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He crossed his arms. “Yeah. Too much drama.”
She drew an imaginary halo around her head and batted her lashes like a movie star. “Me? Drama?”
Enchanted, his lips curved. It seemed there might be a playful little devil ready to bust out of all that innocence.
“So you can smile,” she teased. “Was that so bad?”
His smile faded, although it struck him funny how a word or two from Cara could turn his mood from happy to sad and everything in between. He moved away and watched the river flow, as wide and vast as the emptiness in his heart.
Sure he had a great career, plenty of money and had dated some of the most desirable women in the world.
But at what cost?
So far, nothing he’d achieved had erased the guilt he lived with every day. Deep down, he feared learning to read would only make it worse.
* * *
An hour later, Cara woke with a start to discover she’d fallen asleep on Alex’s shoulder. She sat up, her face burning with embarrassment. The driver swerved to avoid a pothole and she yelped in surprise when she crashed back into Alex’s side.
“I guess I should get the driveway paved.” He grabbed hold of the seat. “But I’m not up here too often and I always forget how bad it is until I come back.”
Cara gripped the armrest and righted herself. “I just hope we make it there without cracking our skulls open.”
“Don’t worry.” His thumb jerked up to the ceiling. “It’s padded.”
Her lips twisted. “But my head isn’t.”
The limo bucked and Alex caught her in his arms. “Whoops!”
They laughed uncontrollably as the vehicle continued its wild ride up to his house.
By the time they arrived, her stomach hurt. It had been such a long time since she laughed so hard, she’d forgotten how good it felt.
Alex cleared his throat. “We’re home.”
Her heart did a slow somersault as he held her, the heat from his body enveloping her own. Although his embrace was accidental, it felt purposeful, as if she belonged in his arms.
Her chin tilted up and she saw eyes sparked with interest that went beyond a hearty laugh. He ran a finger down her cheek, dislodging a strand of hair stuck there, stroked it briefly, let it fall against her.
She broke away, trembling, and slid to other side of the limo. Warning bells went off in her head, and she had no one but herself to blame.
What had she been thinking, tracing letters on his palm and fingertips in a way that would have made Big Bird blush?
Excitement darted up her spine remembering the feel of his hand in hers. His palm, slightly rough around the edges but soft in the middle, the fingertips callused from years of playing the saxophone.
She’d never done anything like that before. But the grace of her touch hadn’t lasted long. Almost as quickly as he opened up, he shut her out again. Yet just then he didn’t seem to mind having her in his arms.
What was happening between them?
The driver opened up the door and she stepped out, wide-eyed. With its rough-hewn logs, wraparound porch and gabled roof, the quaint little cottage was the perfect mountain hideaway. She fell in love with it at first sight, but her heart raced again at being in such close quarters with Alex.
The air was cooler here than in Harlem. Smelled better, too. Rubbing her arms, her nose twitched as she inhaled the heady evergreen scent of giant fir trees that surrounded the cottage. Somewhere nearby a stream gurgled, completing the Zenlike setting.
Alex appeared at her side, instrument case in hand. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful.”
His hazel eyes brightened. “Thanks. C’mon. I’ll show you around.”
He guided her by the elbow as they walked. Her heels teetered over the pebbled walkway. Her heart raced anew at his touch.
Was it her imagination or did his hand linger before he released her elbow to unlock and open the front door?
He showed her the gourmet kitchen, the powder room and the laundry room. With an inner frown, she realized there were no pictures of family or friends here, either. Although everything was model-home neat with modern furniture and artwork, it still felt empty. Did Alex feel it, too?
He picked up their bags and they ascended the stairway to the second floor. “This is the guest room.” He set her belongings down and pointed down the hallway. “My bedroom is down there and the bathroom is in the middle. There’s a linen closet halfway with plenty of towels and soap. I’ll leave you to unpack.”
Cara nodded and stepped inside the tiny room. Jets of sunlight poured through curtained windows. Besides a dresser and a small nightstand, the bed took up the most space.
It’s big enough for two.
