Tempo Of Love
Kianna Alexander
The beat of attractionIt’s the opportunity of her career, a story that may save Nona Gregory’s job at one of North Carolina’s most respected papers and put the ambitious reporter on the map. All she has to do is get reserved architect Ken Yamada to open up about what inspires his unique art. But soon Nona finds herself beginning to fall for the part-time musician who plays the drums with a beat so dangerously in sync with her heart.Fiercely protective of his scandalous past, Ken is surprised that Nona’s in-depth profile starts to uncover the real man behind his legend. Nona shares a love of music and a passion so deep that Ken doesn’t want to believe that she could betray his trust. The scoop of a lifetime would expose a family secret that might destroy his career while making Nona’s. Is she willing to sacrifice their chance for a future in perfect harmony?
The beat of attraction
It’s the opportunity of her career, a story that may save Nona Gregory’s job at one of North Carolina’s most respected papers and put the ambitious reporter on the map. All she has to do is get reserved architect Ken Yamada to open up about what inspires his unique art. But soon Nona finds herself beginning to fall for the part-time musician who plays the drums with a beat so dangerously in sync with her heart.
Fiercely protective of his scandalous past, Ken is surprised that Nona’s in-depth profile starts to uncover the real man behind his legend. Nona shares a love of music and a passion so deep that Ken doesn’t want to believe that she could betray his trust. The scoop of a lifetime would expose a family secret that might destroy his career while making Nona’s. Is she willing to sacrifice their chance for a future in perfect harmony?
“You’re putting in quite a lot of effort to find out about me. I’m not sure you even need me anymore.” He let the humor he felt seep into his tone.
She rolled her eyes, but her smile remained, bright and beautiful. “You flatter me, Ken. It’s my job to know as much as I can about you. I do the same thing with all my interview subjects.”
Draining his smoothie, he looked into her eyes. “Really. How many of your subjects have you gone running with? Or done martial arts with?”
She blinked, then her gaze fled from his. “None. You’re the first.”
He adjusted his expression, hoping to indicate how he felt about the double meaning of her words.
Her eyes grew wide, and she sat straight up in her chair as the realization hit her. She hit the button on her phone to cease the recording. “Wait. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant… Well, you know what I meant.” She looked flustered, even a bit embarrassed.
It was a big change from the put-together, confident woman he’d come to know, but parts of him enjoyed seeing her a bit off her game. “However you meant it, I’m not against being your first.”
Dear Reader (#ub26e6138-15d8-5f05-b6bd-00d9b648604f),
Thank you so much for picking up Tempo of Love. This is the last title in my Gentlemen of Queen City series; at least, that’s the plan. It’s bittersweet for me to leave the gents behind, but I truly hope you’ve enjoyed the ride. Ken and Nona’s relationship is full of ups and downs, curves and detours—will they make it to the end of the road together? Turn the page and find out!
All the best,
Kianna
Tempo of Love
Kianna Alexander
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KIANNA ALEXANDER, like any good Southern belle, wears many hats: loving wife, doting mama, advice-dispensing sister and gabbing girlfriend. She’s a voracious reader, an amateur seamstress and occasional painter in oils. Chocolate, American history, sweet tea and Idris Elba are a few of her favorite things. A native of the Tar Heel state, Kianna still lives there with her husband, two kids and a collection of well-loved vintage ’80s Barbie dolls.
For Kaia. I love you deeply...
except when you’re critiquing me. JK. Never change.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Jennifer C, my assistant, and the members of Kianna’s Royal Kourt street team. I appreciate all your hard work. My thanks also goes to Priscilla Johnson, who is a great friend and an invaluable supporter. To my Destin Divas: stay awesome. Thanks also to LaSheera Lee, LaShaunda Hoffman, Ronald Headen, Anya Alsobrook and the book clubs who support me.
You all rock!
