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She hung up.
Seconds later, the phone rang again.
“Yes, Stewart?”
“I told you I’d find you, sexy,” a deep voice said into the phone. “Didn’t I tell you to be ready for me?”
Nairobia blinked. No. It couldn’t be. “Coal?”
“The one an’ only, baby.”
Her breath caught. “How’d you find me?”
He grinned. “I have my ways. I told you I have eyes everywhere.”
She found nothing flattering about a stranger showing up to her building, practically admitting to watching her. She didn’t like the predatory edge to his voice. “Are you stalking me?”
He laughed. “Nah, baby. I don’t stalk. I seek out. Come have dinner with me.”
Nairobia glanced at the time. It was nearing nine p.m. Oh, he was good and crazy to think she’d flounce herself out from the comforts of her home to dine with some stranger—even if said stranger was tall, dark, and dangerously handsome; even if she’d practically creamed on said stranger’s cock in the middle of a dance floor.
“I will do no such thing, my darling. You want to see me, you’ll have to return at a respectable hour and try again.”
His rich laugh boomed through the phone. “Oh, okay, okay. I see you, baby. And I tell you what. I’ll be back tomorrow. Noon. How’s that for respectable?”
“That’s a start,” she replied. “But still not acceptable. Perhaps I am not free for you at noon. Or any other time.”
“Then make time. We have some unfinished business. Don’t think I forgot how good you felt in my arms.”
She smiled. “Nor should you have.”
“Tomorrow. Noon,” he repeated. “Be ready for me.”
“Sorry, my love. I’ll be at the shooting”—she made sure to enunciate that part—“range.”
“That’s even better. I gotta big gun that needs to be fired off.”
“Good night.”
The line went dead.
THIRTY-FIVE
Squaring her shoulders, her hair swept into a sleek, side-parted ponytail, Nairobia sauntered out the sliding glass doors, wearing a black Emilio Pucci ruffled, one-shouldered sheath dress and a pair of black ankle-strap heels. She stepped out in the July heat, baring her long, sexy legs and smooth back. The look was chic. Classy.
She spotted him. Leaning up against the driver’s side door of a black Range Rover—watching her, in a white Gucci T-shirt and a pair of white jeans. The stark contrast against his dark skin was sexy. There was something about a deep, dark-chocolate man donned in all white that made her toes curl.
He smiled, his eyes appraising her as she strutted toward him, her oversized clutch tucked beneath her arm. “Damn, baby,” he murmured, stepping forward and pulling her into a hug. She turned her head, his lips suddenly catching the side of her mouth. “Damn, you smell good.” He took a step back, his dark brown gaze running up and down her body. “Damn, you sexy. But, uh, a little overdressed for the range, aren’t you?”
She tilted her head, lifting her black Dior shades. “No, I’m actually underdressed, my love.” And she’d meant that in every way. Sans a bra, she’d worn lace crotchless panties. Her gray eyes glinted. “Now, shall we go? I feel like shooting.”
He grinned. “No doubt, baby. You’re talking my talk.” He started toward the other side of the SUV, but stopped when Nairobia didn’t budge.
Hand on her hip, she pointed toward the rear passenger door. “I’ll sit in the back. Please and thank you, my love.” She had no intentions of sitting up front with a man she’d only met once, under a bunch of flashing lights, in the near darkness of a club.
No, no. She’d sit in back of him in case she needed to open her clutch and…well, it paid to be armed and ready. One could never be too safe nowadays.
He frowned. “You buggin’, right? You expect me to ride you ’round like I’m some chauffeur?”
