Pleasure In His Kiss

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.

“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?

A chilling thought stole his breath. Had history repeated itself? Was his niece in grave danger? His heart stopped, and his pulse wailed in his ears like a siren. Had Reagan met the same fate as her mother? Was she... Morrison couldn’t bring himself to say the word. Was scared that if he did his worst fear would be realized.

Standing, he straightened his bent shoulders. Coming to the salon had been a mistake. An error of judgment. He should have gone to the police station instead of wasting precious time at the beauty shop. Feeling guilty for sitting around with Karma, he hung his head. He’d never forgive himself if something bad happened to Reagan and hoped it wasn’t too late to save her. He’d legally adopted her ten years ago and she meant the world to him.

“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. I should be at the police station.”

Karma picked up her cell phone and glanced at the screen. “I can’t believe it’s already ten o’clock. I totally lost track of time,” she said. “Morrison, wait. Let me check the salon one more time. If Reagan isn’t here I’ll call Sergeant Garver at the Southampton police station and get his advice.”

“I know him. We play in the same recreational rugby league—”

Karma raised an eyebrow. “You play rugby?”

“And lacrosse, football and golf. What can I say? I’m a sports fanatic.”

“Not me. I hate sports, and I can’t imagine anything more boring than golf.”

Clutching her cell phone with one hand, she tapped the screen with the other.

“How do you know Sergeant Garver?”

Shifting in her seat, Karma raked a hand through her hair, then flipped it over her shoulders. Morrison frowned. She was nervous. Why? What was she hiding?

“It’s the Hamptons. Everyone knows everyone.”

“That’s not true,” he countered. “Before today I had no idea who you were.”

Karma shrugged. “That’s because you’re a bookworm who never goes out.”

“I go out all the time. I enjoy eating out, hip hop concerts and sporting events—”

Hearing voices behind him, Morrison broke off speaking and glanced over his shoulder. Reagan! Relief flooded his body. Overcome with emotion, he pulled her into his arms for a hug. For the first time that morning, Morrison smiled. But when he remembered what his niece had done, how she’d scared him half to death, he released her. One minute. That’s how much time Reagan had to explain herself, and if she lied to him she’d lose her privileges for three months. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

“I was at Zainab’s house.”

“Zainab? Who?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve never mentioned her before.”

“Zainab Qureshi. We met a few weeks ago at the mall, and hit it off.”

Morrison slowly nodded his head, could feel the tension in his body recede as he listened to his niece. “I know her parents. Her father, Ibrahim, is an investment baron, and her mother is a jewelry designer. Her late grandfather was not only a former prime minister of Lebanon, but also one of the most influential businessmen in the world.”

“Really? I knew her family was stupid rich, but I had no idea they were famous too.”

“Where did you girls go last night, and why didn’t you come home?”

“We fell asleep watching Scream Queens, and when I woke up this morning my cell was dead and I didn’t have my charger with me.”

“Then why didn’t you use Zainab’s cell to call me? Was it dead too?”

“Unfortunately it was.”

“How convenient,” Morrison drawled, wearing a skeptical expression on his face. “They don’t have a landline at their house?”

“House? They don’t have a house. They have a gigantic, twelve-bedroom mansion dripping in gold, and it’s so fly and flashy I want to move in—”

“Reagan, stop cracking jokes and answer my question.”

“Uncle Morrison, no one has a landline anymore. That’s so ’80s. We’re probably the only family in the state who still has one!”

“This is not funny. This is serious,” he scolded. “I thought you were in danger.”

“I was going to call you when I got here. I swear.”

“Were Zainab’s parents’ home last night?” he asked, unsure of what to make of Reagan’s story. “Can they confirm that you were there?”

“No, they’re at the Monaco Yacht Show and won’t be back until tomorrow. That’s why I was at Zainab’s estate last night. To keep her company.”

Scrutinizing his niece’s appearance, he searched for anything amiss. Her short hair was styled in tight, curls, her floral romper was clean and ironed, and her open-toe sandals added height to her petite frame. “I want Zainab’s cell number, and Mr. Qureshi’s number, as well.”

“Why? That’s so unnecessary, and embarrassing.”

“Because I need to know the truth, and if I find out you lied to me you’ll lose your car, your cell and your allowance for the next three months.”

A gasp filled the room. “Ouch, don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”

“See,” Reagan said in a self-righteous voice, propping her hands on her hips. “Ms. Karma thinks you’re being unreasonable too.”

Morrison glared at Karma, and to his surprise she glared back at him. Stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Made him feel guilty, even though he’d done nothing wrong. What was her problem? Why was she scowling? Morrison wanted to ask her to leave, so he could talk to Reagan in private, then remembered they were in Karma’s office and dismissed the thought.

“Is your cell charged now?”

Reagan shook her head. “No, but I can use one of the chargers in the staff room and text you their cell numbers later.”

“Later? No. I want the information now.”

“I can’t. I’m at work, and since Ms. Karma doesn’t like staff using their cell phones on the salon floor I’ll message you when I take my lunch break.”

“I don’t want you working here. You should be at home studying for your midterm exams.”

Her face fell, and panic flashed in her light brown eyes. “I—I—I can’t quit. Ms. Karma needs me. Weekends are insane around here, and the staff can use all the help they can get.”

Karma came around her desk, and stood beside Reagan. “She’s right. We need her.”

“Fine, you can stay, but today’s your last shift. A beauty shop is no place for a kid—”

“I’m not a kid,” she argued. “I’m a mature, young woman who’s capable of making her own decisions, and I’m not quitting the best job I’ve ever had.”

“It’s the only job you’ve ever had,” Morrison pointed out, surprised by his niece’s tone. Conflicted, he took a moment to consider his options. He didn’t want to make a scene by dragging Reagan out of the salon, so he decided to let her stay. “We’ll discuss this later.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m staying at the salon, and there’s nothing you can say to change my mind. I’m learning a lot, the staff is incredible and Ms. Karma is a terrific mentor.”

Karma gave Reagan a one-arm hug, but Morrison wasn’t moved. More convinced than ever that the hair and makeup artist was a negative influence on his niece he made a mental note to speak to his family about Karma Sullivan. His mom would know what to do, she always did. Morrison stuck out his hand. “I don’t want you disappearing again, so give me your car keys.”

“But, I didn’t do anything wrong!” she argued. “It was an honest mistake.”

“It’s not open for discussion, Reagan. Hand them over, or you’ll lose your cell too.”

Reagan unzipped her shoulder bag and rummaged around inside for several seconds. Wearing a long face, she pulled out her key chain and dropped it in his palm. “I finish at six.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Morrison said, addressing Karma. “Why would you give my niece such a long shift? She’s just a kid. Did you work eight-hour shifts when you were a teenager?”

“Yeah, I did. In fact, I worked thirty hours a week, and maintained a 4.0 GPA.”

Reagan stared at Karma with stars in her eyes, and Morrison groaned inwardly. Damn. The last thing he wanted was for his niece to put the salon owner on a pedestal, but because of his blunder Reagan was gazing at Karma in awe, as if she’d just finished a death-defying stunt.

“I know Reagan is busy with school so she only works sixteen hours a week—”

“Sixteen hours a week,” Morrison repeated, folding his arms rigidly across his chest. “So, all the times you told me you were going to the library to study you were here, doing hair and nails? Why did you lie to me? Why didn’t you tell me you’d gotten a part-time job?”