Pamela Yaye - Pleasure In His Kiss

Karma swallowed a laugh. Her employees were the heart and soul of her business. They were her family, the brothers and sisters she’d never had, and Karma could always count on them to have her back, especially when she was dealing with hotheads like Morrison Drake.

“I don’t want my niece working here, so consider this her two-week notice.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Drake, that’s not your decision to make.”

“I’m Reagan’s legal guardian, and what I say goes.”

His tone was so cold, Karma shivered, but she didn’t shrink under his withering glare.

“Maybe at the courthouse, but not here. This is my business, Mr. Drake, and I don’t appreciate you causing a scene,” she said in a quiet voice, even though she was fuming.

Surprise covered his face, and his eyebrows shot up his forehead.

That’s right , she thought, feeling triumphant. This is my spot, and I call the shots around here, Mr. Bossy Pants, not you. Resisting the urge to dance around the desk, she forced a smile. “We can discuss the matter further in my office while we wait for Reagan to arrive, or you can leave. It’s your choice.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. Reagan should be doing her homework, not doing nails, washing hair and sweeping floors. She’s a Drake. It’s beneath her...”

The murderous thought that popped into Karma’s mind must have darkened her face because Morrison broke off speaking. “Oprah was a grocery store clerk before she became famous, Brad Pitt wore a chicken costume and Barack Obama’s first job was at Baskin-Robbins. You should be teaching Reagan to be humble, not proud and pompous.”

“You misunderstood what I said—”

“No, I didn’t,” she snapped, cutting him off. “I heard you loud and clear.”

Music filled the air, a strong, infectious beat that drowned out the noises in the salon.

“I have to take this call,” he said. “It’s my brother. Hopefully he’s heard from Reagan.”

Recognizing the chart-topping song, Karma couldn’t resist swaying her hips to the music, and tapping her feet.

Fishing his iPhone out of his back pocket, Morrison touched the screen with his index finger, then put his cell to his ear.

Morrison liked Jay-Z? He listened to rap music? No way! He had a stern, no-nonsense demeanor, but hearing his ring tone made Karma think she’d pegged him all wrong. Maybe he wasn’t an uptight jerk, she thought, giving him the once-over again.

Intrigued, Karma studied him closely. Everything about him was sexy—the way he talked, the way he carried himself, his commanding presence—but he wasn’t her type. Karma liked men with tattoos and dreadlocks, who had a wild, adventurous side. Still, there was something about Morrison that appealed to her, that made her mouth wet and her heart race. Morrison Drake was the yummiest judge she had ever met, and if he wasn’t bossy and short-tempered she’d give him her number. And more.

Karma waited patiently for Morrison to finish his phone call, and when he did she gestured for him to follow her. He did, and as they headed through the salon, Karma noticed they had an audience. Women ogled him from behind fashion magazines, handheld gadgets and hooded dryers. Walking with Reagan’s drop-dead gorgeous uncle at her side gave Karma a dizzying rush, one she’d never experienced before and couldn’t make sense of.

“Hey, Judge!” called a divorcée seated at the nail station. “Looking good!”

“If I was ten years younger I’d make you my second husband!” joked a single mom.

“Whooee!” hollered a reality TV star, her eyes wild with desire. “I’ve been a very bad girl, Judge Drake. Hold me in contempt of court in your private chambers!”

Cheers and raucous laughter erupted inside the salon. Karma glanced at Morrison, expecting to see a broad, grin spread across his face, but it wasn’t there. To her surprise, Morrison looked concerned, not pleased that he had the attention of everyone in the salon, and Karma knew he was thinking about his niece. Had to be. That’s why he’d driven over to the salon and stormed inside. Because he was scared Reagan was in trouble.

Feeling guilty for asking him to leave, Karma decided to do everything in her power to help Morrison find Reagan—including contacting her ex-boyfriend, Sergeant J. T. Garver at the Southampton Town Police Department. He’d broken her heart, and Karma regretted dating the cop for nine months, but she’d swallow her pride and make the call.

Chapter 2

Morrison didn’t like Karma Sullivan. Didn’t trust her. Sensed she was lying to him about his niece’s whereabouts, but since he didn’t have any proof of her deception he quit interrogating her. But if Reagan didn’t show up at the salon for her ten o’clock shift he was going straight to the police station. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been missing for twenty-four hours. Screw policies and procedures. Having worked in the judicial system for over a decade, Morrison knew how important it was to trust his instincts, and something told him Reagan was in trouble.

Considering the last time he’d spoken to his niece, Morrison tried to recall every detail of their conversation. Yesterday, he’d worked late, and as he was leaving the courthouse Reagan had called to say she was going bowling with some of her classmates. Before he could get more details, she’d hung up. Regret filled him. Morrison wished he’d taken the time to find out who his niece was with. He’d had dinner with his colleagues, then went straight home to bed. That morning, after finding Reagan’s empty room and checking the alarm, he’d reached out to her friends but no one had seen her. If not for his family, insisting that he was overreacting, he would have already called the police. Morrison hoped he didn’t end up regretting his decision.

A worrying thought ran through his mind. Was Reagan hurt? Had she been in a serious car accident? Was she lying unconscious in a hospital bed? Was that why she hadn’t come home last night? His younger brothers, Duane and Roderick, thought he was blowing things out of proportion, but Morrison couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. That morning, when he’d called his family in a panic, his father, the Honorable Nathaniel A. Drake, reminded him that Reagan was almost an adult, and encouraged him to loosen the reigns. To stop treating her like a child. Morrison disagreed with his dad, told him he was wrong. Reagan was living under his roof and he expected her to abide by the rules, or else.

“I apologize in advance for the mess,” Karma said, glancing over her shoulder as she sashayed down the hall, her long, wavy hair swishing across her back. “I share the office with my salon manager, and she’d rather surf the web than clean her desk.”

Morrison gulped. He tried not to stare at her backside, tried not to notice how firm and plump it was, but it was hard to be a gentleman when she was walking in such a seductive way. Karma looked perfect, as if she’d just returned from an Essence magazine photoshoot, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to touch her. But since he didn’t want to get slapped, he buried his hands in the pocket of his tan, Dockers shorts and admired the mosaic wall paintings instead of her curves. Karma had the face of an angel, the juiciest set of lips he’d ever seen, and the moment she’d entered the salon she’d seized his attention. If he wasn’t worried about Reagan, he’d skip his eleven o’clock tennis game at the Hamptons Sports Club with Duane and spend the rest of the day getting to know the titillating hairstylist with the mouthwatering cleavage. Morrison loved the female body almost as much as he loved his Fantasy Football League and imagined himself closing his eyes and burying his face in her big, beautiful breasts. Just thinking about it made his mouth wet and his erection rise inside his boxer briefs.