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  “She’s waiting for that apology,” he repeated. His voice was smooth, like aged cognac, not what Yasmin expected for a man of his size or stature. “You can apologize now or after we have a few words outside. It’s your choice.”

  The ill-mannered men mumbled apologies, then scurried out of the dining area before the stranger could make good on his threat. The situation defused, the hostess followed them out of the dining area and the patrons resumed eating as if nothing had happened.

  Rashawn Bishop turned around and felt a stab of guilt. He sympathized with the guys he had just chased out of the restaurant. It wasn’t their fault the woman in the curve-hitting dress was stunning, was it? He was ogling her, making a complete and utter fool of himself, but he didn’t avert his gaze. She probably thought he was just as corrupt as those young men were, but her photogenic smile was irresistible and he couldn’t pull his eyes away.

  The look of annoyance on her face didn’t impede her beauty. She was exquisite. A Nubian princess straight from the motherland. Her mink-black skin reminded him of whipped cocoa. She had thin eyebrows, a delicate nose and the biggest, brightest eyes he had ever seen. They were as deep as the Atlantic, round and bright. Under the subdued overhead lights, her eyes glittered like diamonds. Beaded earrings dangled from her ears, a chocker graced her neck and gold bangles hung from her wrists. She had a one-of-a-kind look that made her stand out in a roomful of women who were trying too damn hard. Her vibrant, copper-brown hair was an abundance of twists and Rashawn had to fight the urge to reach out and touch them. Her locks weren’t as wild as Lauryn Hill’s, but they were just as thick. The definition and tone of her arms and her healthy figure told him she was no stranger to diet and exercise. She had the kind of body he liked, all curves, all woman.

  “I’m sorry about that, Miss. They obviously don’t know better.”

  Yasmin eyed her defender. The stranger had a gravity about him that intrigued her. He had to be of mixed heritage, as his skin was more beige than brown. She couldn’t see beyond his steel-blue suit, but the way his jacket gripped his shoulders and draped casually over his chest told her everything she needed to know. He had a solid upper body, a flat stomach and not an ounce of fat. He was either a regular at a fitness club or had damn good genes. Either way, he was appealing in every sense of the word. His hair was cornrowed in an intricate crisscross design. He wore a cologne that smelled like the great outdoors and reminded her of the carefree summer days of the past. Yasmin loved his goatee, the quickness of his smile and the sensual tone of his voice. Unlike Cecil, she could listen to him talk all night. He had a host of attractive physical qualities, but his dreamy baritone was definitely his greatest charm. She shattered the silence by saying, “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

  “No problem. I would have done something sooner, but…” Rashawn trailed off when he noticed her date was standing behind her, scowling. “Again, it was my pleasure.” With that, he turned and stalked away.

  Her eyes followed him back across the room. Two Hispanic men in dark suits were awaiting his return. When the stranger sat down and resumed eating, Yasmin wheeled around to face Cecil. The coward had the nerve to smile. Pulling out her chair, he said, “Let’s get back to our date. I think I was in the middle of telling you about the city charter rules when—”

  “This date is over and don’t you dare think of calling me for another one. Since I’m not worthy of your respect, there’s no reason for us to continue seeing each other.”

  “You are upset, and rightly so, but don’t let this, ah, misunderstanding ruin our evening.” Cecil fed a smile to some senior citizens sitting nearby. “Why don’t I order you another cocktail? Or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

  Ignoring him, she grabbed her purse and draped her jacket over her arm. Remembering that Cecil was an acquaintance of her sister’s, she said, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Head high, she strolled out of the dining room, through the lounge and into the lobby. Cecil scampered behind her. He paused at the entrance, assured the hostess he would be back and followed Yasmin outside.

  It was the end of March but the air was warm. Long streaks of wispy clouds hung in the otherwise clear sky. The street was packed with partiers looking for some action. On Saturday nights, downtown Tampa hummed with life, activity and excitement. Groups of single women, couples and university students ambled around, stopping in at clubs, bars and cafés.

  Yasmin was in front of the restaurant, checking her cell phone for missed calls, when Cecil caught up with her. Stepping onto the curb, she extended her hand and signaled an approaching taxicab. Ignoring her, the driver continued down the street.