Contents
Cover (#uafc4538f-c2f8-5f7b-aacf-f66df0c1e5bc)
Back Cover Text (#u1e2cf1ab-5182-5b82-84ec-e74619197492)
Introduction (#u11d5f01d-ad3f-5e94-a434-e833add7fc4f)
Dear Reader (#ucdde8099-0d5c-5dd3-84f0-9854f7c730a4)
Title Page (#ue772d631-52d5-5c39-b73b-d929f95dfc4e)
About the Author (#uf6a32961-b835-5ce3-9b68-c834b0767b94)
Dedication (#u0a1b70da-306c-5453-b6be-9cd4de3be47d)
Chapter 1 (#u2289c167-32c9-58ed-bbe2-86f6270120fe)
Chapter 2 (#ua17156ce-abbe-55bb-8fe7-d9dbce53ec0f)
Chapter 3 (#ubca59d90-9c7e-595b-af86-9b178c7f1a59)
Chapter 4 (#u78def4e5-9782-55a4-b2df-2357048082c2)
Chapter 5 (#ue75357b7-74ad-5f8a-beba-d3c7ad21ab1c)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ub26e6138-15d8-5f05-b6bd-00d9b648604f)
“Yo! Nona!”
Nona Gregory heard her name being called but didn’t bother looking up from her computer screen. She was typing, fast and furious, determined to get the latest draft of her article on her boss’s desk by the end of the day. Given that she only had twelve minutes, she couldn’t spare any time to deal with her coworker’s foolishness.
“I know you heard me, girl.” Ever persistent, Casey Dunning sidled into Nona’s office, a smirk on her face. “Did you get that thing I sent you?”
“Nah. Haven’t checked my email today.” Nona kept her eyes on her screen and her hands flying across the keys as she answered.
“Girl. You’re such a workaholic. You’re not even going to look at me?”
“Not until I hit Send on this article.”
Casey sighed. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
For the next few moments, the only sound in the office was of Nona’s seventy-five-words-per-minute typing. True to her word, she didn’t acknowledge Casey until she’d completed the last line, run a quick spell-check and sent the article on its way. Raising her eyes to her perturbed-looking coworker, she asked, “What’s so important?”
“It’s not important, per se. But it is funny, and I think most of us in this office would agree that you’re entirely too serious.”
Nona rolled her eyes. “Forgive me, but I was under the impression that this was a newspaper office and not the writers’ pen at a sketch comedy show.”
Casey shook her head. “Ugh. Just check your email when you get a chance, okay? You’re such a buzzkill.”
Nona watched Casey as she strode out of the office, leaving the door open. “And yet you continue to try to change me.”
After Casey left, Nona settled back in her chair. It was the end of another long day spent covering the Queen City’s arts and entertainment scene for the Charlotte Observer. As department head, Nona enjoyed a good amount of editorial freedom in choosing the stories she chased—most of the time. But with that freedom came some heavy responsibilities. She was charged with leadership of the three other reporters who also covered the area, and with being the final set of eyes to see their articles before they were passed up to her boss, the editorial director.
The sound of someone else entering her office pulled Nona back to reality. She straightened in her chair as her boss, Wendell Huffman, strode into the space. “I just saw your article on the art gallery opening hit my inbox. Good work, ace.”
She offered a small smile. “Thanks, Huff.” It was what everyone in the office called him. At least everyone who’d been working at the paper more than a year.
At fifty-two, Wendell had been in the reporting game for more than two decades. His face was clean shaven and retained a youthful appearance despite the gray peppering the edges of his close-trimmed black hair. He had assessing brown eyes that seemed to see through a person and a laid-back personality that kept him calm even around the tightest of deadlines. Beneath his cool exterior, though, was a true passion for getting down to the real core of a story. Today he wore his regular uniform of a vertical-striped white shirt and a pair of crisply ironed khaki pants.
“Even though I haven’t read it yet, I know it’ll be gold.” Wendell made himself comfortable in the chair on the other side of Nona’s desk. “And that’s why I have an assignment for you.”
Nona’s brow lifted in surprise and curiosity. “Really?” She chose most of her assignments, but when Wendell chose on her behalf, it usually meant the story would be a particularly compelling one.
