Touch Me Now
A touch of desire…
When her engagement falls apart, Layla Brooks heads for the one place she’s always felt at home—Sag Harbor. Far from the hectic pace of New York City, she can concentrate on her massage therapy business. And business is all she’s interested in, despite her friend Melanie Harte’s offer to find her someone through her exclusive Platinum Society matchmaking service.
Then Maurice Lawson checks into the local B & B and one glance tells Layla that the dark-eyed, intense veteran needs healing, inside and out. Both are stunned when their therapeutic sessions become charged with raw passion. But when every touch is this electrifying, the only thing to do is to give in tonight and every night.…
Touch Me Now
Donna Hill
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the lush and often lavish world of Sag Harbor, New York, steeped in rich African American history, folklore and romance. I felt this was the perfect place to set my latest series, Sag Harbor Village, and introduce you to new faces as well as reacquaint you with some familiar ones.
As many of you may recall in Dare to Dream, Desiree Armstrong and Lincoln Davenport found each other in Sag Harbor. Melanie Harte from Heart’s Reward, owner of The Platinum Society, has a mansion on the hills of Sag Harbor. And of course there is Rafe Lawson from my Lawsons of Louisiana series, who frequents the services of Melanie’s matchmaking enterprise.
Now I would love to introduce you to my latest visitors to Sag Harbor: the talented masseuse Layla Brooks, godsister to Melanie and soror to Desiree, and the über sexy and mysterious navy SEAL Maurice Lawson. Yes, you have the name right. Maurice is the nephew of Senator Branford Lawson!
So sit back, put up your feet and let me take you on a journey of sensual pleasure, life-changing discoveries and the healing of the heart and soul in my latest offering, Touch Me Now.
Happy reading,
Donna
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Preview: Everything Is You
Prologue
It was late afternoon. The lunch crowd, what there had been of it, was gone. Business was slow, slower than usual for this time of year. Everyone was hurting, it seemed. She’d been let go from the paper months earlier, but had been lucky enough to pick up a few extra 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 out with his Bed & Breakfast establishment, The Port, Layla and Desiree didn’t see each other as often as they once did, but Layla could always find a reason to visit Sag Harbor.
She’d spent most of her summers on the Harbor. Her godmother, Carolyn, the cofounder of the Platinum Society—a high class matchmaking service—made sure that she kept an eye on her precocious daughter Melanie, and Melanie didn’t go far without Layla. They’d grown up rubbing elbows with the people that the average person only saw on television and in the news. Melanie and Layla were trained in the areas of entertainment, money management, travel, fashion and knowing how to mix and mingle with anyone from the man on the street to the President of the United States. Like Melanie, Layla could speak three languages fluently and had traveled to Europe and Africa before she was eighteen. And if Layla had her way she would have married Melanie’s gorgeous brother Alan even though he always thought of her as the “cute kid,” and his little sister’s friend.
She smiled as those good memories rushed to the surface before she hopped down from the sill, just as a truck backfired below and let off a plume of smoke into the muggy air.
Yes, it would be great to get away. A change of scenery, hanging with her girls and enjoying a blow-out party was just what she needed.
* * *
“I think you should stay for the summer,” Desiree was saying while she held the cell phone between her jaw and shoulder and adjusted a painting on the wall.
“Girl, the whole summer! You have got to be kidding. I have…stuff up here to take care of.”
“Yeah, right. What stuff—a hostess job?”
“I have clients. They’ll miss me,” she said, trying to sound convincing.
“I have a beach full of clients for you and you know Melanie will hook you up. Besides, when was the last time that the three of us had a chance to spend some real time together?”
Layla thought about the tempting offer. But the truth was, both of her girls were married; Desiree to Lincoln and Melanie to Claude. She would be the proverbial fifth wheel. Her chest tightened as images of what could have been flashed for an instant in front of her.
“I don’t know, Desi,” she said slowly, teetering on the brink of relenting.
Desiree blew out a puff of frustration. “Well, whatever you decide to do is fine. I think you’re blowing a perfectly good vacation.”
“Where would I stay for the entire summer?”
“Right here at The Port.”
“Desi, come on. What about your guests? The summer is the busiest season. You need all of your guesthouses.”
