Pamela Yaye - Pleasure In His Kiss

“Please, Mr. Drake, have a seat.”

“No, thanks. I’ll stand.” He was polite, because it was in his nature, but he was pissed that his niece had been lying to him for weeks. And he didn’t appreciate the things Karma had said, either. Imagine, his niece throwing away a full scholarship to one of the best universities in the country to attend cosmetology school. As if! It was the most ludicrous thing Morrison had ever heard, but he chose not to dwell on Karma’s words. Booted them from his mind. She was dead wrong, and there was nothing she could say to convince him otherwise.

“Can I interest you in something to drink?”

Her smile was so bright it could light up Madison Square Garden, but Morrison reminded himself that Karma was the enemy, not an ally, and shook his head. Thinking about what she’d done made his eyes narrow and his jaw clench. The irresponsible salon owner had hired his young, impressionable niece to work in her beauty shop—a place where women openly talked about sex, bashed and ridiculed men, and God knew what else—and if he had his way Reagan would never step foot in the salon again.

“Mr. Drake, sit down. You’ll be fine,” she said, gesturing to one of the printed armchairs in front of her oval, glass desk. “I don’t bite.”

Morrison didn’t move. Stayed put beside the door, listening for the sound of Reagan’s voice in the salon. Folding his arms across the chest, he surveyed the bright and spacious corner office. Morrison had never seen so much pink in his life. It was everywhere—on the area rugs, the graphic wall art, the floor lamps and chalkboard walls. One side of the room looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone, and the other side was so clean he could eat off the floor. The office smelled of peppermint tea and cinnamon, and his mouth watered at the tantalizing aroma in the air. In his haste to leave the house, he’d forgotten to have breakfast and now his stomach was growling so loudly he’d bet Karma could hear it. That’s why she was wearing a sad smile. Because she felt sorry for him.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat or drink? The staff room fridge is packed with healthy, delicious foods, and I hate to brag but I make a mean vegetarian omelet.”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” It was a lie—he was hungrier than an NFL linebacker at an all-you-can-eat buffet, but Morrison didn’t want to inconvenience her. Furthermore, he was at the salon to find Reagan, not to break bread with the overtly sexy owner. To keep his mind off Reagan he needed a distraction, and Karma Sullivan was it. His mother, famed interior designer to the stars, Viola Drake, always said, A wise man learns many things from his enemies , and Morrison planned to. Something was going on with his niece, and Karma was going to tell him everything he needed to know. He’d noticed a change in Reagan weeks earlier, during their college road trip, and since returning home things had only gotten worse. Reagan had dyed the ends of her hair purple, swapped her baggy shirts and sweatpants for belly-baring tops and miniskirts, and broken curfew twice.

Realization dawned, striking Morrison harder than a blow to the head. Now everything made sense. Why his niece was wearing fake eyelashes and jewelry to school; she was copying her boss, Karma Sullivan. And Morrison didn’t like it one bit.

Noting the framed certificates, plaques and awards proudly displayed on the glass bookshelf, Morrison carefully admired each one. “Karma Felicity Sullivan,” he said aloud, reading the name printed on the Business of the Year award. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone named Karma. It’s a very interesting name.”

A smirk curled her lips. “So I’m your first? I’m honored.”

Morrison choked on his tongue. Speechless, his mouth was dry and his thoughts were muddled. He was attracted to Karma, thought she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but he couldn’t lose his focus. Had to get to the bottom of things, and to do that Morrison had to maintain his composure, not lose his cool.

“Despite living a block away from each other as kids, my parents didn’t meet until they were adults, and got pregnant with me on their first date,” she explained. “My mom loved astrology and thought Karma was the perfect name for me. I think so too. You’d be amazed at how many compliments I get.”

I believe it. You’re stunning. I bet men chase you down 24/7!

“Tell me more about yourself, Miss Sullivan. I grew up in this town, so I know everyone except you. What brought you to the Hamptons, and how long have you lived here?”

A pensive expression covered her face, but her voice was full of warmth and excitement. As she spoke about growing up in Brooklyn, her years in beauty school and her dead-end jobs after graduation, Morrison found himself impressed with her rags-to-riches story. She’d created a lucrative business through dedication, hard work and sheer willpower and he was impressed by her inner strength. Karma gushed about her family, credited her mother and grandmother for her success, and he was moved by her gratitude for her loved ones.

“I was hired to do hair and makeup for the reality TV show Hamptons Housewives a few years back and because of the ridiculous popularity of the show I was able to quickly build my clientele,” she explained, sitting back comfortably in her leather executive chair. “I opened this salon eighteen months ago, and if everything goes according to plan I’ll open locations in Washington, Philadelphia and Chicago within the year.”

“That’s an incredible story,” he said. “Congratulations on your success.”

A proud smile filled her red-painted lips. “Thank you. I feel fortunate to be doing what I love. Not everyone is so lucky.”

“I agree. I meet people every day who hate their jobs, and I can’t help but feel sorry for them. I love what I do, and I couldn’t imagine ever doing anything else.”

“Me too! I love doing hair and makeup so much I’d work for free!”

Like the blast from a trumpet, her laugh was loud and lively. Cultured, and well-read, Karma was a great conversationalist with a zest for life. Morrison enjoyed learning about her educational background, her beloved shop and her favorite clients. Proud of her Jamaican–Puerto Rican heritage, Karma spoke fondly of her small, close-knit family from Brooklyn.

“Is it possible Reagan’s with her dad, or another relative and forgot to tell you?”

“No, it’s impossible. Reagan doesn’t know who her biological father is.” Morrison didn’t know if Karma was genuinely trying to help or fishing for information, but he suspected it was the latter. Still, he spoke his mind. “Reagan has loving grandparents, aunts and three doting uncles who adore her, but if she ever wanted to track down her biological father we have the money and resources to make it happen.”

Peering out the door, Morrison glanced up and down the hallway for any sign of his niece, but he didn’t see the teen anywhere. His fear intensified with each passing second, and if Karma hadn’t persuaded him to come to her office he’d still be pacing in the reception area, worrying himself to death. “Do you see your parents often?” he asked, admiring the photographs hanging above the couch. “Do they still live in Brooklyn, or have they relocated here, as well?”

The light in her eyes faded. “No, they passed away in a car accident six years ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, filled with sympathy.

“Me too. My mom was my hero, and I definitely wouldn’t be the woman I am today without her.”

“Unfortunately, I know how you feel. I lost my...”

Painful memories of his sister, Emmanuelle, overwhelmed his mind and he lost his voice. His temperature climbed, and his limbs shook. Worried he’d succumb to grief and his knees would buckle, he dropped down in the padded armchair in front of Karma’s desk. He wanted to tell her about his sister’s death, but feared if he did he’d lose his composure. Morrison didn’t feel comfortable baring his soul to her, so he said nothing. Pretended not to notice the sympathetic expression on her face. Damn, was his pain that obvious?