Closing her eyes, she indulged in an intimate fantasy of her and Alex on it, doing everything but sleeping.
“Are you okay? You look like you’re going to fall asleep standing up.”
She whirled around, her left breast grazing his bare arm, and nodded.
“I—I guess I’m still a little tired from the drive.”
Stepping back, she crossed her arms, trying to ignore the exquisite tingling radiating through her chest. Time stopped while his eyes scooped and swept over her body like a pleasure bandit, leaving a trail of tight nipples and heat smoldering in her belly. The room seemed to shrink into nothing but unmet need.
Alex cleared his throat. “Ready for lunch? Frank drove up yesterday and stocked the kitchen for the weekend.”
“Sounds great,” she replied, relieved he broke the silence. “After we eat, we must get started. There’s a lot of ground we have to cover.”
Alex grunted low and frowned as if to say, “Not that again!” and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She changed into jeans and a scoop-necked blouse, then flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling, shaken and frustrated by the encounter.
What was his deal? He’d start to relax, but when she brought up the reason why they were here, he clammed up. She wanted to believe it was only fear. But what if it wasn’t?
She didn’t understand him at all, nor did she understand her physical reaction to him. And at this point, she wasn’t sure which was worse.
While it was normal for her to care about her students, her feelings for Alex had begun to brew a long time ago. With him, her concern didn’t start with paperwork. It started with a plea for justice.
Thirteen years had passed since her father, Crawford Williams, a powerful New York City judge known for his tough rule, had sent Alex’s brother Michael to prison.
As always, tears sprang to her eyes whenever she recalled the day she learned her father was responsible for breaking up families across the city.
She had been flipping through the channels, doing her homework and eating dinner, alone as usual, when she caught the tail end of a television news story.
In it, a mother was giving a statement to a reporter on the courthouse steps. Through her tears, the woman told him that she’d written a letter to her father requesting leniency for her son.
“Did the judge even read it?” she said with a shriek that tore at Cara’s heart. “I asked him at my son’s sentencing. He wouldn’t answer and threatened me with contempt of court. If he’d read it, he’d know Michael is innocent!”
She started weeping harder, and a sullen young man Cara learned later on was her son Alex put his arm around her and led her down the steps.
She remembered the reporter turning to the camera, his voice grim. “There goes another casualty of Judge Williams’s notorious crackdown on gangs.”
She sat riveted in front of the screen as he continued. “Neighborhoods are safer, but at what price? With sons and daughters, brothers and sisters behind bars, New York families are suffering through harsh jail sentences handed down by Williams that apparently no amount of letter writing or phone calls can take away.”
Cara remembered racing up the stairs to her father’s office in disbelief, praying that what she heard was all a mistake.
Although aware of her father’s stance against gang-related activity, she didn’t dwell on it or anything having to do with his job. Whenever he was home and talked about his cases, she feigned interest just to please him. He was under the impression she wanted to be an attorney, when all she really wanted him to do was love her.
She found the letter on his desk and was horrified to see more stacked in a box, some opened, some not.
In it, Alex’s mom described how she and her son were devastated by his brother Michael’s incarceration. Although no details of the case were given, the purpose of the letter was clear: a desperate plea for leniency that was ultimately ignored.
The anger and pain of Alex’s mother so mirrored her own feelings about her father that the next day she told him she wanted to be a teacher. By sharing her love of learning with young people, perhaps she could make a difference. Heal people’s hearts, not hurt them, like her dad did so well.
He never forgave her.
Even now, the hollowness she’d felt that day hit her full force, leaving her sick to her stomach.
She wrapped her arms around her pillow and thought about the special bond she’d felt with Alex ever since. In the letter, his mom had mentioned that both Alex and Michael were musicians. For years, she had watched Alex’s career blossom, listened to his music and followed his love life, while he didn’t even know she existed.
A lump welled in her throat at the irony of it all. A tragedy in his life had prompted her to make a positive change in her own that had eventually benefited hundreds of people.
