Sealed With a Kiss

“Who is it, please?” Could that steady voice be hers?

“I’m Rufus Meade, and I’d like to see Miss Logan, if I may.”

“I ought to leave him standing there,” she grumbled to herself, but she knew that neither her sense of decency nor her curiosity would allow her to do it, and she opened the door.

Rufus Meade stood in the doorway staring at the woman who had vexed him beyond reason. She wasn’t at all what he had expected. Around twenty-nine, he surmised, and by any measure, beautiful. Tall and slim, but deliciously curved. He let his gaze feast on her smooth dark skin, eyes the color of dark walnut, and long, thick curly black tresses that seemed to fly all over the place. God, he hadn’t counted on this. Something just short of a full-blown desire burned in the pit of his belly. He recognized it as more than a simple craving for her; he wanted to know her totally, completely, and in every intimate way possible.

Naomi borrowed from her years of practice at shoving her emotions aside and pulled herself together first. If there was such a thing as an eviscerating, brain-damaging clap of thunder, she had just experienced it. Grasping the doorknob for support, she shifted her glance from his intense gaze, took in the rest of him, and then risked looking back into those strangely unsettling fawnlike eyes. And she had thought his voice a narcotic. Add that to the rest of him and…Lord! He was lethal! If she had any sense, she’d slam the door shut.

“You’re Rufus Meade?” she asked. Trying unsuccessfully to appear calm, she knitted her brow and worried her bottom lip. She could see that he was uncomfortable, even slightly awed, as if he, too, was having a new and not particularly agreeable experience. But he shrugged his left shoulder, winked at her, and took control of the situation.

“Yes, I’m Rufus Meade, and don’t tell me you’re Naomi Logan.”

She laughed, forgetting her paint-smeared jeans and T-shirt and her bare feet. “Since you don’t look anywhere near ninety, I want to see some identification.” He pulled out his driver’s license and handed it to her, nodding in approval as he did so.

“I see you’re a fast thinker. Can’t be too careful these days.”

Unable to resist needling him, she gave him her sweetest smile. “Do you think a bimbo would have thought to do that?” It was the kind of repartee that she used as a screen to hide her interest in a man or to dampen his, like crossing water to throw an animal off one’s trail.

His silence gave her a very uneasy feeling. What if he was dangerous? She didn’t know a thing about him. She tried to view him with the crust caused by his physical attractiveness removed from her eyes. Clearly he was a most unlikely candidate for ridicule; nothing about him suggested it. A strapping, virile male of about thirty-four, he was good-looking, with smooth dark skin and large fawnlike eyes, a lean face, clean shaven and apparently well mannered. She backed up a step. The man took up a lot of psychological space and had an aura of steely strength. He was also at least six feet four, and he wore clothes like a model. So much for that, she concluded silently; all I learned is that I like what I see.

His demeanor was that of a self-possessed man. Why, then, did he behave as if he wanted to eat nails? She was tempted to ask him, but she doubted his mood would tolerate the impertinence. He leaned against her door, hands in his pockets, and swept his gaze over her.

“Miss Logan, your tongue is tart enough to make a saint turn in his halo. Are you going to ask me in, or are you partial to nonagenarians?”

There was something to be said for his ability to toss out a sally, she decided, stepping back and grinning. “Touché. Come on in.” She noticed that he walked in slowly, as if it wouldn’t have surprised him to find a booby trap of some kind, and quickly summed up his surroundings. After casually scanning the elegant but sparsely furnished foyer and the intensely personal living room, he glanced at her. “Some of your choices surprise me, Naomi.” He pointed to a reproduction of a Remington sculpture. “That would represent masculine taste.”

“I bought it because that man is free, because he looks as if he just burst out of a place he hadn’t wanted to be.” He quirked his left eyebrow and didn’t comment, but she could see he had more questions.

“The Elizabeth Catlett sculpture,” she explained, when his glance rested on it, “was the first sculpture that I had even seen by an African American woman; I bought it with my first paycheck. I don’t know how familiar you are with art, but along with music, it’s what I like best. These are also the works of African Americans. That painting,” she pointed to an oil by the art historian James Porter, “was given to me by me grandpa for my college graduation. And the reproduction of the painting by William H. Johnson is…well, the little girl reminded me of myself at that age.”

Rufus observed the work closely, as if trying to determine whether there was anything in that painting of a wide-eyed little black girl alone with a fly swatter and a doll carriage that would tell him exactly who Naomi Logan was.