  “Yasmin, what did you expect me to do?” Cecil asked, glancing around to ensure no one was listening in. “Take on four gangbangers by myself?”

  “That’s ludicrous,” she said, rolling her eyes skyward. “None of them was a day over twenty-five. They were kids, Cecil. Kids. Boys who needed to be put in their place.”

  His second and third apology fell on deaf ears. “It won’t look good if I return inside without you.” Jamming his hands into his pockets, his eyes pleading for understanding, he said, “I had a special night planned for us. I thought after we finished here we could have dessert at the Grand Hyatt.”

  Yasmin shot him a not-on-your-life look. This would be the first and last time she went out with Cecil Manning. “Good night, Councilman.”

  “Fine, have it your way.” With a shrug, he ambled away.

  Rashawn glanced out the window. He had almost suffered whiplash when the dark-skinned woman had stormed out of the restaurant a few seconds earlier. When her date returned inside looking dejected, Rashawn excused himself from his table for the second time in minutes. When he got outside, the mystery woman was stepping into a taxicab.

  “Let me call you another one,” he said, extending his hand. “The driver looks buzzed.”

  Yasmin smiled knowingly. Puzzled, yet intrigued by where this was going, she stepped out of the taxicab and slammed the door. The driver sped off, leaving behind a trail of dust.

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “That’s because I didn’t give it to you.”

  He gestured toward the restaurant. “What happened with your man? You break up with him over what happened in there?”

  “He’s not my man. He was a blind date.” Yasmin spoke her mind as if she were talking to one of her girlfriends, rather than a man she had known all of ten seconds. “Can you believe he wanted me to ignore them? As loud as they were? My mother raised me to be a strong black woman and I’m not about to let a bunch of knuckleheads disrespect me.”

  “I hear you. Looked like you were ready to rumble in there!”

  Laughing, she tucked her clutch purse under her arm. “I was. Thank God you stepped in when you did, ah…” She waited for him to volunteer his name.

  “Rashawn.”

  She repeated his name, liking the way it sounded to her ears. It was unique, unlike anything she had ever heard and fit him perfectly. “I like it.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  Yasmin flirted back. “I do.”

  Chasing down women wasn’t his style, but he had a feeling this Afrocentric sister with the no-nonsense attitude would be worth the chase. She glowed like an angel under the decorative streetlights, and her eyes shimmered with humor. “What’s your name, beautiful?”

  “Yasmin Ohaji.”

  “You’re South African.”

  She didn’t hide her surprise. Very few people were able to surmise where she was from just by the mention of her name. “How did you know?”

  “I read a lot about the history of the country before I traveled there.”

  “You’ve been to South Africa?”

  “Twice.” Rashawn extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Yasmin’s heart stood still when he touched her. Her hand slipped easily into his and the heat of his touch warmed her down to her toes.
The man had a magazine-worthy smile, a solid physique and he smelled positively divine.

  Rashawn wanted to talk to Yasmin some more but he had to get back inside. He had some important business to discuss with a Las Vegas boxing promoter and he couldn’t afford to blow this opportunity. If he could convince Mr. Alvarez to give him a chance, he would be one step closer to a title match and all the perks that came with being a top contender. Rashawn had the drive, the talent and the motivation. He just needed a break. “Maybe we can get together next week for drinks.”

  “Won’t your girlfriend, fiancée, wife mind?” she asked, prodding openly. “I don’t want to break up a happy home.”

  “I’m as single as they come.”

  After the night she’d had, the last thing Yasmin wanted to do was go on another blind date. Rashawn looked good, but so did Cecil. No, she was better off at home planning the charity fund-raiser than wasting another evening with a good-looking man of little substance. A taxicab pulled up and she opened the door. “Sorry, I can’t.”

  “Can I at least have your number in case you change your mind?”

  Yasmin opened her mouth to decline, but stopped herself. She was drawn to him, and that scared her. The smart thing to do would be to brush him off, but she didn’t feel right shooting him down. After all, he had stood up for her. If it hadn’t been for him defending her, she would still be inside listening to lewd and sexist comments. “I guess that would be okay.” Yasmin opened her purse, retrieved one of her business cards and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

  Rashawn took the card. “Hold on, your home number isn’t on here.”