She thought of the challenges many of her students faced. Heart-wrenching, gut-twisting situations most people couldn’t imagine were an everyday part of their lives. Homelessness, domestic violence, alcohol and drug abuse, joblessness, not to mention low self-esteem and feelings of inadequacy. Whatever their plight, it was often related to their illiteracy.
Her students came to Beacon House with the hope and desire to change their lives. It was her mission to help them get there. She wanted to do more, needed to do more, but without the necessary funding she was strapped.
Hot tears streamed down her face and she swiped them away, feeling helpless and overwhelmed. Lately her emotions were running higher than ever. But at least now she had a chance to make things right again.
She hugged the pillow and turned toward the window.
Teaching Alex to read was critical to the future of Beacon House, and he wasn’t going to make it easy. She had to figure out some way to get past his fear and reach him.
She thought for a moment. He had a job he loved, money and worldwide acclaim. But there had to something he was unable to do. Some dream he’d never achieved because of his illiteracy. She just needed to find out what it was…and fast.
Chapter 3
Thirty minutes later, Cara was eagerly arranging her teaching materials on the coffee table when the sound of glass breaking and a loud curse sent her on a mad dash to the kitchen.
“Is everything okay?” Her heart pounded and her fingers grasped the edge of the doorway.
“Yeah, that’s just the way we announce mealtimes around here,” he joked and dumped a pile of blue glass into a nearby garbage can.
She giggled, relieved he wasn’t hurt.
He retrieved two more glasses from a cupboard and started filling them with ice from the refrigerator.
She moved toward him. “Mmm. So tempting.”
Alex looked over his shoulder at her as ice cubes spilled onto the floor. “Excuse me?” he said in a shocked voice.
She laughed and gestured to an island where a mouth-watering tray of deli meats, assorted cheeses, dill pickles, fresh Italian bread, a tricolor pasta salad and a giant pitcher of iced tea were waiting to be eaten.
The confused look on his face was priceless, then his eyes widened in recognition. “Oh…right. The food.”
She pursed her lips. “What did you think I was talking about?”
He flashed a grin, flexing his muscles like a bodybuilder preening before the judge’s table. “My cover-model looks, of course!”
Unable to resist, she picked up an olive. But instead of eating it, she threw it at him.
“Hey!” he shouted when it bopped him on the shoulder.
Alex selected another olive and good-naturedly chucked it at her. “You do not want to get in a food fight with me,” he warned.
“Oh, yeah?” she taunted, deflecting the green orb with her elbow, before picking up another and tossing it his way. “Why not?”
“Because,” he said, reaching up and catching her olive with one hand before dropping it into his mouth. “You’ll lose every time.”
He grabbed a whole handful and like a pitcher getting ready to throw a fast ball, prepared to attack.
“Okay, okay!” she shrieked, grabbing a napkin off the table and waving it back and forth in surrender. “Truce!”
Alex pumped his fist in the air with a triumphant “yes!” Rich and melodious, the sound of his laughter was like one big hug.
After washing their hands, they loaded up their plates, both a bit cautious of the other, and sat down at the table. As Alex poured the iced tea, Cara admired a bunch of wildflowers stuck into a jelly jar.
“What’s the occasion?” she asked, before she bit into her ham and swiss on rye.
“My mom always told me flowers make a table. She said even if you’re drinking Kool-Aid and eating macaroni and cheese on paper plates, as we often did, flowers can make it seem like caviar and champagne.”
“What types of flowers did you have?”
He looked thoughtful. “When times were good, carnations from the florist down the street. They’d always last real long.” He paused, and his shoulders sagged a little. “When times were lean, there were always plenty of dandelions to choose from in Central Park.”
She smiled, eager to know more about the woman she’d only met through a letter. “Your mother sounds wonderful.”
“She’s my rock. I just wish I’d get to see her more often. Now that I’m done touring, I should be able to spend a little more time with her.” He bit into his sandwich piled high with roast beef.
“Does she live in Harlem, too?”
Alex swallowed and shook his head. “Not anymore. I bought her a place in Brooklyn a few months back.”
