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“I’m awake. Come in,” I heard her say. It was a nice sound, her voice — musical, sweet. I pushed against the door, and it opened with a soft whine.
“Morning, Alex. I slept great,” Jamilla said. She was sitting up in bed, wearing a white T-shirt with SFPD in black printed on it. She started to laugh. “Sexy, huh?”
“Actually, yeah. Detectives can be sexy. Samuel T. Jackson in Shaft, Pam Grier in Foxy Brown. Jamilla Hughes in the guest bedroom.”
She whispered, “Come over here, you. Just for a minute. Come here, Alex. That’s an order.”
I went forward and Jamilla reached out her arms and I slid into them as though I belonged there. Kind of nice. “Where were you when I needed you last night?” I asked her.
“I was right here in the guest room.” She smiled and winked. “Listen, I don’t want your kids to get the wrong idea either. But . . .”
I cocked an eyebrow. “But?” I asked. “But what?”
“Just but. I’ll leave the rest up to you.”
As we were finishing breakfast — in the kitchen, without the cloth napkins — I told Nana and the kids that Jamilla and I were going to tour Washington for the rest of the day. We needed a little time to ourselves. The kids just nodded over their cereal bowls; they’d been expecting as much.
“I won’t expect you two home for supper, then,” Nana said. “Is that right?”
“That’s right,” I said. “We’ll catch a meal in town.”
“Uh-huh,” Nana said.
“Uh-huh,” said the kids.
I drove about four miles from the house on Fifth. I pulled up to 2020 O Street and stopped the car. Some people might have trouble finding the place, or even any information about the Mansion on O Street. There’s no sign hanging outside, no indication that it isn’t a private residence. Most guests come to the Mansion by word of mouth. I happen to know the owner through friends at Kinkead’s restaurant in Foggy Bottom.
Jamilla and I went inside, where I registered, and then we were brought upstairs to the Log Cabin Room. Along the way, just about every surface, corner, cranny, and crevice was filled with antique puppets, lithographs, jewelry in glass cases. We took it all in. Silently.
A strange thing happened to me on our way upstairs. I had the thought Here I go again. It almost caused me to stop walking and head back to the car. But something inside told me not to give up, not to shut feelings out, to put my trust in Jamilla.
Neither of us said a word until the bellman was gone.
Chapter 36
“WOW, I COULD get used to this in a hurry,” Jamilla whispered when we were alone in the room. “Let’s explore this place. It’s beautiful, perfect, Alex. Almost too nice.”
And so we explored.
The Log Cabin Room was an amazing two stories that even included a sauna-Jacuzzi. The loft was reached by spiral stairs and had a full kitchen. The walls and floors were wood paneled to suggest the simply hewn tongue-and-groove design of a cabin. A rough-cut stone-framed fireplace was there to keep everything cozy. There was also an aquarium.
Jamilla did a quick, gleeful dance. She obviously approved, and so did I, mainly because she was happy. It sure was a whole lot better than the front seats of cars where we’d spent so many hours together during surveillance details in New Orleans.
As we checked out the suite, we were exploring each other a little too. We stopped to kiss, and I discovered once again that Jamilla had the sweetest-tasting mouth. We held each other, and danced in place a bit. We kissed some more, and my head began to feel light. I was still nervous, and I couldn’t quite figure out why.
Jamilla slowly unbuttoned my denim shirt, and I helped her loosen and then slip out of a cream-colored silk blouse. Under her shirt, she wore a plain, thin silver chain. Very simple and lovely.
Her hands gently unfastened my belt, then loosened my pants. I helped her out of her leather ones. “Such a gentleman,” she said. Somewhere along the way I kicked off my shoes and she did the same with her sandals.
Which finally, somehow, brought the two of us to the centerpiece of the suite — a king-size bed.
“I like this,” she whispered against my cheek. “Nicest bed I ever saw.”
The bed was definitely the visual focus of the room. It had four wooden c
olumns suggesting a canopy bed, but without the frills. It was covered with a flannelly comforter and half a dozen throw pillows, which we immediately tossed onto the floor. The room looked even better a little messed-up.
“Music?” Jamilla asked.
