d realized. Dictation, the code word her friends used for sex, which combined a word describing what she craved with the word situation, had never consumed her. But getting moist at the touch of a stranger was proof that something must be done. Her friend Lisa was a regular Adam & Eve patron. Cynthia felt it was about time for her to visit the garden. Especially when her thoughts kept returning to him. Sexy eyes. Musky scent. Juicy lips. Thick fingers. She looked. He winked. Her body had the nerve to react with pitter-patter heartbeats and squiggles down south. Traitorous flesh!
Cynthia turned her body away from the driver, determined to occupy her mind with something important, something that mattered. Something like making sure that a certain Margo-come-lately didn’t undermine two years of hard work and get the job that Cynthia felt she deserved.
“What’s your name?”
Cynthia heard him. Felt his gaze. But she’d been riding in the bus for ten minutes and had regained hormonal control. He could be talking to someone else. He wasn’t. She knew this, but played it off anyway. Working to look preoccupied, she found a name and began tapping the keyboard.
“Okay, you’re a newbie, so I’ll give you a pass and explain how this particular Metro operates. This is Byron Carter’s bus, and there are rules. Number one: Never ignore the person who is responsible for your safety, has travel information you just might need, and because of the unfortunate events of 9/11, can put you out at any stop no questions asked and police for backup.”
The chance that she might miss the meeting immediately improved her hearing. She raised her head, glanced around, and then looked at him. “Oh, are you talking to me?”
“He sure isn’t talking to me!” The gray-haired, pleasant-faced lady sitting next to the door, an obvious regular, had been chatting nonstop since Cynthia boarded. “I’ve been riding this route for going on fifteen years. Remember this boy from when he first got the job, but he was over on Slauson then.” She leaned over and whispered, so loudly that she needn’t have bothered. “Got so close to cars you couldn’t push a toothpick between them. I never prayed so much in my life.”
Byron laughed. “That wasn’t a mistake. That was skills, Ms. Davis. Have I ever hit anything?”
“Other than football players or your girlfriend? I don’t think so.”
The other regulars joined Ms. Davis in laughter. Byron side-eyed her. “You know you’re wrong for that.” He shook his head, chuckled low and deep.
The sound—smoky, beguiling—stirred something in Cynthia’s heat as the thought of that voice whispering commands in the dark popped up unbidden. A subtle headshake dispelled the thought. The garden. This weekend. Definitely.
“I’m just kidding, baby. That’s a good man.”
“Thank you, Ms. Davis.” At the next stop light, he again looked over at the side seats. “What is it?”
“Cynthia.”
“So you did hear me.”
“I heard the question. I didn’t know it was aimed at me.”
“Only because I can’t prove otherwise, you can stay on for a few more stops. But”—he paused to focus while he navigated a turn—“you’ve got to comply with rule number two.”
“Which is?”
“Smile. Can’t have anyone too serious riding my bus.”
Curt smile and then Cynthia returned her eyes to the cell phone screen.
“What brought you over to the south side?”
A soft sigh helped quell her premenstrual/car broke down/important meeting irritation. A good thing, because “shut the eff up” might get her literally kicked to the curb. “Why do you assume I don’t live there?”
That chuckle, more of a snicker this time, trickled from his mouth and tickled Cynthia’s earlobe. And why’d he have to offer just a glimpse of his tongue as his teeth briefly pulled on his lower lip, right side, in that sexy way only certain brothers could do.
After what seemed like an eternity—during which time she could have finished her text but was distracted by thoughts of tongues down low and sexy done right—he answered her question. “You don’t live there.”
“You’re right.” Delivered in a clipped, professional voice that meant “please leave me alone I don’t want to be bothered.”
“So why were you there, if you don’t mind my asking? And how did you end up on my bus.”
A great bus driver, maybe, but his translation skills needed work.
“I was visiting a client. My car broke down. I have an appointment for which I’m preparing, so while I don’t want to be rude—”
“You want me to shut the hell up.” A few riders who’d been watching the exchange reacted: laughter, head shakes, and a he-told-you-snort from the woman in the first forward seat, the one who’d eyed her coldly since she’d boarded the bus.
“I wouldn’t have worded it that way, but basically, yes.”
Byron laughed, gave her a wink in his rearview mirror.
Cynthia didn’t catch it, but first forward did. “Why didn’t you say so instead of acting ignorant? For people to know what you want, you have to speak your mind.”
“Tanya, stop harassing my riders.”
“Okay, baby.”
The answer to a question I hadn’t even considered. And how cute, the girlfriend keeps him company while he works. Cynthia’s e-mail indicator pinged. It was Ivy with perfect timing. The answers to the assistant’s questions thankfully kept Cynthia occupied until they reached downtown and she got off the bus.
Byron lay stretched out on the couch. It had been a long day, yet he couldn’t relax. The ex-high school and college football standout before a knee injury ended his promising career had his eyes on the TV screen, but his mind was on the sexy woman who’d brightened his bus. He liked them chocolate, but something about all that butterscotch beauty had him ready to change flavors.
His cell phone screen flashed in the darkness. He picked it up and checked the ID. “Hey, sis.”
“Hey.”
“You don’t sound good. What happened?”
“It’s your niece, again.”
Byron sighed as he returned his head to the comfy couch pillow. Unlike the ex who tried to beg, borrow, and steal her way through life, his sister, Ava, was an excellent mother: hardworking and involved. After her marriage ended, she’d sacrificed her own dreams and desires to give her two children everything they’d need for a successful future. The bullet that reached her twenty-year-old son didn’t know this, took the life of a promising college freshman during a fun-loving weekend out with friends. Ava had been devastated, but the real emotional carnage was endured by Leah, the younger sister by four years, who’d not been the same since his death.
“What’d she do this time?”
“Disappeared again; hasn’t called since Friday. She missed a court-appointed meeting with the counselor today.”
“Aw, man, Ava. She knows better. That girl acts like she wants to go to jail.”
“All she wants is to run behind Redman.”
Byron sat up. “Redman? Are you serious?”
“Yes, that’s who she was seen with yesterday. She swears nothing has happened between them, but forgets that I was once seventeen.”
“. . .
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