Free Enchanted Heart by Felicia Mason Page B

soothing alto of Norah Jones, filled the sometimes too-silent rooms. Lance headed to his bedroom, but paused to admire the horizon outside his windows as he stripped. He truly had a bird’s-eye view. Stepping out onto the balcony, he watched a barge slowly move along the James River. To his left, the lights of the shipyard gleamed in the night.
    Lance took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh air of the early morning. The stillness pacified him, as it always did. So he stood there for a while reviewing his day. All thoughts led to Vivienne la Fontaine. Try as he might, he couldn’t nail what was going on with her. He headed toward his closet.
    Was she married? Engaged? Maybe it was guilt that made her run.
    He’d known she was going to be expensive. He just hadn’t figured on quite how much.
    The Heart family controlled a significant amount of wealth and influence not just in the Hampton Roads region, but across the state of Virginia. Lance had his share, which was more than enough to keep him idle for a long, long time. Even so, he didn’t like unnecessarily wasting money—another thing that would come as a surprise to his grandmother, who was perpetually on his case about making something of his life.
    An hour’s romp with Vivienne la Fontaine had cost him not just the room they’d too briefly shared, but a week at the Marriott’s rack rate plus meals and valet parking for two little old ladies from Pulaski, Virginia. Then there would be the floral and jeweler’s bills required to placate Rochelle, the woman he’d stood up at Cloud 9.
    â€œAnd I didn’t even get a decent meal out of the night.”
    As if to remind him of that insult, his stomach growled. He came out of his suit, shirt, T-shirt and socks, carefully hanging the suit in a closet that stretched the length of the apartment.
    Lance took pride in his closet. While Aunt Justine had designed it, Lance gave it his own stamp of approval. GQ magazine had even done a feature on it. Lance had been perturbed that the magazine ran three photos of his closet and not a single one of him. He still angled for a cover, but hadn’t quite settled on how to best finagle that deal yet.
    But Vivienne la Fontaine, lingerie store owner and former cover model, could help him in that regard.
    â€œIf I can figure out what set her off,” he muttered.
    He marked the laundry for the service to pick up in the morning, then set out the gym clothes he’d need for handball with his boy T.J. He was supposed to be at the rec center at nine-thirty. What sane person wanted to be up at that ungodly hour?
    Satisfied that he knew what he’d wear the coming day, he padded barefoot and in his underwear to the kitchen. Front and center in the Sub-Zero refrigerator: three bottles of a Petit Noir, some brie and plump grapes—the after-sex snack he’d planned to share with Rochelle. Ignoring the cheese, he plucked out a cluster of grapes, spied and snagged a bottle of Heineken then scrounged for some crackers and snatched up a cordless to check his messages.
    Five awaited him.
    â€œYo, Heart. Don’t forget. We have the court at nine-thirty. I’m gonna whip your ass so don’t be late.”
    Lance chuckled. “In your dreams, Tyrone.”
    He deleted the message and moved on. Rochelle’s voice, coy and sexy, purred in his ear, chiding him for keeping her waiting.
    â€œHi, Lance. I’m at the restaurant. You’re really going to love this place. The bartender said you’d started a tab. See you in a bit. Ciao.”
    A beep later. “Lance? Where are you? Call me on my cell. And you need to give me yours.”
    â€œDon’t think so, babe,” he said.
    The next one, also Rochelle, carried a decidedly different tone—pissed off.
    â€œIt’s nine o’clock, Lance. Since you’re obviously not joining me here I took the liberty of ordering a very expensive meal and a