“True, but you wouldn’t be a guest.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You would be a summer employee.”
“I thought you said this was my vacation.” She chuckled.
“Look, what if you stayed in one of the cottages and paid your way by offering massages to my guests? I’ve had a spa set up for months with no one to really run it. It would be a major perk. And you get to keep the tips!”
Layla burst out laughing. Desiree always had some kind of plan. “Let me think about it.”
“Okay, but don’t think too long. I know someone will want to hop on this great opportunity.”
“Someone like whom?”
“Doesn’t matter. Someone will.”
“Girl, you are too crazy.”
“Crazy as a fox,” Desiree said with a snicker.
“Yeah, okay. Anyhow, I’ll see you next weekend. But I’ll let you know before then what I’m going to do.”
“See you next week. And think about the offer. It’s perfect.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll think about it. I’ll see you Friday.”
“Smooches.”
Layla disconnected the call. An entire summer on the Harbor? Hmmm. She got up from the side of the bed and walked toward the window. She pushed the off white curtain aside. Traffic, gray concrete and throngs of rushing people filled her line of sight.
She let the curtain drop back in place. A slow smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Nothing was keeping her in the city beyond her decision to just say yes.
Chapter 2
Maurice Lawson winced when he attempted to push up from the couch and stand. The pain in his leg vibrated through his entire body. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. Slowly the searing fire ebbed to a dull throb. He inhaled deeply and sat back down.
That night, flying over the Afghanistan mountains flashed in his head. The skies were clear with just enough cloud cover to camouflage their mission. He and his Navy SEAL crew were on a stealth mission. Everything was going according to plan. The target was illuminated on the control panel of the Black Hawk Helicopter. And then without warning the world seemed to explode. He’d lost two men on that mission and he’d barely survived himself. He’d spent three months in the hospital and the next three months in rehab, learning how to walk again.
The doctors said he’d always have pain…and nightmares. But over time both would diminish. They hadn’t.
That was more than a year ago. He still battled the pain and the nightmares…and the guilt. Some days, the guilt was more painful than his injury.
“Maurice…”
He opened his eyes and his gaze settled on Dr. Morrison.
“Are you all right?” She put down her pad.
He nodded. “Yeah.” He forced a laugh. “I should be used to it by now.”
“How are you sleeping?”
He shrugged. “Some nights are better than others I suppose.”
Maurice Lawson had been referred to her through the Veterans Administration. After recovering from his wounds it was clear that his injuries were more than physical. She’d been working with him for about six months and the psychotherapy was slow, but there were days when she felt they were making progress. Then there were days like this one when that haunted look would come into his eyes.
Dr. Morrison leaned forward. “Maurice, your physical therapy is over, but I can’t get you beyond that night if you won’t let me help you to help yourself. You’re holding on to more than physical pain and that’s what’s really debilitating.”
The corners of his eyes pinched. His full mouth drew into a tight line. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to accept that what happened that night was not your fault.”
“But it was!” he bellowed. “Why can’t you understand that? I was in charge. Those men relied on me to get them in and out of there safely. And I didn’t.”
“What could you have done differently?” she softly asked.
He turned away from her penetrating stare. He’d asked himself that very question a million times. He’d gone over every minute of that flight. Nothing stuck out. It was textbook. But he had to have missed something. And that’s what haunted him.
“What?” she asked again.
“I don’t know,” he finally answered, his voice filled with defeat. “I don’t know.”
“How about your friends, family, have you been in touch with them?”
“We don’t have anything in common. They all want to act as if nothing is wrong or that everything is.” His laugh was ragged.
“You can’t continue to live in your head, Maurice, disconnected from everything. It’s well past the time that you rejoined the world. Begin new relationships.”
“Is that right, Doc,” he said derisively. “You mean if I join the world, as you put it, I’ll be all better.” This time he fought against the pain and stood.
“I’m saying that you can’t continue to punish yourself by shutting everything and everyone out.”
“It’s not that easy,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“I know it’s not. It never is. But if you are ever going to regain some semblance of life, of an existence, you’re going to have to try. You’re going to have to work at it, just as hard and with just as much passion as you’ve put into being a decorated fighter pilot.”