“Yes. Are you familiar with the Grand Pearl Theater?”
She nodded. “The old building near J. C. Smith, on Beatties Ford Road, in Biddleville, right? It used to be the only black theater in town during segregation.”
“Right. Well, the city has just shelled out millions to have it remodeled and restored, and get this...the architect is Asian, and a small business outfit at that. It’s the biggest contract ever awarded by the city to a sole proprietor.”
Nona’s eyes widened. “Wow. A multimillion-dollar contract on a project like this, and it’s not going to some global architecture conglomerate? This is news.”
Wendell nodded. “You’re telling me. The higher-ups at corporate are already buzzing about this, and the editor in chief called me about an hour ago. We want you to cover this.”
Nona clapped her hands together as the excitement buzzed through her veins. “Sounds great! What’s our angle? Are we looking at the rich history of the Grand Pearl and the surrounding neighborhood? Or are we attacking gentrification and lauding the city for its efforts at restoring an important landmark?”
“Actually, we’re doing both of those angles. And a third angle.”
“What’s my third angle, Huff?”
“Learning everything there is to know about the architect, Ken Yamada. We want to know who he is, where he comes from, what he does in his spare time. But most of all, we want to know what drives him, what inspires his art. I’m told his winning design for the restoration is quite stunning.”
Cupping her chin in her hand, Nona thought about what Wendell was saying. It had been years since she’d done a personal profile, but it hadn’t been so long that she’d forgotten how odd artists could be. “So I’m getting all up in this guy’s business?”
“Basically.” Wendell clasped his hands in front of him, lacing his fingers. “There has to be something remarkable about him. He beat out some pretty stiff competition to get this contract.”
“I agree.” She knew that such an unprecedented contract could only have gone to someone like Mr. Yamada because he had something that amazed and impressed the city officials overseeing the project. “I’m on it.”
Huff let a broad grin spread over his face. “Excellent. You’ll start bright and early Monday morning on this. There’s a big unveiling of the new theater design in three weeks, and we want to debut the feature a few days before that.”
Her jaw dropped. “A feature? As in front page of the entertainment section?”
He rose from his chair. “No. As in, front page of the paper, above the fold.”
Holy crap. “I’m writing a headline feature?”
By now he was standing in her office doorway. “Yes, if you can handle it. Can you get me a great story in two and a half weeks?”
Parts of her were a tiny bit uncertain, but this was the opportunity of a lifetime. It could make or break her journalism career, and she decided she’d rather give it a shot and risk screwing up than let the opportunity pass by. “You got it, Huff. I’ll get the story.”
“That’s what I like to hear, ace. Have a good weekend.” With a tip of his imaginary hat, Wendell disappeared into the crowd of newspaper staffers headed home for the evening.
A glance at the clock showed Nona that it was already six thirty. She usually liked to be long gone from the office by this time, especially on a Friday. But as she sat at her desk turning Wendell’s words over in her mind, she found it hard to focus on anything else. She sat there for several more minutes, jotting notes on a pad. Finally, as the janitor wheeled his cart into the main area of the newspaper office, Nona shut down her computer, gathered her belongings and left.
* * *
With a large cup of his favorite coffee in hand, Ken Yamada sat at the drafting table in his office. It was a beautiful summer morning in early June, and the weather was so nice it made Monday more tolerable. Spread out before him on the slanted surface of the table were the original floor plans for the Grand Pearl Theater, along with some historic photos of the structure. It had taken quite a bit of digging on the part of his assistant, Lynn, but they’d managed to obtain the floor plans along with images of the interior and exterior of the building. Seeing the theater in all its former glory brought a smile to Ken’s face. He couldn’t wait to get into the project and restore the Grand Pearl to greatness again.
Lynn entered then. A petite brunette in her late twenties, she wore dark slacks and a bright red cap-sleeve blouse. “So, do you think I’ve dug up enough information on the theater?” she asked before bringing her mug filled with the herbal tea she preferred to her lips.
