Maria walked into Della’s the following morning, forty-five minutes earlier than her first client. She greeted three stylists with a barely audible “Good morning,” not stopping to chat as she usually did whenever she came in early. She continued toward the rear of the salon, still wearing her sunglasses.
“What’s up with her?” Deirdre Lee mumbled under her breath, staring at Maria’s retreating back.
“Maybe she had a fight with her man,” another stylist suggested.
Deirdre’s expression suddenly went grim at the same time Wilma Rogers, the salon’s senior employee, placed a forefinger over her lips and shook her head at the other two, who managed to look contrite. Most who worked at Della’s knew Maria Parker had been widowed before she was twenty-five, and in the five years she had worked at the salon no one had ever seen her with a man. Even when everyone gathered for their annual holiday festivities, she attended alone.
* * *
Maria made her way to the room set up for facials, inhaling the sensual fragrance of vanilla, jasmine, patchouli, and bergamot wafting from burning candles set up on several tables.
“Kimm?”
The aesthetician’s head appeared around a screen decorated with Japanese characters. “Give me a minute and I’ll be right with you.” Kimm moved from behind the screen, walking into the middle of the room. She had exchanged her street clothes for a pair of white slacks and a matching loose-fitting blouse. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re in early this morning.”
Maria nodded. “I need your help.” She removed her sunglasses.
“What happened to your eyes? Allergies?”
She touched her swollen eyelids gingerly. “No. Insomnia.”
Kimm wagged her head. “Sit down and let me see if I can bring down some of the swelling.”
Maria lay down on the facial chair, permitting Kimm to work her restorative magic to lessen the puffiness around her eyes. What she did not tell her was that she had spent the night crying—crying because she missed Tyree, and crying because she felt totally isolated for the first time in her life.
She had lain in bed, tossing restlessly, trying to remember how it was to have a man sleep beside her, hold her close, inhale his male scent, and welcome him into her body. The images were so vivid that her body reacted violently to a repressed passion that left her shaking and crying with its pulsing aftermath.
She was thirty-one years old, widowed, solvent, owned her own cooperative apartment, and had earned an undergraduate degree in business; she also was a licensed hairstylist, cosmetologist, and nail technician. She had everything and still she was despondent.
But her state of loneliness was of her own doing. She had rejected advances from more men than she could remember, because she had held on to everything that had been Tyree Johnston except his name. They had planned to go into business together, therefore she and Tyree had agreed that she would retain her maiden name.
There was one thing she knew she was, and that was a realist. Maurice mentioning Cameron King’s interest in her had triggered an awareness that she wanted a man interested in her; she wanted to date, and she wanted to experience the milestones many women her age sought. And that meant becoming a wife and a mother.
She lay on the facial chair, savoring the coolness of two ice-soaked tea bags placed over her eyes. The taped music coming through concealed speakers lulled her into a state of complete relaxation as she lost track of time. She hadn’t realized she had drifted off to sleep until Kimm shook her gently.
“Wake up, Maria. There’s a delivery for you at the reception desk.”
Sitting up, she waited for Kimm to remove the tea bags from her eyes and blot away the moisture. Staring at her reflection in the mirrored wall, she smiled.
“Thanks for the quick fix.”
Kimm nodded, smiling. “Anytime, girlfriend.”
Her brow furrowing in concentration, she tried remembering what she had ordered from one of the many catalogues that were stuffed into her apartment building mailbox. Her frown deepened when she saw that everyone from the salon floor had gathered in the reception area.
She caught the glimpse of something wrapped in cellophane. “Excuse me, please. Her voice was barely audible above the excited babble as the staff of Della’s crowded closer to the perplexed deliveryman. Clearing her throat, Maria said loudly, “How many Maria Parkers do we have working here?” The throng parted in a manner that reminded her of Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea in The Ten Commandments.
Ramona waved at her, grinning broadly. “Maria. You have a delivery.”
She felt eight pairs of eyes watching her as she stepped forward and smiled at the deliveryman, who cradled a magnificent crystal vase filled with a profusion of pale pink lilies, roses, tulips, hydrangeas, orchids, and peonies.
