Mind Your Own Business

Book 2: Business Series

by Lutishia Lovely

Genres: General Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Delicious drama and sass set Lutishia Lovely’s sizzling novels apart from the crowd. Here she delivers a compelling companion to All Up in My Business. When their parents decide to expand their successful Taste of Soul restaurant to the West Coast, both Bianca Livingston and her brother, Jefferson, begin vying for a management position. And when their meddling cousin Toussaint shows up and the restaurant’s money starts disappearing, tension between the siblings comes to a boiling point.

Release date: November 4, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

“Why can’t a woman be on top?” Bianca Livingston demanded, tossing shoulder-length, straightened hair over her shoulder. She stood over her older brother as if ready to strike, looking totally capable of kicking butts and taking names. Her quick smile, short stature, and girly frame had caused many men to underestimate her—to their peril. But anyone seeing her now—shoulders back, hands on hips, her perfectly tailored black suit and four-inch heels adding to her aura of power—would believe her capable of running almost anything. “I’m as qualified to run the West Coast division as you are, even more so, matter of fact.”

“You’re qualified to run the kitchen, maybe,” her older brother retorted. Jefferson suppressed a smile. He’d taunted his sister from birth, and he did so now. Her fiery personality was the perfect foil for his laid-back teasing. But even with his ongoing provocations, this time Jefferson’s antics masked the seriousness of his quest. He had every intention of being the Livingston who moved to LA to establish the Taste of Soul restaurants both there and in Nevada. But unlike most Livingstons, he didn’t like confrontation or competition. He’d quietly made his bid to step away from his cushy position in the finance department to run the West the same way he cooked his ribs: low and slow. “Isn’t that why you spent the last nine months in Paris?” he queried to underscore his point. “Learning the fine art of cooking so that you could give our soul food some class?”

Actually, Bianca had fled to Paris to get away from the chain around her neck otherwise known as fiancé Cooper Riley, Jr. But only one other person knew this truth—her cousin, Toussaint Livingston. Initially, forestalling the marriage everyone else believed was a fait accompli was also why she’d expressed interest in running the West Coast locations. But now, after months of talking with Toussaint, who, besides being her confidant and a Food Network star, was also the ambitious brainchild behind their company expanding out West, Bianca wanted to relocate to put her mark on the Livingston dynasty and make the West Coast Taste of Soul restaurants shine.

Bianca replied, “Need I remind you that I have not only a culinary certificate from Le Cordon Bleu, but also an undergrad and a graduate degree in business administration?”

“No, little sis, you don’t need to remind me.” Jefferson’s smirk highlighted the dimple on his casually handsome face, his sienna skin further darkened by the November sun. His deep-set brown eyes twinkled with merriment. “But do I have to remind you that I have double masters in business administration and finance?” Jefferson had been the first Livingston in two decades to follow up his stint at Morehouse with two years at Wharton’s School of Business.

Bianca, knowing that she couldn’t go toe to toe when it came to her brother’s education, tried a different route. She walked away from Jefferson and sat in one of the tan leather chairs in the artistically appointed office. Reaching for a ballpoint pen that lay on his large and messy mahogany desk, she adopted a calmer tone, yet couldn’t totally lose the petulance in her voice. “Jefferson, the only reason Dad is promoting the idea of your heading up the location is because you’re the oldest.”

“And the son, don’t forget about that. You know Dad doesn’t want to see his baby girl fly too far from the nest.”

“Okay, probably that, too,” Bianca conceded. It was no secret that when it came to her father, Abram “Ace” Livingston, she was the apple of his all-seeing eye.

“Besides, how are you even considering relocation when you’ve got a fiancé champing at the bit to get married? Cooper has been more than patient with you, Bianca. Not many men would let the woman they love move to the other side of the world, even if it was, as you successfully argued, for the union’s greater good. What did you call it? Increasing your company value and the marriage’s bottom line? As if being a Livingston isn’t value enough? No, Bianca, Cooper allowed the wedding to be pushed back once already. He’s not going to delay it a second time. And you know he isn’t moving to LA.”

Tears unexpectedly came to Bianca’s eyes. She abruptly rose from the chair where she’d been sitting and walked to the window. The glory of the day, boasting colorful autumn leaves framed by a sunny blue sky, was lost on her. “You’re probably right,” she said, quickly wiping her eyes. “If everyone has their way, in six months I’ll be married and in nine have a baby on the way.” But how can I marry Cooper after what happened in Paris?

