14
Chapter 1
Cara stepped out of the taxi on West 135th Street in Harlem clutching her briefcase like a life preserver, her eyes fixed on the building before her. The growling sounds of a saxophone poured out through an open window belonging to Alex Dovington, a man she’d wanted to meet for nearly thirteen years.
And the same man she had to teach how to read…in three days.
A cramp gripped her stomach like a vise and she bit her lower lip against the hard ridge of pain. For the millionth time, she questioned herself. Could she do this? If Alex found out who she really was, there was no telling how he would react.
The truth was she had no choice.
Her heels crunched through rust-colored leaves as she walked up the stairs of his home, an ornate renovated brownstone. Inhaling the earthy fragrance of the air calmed her nerves.
How she loved autumn! The season was especially beautiful in New York City. But lately, she’d been so busy trying to raise funds for Beacon House, the adult literacy center she’d founded and struggled to keep open, she barely noticed the warm days blending into cool nights.
She’d simply…existed.
She desperately needed the substantial donation she would receive if she succeeded in teaching Alex to read in three days. Failure was unthinkable, and she would do whatever it took to avoid it.
She reached the landing, sucked in another deep breath, pressed the doorbell. Chimes amplified the fresh wave of panic that rippled through her. She spotted a jack-o’-lantern perched on the stoop next door. The ghoulish sentry seemed to mock her with its crooked smile, and she stuck her tongue out at it in defiance.
Just then, the door swung open. Startled, she jerked backward and grabbed hold of the railing to avoid falling off the edge of the stair.
Good Lord.
Her heart scampered into her throat and her eyes widened at the man towering before her.
Album covers and magazine pictures did not do the brother justice. Nearly six feet tall with dark honey-caramel skin and a body that looked like it was made for a woman’s most scandalous dreams, Alex was more than fine. He was “now-that-I’ve-seen-U-I-can-die-now” gorgeous.
A tenor saxophone dangled like an upside-down question mark from a navy blue lariat around his neck. The large instrument looked like a child’s toy nestled against his bare chest and flat, ripped abdomen.
Stop staring! She knew it was rude, yet she found she couldn’t help herself.
“Miss Williams?”
Although Cara sensed Alex speaking, her attention focused on a serpent tattoo curled like a vise around the taut muscles of his upper right biceps. The head and forked tongue licked his bent elbow, igniting her curiosity, and she wondered if he had more tattoos and if so, where they were located on his body.
Face flushed, she lifted her eyes to discover he was staring right back. A frown tugged at the corners of his full lips and his fingers gripped the edge of the door, as if to warn her he could slam it shut at any moment.
His voice, a rich baritone that could melt ice, finally reached into her ears, pulled her back to reality. But when she opened her mouth to answer him, nothing came out.
Before she could try again, he shook his head and with an agitated sigh, began to close the door.
Cara leaped forward. “W-wait!” Her voice so loud it echoed in her ears.
He paused, one hand braced against the jamb, the other on the doorknob, brows lifted, waiting. Her heart stopped for a moment and she gulped back her surprise. Met his eyes and forced what she hoped was a confident smile.
“Yes. I’m Cara Williams.”
She put her briefcase down, wiped her palm on the side of her skirt and decided against shaking his hand. She didn’t want to risk getting the door slammed in her face.
“Sorry if I’m early. I guess I’m eager to get started, given our overall time constraints.”
He was silent, choosing instead to let his eyes speak for him. They trailed down and over her body, as if exploring the twists and turns of a melody on his horn, and she fought the urge to look away under his gaze.
Alex reached for her briefcase, his fingers grazing hers, and she tried to ignore the sensations prickling a path from her knuckles to shoulder.
“Come on in,” he said, but there was no welcome in his voice.
She thanked him, stepped inside, and her ears twitched as multiple locks clicked into place behind her. He strode past without a glance, leaving her confused and disappointed as he led them down a short hallway to the living room.
Cara’s eyes were drawn to a magnificent grand piano that held court in one corner. It seemed to lord over the sheets of manuscript paper scattered on the polished wood floor around it.
But that was nothing compared to the Grammy Award enclosed in glass and the cluster of gold records hanging in an alcove to the right of the piano.
The visual impact of who he was and what he’d accomplished in his career made her knees wobble. She was relieved when Alex placed her briefcase next to a black leather couch and motioned her to sit down.
A bead of sweat trickled down her spine as she watched him unhook the sax from the lariat around his neck, slide the reed off the mouthpiece, wipe the instrument with a cloth and place it in the case.
His gentleness made her feel like she was observing something more intimate than mere ritual, like a father who suddenly reaches out to ruffle his child’s hair as he tucks him into bed.
Without a word, he got up and walked over to the piano. Shifting in her seat, she clasped her hands together in her lap for courage she did not feel.
“You don’t seem too thrilled that I’m here.”
Alex’s hand wavered just before he pulled the cord on the music lamp, extinguishing the glow over the black and white keys.
He turned and looked at her. She held her breath, wishing she had insisted the sessions take place at Beacon House. She felt out of her realm here, away from the familiar surroundings of her storefront office.
“You’re right.” His voice held a hard edge. “I’m not.”
He knows. Panic sliced through her and she exhaled in dismay. The knowledge that there were thousands of people with the last name “Williams” in New York City did little to console her.
When she didn’t answer, he reached for a stack of papers and started to crumple them with one hand, the sound like kindling popping in a fire. He tossed them into a metal trash can already overflowing with their discarded brethren. There was no anger in the motions, only a touch of resentment.
She