Without looking back up from the bounty of images spread out before him, Ken nodded. “Yes, this should be sufficient. Thank you, Lynn.”
“You’re welcome.” A twinkle of humor lit her blue eyes. “And I’m glad you said that, because I don’t think I could’ve gotten you much more.” She pulled up a stool next to Ken’s and sat down.
As she came into his space, Ken could smell the aromatic scents of mint, citrus and bergamot rising from Lynn’s steaming cup. He inhaled, enjoying the scents. He’d tried the tea once, after much prodding from Lynn. But he preferred to be caffeinated in the morning and wasn’t a fan of the taste.
“Now that the city’s on board and has accepted our proposal, we’ll have to move quickly on this project.” Ken jotted notes on a blank sticky paper with the charcoal pencil he kept tucked behind his ear most days. Affixing the small piece of paper to a corner of the drafting table, he added, “They’ve given us a tight turnaround on this. They expect to break ground the first week of July.”
Lynn pursed her lips. “Wow. That is tight. So how closely are they expecting us to stick to the preliminary design plan you included with your proposal?”
He shrugged. “The committee says they like my vision, but they didn’t really say I’d have to leave the plans unchanged.”
She let her eyes roll up toward the ceiling. “You know me. I’m an ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ kind of girl. It was your preliminary design that won the contract, so I think you should stick pretty close to it.”
“That’s true.”
“However, I also like my job. So since you’re the boss, I’m going to defer to you no matter what you decide.” She winked, taking another sip from her mug of tea.
He chuckled. “Wise decision. Anyway, I’m thinking I will stick pretty closely to the preliminary design. My goal with the Grand Pearl Theater is twofold—I want to modernize the structure and pay homage to its rich history.”
Lynn nodded. “I agree totally. I mean, look at these photos.” She picked up one of the black-and-white images, which depicted three well-dressed African American couples standing in the theater’s foyer. The caption read, A Show at the Grand Pearl, 1956. “I mean, it really was a grand place. The history surrounding it isn’t the most pleasant, but it deserves to be honored.”
“You’re right. And upholding and honoring that history will play a large role in this project.” Ken looked at the image of the smiling men and women, knowing the image was taken during a lighthearted moment. Still, as a man of color, he knew that life in America was much more complex for minorities. His own ancestors had been interned in a camp during the World War II era, and every day he encountered those who wished to define him only by tired old stereotypes of what an Asian man should be. He knew the specific issues were different for African Americans, but he couldn’t help seeing the similarities in the way prejudice could affect the lives of people of color.
“So, what’s first on the agenda, Ken?” Draining the last of her tea, Lynn set her mug aside on the edge of Ken’s desk and waited for instructions.
Ken scratched his chin, his eyes sweeping over the image in front of him. “I want to start with the exterior building material and framework. Get in contact with a few stonemasonry companies and take their bids. I want to keep the exterior look very close to the original. After you’ve taken their bids, compile the data for me and we’ll decide who to use for the project.”
“I’m on it.” Lynn slid from her stool and gathered her mug.
The ringing of Ken’s desk phone broke the quiet in the room. Lynn leaned over the desk and picked up the handset. “Yamada Creative. This is Lynn. How may I assist you?”
Ken continued to make notes at the drafting table as his assistant listened to whoever was on the other end.
“Okay. Hold, please.” Lynn cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s a reporter from the Charlotte Observer. She wants to speak with you about the Grand Pearl project.”
And so it begins. Ken knew that news of his contract would spread quickly, due to the dollar amount he’d been paid. While he wasn’t a fan of reporters, he understood the interest. Reaching out for the handset, he said, “I’ll take it.” No use putting off the inevitable.
Lynn passed Ken the phone.
“Hello? This is Ken Yamada.”
“Mr. Yamada, good morning.”
“Good morning.” He cradled the phone between his head and his shoulder and listened to the female reporter list her name and credentials. A few seconds passed before he noticed that Lynn was still standing by his desk, watching him, as if her feet were glued to the spot.
