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He looked over his shoulder at her. His surprise was clear. “Is everything okay?” he asked, rising to his full height.
No.
“I got an emergency with my business. Can we pick this up another time?” she asked, her thoughts on Choc’s safety.
He immediately started getting dressed.
When he pulled on his coat and came over to her at the front door, she gave him a smile she hoped was filled with her regret.
“Is there anything I can do?” Loren asked.
She looked to him, surprised that this man nearly ten years her junior made her feel so damn safe at that moment. “I got it,” she said.
“Let me know you got back in okay?” he asked. Desdemona nodded. She looked up just before he gave her one last look and pulled his skull cap down over his wild hair before he opened the door.
“Lo,” she called to him.
He turned in the open doorway. She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him close as she rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
With a playful smack of her bare bottom, he stepped over the threshold and left, closing the door as he did.
“Shit,” she swore, using her iPad to send for her car before rushing to her walk-in closet to pull on a fitted sweater dress and thigh-high riding boots, topping it with a short leather trench and a fitted cap to battle the bitter January cold.
Rushing, she opened her safe and grabbed wads of cash and made sure her baton was in her tote before she finally left the apartment.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching—
It was Choc’s consort with the hand problem. Number eighteen. She answered, squaring her shoulders as she continued down the hall to the elevator. “Complete violation of the rules,” she said as soon as she answered the call.
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”
She paused before stepping onto the lift. His voice was odd. Slurring a bit.
Vic Lamonte was an Atlanta-based Grammy-winning record executive and producer favored by the top names in R & B and hip-hop. He was in New York working on a secret project with a diva pop star who hadn’t released a new project in more than five years and was looking to make a comeback. He called Mademoiselle for a little relaxation time to get a break from the studio.
She’d known him for years.
“Are you drunk, V. L.?” she asked.
“Nah,” he said.
She didn’t believe him. Alcohol or pills—didn’t matter. Both were prohibited. “Where’s Choc?’ she asked.
“Fuck her. Send me somebody else. Let me see. I want a, uhm, light skin dip with a big ass, Mademoiselle,” he said.
She frowned. “You are not pulled up to the drive-thru window of McDonald’s ordering food, V. L.,” she snapped, stepping off the elevator. “Don’t handle me like that. Besides, you’re off the list. You’re not new to this.”
“What? You better send somebody to get this nut,” he roared.
Desdemona frowned in distaste. “Call me tomorrow when you’re sober,” she said, feeling worn out from just dealing with him in his altered state.
This was not the fun-loving man with whom she was familiar.
“I’m not the one for you to play that way,Ma-dem-oiselle,” he said disparagingly.
“Be clear with your intent and your words,” Desdemona warned as she stepped out of the building and walked to the curb where her car awaited, already running and warm as she gave the valet a smile of gratitude.
“I’ll fuck up your whole operation,” he threatened.