“Hey, sister, are you all right?”

Bianca jumped. She hadn’t heard Jefferson rise, hadn’t been aware that he’d walked from his desk and joined her at the window. “Actually, no, if you want to know the truth. Jeff, I—”

“Hey man, oh, Bianca, I’m glad you’re both here.” Toussaint Livingston burst into Jefferson’s office, and now rushed toward his cousins on the other side of the room. The seriousness of his countenance took nothing away from a face that models would envy, along with six feet, two inches and almost two hundred pounds of delectable dark chocolate. “We need to roll to y’all parents’ house right now. Emergency family meeting.”

Their conversation forgotten, both Jefferson and Bianca turned at once, talking simultaneously.

“What’s the matter?”

“What’s going on?”

Bianca’s heart raced with concern. “Why are we meeting at Mom and Dad’s house, Toussaint, and not in the conference room?”

Toussaint turned and headed for the door. “That’s what we’re getting ready to find out. I’ll meet y’all there.”

Fifteen minutes later Toussaint, Jefferson, and Bianca joined their family members in the living room of Ace and Diane’s sprawling Cascade residence. Toussaint’s parents, Adam and Candace, and his brother, Malcolm, were already there. The trio from the office was the last to arrive and as soon as they sat down, Ace began speaking.

“We’ve got a situation,” he said without preamble. “Somebody’s stealing company funds.”

Reactions were mixed, with bewilderment and anger vying for equal time.

“Who is it?” Bianca demanded, ready for battle though the culprit remained unnamed.

“We don’t know,” Ace replied. “But it’s definitely an inside job.”

The family members looked from one to the other, a myriad of thoughts in each mind. Who could it be? How did this happen? Is the guilty party somehow connected to someone in the room? One family member even pondered the impossible: Is the thief one of us?

“What kind of money are we talking about?” Toussaint asked. “Hundreds, thousands . . . more?”

“A couple hundred thousand,” Ace replied, his tone somber and curt.

Again, responses were symphonic.

“What the hell?”

“Who could do such a thing?”

“Oh, hell to the N-O. We’re not going to take this lying down.”

“You’re absolutely right, baby girl,” Ace said to Bianca. “We’re not going to stand for this, not at all. Nobody steals from our company without feeling the wrath of a Livingston payback.”

Three hours later and Bianca was still reeling. Whose hand is in the cookie jar . . . and how did they grab all of that money without anyone’s knowledge? The Livingstons had bandied about a variety of scenarios and made a chart of potential employees, past and present, who they felt best poised for betrayal. Bianca’s eyes narrowed as she remembered one name that had come up, a woman who’d had an affair with her cousin and who’d worked for the Livingston Corporation until her relationship with Toussaint abruptly ended. This ex-marketing director had disappeared into thin air and, as far as anyone knew, was no longer in Atlanta. But with the Internet making the world smaller, click by world-wide click, Bianca didn’t count out the woman she’d never trusted. Whoever was stealing from what had been a relatively dormant bank account could be anywhere.

A knock at her door startled Bianca from her musings. Belatedly, she remembered Cooper’s phone call and subsequent promise to drop by. She took a breath and steeled herself for the encounter. “Hey, Coop,” she said, standing back from the door to let him in.

“Hello, dear,” Cooper replied, the kiss on her forehead as sexy as that which an uncle or grandfather would bestow. “You look troubled. Come here and tell Papa all about it.”

Bianca fought the urge to roll her eyes and, going against every fiber of her being, dutifully followed Cooper into the living room of her designer-decorated townhome. She loved her split-level, three-bedroom spread: the hardwood floors and gourmet kitchen; bright yellows and oranges tempered by ebony wood; windows everywhere, letting in the bright autumn sunshine. The cheery surroundings were in stark contrast to her ever darkening mood.

Cooper sat down and tried to pull Bianca into his arms.

“Please, Cooper,” Bianca said, placing more distance between them. “I’m . . . not in the mood.”

“Some women would welcome the touch of their fiancés at a time like this.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sorry for what, Bianca? Stringing out our engagement for two years? Becoming more and more engrossed with your work? Or our not having made love in almost a month? Instead of voicing these questions, Cooper refocused on Bianca’s bad mood. “What’s going on, dear? Something at work?”

Bianca nodded.