He frowned, waving his hand and mouthing, “Get out.”
Lynn snickered, but did as she was told. After she’d left the room, he turned his attention back to the woman on the phone, who was still going on about the feature she planned to write.
“Miss, that sounds great. However I’m on a tight deadline, so could we please get to the purpose of your call?”
She stopped chattering, and her tone held a bit of censure as she asked, “When and where could you meet me for an initial interview, Mr. Yamada?”
He felt his brow crease into a frown. “Initial? How many interviews do you think this is going to take?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll take up as little of your time as I possibly can.”
His frown deepened. He was a private man, and he didn’t enjoy having his time or his personal space infringed upon, least of all by a stranger. “We can meet tomorrow morning, 9:00 a.m., at the Starbucks in Charlotte Plaza. Are you familiar with it?”
“Very. I’ll see you there. And thank you, Mr. Yamada.”
He rose from the stool to replace the phone in the cradle. And as he stood in the quiet of his office, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into.
He’d have to be careful with this reporter. She seemed like the eager type who’d ask him probing questions and try to uncover his entire life story for her own purposes.
But no matter what she had planned, he couldn’t let her do that.
Because there were parts of his life that no one could ever know about.
Chapter 2 (#ub26e6138-15d8-5f05-b6bd-00d9b648604f)
With a cup of iced coffee and a warm croissant in hand, Nona slid into a seat at a table for two near the front of Starbucks Tuesday morning. It was eight thirty, well before the time she was scheduled to meet with Ken Yamada, but she’d come in early for several reasons. First, she needed to get something in her stomach and get caffeinated so she could be fully ready for this crucial first interview.
The other reason she’d come in early was to snag the right table. It needed to be small so that she would be sitting in close proximity to her interview subject. She found that nearness made people more likely to open up. The table also needed to be near the front so she could see him when he walked in. After years of doing in-person interviews, she’d become an expert at reading people: their stride, their expression and their body language.
She munched on her croissant, washing it down with a sip of the cold, sweetened coffee. While she ate, she wondered what Ken would be like in person. Their brief phone interaction had given her very little to go on. From that conversation, she could only tell that he had a deep voice, that he was a busy person and that he wasn’t a fan of being interviewed. He’d been pleasant with her but still managed to be a bit brusque when he’d asked her how many interviews she’d need.
She settled into her seat, pulling out her phone. She’d made sure it was fully charged so she could use its recording app to capture their conversation. Beyond that, she’d brought along her charger, just in case. She considered being prepared to be one of her greatest strengths.
She was scrolling through her email when the phone rang and her best friend’s face and name appeared on the caller ID. Knowing she still had at least ten minutes until Ken would arrive, she swiped to answer the call. “Hey, girl.”
“Hey, Nona.” Hadley Monroe, Nona’s closest pal since college, sounded chipper as ever. “What’s up in the big city?”
Nona chuckled at Hadley’s quip. “I’m guessing most places are big cities when you compare them to Sapphire Shores.”
Hadley popped her lips, the familiar sound reverberating in Nona’s ear. “Nona, don’t be hating on my little slice of paradise. But for real, what are you up to today? Anything interesting?”
“I’m actually at a coffee shop, waiting for an interview subject to arrive. Remember the feature I told you about Saturday?”
It sounded like she was chewing something. Between bites, Hadley spoke. “Yeah. The one about the architect and the old opera house or something.”
Nona rolled her eyes. “It’s a theater. But yes, I’m interviewing the architect today.”
Hadley stopped chewing. “Oh, girl. Is he fine? Have you seen him?”
“No, he hasn’t gotten here yet, so I don’t know what he looks like.”
“Um, hello, Ms. Ace Reporter. We have this invention now where you can look people up. Have you heard of it? It’s called the internets.” Her tone was rich in sarcastic humor.
“Shut up, Hadley. You know I have a very specific method of doing my stories. I never web search someone until I’ve met them in person. I don’t want anything clouding my first impression of them.” That had always been her policy, and it had never failed her, so she didn’t plan on changing it any time soon. Balancing the phone on her shoulder, she spread her favorite pens in front of her. She rarely took handwritten notes due to advances in technology, but she liked to have the pens there anyway.
