hours at Jack and Jill’s the local lounge and jazz spot in the West Village, and she had begun to build a pretty solid list of clients from her massage business thanks to Brent.
Thoughts of Brent brought a smile to her face and a rush of sensual excitement through her veins. There were times when she still wondered how she’d gotten so lucky. Brent had women running after him like a buy-two-get-one-free sale at Macy’s. But she was the one that he wanted. He’d proved it to her time and again and there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t tell her that he loved her or did something to show her.
She wiped down the tables and glanced with a sense of awe at the dazzling diamond on the third finger of her left hand. In six months she would join the ranks of her girls Melanie and Desiree and become a married woman. She’d picked out her dress. Simple and elegant Desiree had said. It was going to be a small, intimate wedding, only their really close friends and immediate family. Melanie offered her place at Sag Harbor for the wedding and reception. Layla couldn’t wait to be Mrs. Brent Davis.
“Daydreaming again?” Mona asked, sidling up next to her. Mona Clarke ran Jack and Jill’s and in the six months that Layla worked there, they’d become more than employer/employee, they’d become friends. Mona completely understood that Layla’s job at the lounge was only temporary and that her real love was the art of massage, the power to heal through touch.
Layla turned and a shy smile teased her full lip-glossed mouth. “That bad?”
“Yes, very,” Mona said, with her fist on her hip. “Hey, I got this.” She took the cloth from Layla’s hand. “It’s slow as maple syrup in here today. Why don’t you go on home to your man, see what he can do about that cheery disposition of yours,” she teased.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Unless you really need the tips you’re not going to make today. Go, go, practice some of your massage techniques on that fine specimen.”
Layla wiggled her brows. “Hmm, maybe I will.” She gave Mona a quick kiss on the cheek. “I owe you,” she called out as she hurried to the back to get her purse.
“See you on the weekend.”
Layla stopped at the local market on her way home and picked up some fresh vegetables and seasonings for a stir fry meal and a bottle of Brent’s favorite wine. She still had a few hours to prepare everything before Brent got off work. She wanted things to be extra special. In fact she planned to take Mona up on her suggestion and try out a new massage technique on him that she’d been mastering and maybe that new Victoria’s Secret lingerie that she’d splurged on. A wicked thought tickled her belly.
With her purchases in hand she strolled the four blocks to her apartment, intermittently stopping to check out the window displays at boutiques and artisanal shops along the way.
She climbed the stairs to her walk-up and came to a dead stop at the front door, momentarily alarmed by the sound of movement inside until she heard Brent’s voice. She let go of a breath of relief. Calling 911 would have really screwed up her afternoon. Brent home early. The surprise was on her.
Layla turned her key in the door all ready to leap into Brent’s arms but came to a grinding halt when she saw Brent and two suitcases in the middle of the floor.
He slowly turned to her with his cell phone still at his ear. There was a look in his hazel eyes that defied explanation. She’d never seen it before or since—her own terror, disbelief and pain reflected in someone else’s eyes.
All he said was that he was sorry. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t love her. He never wanted to hurt her. He was leaving.
She was certain she’d screamed, threw things, demanded answers, maybe she even begged him not to leave. Who knows? None of it changed anything, anyway. He was gone.
What was she going to do now with the pieces of her heart scattered all over her hardwood floors and her soul on the other side of the door walking into a life without her?
Chapter 1
One Year Later…
Summer came early to New York. Memorial Day was three weeks away and the temperature was already in the low eighties. If this was any indication of what the next three months would bring it was going to be a long, hot summer in the city.
Layla Brooks sat on the sill of her third floor walk-up apartment of the prewar building that faced Washington Square Park. She peered out of the smudged window at the entanglement of humanity on the streets below. Absently she fanned herself with the stiff, white envelope that boasted a Sag Harbor address—a world away from where she lived in the West Village.
The West Village was known for its eclectic blend of people, styles, food, excitement and entertainment. Those were the things that drew her to this slice of New York City life, that and her cushy job as a journalist for The View. Her beat was New York lifestyles and in search of the next salacious story she haunted some of the best and the worst locales in the city.
It was simply ironic how things got twisted all around and she became her own headline: laid off, unemployment running out, and working two nights a week as a hostess at Jake and Jill’s one of the local blues lounges. All things considered, she was better off than a lot of folks. She’d saved her money over the years and invested wisely, thanks to the wise counsel of her godmother Carolyn Harte. The paper had given her a decent severance and in the year that she’d been out of work, she’d finally finished up her classes in massage therapy. It had been an on-again, off-again process for nearly five years. Now she was fully certified in rehabilitation therapy, deep tissue massage and she had even taken a special course, two years earlier in tantric massage, which was how she’d met Brent Davis, her former fiancé.
Brent was the manager of the tantric massage studio, tucked away in a three-story townhouse on the Lower East Side. He’d trained her—personally. There was no question that in the right hands the eroticism of the human touch is mind-blowing. Unfortunately, Brent felt the same way—about everyone. She’d been naïve and in love, engaged to be married to the man of her dreams and too blind to see that Brent didn’t only have “hands” for her. It took her a while to push that part of her life to the back of her head. But the hurt would rear its ugly head every now and again when she’d see couples hugged up together, whispering to each other and knowing that the evening would end with them in bed together—and she would roll around alone on empty sheets.
The upside was that Brent was good at what he did and he’d taught her everything she needed to know to be just as good a masseuse as him, if not better. She had a few regular clients and the extra income was great. The idea of owning and running a studio became more intriguing day by day. But with the economy still on shaky ground she wasn’t quite ready to take the leap. At least not yet.
She stopped fanning herself and flipped the envelope over. She ran her finger beneath the flap and tore it open. She pulled out the stiff, off-white postcard inside.
It was the invitation she’d been expecting, embossed with the Platinum Society logo. It was the kickoff party of the season coupled with Desiree and Lincoln’s fifth wedding anniversary party, hosted by Layla’s god-sister, Melanie Harte. Although the festivities were more than a month away, Mel always planned way in advance.
Desiree Armstrong was her soror and dear friend. They still laughed about all the fun they used to have as students living in the Big Apple. So when Desiree married Lincoln Davenport and moved out to Sag Harbor to open her art gallery and help