While he scrutinized the Artis Lane lithograph portrait of Rosa Parks that both painter and subject had signed, Naomi let her gaze roam brazenly over him. What on earth is wrong with me, she asked herself when she realized, after scanning his long, powerful legs, that her imagination was moving into forbidden territory. She had never ogled a man, never been tempted. Not until now. She disciplined her thoughts and tried to focus on his questions. Her heartbeat accelerated as if she’d run for miles when he moved to the opposite end of the room, paused before a group of original oils, turned to her, and smiled. It softened his face and lit up his remarkable eyes. She knew that she gaped. What in heaven’s name was happening to her?

“So you’re an artist? Somehow, I pictured you as a disciplinarian of some sort.” He stared intently at the painting of her mother entitled “From My Memories” and turned to look at her.

“Isn’t this a self-portrait? I don’t have any technical knowledge of art, but I have a feeling that this is good.” She opened her mouth to speak until she saw him casually raising his left hand to the back of his head, exposing the tiny black curls at his wrist. She stared at it; it was just a hand, for God’s sake. Embarrassed, she quickly steadied herself and managed to respond to his compliment.

“No. That’s the way I remember my mother. Have a seat while I get us some coffee. Or would you prefer juice, or a soft drink?” She had to put some distance between them, and separate rooms was the best she could do.

He didn’t sit. “Coffee’s fine,” he told her, trailing her into the kitchen. She turned and bumped into him, and excitement coursed through her when he quickly settled her with a slight touch on her arm. Her skin felt hot where his finger had been, and she knew that he could see a fine sheen of perspiration on her face. Reluctantly, she looked up, saw the tough man in him searing her with his hot, mesmerizing eyes, and felt her heart skid out of place. He made her feel things that she hadn’t known could be felt, and all of a sudden, she wanted him out of there. The entire apartment seemed too small with him in it, making her much too aware of him. The letters had been fun, and she had enjoyed joshing with him over the phone, but he had a powerful personality and an intimidating physique. At her height, she wasn’t accustomed to being made to feel small and helpless. And she had never experienced such a powerful sexual pull toward a man. But, she noticed, he seemed to have his emotions under lock and key.

He leaned over her drawing board seemingly to get a better view of the sketches there. “Are you a commercial artist, or do you teach art somewhere?”

“I’m a commercial artist if by that you mean work on contract.”

Rufus looked at her quizzically. “Did you want to be some other kind of artist?”

Naomi took the coffee and started toward the living room. She had a few questions of her own, and one of them had to do with why he was here. “I wanted to be an artist. Period.” She passed him a cup of coffee, cream, and sugar. He accepted only the coffee.

“Why did you come here, Rufus?” If he was uncomfortable, only he knew it. He rested his left ankle on his right knee, took a few sips of coffee, and placed the cup and saucer on the table beside his chair. His grin disconcerted her; it didn’t seem to reach his eyes.

It wasn’t a hostile question, but she hadn’t meant it as friendly, either. She watched as he assessed her coolly. “You certainly couldn’t have put it more bluntly if you tried. Whatever happened to that gnawing wit of yours? I came here on impulse. That last hot little note of yours made me so mad that neither a letter nor a phone call would do. You made me furious, Naomi, and if I think about it much, I’ll get angry all over again.” She leaned back in the thickly cushioned chair, thinking absently that he had an oversupply of charisma, when his handsome brown face suddenly shifted into a fierce scowl.

She wasn’t impressed. “What cooled you off?”

He shrugged first one shoulder, then the other one. “You are so damned irreverent that you made the whole thing seem foolish. One look at you, standing there ready to take me on, demanding to see my ID with your door already wide open—well, my reaction was that I was being a jackass when I let you pull my leg. You’ve been having fun at my expense.”

It didn’t seem wise to laugh. “It was your fault.”

He stiffened. “How do you figure that any of this is my fault, lady?” This time, she couldn’t restrain the laughter.

“Temper, temper. If you didn’t have such a short fuse and if you talked about things you know, especially on a radio broadcast, none of this would have happened.”

He stood. “I’m leaving. Never in my life have I lost my temper with a woman, or even approached it, and I’m not going to allow you to provoke me into making an exception with you. You’re the most exasperating…”

Her full-throated laughter, like tiny tinkling temple bells, halted his attack. He gave her a long, heated stare.

She shivered, disconcerted by his compelling gaze. With that fleeting desire-laden look, he kindled something within her, something that had fought to surface since she’d opened her door. She walked with him to her foyer, where indirect lights cast a pale, ethereal glow over them, and stood with her hand on the doorknob. She knew he realized she was deliberately prolonging his departure, and she was a little ashamed, but she didn’t open the door. It was unfathomable. A minute earlier, she had wanted him to leave; now, she was hindering his departure. Less certain of herself than she had been earlier, she fished for words that would give her a feeling of ease. “I meant to ask how you became an expert on the family, but, well, maybe another time.”