Cooper leaned back, waiting.

Bianca hesitated for only a moment before answering. For obvious reasons this matter was confidential, known only to the Livingston clan, the private investigator Ace had immediately hired—and the thief. But not only was Cooper almost a family member, but his analytical, lawyer mind might see clues or connections where Bianca would not.

She turned to face Cooper. “Somebody’s stealing company funds.”

His only reaction was a slight narrowing of the eyes. “From one of the restaurants?”

“No, from corporate.”

Cooper sat up, rubbing his chin in thought. “Corporate, huh? That’s interesting.”

“Very.”

“Any ideas as to whom it might be?”

“A few.” Bianca stood and began to pace. “But the most obvious one right now is our ex-marketing director, Shyla Martin. I think you met her two years ago, at the company Christmas party.”

Cooper pondered this statement, even as he remembered why last year’s Christmas party had been subdued and low-key. “What does she look like?”

“Tall, attractive. She was Toussaint’s date.”

“Oh, her,” Cooper replied, nodding. “Sure, I remember Shyla. I remember thinking that she was funny and intelligent, and that she and Toussaint made a good couple.”

“Yeah, well, she thought they made a great couple, too. And she wanted to make their union permanent.” Oh, shoot. The last thing I want to do is put marriage on Cooper’s mind.

But she’d already done so, as Cooper’s next words verified. “So there are women out there who want to get married.”

“Coop . . .”

“Okay, I won’t press right now. But we’ve got to make plans for the future, Bianca. Neither of us is getting any younger. It’s time to get married and start a family . . . soon.”

Bianca returned to the couch and sat down. Her brow was furrowed in thought—about the theft, Cooper’s words, and other things.

“What happened?”

Bianca’s eyes widened at Cooper’s question. Am I that transparent? Are the memories so poignant, so strong, that they’re written all over my face? “What do you mean, what happened?” she asked breathlessly.

Again, Cooper’s eyes narrowed, as they often did when his sharp mind whirled. “Between Toussaint and Shyla . . . what happened?”

“Oh, right, between Toussaint and Shyla. You know what happened to them, Cooper. Alexis St. Clair happened.”

“Of course I know about Toussaint’s wife, Bianca.” And the baby they’re expecting. “But I didn’t know that Alexis caused the breakup between him and Shyla, nor would I imagine Shyla as the type of person who would go to these extremes as a result.”

“It wasn’t just about their breakup.” Bianca sighed, remembering that she’d never shared with Cooper the extent of what went down between the Livingstons and their former employee. She gave the short version: how Shyla Martin’s attempt to come between Toussaint and the love of his life had cost Shyla her job.

“Oh, I see. Shyla not only lost love, but she lost money, too.” Cooper nodded his head. “That makes your assumption that it is her imminently more plausible.” Cooper eyed Bianca, noting her stiff countenance and rigid neck. “Come here, dear,” he quietly commanded, even as he reached for her arm. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

This time, Bianca did not resist as Cooper pulled her into him. Talking this situation out reminded her of the things she loved about him, and one of those things was that he made her feel safe. In many ways this fair-skinned, freckle-faced man was like her dad, Ace Livingston, and Bianca would never deny that Cooper was a good man who came from an upstanding family. But that was the problem. She respected him, admired him, even loved him—as one would a good friend. But Bianca wasn’t in love with him, the way she wanted to be with a man when she walked down the aisle. The way she’d fallen for a Frenchman in Paris, after only two months of dating. Cooper might be able to help her solve the mystery of who stole the company money. But as Bianca laid her head on his shoulder, she wondered who would help her solve the mystery of how to get over the man who’d stolen her heart.

On the other side of town, in the comfortable surroundings of the same den where the news had broken, stealing was also the topic of conversation. After work, the Livingston men had returned to Ace’s house for further discussion on the day’s news. They were joined by Sterling Ross, the tall, dark, debonair family friend who was also one of the country’s most preeminent detectives. Jefferson watched Toussaint prowl the room, while his dad, Ace; his uncle, Adam; and his cousin Malcolm refreshed their drinks. Sterling flipped a page on his pad and continued writing notes.

“I think the money trail will lead to Shyla,” Toussaint said, a slight scowl marring his otherwise perfectly chiseled face. Like a fine wine, thirty-three-year-old Toussaint Levon Livingston only got better with age, and like everything else, marriage and impending fatherhood agreed with him. “She went away a little too quietly, no fuss at all. I know Shyla, and trust me, that’s not like her.”