  “I know,” she said, wearing a cheeky smile. Before Rashawn could reply, Yasmin was in the backseat of the cab, waving good-bye.

  Chapter 2

  Curling his body toward the heavy bag, Rashawn threw a swift uppercut punch. The sound of gloved fists pounding against leather mingled with the grunts and groans drifting in from the weight room. Tupac blared from a portable stereo, giving fighters that extra boost of energy when their bodies begged to quit. It was a paltry fifty-eight degrees outside but the high-energy atmosphere, coupled with the overcrowded gym, made Rashawn feel like he was in a sauna.

  The stifling air in the Boxing Institute of Champions was inundated with testosterone, and the women sparring in the ring were anything but feminine. Not like the African beauty he had met last week. Yasmin Ohaji. Baby girl had it going on.

  He liked that she had none of the vanity or arrogance often associated with beautiful women. She was real, honest, refreshing. And she had one hell of a smile. Rashawn tried not to think about her, tried not to relive their meeting, but he did. Their five-minute conversation had left an indelible impression on him, and she crept into his thoughts during his workouts.

  The moment she’d stormed out of the Laurdel Lounge, he knew he had to see her again. Rashawn had always been crazy for sophisticated, elegant chicks. One look at Yasmin and he was sprung. He had been calling her office since Monday, but a week later still hadn’t connected with her. Every time he called, her terse-sounding assistant told him Ms. Ohaji was with clients and would contact him at her earliest convenience. Rashawn was hopeful she would come around because she was too fine for him not to keep trying.

  Adrenaline pumping, he completed his set, then tugged off his gloves. Wiping the sweat from his face with a towel, he exited the workout area and went into the back office. Signed photographs of Muhammad Ali, Tommy “The Hit Man” Hearns and Lennox Lewis dressed the walls, papers and invoices obscured the desk and garbage flowed onto the floor. The windows were open, ushering in a healthy mixture of fresh air and sunshine. Guzzling from his ice-cold water bottle, he sunk onto one of the plastic chairs and dropped his elbows on his knees.

  “You finished your workout already?”

  “Already?” Rashawn didn’t bother to look up. He knew Kori Gallanger was watching him, her thin ruby-painted lips twisted in a scowl. The scent of cheap perfume, nicotine and Listerine engulfed the office like flames. “I’ve been here for six hours. Hell yeah, I’m done.”

  “Boss man’s gonna be pissed when he comes back and you’re not here.”

  “Oh, well. I’ve got things to do.”

  Flopping down on the armchair, she steered it over to the wooden desk. “Suit yourself. It’s your funeral.”

  Glancing up at Kori, he slowly began unraveling his hand wraps. “Where’s your old man anyways? He said he’d be right back.”

  Shrugging a shoulder, she started cleaning the papers off the desk. “Beats me. He said he had some errands to run. Didn’t say when he’d be back.”

  When the last piece of material fell away, Rashawn massaged the tenderness in his hands. He’d run, lifted weights, sparred off and on all afternoon and jumped rope until but his calves ached. Not only were his hands blistered, his feet were tender and his back was stiff. Standing, he stretched his weary arms above his head. “See you tomorrow. Tell Brody to call me.”

  “Whatever. I’m not your message girl.” The ugly edge in her voice fell away when she answered the ringing telephone, “The Boxing Institute of Champions.”

  Rashawn shook his head. For someone who had a mouth like a trucker, she sure knew how to turn on the charm when it was necessary. Her voice was cheerful and bright. She sounded less like herself and more like the office manager she was paid to be.

  Kori finished her call and replaced the receiver. “I thought you were getting out of here. Thought you had things to do.”

  “Listening to you gave me an idea.” A crafty expression came over his face as he scratched the stubble on his chin. “Could you do me a favor?”

  “Why would I help you?”

  Rashawn strolled over to where she was sitting, bent down and wrapped his arms around her. He had known Kori ever since junior high and, though they bickered relentlessly, he loved her like a sister. “Because we’re practically family.”

