The women who would frequent the club weren’t interested in everyone knowing their business. Discretion was key and Kamaya had insisted on everything that would make the clientele comfortable.
She nodded approvingly as she sat in the club’s parking lot waiting for Paxton to arrive. The two hadn’t spoken since he’d delivered the news that he was tying the knot. If canceling had been an option, she would have, knowing that at some point her friend would want to talk about his marriage plans and she wasn’t interested in having that conversation with him.
She still couldn’t fathom what all the fuss was about. In her humble opinion marriage was an antiquated concept pushed by bible-thumping radicals, the Hallmark greeting-card industry, bridal bloggers and her parents. Intelligent, educated women didn’t need a ring and a license to legitimize their most intimate relationships. They could build empires, mother babies and still enjoy the love of a good man. Oprah was doing it with Stedman, Coco Chanel had enjoyed the Duke of Westminster, Sheryl Crow had her lengthy list of talented, wealthy, successful male companions. Even Simone de Beauvoir and the existentialist philosopher Sartre had made love work without marriage. Marriage worked for some but Kamaya couldn’t ever see herself doing it.
Her thoughts shifted as she watched a car pull into an empty parking space right at the door. This one caught her attention and held it because the vehicle was neither flashy nor pretentious. It was a drastic contrast to the other vehicles sitting in the lot. She’d been watching as one dancer after another in some high-priced, high-end vehicle, wearing low-slung jeans or sweats and looking like they’d just graduated from a semester of thugs-are-us paraded into the club. They’d been hard bodied and buff and some very entertaining eye candy.
But this car and its owner were in a class all to themselves. The hooptie had seen better days, rust and Bondo holding it together. After shutting down the engine the driver continued to sit, seeming to look for something that had fallen between the seats. As he finally stepped out of the vehicle and locked the car door with the key, she eyed him curiously.
The tailored suit he wore looked like silk. The classic styling fit him to perfection, and unlike his car, his clothes looked expensive. The suit was a charcoal gray and he’d paired it with a white dress shirt, a somber gray and black print necktie and black dress shoes that were polished to a high gloss. He looked very corporate and very boring. Had she dressed him, he would have worn a hint of color, maybe a lavender shirt, something that hinted at a semblance of personality. Assuming he had a personality.
For a brief moment he looked toward her car, but she knew he couldn’t see inside the darkly tinted windows. Which was a good thing, because as his curious gaze skated in her direction, Kamaya felt a wave of heat course through her body and tinge her cheeks a deep shade of red.
Whoever he was, he was quite good-looking. Exceptionally good-looking! His complexion was a deep, warm vat of smooth, melted chocolate. His chiseled features were a testament to good genes, and even with the barest hint of a smile pulling at his full lips there was no missing the deep wells that dimpled his cheeks. He had facial hair, his beard and mustache meticulously edged and trimmed. He was better than good-looking and Kamaya was suddenly wanting to know more about the tall, dark and handsome stranger.
Just as he turned, moving through the front door of the building, Paxton pulled into the space beside her, his toothy grin wide, his blond locks stylishly unkempt. He stole a glance toward his wristwatch as he jumped from his car.
“Hey!” he exclaimed as he pulled her car door open. “Sorry. I had to get Laney situated before I could leave. Good morning!”
Kamaya gave him one of her infamous looks, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her jaw tight, her teeth clenched. There was no missing that she had no intentions of talking about his problems or his girlfriend. “We’re still early,” she said matter-of-factly. “Who are we meeting again?” She headed toward the building’s front door, Paxton hurrying after her.
“His name is Walters. Wesley Walters. As well as this night club, he has optioned the next ten franchises based on our guaranteeing support and backing as defined in our initial contract. With a few exceptions.”
“What few exceptions?”
“Nothing major. He’d like some concessions and control with how the business will evolve as a whole. It’s not much more than what we’ve already talked about.”
“And the things we haven’t talked about?”
“They’re things he’s willing to back with a cash investment, if necessary.”
“You mean, if he wants them badly enough.”
Paxton nodded. “Yes.”
Kamaya paused, her hand on the doorknob. She cut her eyes in Paxton’s direction. “And you agreed to those things?”
“I agreed to discuss it with the both of you in order to come to a mutually beneficial agreement. The contracts I had drawn up detail what I think is in our best interest under the circumstances. He may ask for more. I don’t know.”
“How do you know this man again?”
“We met in graduate school. He’s an upstanding guy. He’s going to do big things with or without us.”
Kamaya eyed Paxton a split second longer before finally giving him a quick nod, then she turned and moved into the club’s inner sanctum.
Wesley was standing in the center of the elevated stage pointing at the lights overhead. Lighting was key to every performance and he wasn’t happy with the current luminosity. He was certain a change in the bulbs would solve the issue and he wanted to make it happen before the corporate franchisor showed up. The contractor was adjusting the last unit when Wesley spied Kamaya and Paxton entering the space.
His eyes widened as the stunning young woman moved in his direction. She was long and lean, with legs that seemed to go on for days. She wore black suede boots that stopped thigh high and a black leather skirt that stopped at her knees and zipped up the front. The zipper was open just high enough to allow a hint of thigh to show. Her sweater was black and long sleeved with a scooped neckline that showed off a hint of cleavage. With her hair loose, falling to her shoulders in soft, wavy curls and the barest hint of makeup on her face, she was gorgeous.
The fluidity of her movements was stealth-like, her eyes darted back and forth like a cheetah assessing prey. She’d gauged the space, the staff and him in one easy sweep around the room. From the expression on her face he sensed that she wasn’t unhappy; just the barest hint of a smile pulled at her mouth and teased the gleam in her eyes. Everything about the woman was commanding, drawing the attention of every man in the room.
Stepping off the platform Wesley extended his hand in greeting. “Hello! I’m Wesley Walters.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Walters. I’m Kamaya Boudreaux,” she said, as she noted the warmth of his hand, the slightly calloused palm and the firmness of his grip. He met the look she was giving him with one of his own, his eyes skating across her face, and as their gazes connected heat erupted from deep in her abdomen. She took a step back, her eyes shifting far from his as her partner stepped up to greet the man.
Paxton shook Wesley’s hand, the two men bumping shoulders in a gesture of familiarity. “It’s good to see you again, Wes!”
“Paxton,