He stole a look at her. “I don’t know how,” he admitted.
Dr. Morrison stood up and came to him. “I have a friend who owns a fabulous Bed & Breakfast in Sag Harbor. I think a change of scenery and the relaxation of being by the water would be therapeutic.”
“I don’t think so, Doc.”
“At least think about it, Maurice. And I’ll only be a phone call away…when you want to talk.”
He pushed out a breath. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
She returned to her desk and wrote the information down on a prescription pad, tore off the paper and handed it to him.
He looked at the neat handwriting. “The Port.”
“Go, Maurice. A few days, a few weeks.” She studied his face. “Give yourself a chance. And think about getting back in touch with Ross.”
His gaze jumped to hers.
“You’d mentioned in earlier sessions that the two of you were close, that you even played in a band together. I’m sure he would be glad to hear from you. Have you spoken to him since you’ve been home?”
He lowered his head. “No.” He folded the paper and shoved it in his pants pocket. “Time up?”
She moistened her lips. “Yes.”
He bobbed his head. His jaw clenched as he turned toward the door. “See you next week, Doc.”
Maurice opened the door to his one bedroom condo apartment. He’d lucked out and was able to purchase the condo from his Veterans benefits in one of the most sought after communities in the quickly gentrifying neighborhood of Ft. Greene. One of the perks of fighting for your country, he thought derisively.
He’d been in the space for nearly a year after leaving rehab and it was still sparsely furnished, only the basic necessities. It didn’t matter much to him. It was only him. He didn’t have company, there was no woman in his life and all he needed was a place to sleep, eat and bathe.
He tossed his keys into a plastic bowl on the kitchen counter and limped over to the window. He drew in a long, slow breath. Never in a million years would he have imagined his life coming to this point. His breathing echoed in the cavernous space. Alone. Broken.
Dr. Morrison’s words bounced around in his head. …if you are ever going to regain some semblance of life, of an existence, you’re going to have to try. You’re going to have to work at it, just as hard and with just as much passion as you’ve put into being a decorated fighter pilot.…And think about getting back in touch with Ross.
Ross. He almost smiled. Ross McDaniels was his best buddy all through high school and into college. They discovered their love of music together and that it was a surefire way to charm the ladies. Ross was the sax man, he the piano. The two of them together were a lethal combination. Ross had been in his corner when he lost his father and never once came down on him for cutting himself off from his family, even if he didn’t agree. They’d stayed in touch throughout his years in the service and it was not until the accident that Maurice cut off all contact. He didn’t think he could stand to see the look of sympathy in Ross’s eyes. That, he knew he could not take.
He slung his hands into his pockets. Ross didn’t deserve that. His stomach muscles clenched. Was his number still the same? He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contact list.
Ross McDaniels. What could he possibly say to him after all this time?
Maurice swallowed over the tight knot in his throat. Ross had a birthday coming up. His was a month earlier to the day and Ross used to always tease him about being “the oldest.”
He stared at the number, debated a million reasons why and why not and finally pressed Call before he could change his mind.
The line rang three times before it was picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ross, it’s me…Maurice.”
For a moment the line went completely silent.
“Mo…” he finally said. “Don’t B.S. me, man, is this really you?”
The tight knot in his gut burst loose and a tentative smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, man, it’s me. You usually have impersonators calling you?”
Ross laughed from deep down in his belly, a sound so welcome and familiar. Maurice’s eyes stung.
“Not usually. I…where the hell are you?”
“In Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn? You’re back? Why haven’t you called? I tried to find you for months. The Navy wouldn’t tell me shit. What happened? How long have you been home, man?”
Maurice waited a beat. “I’ve been home a little over a year,” he said quietly.
He could almost see the waves of confusion pass over Ross’s face as he tried to process what he’d just been told.
“Say what?”
“It’s a long story. I…would have…I should have called…”
“I’m gonna forget that I should be pissed as hell right now. Brother, I thought…we all thought you were dead, man.”
Maurice heard Ross’s voice crack and that nearly broke him. “Look, I had my reasons.”
“I’m listening. No, as a matter of fact, this is not for a phone conversation. I want to put my eyes on you. Where are you in Brooklyn?”