“All right, whatever. But I’m expecting a call after you meet him. If he’s fine, I wanna know about it.” The sounds on Hadley’s end of the line included the rattling of pots and pans and running water.
“Hadley, what are you doing? There’s a lot of background noise.”
“I just finished breakfast and now I’m washing up my dishes before I head over to the office.”
“Another fun-filled day at Monroe Properties, eh?” Nona chuckled, knowing most people would be very happy with having an ocean view from their desk. But since Hadley worked for the family business and often complained about feeling stifled, she probably saw things differently.
Hadley sighed. “Yes, girl. But at least Savion is on vacation this week, so I only have to deal with Campbell. Working with family ain’t easy.”
“Let me get off the phone. I’ve got an interview and you’ve got to go do your brother’s bidding. I’ll talk to you later.”
“’Bye, girl.” Hadley disconnected the call.
As the phone returned to the home screen, Nona glanced at the time in the upper right corner. Nine twenty? Where is this guy? She hoped he had a damn good excuse for being late, because she considered punctuality very important. She placed the phone on the tabletop and let her gaze move to the doorway.
Just as she looked toward the door, it swung open, and in walked a dark-haired man she assumed to be Ken Yamada. He wore dark sunglasses, a button-down shirt in a soft shade of blue and navy blue slacks. A belt with a gold buckle depicting two crossed swords encircled his trim waist. He was taller than she’d expected, and his upper body was muscled but not beefy. He moved with a sure stride, his entire manner radiating a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
She stood at the table and called out to him at just above normal volume. “Mr. Yamada?”
His head swiveled her way. “That’s me.” And he turned, began moving in her direction.
She watched his approach, wondering when he would take off his sunglasses. She knew she could get a much better read on him if she could see his eyes.
When he entered her space, he stopped. Lifting his hand, he removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket, looking down as he did so.
“I’m Nona Gregory with the Charlotte Observer.” She stuck out her hand.
When he looked back up at her, with his eyes in full view, Nona’s heart skipped a beat. Damn. He had the most beautiful, expressive brown eyes she’d ever seen. They were rich and dark, only a shade lighter than the jet black of his hair. A few moments passed with her staring into his eyes, silent and entranced.
The corners of his mouth lifted in a slight smile as he gave her hand a brief shake, then released it. “It’s nice to meet you. Are we going to sit?”
His words reached her ears, working their way to her brain for processing.
Snapping out of her trance, she gestured him toward his seat. “Yes. Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Yamada, although I wish you’d been on time.”
The smile faded as quickly as it appeared. “I’m sorry, Headmistress. Are you going to give me detention?”
She cocked a brow. Apparently, the architect was no pushover. “I’ll let it slide this time, since it’s your first infraction.” She gestured to the table. “Shall we sit, or do you care to grab a coffee?”
“I’ll get a drink first, if you don’t mind.” His tone was dry, and his expression told her that he had fully intended to get his drink, whether she minded or not.
“Go ahead.” She sat back down and watched him walk away. As he stood at the counter ordering a beverage, she watched his every move. His steps were somewhat stiff now, a contrast to the way he’d moved when he’d walked in. His body language had changed as well. His shoulders were squared, hands clenched at his side. He looked more ready for a fistfight than an interview.
Then and there, Nona knew she would have her work cut out. He was guarded, and she was going to have to come up with some way to get him to reveal himself to her.
And she’d have to do it while trying to ignore how hot he was and how gorgeous his eyes were.
This wouldn’t be an easy interview. But she’d never been one to back down from a challenge.
* * *
While he waited for his dark roast, Ken purposefully kept his eyes on the barista dispensing it. He didn’t want to look back at Nona, because he sensed her watching him. She’d been assessing him from the moment he walked in. While he understood her scrutiny was likely rooted in journalistic curiosity, he still didn’t like it. He was a private man, always had been. The last thing he needed was someone to stare him down in some vain attempt to discover his deepest personal secrets.