The man returned her smile. “Miss Parker?” Maria nodded. “I need your signature.” There was total silence as she scrawled her name on a typed receipt.
“Please wait here while I get you a tip,” she said softly. Her heart started up a rapid pumping when she read the name of the sender: King Financial Services.
“That’s all right, Miss Parker. Mr. King took care of that.”
“Well, all right!” Kimm drawled as she peered around Maria’s shoulder. “It looks as if I’m going to have to change my opinion of Mr. Clark Kent. There is hope for the brother.”
“It’s rather heavy, Miss Parker. Where do you want me to put this?” the deliveryman asked Maria.
Folding her hands on her hips, she met the expectant gazes of everyone staring back at her. There was no room in her area of the salon for the massive vase. “Leave them here. That way everyone can enjoy them.” What she did not say was that at the end of the day she would take her flowers home with her.
Plucking the card off the cellophane, she slipped it into the pocket of her loose-fitting Laura Ashley print dress. A mysterious smile softened her mouth as she turned and made her way to her manicure station to await her first client.
Her day, which had begun miserably, had suddenly brightened with the arrival of these flowers. Taking a surreptitious peek at the card, her smile widened. Scrawled across the back of a business card belonging to King Financial Services were the words, “THANKS AGAIN—CK.”
She returned the card to her pocket and had just slipped on her black smock when Maurice approached her. “What did I tell you about his testosterone? The M-A-N wants you B-A-D.”
Tilting her chin, Maria wrinkled her nose. “Stop being a drama queen, Maurice. He’s only a satisfied customer.”
“How many of us have gotten a bouquet of flowers from a satisfied customer? Tips, yes. Flowers, no.”
She shrugged a delicate shoulder. “Maybe he’s different.”
“You’ve got that right—”
“Maria, you’re needed up front,” a shampoo girl interrupted. “Ramona has someone on the phone who only speaks Spanish.”
“We’ll continue this later, chica,” Maurice promised Maria as she walked to the reception area to communicate with the Spanish-speaking caller.
Her being fully bilingual had been a major consideration for Louis Sweet, the former owner of Rosie’s Curl and Weave, when he hired her a week after she had graduated from beauty school. Her facility with both languages and the fact that she was born, raised, and still resided in East Harlem were contributing factors that supported his decision to offer Maria Parker a position at one of Harlem’s most notable salons.
* * *
Cameron did not know why, but he found himself on 125th Street and several feet from the door to Della’s House of Style. He knew the salon offered an array of services catering to both male and female, but the fact remained that he had had his hair cut by the same barber for more than ten years, so there was no need for him to seek out their haircutting services.
Standing motionless, he stared at the receptionist through the plate-glass window, trying to fathom why he had left his 139th Street office to come to 125th Street.
He was cognizant of the changes in his personality over the past two weeks. Changes that were not only apparent to himself, but also to his employees. And the change had come the day he met Maria Parker for the first time.
He had tried rationalizing it was the recent tax season’s twelve-hour workday that had left him feeling burned out, mentally drained. He’d closed his office for two weeks following the April fifteenth midnight filing deadline, giving everyone a much-needed break. Everyone but himself. His niece was scheduled to graduate from high school, and he had delayed his own vacation to assist his sister-in-law with the preparations for Valerie’s prom and her inevitable move to Atlanta, Georgia.
However, that did not explain his daydreaming about Maria Parker or his impulsive decision to send her flowers. And the flowers had nothing to do with her services—the monetary tip had taken care of that—but were an overture from a man who was interested in a woman. When he picked up the telephone to call the florist and order the bouquet, he had not considered whether she was married, engaged, or committed to dating another man.
Subsequent to his action, he agonized over her marital status until his secretary handed him a small blue envelope with Maria Parker’s return address embossed on the flap in a dark blue script; he read the enclosed note card, his anxiety easing. She had written to thank him for the flowers, signing it, “Fondly, Maria P.”
He pondered the word fondly, comparing it to synonyms like affectionately, lovingly, or tenderly, then spent the next hour wondering why he had spent the time analyzing a single word. And what was it about the manicurist that kept him coming back to see her?
He walked the remaining six feet to the entrance of the salon, knowing all he had to do was open the door to find the answers. He did, and stepped into the expansive reception area.