Rufus lifted an eyebrow in surprise. He hadn’t thought she’d be interested in seeing him again. Despite himself, he couldn’t resist a slow and thorough perusal of her. He wanted to…no. He wasn’t that crazy. Her unexpected feminine softness, the dancing mischief in her big brown eyes, and the glow on her bare lips were not going to seduce him into putting his mouth on her. He stepped back, remembering her question.

“I’m a journalist, and I’ve recently had a book published that deals with delinquent behavior and the family’s role in it. You may have heard of it: Keys to Delinquent Behavior in the Nineties.”

“Of course I know it; that book’s been a bestseller for months. I hadn’t noticed the author’s name and didn’t associate it with you. I haven’t read it, but I may.” She offered her hand. “I’m glad to have met you, Rufus; it’s been interesting.”

He drew himself up to his full height and pretended not to see her hand. He wasn’t used to getting the brush-off and wasn’t going to be the victim of one tonight. He jammed his hands in his pockets and assumed a casual stance.

“You make it seem so…so final.” He hated his undisciplined reaction to her. Her warm, seductive voice, her sepia beauty, and her light, airy laughter made his spine tingle. He had really summoned her up incorrectly. She was far from the graying, disillusioned spinster that he had pictured. He wanted to see what she looked like; well, he had seen, and he had better move on.

“Couldn’t we have dinner some evening?” He smiled inwardly; so much for his advice to himself.

He could see that she was immediately on guard. “I’m sorry, but my evenings are pretty much taken up.” She tucked thick, curly hair behind her left ear. “Perhaps we’ll run into each other. Goodbye.”

He wasn’t easily fooled, but he could be this time, he cautioned himself, and looked at her for a long while, testing her sincerity and attempting to gauge the extent of his attraction to her. Chemistry so strong as what he felt wasn’t usually one-sided; he’d thought at first that she reciprocated it, but now, neither her face nor her posture told him anything. She’s either a consummate actress or definitely not interested in me, he decided as he turned the doorknob. “Goodbye, Naomi.” He strode out the door and down the corridor without a backward glance.

Naomi watched him until he entered the elevator, a man in complete control, and hugged herself, fighting the unreasonable feeling that he had deserted her, chilled her with his leaving; that he had let his warmth steal into her and then, miser-like, withdrawn it, leaving her cold. What on earth have I done to myself, she wondered plaintively.

Rufus drove home slowly, puzzled at what had just transpired. Everything about Naomi jolted him. He didn’t mislead himself; he knew that his cool departure from her apartment belied his unsettled emotions. What had he thought she would be like? Older, certainly, but definitely not a barefoot, paint-spattered witch. She’d had a strong impact on him, and he didn’t like it. He had his life in order, and he was not going to permit this wild attraction to disturb it. She had everything that made a woman interesting, starting with a mind that would keep a man alert and his brain humming. Honorable, too. And, Lord, she was luscious! Tempting. A real, honest-to-God black beauty.

He entered his house through the garage door that opened into the kitchen and made his way upstairs. All was quiet, so he undressed, sprawled out in the king-sized bed that easily accommodated his six feet four and a half inches, and faced the fact that he wanted Naomi. It occurred to him from her total disregard for his celebrity status that Naomi didn’t know who he was. She found him attractive for himself and not for his bank account, as Etta Mae and so many others had, and it was refreshing. If she didn’t want to acknowledge the attraction, fine with him; neither did he. If there were only himself to consider, he reasoned, he would probably pursue a relationship with Naomi, though definitely not for the long term. It had been his personal experience that the children of career women didn’t get their share of maternal attention. That meant that he could not and would not have one in his life.

Chapter 2

Several afternoons later, Naomi left a meeting of the district school board disheartened and determined that the schools in her community were going to produce better qualified students. She had a few strong allies, and the name Logan commanded attention and respect. She vowed there would be changes. She remembered her school days as pleasant, carefree times when schools weren’t a battlefield and learning was fun. A challenge. When she taught high school, she made friends with her pupils, challenged them to accomplish more than they thought they could, and was rewarded with their determination to learn, even to go beyond her. She smiled at the pleasant memory, suddenly wondering if Bryan Lister was still flirting with his female teachers, hoping now to improve his university grades.

Oh, there would be changes, beginning with an overhaul of that haphazard tutoring program, even if, God forbid, she had to run for election as president of the board. She ducked into a Chinese carry-out to buy her dinner. As she left the tiny hovel, she noticed a woman trying to shush a recalcitrant young teenaged boy who obviously preferred to be somewhere else and expressed his wishes rudely.