  “It’s gonna cost you.”

  “Name your price.”

  Typing her password into the computer, she smiled at him over her shoulder. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “I don’t have all day, Kori.”

  “All right, fifty bucks.”

  He muttered a string of curses. “Fifty bucks to make a phone call? Are you out of your damn mind?”

  “Do you want my help or not?”

  “Okay, okay, it’s a deal,” he said between clenched teeth. He hated parting ways with his money, especially when his savings account was in the black, but Yasmin was worth it. Rashawn met beautiful women every day, but there was something about her that appealed to him on a personal level. And it didn’t hurt that she had a body that wouldn’t quit. “I’ll bring the money tomorrow.”

  “You better. Or I’ll tell my dad you’ve been shaving time off your workouts.” Feeding him a sickly sweet-smile, she patted his cheek with a bony hand. “Now, what do you need me to do, honey?”

  “My husband’s an egotistical bastard who only thinks about himself. If it wasn’t for the kids, I’d kill him and bury his body in the backyard.”

  Coughing, Yasmin shifted in her chair. Sophie Kolodenko, a Russian-born immigrant with a heavy accent, was by far her most colorful client. The overworked, underappreciated mother of five didn’t mince words when it came to her husband, a sometime plumber, and called him everything from a louse to a freeloader. If Yasmin hadn’t been biting the inside of her lip, she would have laughed.

  “Have you told him how his selfishness makes you feel?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t listen to what I have to say.” Sophie wrung her hands in her lap, stress lines forming across her brow. “I’ve even threatened to take the kids and leave but every time I start packing my stuff, he apologizes and promises to change. A week later, he’s back to ordering me around.”

  “What can Igor do to make things better?”

  “You mean besides die?”

  Laughing inwardly but remaining stoic on the
outside, Yasmin took off her silver-framed eyeglasses and rested them on the glass table to her right. “Let’s be honest with each other, Sophie. You don’t want your husband to die. You want to know that he appreciates you and values you as a wife and a mother. Isn’t that what this is all about? Validation?”

  Staring out the window, Sophie dragged her fingernails through the ends of her ash-blond hair. “I guess so.”

  “Have you spoken to Igor about joining our sessions? We’ve been working together for almost three months and I think at this point it would be beneficial for him to join in. How do you feel about him taking part in this discussion?”

  “I guess that would be okay.”

  “Excellent,” Yasmin said, uncrossing her legs and standing. “That’s our time for today, but don’t forget to book an appointment with Niobie on your way out.”

  Shrugging into her lint-infested coat, Sophie stood. “About what I said earlier—”

  Yasmin put a comforting hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “What we discuss during our session is private. Don’t worry, I won’t repeat anything you’ve said to me in front of your husband.”

  Relief flooded her face. She ambled over to the door, but didn’t open it. “You asked me what Igor could do to make things better. It would be nice if he said thank you. He doesn’t say thank you anymore. He just expects me to do stuff, you know?”

  “Maybe you should tell him what you just told me.”

  Nodding, Sophie opened the door and exited the room.

  Closing her office door, Yasmin returned to her desk and sat down. Plagued by a headache all afternoon, she picked up her remote control, selected disk number five, and sighed softly when the rich, soulful voice of Anthony Hamilton eased the tension flowing through her body. Yasmin couldn’t stop her eyelids from drooping. It was if they had a mind of their own. Kicking off her shoes, she rested back in her leather armchair.

  This was very quickly turning out to be the day from hell. Talking with Mrs. Kolodenko had been the only bright spot of the afternoon. First, her sister had called wearing a funky attitude. Imani had been in a mood ever since Yasmin had walked out on her favorite councilman and reminded her every chance she got that Cecil Manning was a terrific catch. Her session with the Fujiyamas had been going well until she suggested Mrs. Fujiyama foster her independence by getting a part-time job. It had taken her ten minutes to calm down her husband and another five to convince him not to cancel their remaining sessions. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the caterer she had hired for the charity fund-raiser had cancelled. It was the first time since Yasmin had arrived at the office that she had had a moment to herself, and it was long overdue.