He shot a sidelong glance in her direction, making sure not to turn his head as he did. He could see her in the periphery of his field of vision. She was gorgeous, and he’d noticed that as soon as he’d seen her. She was tall, probably close to his height. Her skin was the color of rich earth, and her hair was dark brown with a few streaks of bronze. She wore a sleeveless white blouse and a pair of yellow slacks that hugged her hips before flaring into wide-leg pants.
The moment he’d seen her sitting at the table, her back as stiff as a board, with about seven pens lined up in front of her, he’d pegged her as uptight. When she’d shaken his hand, she’d only confirmed his suspicions. He decided to entertain himself throughout this initial meeting with her. She probably wouldn’t like it, but that wasn’t any of his concern.
After he sweetened the mug of steaming coffee to his liking, he rejoined her at the table. She was scrolling through something on her phone, but she immediately set it aside when he took his seat.
“Since we’re getting a late start, I’d like to begin right away.” She set her phone on the table and took care positioning it.
He leaned against the hard wooden backrest of his chair, his coffee in hand. As he tried to get comfortable, he realized the stiffness of the chair mimicked that of his interviewer. How can a woman this beautiful be so uptight? “Okay. Where do we begin?”
Her hazel eyes locked on him, she said, “First of all, I need to let you know that I’m recording our interview with an app on my smartphone. I find it helps me with my article if I revisit the recordings later during my writing process.”
“I understand.” He drank from his ceramic mug, letting the rich warmth of the coffee wash down his throat.
“Good. Then let’s begin with the basics. Who is Ken Yamada?”
He snorted. The sound came out before he could stop it.
Her brow hitched, lips thinning as her expression went sour. “Is there something amusing about my question, Mr. Yamada?”
“Call me Ken, please. No need to be so formal.”
“Fine. What’s so funny, Ken?” She watched him, her brow furrowed as if she were honestly confused by his amusement.
“It’s a little cliché, don’t you think? I mean, you’re opening our interview with some existential query?” He took another drink of coffee.
She rolled her eyes, then took a breath. Her professional demeanor returned to replace the coolness that had been rolling off her only seconds before. “Ken, I’m sure you already know this, but the contract you just won from the city is unprecedented in terms of scope and money.”
He set his mug down, rubbed his hands together. “Yes, that’s true.” But what she didn’t know was how long and hard he’d worked to win the contract. I deserve that contract. Hell, I earned it.
“I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you, Ken. I know the people of Charlotte are curious about the phenom behind the Grand Pearl project, and I simply want to give them the most complete, accurate portrait of you that I can.”
He sensed the truth in her words right away. It was obvious that Nona was a consummate journalist, determined to deliver her very best work to her readers. He supposed he could respect that, since as an artist, he wanted the same thing for every one of his projects. “I get it.”
“I’m glad you understand. Now, what can you tell me about your early days? Tell me about your upbringing. Did you always know you wanted to be an architect?”
He bristled at the mention of his upbringing. “I don’t really want to talk about my childhood.”
“Is there any particular reason?”
He sensed her probing. “Yes. It isn’t relevant. I didn’t decide to pursue architecture until my second year in college.”
She pursed her lips. “Okay. Let me ask you this. Are you any relation to Hiro Yamada, who was formerly Mecklenburg County commissioner?”
A slow nod was the only answer he gave.
She watched him closely. “I’m going to guess you don’t want to elaborate on your relationship to Mr. Yamada?”
“No, and as I understood it, he was not the subject of the interview.” He fought down the irritation that usually arose when he felt someone getting too close. He didn’t mind answering her questions—as long as she stuck to the topic at hand.
“Maybe we’ll revisit that at another time, then.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “No, we won’t.”
She took a slow breath, tapped the tips of her French-manicured nails on the table. “You know, we aren’t making much progress with this, Ken.”
“Are you suggesting that’s my fault?”
