of the premier construction companies in the state. It owned dozens of local businesses and had plans to expand into other American markets.
“Jules Fontaine of Fontaine Entreprises? He’s a big fish. How’d you meet him?”
“Through a mutual friend.”
“I’m glad things are working out for you,” Nicco said, his tone filled with warmth and sincerity. “And I’m looking forward to seeing you in December.”
“You’re coming to Atlanta for the holidays?”
“No, I’m going to Venice for Emilio’s wedding. Aren’t you going?”
Immanuel raked a hand through his dark brown hair, searching his brain for a suitable excuse. His sister, Francesca, had called him weeks earlier with the news, and as she chatted about Emilio and his fiancée, Immanuel got the sense that his brother had changed his life for the better. He was proud of him, but he didn’t want to reunite with the superstar. “I can’t go to the wedding. I have to work.” He added, “You’re an entrepreneur. You know how it is.”
“Nothing’s more important than family, Immanuel. Never forget that.”
That’s easy for you to say. Your kid brother didn’t screw your fiancée.
“I called Emilio yesterday to congratulate him on his engagement, and he sounded great, all excited and amped up. His fiancée is obviously a miracle worker, because the last time I spoke to Emilio he was an emotional wreck.”
And for good reason. Immanuel thought of Lucca, and pain stabbed his chest. His nephew, an adorable five-year-old with curly hair and wide, expressive eyes, had died in a tragic pool accident at Emilio’s Greensboro estate. The last time he’d seen his brother was at Lucca’s funeral, and Immanuel cringed when he remembered the cruel things he’d said at his nephew’s grave site. He’d let his anger and resentment get the best of him, and knew deep down he owed Emilio an apology. But he wouldn’t attend his December wedding. Just couldn’t do it.
“Coz, I have to go...” Nicco trailed off and didn’t finish his thought.
Immanuel heard children’s voices, laughter and a door slam.
“I told the kids I’d take them to Chuck E. Cheese’s, and they’re getting impatient.”
“No worries, Nicco. Check you later.”
“I’ll call you next week. Love you, man.”
Immanuel ended the call and plugged his cell phone into the charger. He picked up his energy drink and took a swig from the can. He glanced at his Rolex watch and frowned. Mrs. Fontaine usually worked until six o’clock, but it was seven forty-five, and he still hadn’t seen any signs of her. Stretching, he leaned back in his seat and drummed his fingers absently on the steering wheel. Minutes later, the lights went out in Pathways Center, and the front door opened.
And there she was. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen: Dionne Osman Fontaine. Immanuel bolted upright and peered through the windshield. The sidewalk was her stage, her own personal runway, and as she strode toward the parking lot with an air of confidence, desire shot through his veins.
His temperature soared to unimaginable heights. An erection grew inside his jeans. Immanuel was so aroused, so turned on by the sight of her, explicit thoughts crowded his mind. Thoughts of kissing her, caressing her and ripping the clothes off her sexy, curvy body. It happened every time he saw Mrs. Fontaine. His physical reaction to her embarrassed him, made him feel like a pubescent kid, rather than a thirty-nine-year-old man worth millions.
As he watched her, he took note of Dionne’s graceful walk. She moved seamlessly, with a grace all her own. Every hair was in place, and her milk-white coat and black pantsuit made her look glamorous. He found it hard to believe she was thirty-five years old. She had the youth and vitality of a college-aged woman and the taut, toned shape to match.
Images of Dionne clad in a purple mesh top and spandex shorts were engraved in his mind. Four mornings a week, Dionne took a spin class, and watching her at the small downtown studio was the highlight of his day. The master life coach was exactly his type—strong, smart, independent, vivacious—but she was a diva. Someone who yearned for fame and fortune, and he was through hooking up with shallow, materialistic woman obsessed with the high life. And besides, she belongs to another man. My client.
His eyes trailed her every move. Petite, with creamy mocha skin, almond-shaped eyes and righteous curves, it was no surprise that everyone on the sidewalk stopped to stare. Her scarlet lips made her mouth look tempting, inviting, and thoughts of kissing her ruled his mind.
Knock it off, chastised his conscience. Dionne’s married to Jules Fontaine—a man who could ruin you in this town—and if you ever cross the line you’ll regret it.
Immanuel nodded to himself, knew it was true, but continued admiring the Somali-born beauty with the exotic look. Dionne had her briefcase in one hand, her purse in the other and her cell phone pressed to her ear. What else was new? She was addicted to her iPhone and couldn’t go five seconds without checking it.
You’re a fine one to talk, argued his inner voice.
Curious, he cocked an eyebrow. Immanuel wondered who Dionne was talking to. It was someone special. Had to be. Her eyes were bright, and her smile was radiant. Was her lover on the phone? The man her ex was convinced she was having an affair with? Immanuel hadn’t found any evidence of her infidelity and suspected Mr. Fontaine was wrong about his estranged wife being promiscuous. She worked nonstop, even on weekends, and spent her free time at home—alone—not in bars and nightclubs.
Dionne stopped at the rear of her Lexus and popped open the trunk. Immanuel put on his seat belt and turned on the ignition. He didn’t want to lose her in the parking lot, and reminded himself to follow from a distance as she exited the plaza. His cell rang, and he glanced down at the center console. His grandmother’s phone number appeared on the screen. But he didn’t have time to shoot the breeze, so he decided to let the call go to voice mail.
Immanuel looked up just in time to see a short figure clad in dark clothes approach Dionne. He scanned the man’s face. The stranger had a desperate look in his eyes, a wild, crazed expression that was frightening, but Dionne was too busy talking on the phone to notice. He was pale and built like a defensive lineman. Immanuel read him like a book, sized him up in ten seconds flat. The guy was a thug, a no-good punk who’d rather rob than work, the most dangerous type of criminal. Immanuel had to act fast.
Sensing what was about to happen, he threw open his car door and took off running across the parking lot. The cold autumn wind sliced through his black button-down shirt, chilling his body to the bone, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. It was a matter of life and death, and he had to reach Dionne before the bastard attacked her, or worse, tried to kidnap her.
His breathing was heavy, ragged, and his heart was beating out of control. Feeling a surge of adrenaline, Immanuel ran faster, harder. Bent on reaching her, he dodged cars and wide-eyed strangers as he raced through the parking lot.
Immanuel heard Dionne scream, watched in horror as the man grabbed her and shook her violently. His stomach fell, plunged to his feet, and anger shot through his veins. What happened next stunned him. Dionne didn’t comply with her assailant’s demands, instead deciding to fight back. Kicked, punched, scratched at the stranger’s eyes and face.
“Stop!”
