Franklin Lakes, New Jersey, home. Most brides planned their wedding a year in advance, but Tessa had less than three months to coordinate the Sanborn-Cohen nuptials.
An antique clock on the fireplace mantel chimed the half hour. It was five-thirty. She had an hour before Micah Sanborn’s arrival. Unlike his sister, she hoped he’d keep the appointment.
Tessa thought about preparing and eating a hastily prepared dinner but changed her mind. She would wait until after she met with the prospective bride’s brother, then sit down at the table in her dining room instead of the one in the kitchen’s breakfast nook and eat without having to watch the clock for her next client.
Returning to the kitchen, she removed a New York steak from the freezer. It was too large for one portion, so she decided to save half for another meal. Forty-five minutes later, the marinated steak and bowls of mixed baby greens and wedges of yellow pear tomatoes and sliced potatoes in cold water sat on a shelf in the refrigerator.
Micah Sanborn mounted the steps to the brownstone in the tony Brooklyn neighborhood. He glanced at the shiny brass plate affixed to the wall of the three-story structure, engraved with Signature Bridals. Admiring the solid oak door with stained-glass insets, he rang the bell and waited as the seconds ticked off.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice came through the small speaker over the mail slot.
“It’s Micah Sanborn.”
Seconds later, a soft buzzing disengaged the lock. Micah pushed opened the door and stepped into a foyer. Pale oak floors reflected the warm glow from wall sconces and an Art Deco-inspired ceiling fixture. A winding staircase with a mahogany banister led to the upper floors. Turning to his left, his gaze lingered on an exquisite bouquet of fresh flowers in an orange-glazed clay vase on a side table. The vibrant hues of pink, coral, red and yellow lilies, roses, peonies and orchids with folded palm leaves tucked in between the blooms added warmth to the crisp autumn weather.
“Mr. Sanborn?”
Micah’s gaze shifted from the flowers to the woman standing several feet away. He inhaled a deep breath, holding it until the pressure in his lungs forced him to exhale.
He extended his hand. “Micah.”
Tessa stared at the large, well-groomed hand with clean square-cut nails for several seconds before placing her smaller one on the broad palm. She affected the practiced professional smile she did not feel at that moment. She’d met a lot of men since starting up her business—prospective bridegrooms, groomsmen, fathers and brothers of the bride and groom—but this was the first time in a very long time that she experienced a feeling of unease.
There was something in the way Micah Sanborn stared at her that had slipped under her barrier of professional poise. Everything about the tall, dark-skinned man in a navy-blue pin-striped suit with equally dark eyes was intriguing, compelling and magnetic. He wasn’t what she considered handsome but attractive nevertheless. His features were neither broad nor sharp and would’ve been considered nondescript if not for his eyes—eyes that were large, deep-set and penetrating.
“I’m Tessa Whitfield, coordinator of Signature Bridals,” she said after what seemed an interminable pause when in reality it’d been only seconds.
Micah tightened his grip on Tessa’s slender fingers before he released them. He smiled, and the gesture flattened his top lip against a set of incredibly straight, startlingly white teeth.
He inclined his head. “Miss Whitfield.”
Tessa smiled. “Please call me Tessa.”
Micah lifted a thick, black curving eyebrow. “If it’s Tessa, then I insist you call me Micah.”
Nodding, her practiced smile in place, Tessa said, “Okay, Micah. Please come with me.”
He followed her down a hallway to the rear of the house. He missed the carefully chosen furnishings in the rooms he passed because he couldn’t take his gaze off Tessa’s freestyle hairdo. It looked as if she’d washed the gold-tipped brown strands, then let them air-dry where the soft curls framed her round face like a regal lioness.
In fact, she reminded him of a feline with her exposed gold-brown skin still bearing the results of the summer sun. He thought her more bronze than golden. Her slanting catlike brown eyes under a pair of arching eyebrows, her lithe body swathed in a black-yellow-and-orange-print wrap dress ending midcalf made her look exotic.
He followed Tessa into a large room with French doors and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Pale silks drapes were drawn back and afforded a glimpse of the brightly illuminated backyard with a patio and flower garden.
Tessa gestured to an off-white armchair. “Please sit down, Micah.”
Micah waited for Tessa to sit on a matching love seat, but before he sat down, the room went completely dark. The lights had gone out in the room, the backyard and also in the buildings facing the rear of the brownstone. He heard Tessa’s soft gasp.
Her heart fluttering wildly in her chest, Tessa stood up and tried making out Micah’s face. “I have to flip the circuit breakers.”
“Forget about circuit breakers, Tessa,” he countered softly. “We’re in the middle of a blackout. Do you have a backup generator?”
She realized for the first time the total darkness surrounding her. The last blackout to hit New York had been August 14, 2003, and the memory of her having to walk from Greenwich Village and across the Brooklyn Bridge in an oppressive humidity had not faded.
“No, I don’t,” she said, moving closer to the heat emanating from Micah’s body. “What are you doing?” she asked when she felt him search inside his jacket.
“I have to call a friend.”
With an arm circling Tessa’s waist, Micah retrieved his cell phone. He flipped the top and a bright blue light shimmered eerily in the blackness. They were in luck, unlike the last blackout when the multistate power outage knocked out cellular telephone satellite communication.
He pressed the speed dial, and seconds later he heard a familiar feminine voice. Tightening his hold on Tessa’s slender body, he said, “Sylvia, Micah Sanborn. What’s happening with the electricity?”
“OEM just informed us that a fire in a substation knocked out power to lower Manhattan, all of Brooklyn and portions of Staten Island. Where are you?”
“I’m still in Brooklyn.”
“Are you at the D.A.’s office?”
“No.”
“The mayor just issued a citywide emergency, and it’ll be easier for you to get back to the courthouse if you’re needed if you stay in Brooklyn.”
Micah ended the call and returned the cell phone to his jacket pocket. He had recently turned over his Bronx condominium to his sister, moved to Staten Island and had signed a one-year lease on a furnished studio apartment because he hadn’t decided whether he wanted to purchase or build a home in that borough.
Lowering his chin, he inhaled the floral fragrance of the hair grazing his chin. The pleasure he derived from Tessa’s curvy body molded to his overshadowed the seriousness of the situation. Smiling, he told her what his contact at One Police