Ace returned to his seat and passed a hand over his smooth, bald head. “You paid her two hundred thousand dollars, son. I’d say that’s a fuss. Granted, she wasn’t happy about leaving the company—”

“She wasn’t happy about leaving Toussaint,” Jefferson interjected.

Ace grunted. “But I don’t think she’d stoop to stealing. Shyla is classier than that.”

“Besides,” Adam continued, “the choice is almost too obvious. It’s been a year since she left the company. All of her company credit cards were cancelled immediately. How would she have accessed the account? Why would she risk her reputation, not to mention her freedom, by stealing from us?”

“Because she’s being influenced by the man who shot you, that’s why!”

Toussaint’s observation quieted the room. Sterling stopped writing. The name of the man who’d left Adam Livingston clinging to life on the Livingston Corporation’s parking lot pavement hadn’t come up in the earlier meeting. At that time, the focus had been solely on past and present Livingston employees. But now everyone’s mind was on the man who’d eluded capture for almost a year: Quintin Bright.

Adam responded. “We know that for a while they were in the same place at the same time. But we don’t know if they met—”

Toussaint snorted his disbelief.

“And if they did meet,” Adam continued, “we have no idea what they talked about. And even if our name did come up, would a man like that admit to a crime, and would a woman like Shyla keep quiet about it?”

“For a brothah like Q?” Toussaint offered. “She’d keep quiet and she’d stay in touch. Shyla might be classy, Uncle, as you say, but she’s got a messy side.”

“Wait,” Sterling said, holding up his hand. “You guys are getting ahead of me. Adam, you know the identity of the person who tried to rob you?”

“Robbing was the last thing on that asshole’s mind.” When Sterling’s brow rose, Toussaint realized that he had said too much. Robbery was the motive police assumed had led Quintin Bright to shoot Adam, the motive quoted in newspaper articles and television reports. The Livingstons had done nothing to dispel this assumption.

Sterling looked, waited.

This was a trusted friend, Adam deduced, one who needed to know about Quintin in order to do a thorough investigation. Adam knew this even as he hoped that outside of the family the whole story of the Bright/Livingston feud would never be told, a feud that began when Adam’s wife, Candace, had asked Quintin to be her personal trainer. They’d gotten personal all right, and it had almost cost Candace her marriage. Adam took a deep breath and continued. “His name is Quintin Bright.”

“How do you spell that?” When Adam answered, Sterling scribbled the name on his pad. “Motive?”

Adam hesitated and Ace spoke up. These twins didn’t look alike, but their minds were always in sync. “There’s some bad blood between us and Quintin.”

“Us? As in the entire Livingston family?”

“When you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us,” Malcolm stated matter of factly, looking like a younger version of his dad: stocky build, soft cognac-induced pouch, and close-cropped black hair showing hints of gray.

“How are you so sure it’s this guy”—Sterling looked down at his pad—“Quintin Bright.”

“He said something just before he shot me,” Adam replied. “And he admitted to one of our employees that he shot me.”

“Then why isn’t this guy behind bars?”

“Fled the country,” Toussaint answered.

“Not enough solid evidence to have him arrested and extradited,” Jefferson added.

Sterling scribbled furiously. “Any idea where he is?”

Now it was Adam’s turn to pace. “We know he stayed in Jamaica for a month or so.”

“With Shyla Martin?” Sterling asked, connecting the dots from the earlier conversation.

“We know that they were there at the same time. We don’t know if she stayed with him, or for how long.”

Sterling nodded as he wrote, and then continued listening to Adam.

“Around six months ago, he was in St. Croix.”

“And now?”

“We don’t know.” Ace told Sterling about an employee, Chardonnay Johnson, the woman to whom Quintin had confided about the shooting and whose friendship with Quintin had helped the family keep tabs on him. “When he told her he was in St. Croix, Chardonnay suggested meeting him there.” Ace thought about telling Sterling why, but refrained. That the Livingston men wanted to deliver their own brand of justice before turning Quintin over to authorities was a desire best kept among the Livingston men. “Even though she told him she’d only been joking, he became very suspicious, and to our knowledge, hasn’t called again.”

Sterling nodded, rubbing his jaw. “Hum.” He tapped his pen against the pad’s edge. “Chardonnay Johnson? You say she’s an employee?”

