Free A Private Affair by Donna Hill Page B

smiled, seeing the look of anticipation on her face. So that’s the kind of stuff she digs. This was nothing. He couldn’t count the number of famous faces he’d either met, eaten with or seen. Everyone at one time or another came uptown to get a taste of can’t-be-beat cooking, no matter how much loot they were making.
    â€œYeah, may-be.”
    She breathed a silent sigh of relief. This wasn’t too bad. He’d had her a little nervous at first when he just took off from Zuri’s like that. Although she really did want to see where he was talking about, she just wasn’t sure if she wanted to see it today. She’d heard such awful things—the people, the violence, the filth. All she could imagine was what she’d seen on the evening news. Then again, anyone with a grain of sense knew that the news only showed what they wanted to show. They always interviewed the most snaggletoothed, illiterate black person they could find to represent whatever the issue was for the day. She promised herself she’d keep an open mind.
    â€œSo, what nights are you playing at the club?”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œWhy? I mean, I thought you were. It was set.”
    â€œChanged my mind.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œProblem?”
    She shifted for a minute under his gaze. “No. Why should it be? It’s like you told me. I’m a big girl. You’re a big boy. Right? Do what you want.”
    â€œYeah. Exactly.” That was easy. No pressure. He should feel relieved. Then why did he feel like somebody had just let the air out of his steel-belted radials? He kind of wanted her to ask some more questions. He wanted to explain that he’d never played for anybody besides his sister, Lacy. That Lacy was dead. Thatthings hadn’t been the same for him since. That the time in the club was the first time he’d played since her death. He wanted to tell her that the pain was still too strong, so bad sometimes that he just wanted to disappear so he could stop being afraid. He didn’t have anybody to keep him from being afraid anymore. He wanted to tell her.
    He didn’t.
    Nikita wrinkled her nose. She sure hoped he wasn’t one of those trifling Negroes. Supposed to do things, make commitments and then back out. If this was any indication of how he handled his business, well—well, she just didn’t know.
    Â 
    Quinn took the liberty of ordering for both of them. Lunch was a combination of hot and spicy jerk chicken, peas and rice, callaloo, fried chicken fingers, a side of homemade coleslaw, not that supermarket stuff, and melt in your mouth corn bread—cooked to a perfect golden brown and served up in healthy chunks.
    â€œHow’s the food?” he asked.
    â€œDelicious,” Nikita mumbled over a mouthful of corn bread.
    Quinn reached across the table and brushed the tip of his finger against the corner of her mouth.
    A bolt of electric energy shot straight through her. She went perfectly still.
    Quinn smiled. “That’s what I wanted to see,” he said in a tone so low it seemed to reach down to her soul, “what that pretty mouth would look like with golden crumbs around it.”
    She swallowed. “What does it look like?” she whispered in a tone to match his.
    â€œVery tasty.” He grinned.
    She bit back a smile and shifted her gaze to her plate. “Is that right?”
    â€œYeah.”
    He ran his finger across her lips again and the thrill was twice as strong. She fought down a shiver.
    â€œSo what are we gonna do about that?”
    She put her fork down, folded her arms on the tabletop andleaned closer. Her cinnamon-colored eyes held his. “We’re going to have to work that out, Mr. Parker. One day at a time.”
    â€œI like the sound of that. Night and day meeting at dawn.”
    â€œYou sound like a poet.”
    â€œNaw. Ain’t nothin’ like that at all. Classy lady like you