The receptionist offered a warm smile as he approached the counter. He returned it, nodding. “I don’t have an appointment.”
“That’s not a problem, Mr. King,” Ramona replied, her practiced, professional smile in place. “What can we do for you today?”
“I’d like a manicure.”
Ramona glanced down at the large appointment book covering most of the surface of the countertop. “Anyone in particular?”
Cameron inhaled, then let out his breath slowly. “Miss Parker.”
The receptionist’s head came up quickly, her expertly waxed eyebrows lifting slightly. Her suspicions were right. The man everyone at Della’s had taken to calling Clark Kent liked Maria.
“Miss Parker is with a customer right now.”
“I’ll wait for her,” he countered, not giving Ramona the opportunity to suggest another manicurist. There was a no-nonsense finality in the four words.
“Let me see how long she’s going to be.” Ramona had lowered her voice, being purposefully mysterious. She left her post, walking to the rear of the salon.
Cameron was willing to wait—for as long as it would take for him to uncover what it was about Maria Parker that had him leaving his office to seek her out. He sat down on a plush chair and picked up a recent issue of Ebony magazine from a low table filled with various periodicals. He thumbed it until his gaze lingered on an article about black love. He had not quite finished the first paragraph when Ramona returned.
“She just finished with her client. You can go on back.”
Putting aside the magazine, he rose to his feet. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. King.”
Cameron was hard-pressed not to smile when he noticed the questioning gazes directed at him when he stepped onto the salon floor. He acknowledged the woman who had relaxed and styled Valerie’s hair with a warm, friendly smile.
“Hello there, Mr. King,” she crooned, the tip of her pink tongue sliding over her lower lip.
He overheard a tall man with flaming red hair whisper, “Shameless hussy,” then tuned out everything else as he came face-to-face with Maria. It had been two and a half weeks since he last saw her, but it could have been two and a half seconds. What surprised him most was that he remembered the exact shape of her exotic eyes, the enchanting sprinkle of freckles over the bridge of her nose, and the entrancing sensuality of her lush mouth. Tilting his head at an angle, his penetrating gaze moved slowly over her features, visually committing each one to memory.
“Good afternoon, Miss Parker.”
A slight smile tipped her mouth at the corners. “Good afternoon, Mr. King.” She motioned with a slender hand at the chair on the other side of the manicure table. “Please sit down.”
Cameron shrugged out of his suit jacket, walked several feet to a brass coat tree in a corner, and hung it up while Maria retreated to a nearby sink and filled a small bowl with warm water. Turning around, he went completely still. She had returned to the table but had not sat down; she stood motionless, staring at him with a stunned expression on her face. He glanced down at the front of his shirt and slacks, thinking perhaps he had spilled something on the fabric.
“Is there something wrong, Miss Parker?”
Yes, she wanted to shout at him. He was wrong, and then he was so right. Everything about him was so stunningly perfect that she found it difficult to draw a normal breath. And in that instant she realized that Cameron reminded her of Tyree. She was attracted to him because he had the same effect on her as her late husband.
Something in his manner was so like Tyree’s, yet he looked nothing like him. Cameron was taller, at least six-one, and his upper body was more powerfully muscled than Tyree’s had been. His custom-made monogrammed white shirt and expertly tailored taupe-colored trousers fit his toned physique with an easy grace that was certain to turn any normal woman’s head.
“No. Nothing’s wrong,” she replied much too quickly. Her legs were trembling slightly as she sank down to her chair, forcing a smile she did not quite feel. She was not comfortable with Cameron. He was a man, a stranger, who made her feel an emotion that she had not felt in years.
He made her feel a warming desire. His very presence reminded her that she was a woman—a woman who had at one time experienced the full range of her femininity; a woman who had and continued to deny her femininity because she feared loving and losing again.
And now that Cameron sat opposite her she knew he was the reason for her recurring bouts of insomnia. His deep, resonant voice captivated her, while his ultraconservative manner intrigued her. He claimed an intense, silent sexual magnetism that made him breathtakingly mesmerizing.
Reaching for his hands, she cradled them in her palms, examining his fingers. His hands were large, long-fingered, and strong. They were as fastidiously kept as the rest of him. His nails were short and clean.
