was thriving, but she didn’t want to discuss work now. Good food needed to be eaten in silence. And she had a feeling if she answered Cecil’s questions, it would give him license to make his own counseling critiques babble even more. Yasmin twirled a string of linguine on her fork, swirled it around the thick, creamy sauce, then put it into her mouth. Her eyes closed in silent appreciation of chefs everywhere.
“Do you have any other siblings besides Imani?”
“A brother.”
“I’m an only child. I can’t say I mind, though. My parents are both retired and are helping me run my campaign. Elections are a year away but you would be amazed at all the work that needs to be done. There are phone calls to make, letters to send out, money to raise and I’m in the process of…”
Between Cecil’s nattering and the men guffawing behind her, Yasmin couldn’t enjoy her meal in peace. The quartet had been running their mouths ever since she had entered the Laurdel Lounge and, after an hour of their senseless chatter, she was losing her patience. Initially, she had paid them no mind. Their comments, though juvenile, had been harmless. But now she was finished eating, and they were still on the same topic: her. Her stylish, backless dress was daring but tasteful, sexy but classy, but that didn’t stop them from undressing her with their beady little eyes. And when the gap-toothed ringleader began making sexual references, like I-know-what-I-would-do-with-her-if-she-was-my-woman, Yasmin lost it.
Cecil was an uptight, by-the-book type of man, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t intervene. Too busy listening to himself talk about crooked city council members and archaic state laws, Cecil didn’t have the presence of mind to come to her defense.
Interrupting him midsentence, she asked, “Are you going to say something to them, or are you waiting for them to come over here and sexually assault me before you take action?”
Cecil stared down at his Frappuccino. “Yasmin, I’m sure they don’t mean anything by it,” he told her, his voice lined with apprehension. “They’re just teasing you. Ignore them and they will move on to something else.”
“Teasing?” The word shot out of her mouth like a bullet. “The guy with the gold teeth said I have a sexy mouth and the one with the hoop earrings said he’d like to take me from behind. That’s teasing?” Yasmin didn’t know why she was surprised. No-backbone Cecil was simply showing his true color: sissy pink.
“Keep your voice down. I do not want to cause a scene. Do you?”
Yasmin crossed her legs to keep from kicking Cecil in the shin. Fighting to maintain her composure, she took a deep, soothing breath and repeated words of affirmation to herself. Aloud she warned. “Do something, Cecil, or I will.”
“Sista’, look like she could give a brotha’ a real nice time,” came the booming voice of the man in the Adidas hoodie. “I could go a few rounds with ma’.”
“Me, too,” agreed the cross-eyed one. “That’s a bad-ass bitch over there.”
Something inside Yasmin snapped. Her parents had raised her to let bygones be bygones, but she couldn’t let this go. Forgetting she was an educated woman, with a Ph.D. from one of the finest schools in the country, she leapt up from her chair. Blood pumping, chest heaving and hands clenched, she charged over to their booth. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind and all of them were illegal. I’m going to kill them! How dare they talk about me like I’m a prostitute standing out on the street corner? But before Yasmin could connect her fist with a face, a broad-shouldered man stepped in front of her, obscuring her view.
“Apologize, now,” the stranger ordered. Folding his arms across his chest, he shot a murderous stare at the foursome.
The men looked warily at each other, clearly intimidated by his imposing size. Other patrons glanced over, interested in the exchange, anxious to see how the confrontation would play out. The hostess rushed to the scene, her strawberry-blond hair flapping wildly behind her.
“Is there a problem, Bishop?” she asked, dividing her gaze between her favorite patron and the black men in the booth. No one replied. Desperate to resolve the situation, she tried again. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Shrugging his puny shoulders, the ringleader stood abruptly and stepped away from the booth. “We don’t want any trouble, Bishop.”
“Yeah, we were jus’ messin’ ’round, homes,” explained the pimple-faced Latino guy. “It was nothin’. I swear.”
“She’s waiting for that apology,” he repeated. His voice was smooth, like aged cognac, not what Yasmin expected for a man of his size or stature. “You can apologize now or after we have a few words outside. It’s your choice.”
The ill-mannered men mumbled apologies, then scurried out of the dining area before the stranger could make good on his threat. The situation defused, the hostess followed them out of the dining area and the patrons resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
Rashawn Bishop turned around and felt a stab of guilt. He sympathized with the guys he had just chased out of the restaurant. It wasn’t their fault the woman in the curve-hitting dress was stunning, was it? He was ogling her, making a complete and utter fool of himself, but he didn’t avert his gaze. She probably thought he was just as corrupt as those young men were, but her photogenic smile was irresistible and he couldn’t pull his eyes away.
The look of annoyance on her face didn’t impede her beauty. She was exquisite. A Nubian princess straight from the motherland. Her mink-black skin reminded him of whipped cocoa. She had thin eyebrows, a delicate nose and the biggest, brightest eyes he had ever seen. They were as deep as the Atlantic, round and bright. Under the subdued overhead lights, her eyes glittered like diamonds. Beaded earrings dangled from her ears, a chocker graced her neck and gold bangles hung from her wrists. She had a one-of-a-kind look that made her stand out in a roomful of women who were trying too damn hard. Her vibrant, copper-brown hair was an abundance of twists and Rashawn had to fight the urge to reach out and touch them. Her locks weren’t as wild as Lauryn Hill’s, but they were just as thick. The definition and tone of her arms and her healthy figure told him she was no stranger to diet and exercise. She had the kind of body he liked, all curves, all woman.
“I’m sorry about that, Miss. They obviously don’t know better.”
Yasmin eyed her defender. The stranger had a gravity about him that intrigued her. He had to be of mixed heritage, as his skin was more beige than brown. She couldn’t see beyond his steel-blue suit, but the way his jacket gripped his shoulders and draped casually over his chest told her everything she needed to know. He had a solid upper body, a flat stomach and not an ounce of fat. He was either a regular at a fitness club or had damn good genes. Either way, he was appealing in every sense of the word. His hair was cornrowed in an intricate crisscross design. He wore a cologne that smelled like the great outdoors and reminded her of the carefree summer days of the past. Yasmin loved his goatee, the quickness of his smile and the sensual tone of his voice. Unlike Cecil, she could listen to him talk all night. He had a host of attractive physical qualities, but his dreamy baritone was definitely his greatest charm. She shattered the silence by saying, “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
“No problem. I would have done something sooner, but…” Rashawn trailed off when he noticed her date was standing behind her, scowling. “Again, it was my pleasure.” With that, he turned and stalked away.
Her eyes followed him back across the room. Two Hispanic men in dark suits were awaiting his return. When the stranger sat down and resumed eating, Yasmin