“Yes,” Toussaint answered. “She started out as a waitress at one of our restaurants and is now the assistant manager.”

“And she’s satisfied with her job? No doubts as to where her loyalties lie?”

The Livingston men looked from one to the other. They all knew what Chardonnay was loyal to: that which started with an M and ended with a Y. They also knew that thanks to them, the money they’d paid her to keep the lines of communication open between her and Quintin, and the hardworking father of her youngest child with whom she was now living, Chardonnay was living better than she’d ever dreamed she could.

Would she do something to mess that up? Adam wondered.

Did she somehow stumble onto an even bigger cash cow than that of a new condo and a job promotion? Ace asked himself.

Malcolm, Jefferson, and Toussaint had musings along the same lines but said nothing.

“When it comes to this investigation,” Malcolm finally offered, “I think we should view anyone and everyone guilty until proven innocent.”

Sterling nodded. “I think you’re right.” He turned to Ace. “I’ll stop by your office tomorrow, get a list of all of your employees, and get copies of all of the bank statements and transactions relative to this account. We’ve already moved the bulk of the money, so hopefully the bait that we’ve left in there will be enough to trap our prey. Until then, gentlemen, let us professionals handle it. I know that you Livingstons are a strong, determined group, but this time, I don’t want y’all taking this matter into your own hands.”

The men mumbled their agreement, even as they relished the thought of getting Quintin alone on a deserted island beach and having him become intimately acquainted with a slew of Livingston fists. The only thing stopping them from what otherwise would be a mandatory beat down was the multi-million dollar lawsuit that would surely result from such actions. Following Sterling’s exit, Toussaint looked at his watch and stood. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I probably should head home.”

Adam smiled. “And it’s only eight thirty? That Alexis Livingston is something else. I never thought I’d live to see my youngest son domesticated, but boy, she has done the job.”

Toussaint said his good-byes and was soon walking briskly toward his Mercedes. His dad was right. Alexis St. Clair Livingston had turned him into a willing homebody and soon, he’d be pulling into the parking structure of their downtown penthouse. Before that, however, there was a matter of business for Toussaint to attend to, another stop that he needed to make. He figured there was no time to lose.

Chardonnay Johnson placed her six-month-old baby on the couch beside her and stretched. Sometimes, she still felt the need to pinch herself and ensure that she wasn’t dreaming. It wasn’t the Huxtables’, but Chardonnay’s life looked unlike any she would have ever imagined. A year ago she was the single mother of two living in the projects. Tonight, she lay on the couch in her three-bedroom condo, smelling the dinner that the father of her youngest child was preparing. He wasn’t the finest man walking the planet, but her coworker Bobby Wilson had a tantalizing tongue and a magic dick, and knew his way around a kitchen better than anybody.

“Bobby! Make some gravy to go with those mashed potatoes!”

No answer.

“Bobby!”

Bobby rounded the corner and leaned against the doorjamb, wiping his hands on a towel as he eyed Chardonnay. Even with twenty pounds of post-baby weight on her, she still looked good. He could get hard just thinking about her. “Girl, when are you going to stop yelling at me? I told you, I’m not one of your kids.”

“Please, you might as well be. You know you’re going to do what I ask you. I don’t even know why you’re tripping.”

“Because somebody needs to teach you some manners, and I’m the one to do it. If you want some gravy, ask me nicely. And then I’ll think about making some.”

“Whatever, Bobby. I’m not begging you for shit.”

“Oh, no? Not even this?” Bobby cupped his ample manhood and wriggled his eyes. “Cool. I’ll just sleep on the couch tonight.” He turned and walked back into the kitchen.

Chardonnay was not only strictly dickly, but she was addicted to sex. It was a rare night that went by without Bobby laying the pipe, and working on the second glass of her namesake had already made her horny. And she’d known this man long enough to know that he could be as stubborn as she was. “Bobby, will you please make some gravy to go with the mashed potatoes . . . please?”

“Of course I will, baby.” Bobby grinned as he sprinkled flour into the steak drippings and began to stir in broth. He loved Chardonnay and didn’t care who knew it. This love is why he’d stopped screwing Congressman Jon Abernathy, this and the fact that Jon was too damned possessive. It was also why he was dodging the blatant comings on from another brother, even though these money-laden invitations were getting harder and harder to ignore—not to mention making him hard at the mere. . .