“How was your niece’s prom?” she questioned as she picked up an emery board to begin filing his nails.
Cameron smiled, staring at the short, glossy curls clinging to her small, well-shaped head. “I think she described it as the ‘Bomb.’”
Her head came up slightly and she gave him a knowing smile. “Then it was a success. How are her nails holding up?”
“She had them removed after a few days because she claimed they hindered her when she tried typing a paper.”
Maria wrinkled her pert nose. “They are pretty, even if they aren’t very practical.”
There was a comfortable silence while she filed his nails and applied a cuticle oil before she placed his fingers in the solution of warm, soapy water, grateful she could concentrate on his hands rather than his face, because whenever she met his penetrating gaze she felt as if he could see beneath her impassive expression to detect the sadness she always camouflaged with a quick smile and witty dialogue.
Cameron lowered his head and his voice. “How long have you worked at Della’s?”
This time she glanced up to meet his questioning gaze. “Five years.”
He shifted an eyebrow. “Have you always been a manicurist?”
“No. I began doing shampoos, then moved up to styling, cutting, and coloring. I’ve been doing nails exclusively for the past two years.”
“You’re a licensed stylist?” There was no mistaking the incredulity in his voice.
“Does that surprise you?” she questioned softly as he managed to look contrite. The expression elicited a smile from her. “Working here for five years has given me the experience I need if I ever decide to open my own full-service salon.”
Now his curiosity was piqued. “Are you considering starting up a business?” She nodded. “When?”
“Hopefully next year.” Her voice was soft, barely a whisper.
“Have you selected a location?”
“I have several possibilities.”
Cameron felt a nagging frustration. He was trying to get Maria Parker to open up to him and she was answering his questions; however, each response was vague, nebulous. She appeared guarded, unwilling to reveal too much about herself, and he wondered if this was her normal demeanor. And if she managed to remain a private person while working in a salon, then she truly was exceptional. Beauty salons were much like barbershops and neighborhood bars—everyone knew everything about anyone who walked through their doors once they became a regular customer.
“Do you have an accountant?” he queried.
She gave him a direct stare. “Are you looking for clients, Mr. King?”
A deep frown settled into his pleasant features. “Not at all. I have more than enough clients, Miss Parker.” A sudden sharp chill lingered with his retort. “I only asked because I belong to a consortium of black CPAs who volunteer free consulting services to people of color looking to start up their own businesses.”
He had not lied to her. King Financial Services had retained more clients than he could handle by himself. A decade-long association with another certified public accountant ended six months go when he bought out Scott Wilson’s share of their partnership. His college friend and fraternity brother had relocated to Atlanta following his wife’s appointment as assistant chief of psychiatry at a municipal hospital. He had hired an accounting clerk on a part-time basis for the tax season to lighten his own workload but still needed to hire another accountant for a vacant full-time position.
Maria wanted to tell him that she did not require his assistance because she probably knew as much as he did when it came to setting up a business enterprise. Working at the salon for five years after earning a degree from New York University’s School of Business had adequately prepared her for the business world.
“I’d rather not talk about it here.” Her voice had drifted into a hushed whisper.
Cameron registered her reluctance. And he did not blame her. If someone overheard them, then her personal goals would be all over the salon within the hour.
He met her direct gaze, holding her captive as he stared at her, unblinking. “When and where?”
She blinked once. “Say what?”
“When and where do you want to discuss it?”
“Definitely not here.”
“Is it top secret?” he countered in a quiet tone.
Shrugging a shoulder under the black smock, Maria shook her head. “It has nothing to do with it being a secret. It’s just that I don’t discuss my personal business here. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is sacred at Della’s,” she whispered. “Take yourself…”
He sat up straighter, a slight frown marring his smooth forehead. “What about me?”
“Before your niece even walked through the doors, everyone at Della’s knew your name, your occupation, and the location of your office. The only thing they haven’t uncovered is your marital status or where you live.”
Cameron laughed, the sound low and sensual as it bubbled up from deep within his chest. He sobered, tilting his head at an angle. “Are you one of the curious ones?”
“You flatter yourself, Mr. King.”
Quickly reversing their hands, he held hers captive within his loose grip. “We’ve been holding hands for the past fifteen minutes and I think we should nix the surnames. Please call me Cameron.”
Her large dark eyes filled with amusement. “Only if you call me Maria.”
He tightened his grip, squeezing gently. “You did not answer my question, Maria. Are you one of the inquiring minds?”
“No,” she half-lied. Where he lived did not interest her; However, she had to admit to herself that she was curious as to whether he was married.
“I’m not married and I live on Long Island,” he volunteered. “Is there anything else you think they’d like to know?”
“Do you want me to ask around?”
He shook his head quickly. “That’s all right.” He released her hands, permitting her to continue with the manicure. “I was married once.”
Maria heard the pain in his voice and registered the raw hurt in his dark eyes. The barrier she had erected to keep men at a distance came crashing down with his confession. “How did you lose her?”
Leaning back on the chair, Cameron closed his eyes. He still could see Sylvia’s face when she told him she had been willing to compete with another woman, but never his work. She had forced him to choose, and he had chosen his career.
He opened his eyes and his brows drew downward in a frown. “At the time I loved my work more than I loved my wife. I neglected her because I was too success-driven to give her the attention she demanded from me. I didn’t realize what I had sacrificed until the divorce was final.”
The obvious disappointment in his compelling voice affected Maria deeply. Like herself, he had loved and lost. “Did you try for a reconciliation?”
He flashed a wry smile, shaking his head. “No. At the time I wasn’t willing to compromise.”
“And now?” she asked, lifting questioning eyebrows.
“I’ll admit that I’m older and hopefully a lot wiser.” His statement prompted another smile from Maria, the simple gesture charming Cameron. Leaning over the table, his head only inches from hers, he crooned, “Can we meet for dinner this weekend to discuss your project?”
“Cameron, I don’t know whether that’s—”
“A good idea,” he interrupted, finishing her statement. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
Her right hand stopped, poised in midair, before she reached for a buffer. “Are you always so aggressive?”
His eyes crinkled attractively behind his lenses. “It comes with the territory. You’ll discover a similar characteristic in your own personality once you follow through with your project.”
“What makes you think I need your assistance? I’ve done my research.”
“And you should know that you can never get too much information if and when you decide to invest in a personal venture. What do you have to lose? Remember, my services are gratis.”
Cameron could not believe that he was almost pleading with her to share dinner with him. He wasn’t certain once he walked into Della’s how he would convince her to see him outside the salon, but when she mentioned that she had planned to set up her own business enterprise he had been presented with the perfect opportunity.
“If you’re not comfortable being alone with me, then why don’t you invite your boyfriend to join us?”
Maria gave him a level stare. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Then husband.”
“I don’t have a husband.”
Cameron was hard-pressed not to flash a wide grin of relief. She was available. “How about a brother?”
His last suggestion made her laugh. “I can assure you that I can take care of myself.”
“If that’s the case, then when do you want to meet?”
She had to admire Cameron King’s tenacity. He hadn’t come to Della’s for a manicure, but to see her. He hadn’t sent her flowers to thank her for doing his niece’s nails, but because he was attracted to and was possibly intrigued by her.
And what she had to admit to herself was that Cameron openly expressed what she sought to conceal. She’d also wanted to know whether he was single, and he was. And she wanted to see him—outside of Della’s.
“What do you have planned for Saturday?”
Cameron seemed startled by her query. “Nothing. But it’s the Fourth of July.”
She flashed a saccharine grin. If he wanted to see her, then it would have to be on her terms. “I know,” she replied smugly. “I’ve planned to spend the weekend on Long Island at my parents’ place. You can meet me there.”
He recovered quickly. “Where on Long Island?”
“Brentwood.”
“What time do you want to meet?”
“Three o’clock. Before you leave, I’ll give you their address and phone number. It’s a holiday weekend and everyone will be very casual. You do have casual clothes?”
Cameron nodded, unable to believe his good fortune. He had never come on to a woman as aggressively as he had with Maria, but he had to admit it worked.
She had agreed to see him.
It had been a little more than two weeks since he met Maria Parker for the first time, and he had found himself waiting and counting the weeks when he would see her again.
Now the wait would only be four days.