“You don’t seem willing to share much about your life. In order to really nail this article, I have to get to know you on a deeper level.”
He leaned forward in his chair, holding eye contact with her. “Look, I’ll answer any questions you have that pertain to my work. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? About the Grand Pearl project and how I operate my business?”
She held his gaze, letting him know she wasn’t intimidated. “Yes, that is the basis of the article. But there has to be information about who you are as a person, because that informs your art.”
He could feel his jaw tighten. “I’m not interested in rehashing my entire past for the entertainment of the faceless populace.”
This time she dropped her gaze and sighed. “Fine. But I’m telling you, the piece will read as shallow and empty if you insist on leaving out your past.”
He shrugged. “I can’t say I care. I already locked down the project, and I’m not trying to win a popularity contest.”
She looked at him quizzically, blinked a few times, as if she didn’t believe what she’d just heard him say. “That was a very arrogant statement.”
“You say arrogant. I say confident.”
She picked up her phone and began swiping the screen. “I’m going to stop recording now. We obviously aren’t going to get anywhere today.”
“We could have, if you had adjusted your line of questioning.”
Irritation flashed in her eyes. “I don’t tell you how to design a building, so don’t tell me how to go about my writing process.”
He drained the rest of his coffee, watching her as she gathered her things.
“Congratulations. You just guaranteed that the interview process is going to take longer.” She tucked her phone into her purse and stood from her seat.
“I’ll wait to hear from you, then.”
Standing next to the table, with a frown marring her beautiful face, she asked, “Will you actually answer my questions the next time? I don’t like having my time wasted.”
“Neither do I. So yes, I will.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she turned and walked away.
As he watched her retreat, Ken smiled to himself. Even in the throes of annoyance, Nona was still beautiful and sexy as hell. He knew she probably thought he was an arrogant jerk, but in reality, he was just protecting his past. In order to keep the people he loved safe, he didn’t have any other choice.
Watching her hips sway as she strode out of the coffee shop brightened his smile.
He couldn’t wait to see what their next encounter would bring.
Chapter 3 (#ub26e6138-15d8-5f05-b6bd-00d9b648604f)
Stifling a yawn, Nona dragged herself into the kitchen for a cup of tea. It was early enough that she’d beat the sun out of bed, and mornings like this, she seriously wondered why she’d pursued journalism.
She fiddled around in the dark for a few moments before locating the switch. Her bleary eyes protested as the room flooded with bright light. Padding to the cabinet, she took down her mug and went to get her tea bags.
On cue, Sheba trotted into the kitchen. The two-year-old black lab immediately came to where Nona stood and nuzzled her bare calf with her cool, wet nose.
As always, Sheba’s presence brought a smile to Nona’s face. “Good morning, girl.” Leaving her tea supplies on the counter, she squatted down to give her sweet pup a few snuggles. Back on her feet, she washed her hands and started the teakettle. Then she fixed Sheba bowls of fresh kibble and water before grabbing her own breakfast ingredients from the white French-door refrigerator.
Twenty minutes later, she sat at the small table by her kitchen window. With her hot tea, a banana and an egg and cheese on an English muffin, she watched the sun rise. Sheba, having finished her kibble, lay quietly at Nona’s feet beneath the table.
As she sipped from her mug, she thought back on the previous day’s disastrous interview with Ken Yamada. She could clearly recall her feelings the moment she’d first seen him: a mixture of irritation and attraction. She hadn’t been pleased with his tardiness, but she’d definitely been pleased with his looks. He was handsome in a way that couldn’t be ignored. He was well dressed, confident and had a killer smile. Not to mention he had a head full of raven-black hair and dark, mesmerizing eyes. She could easily have stared at him all day and never gotten tired of the view.
Ken was unlike any other man she’d ever encountered, and that had turned out to be both good and bad. While she loved the way he looked and the subtle yet undeniable masculinity he exuded, she couldn’t figure out why he’d been so reluctant to share his past with her. The man was about as secretive as a government spy. She’d gone there hoping to learn something about who he was as a person, but he’d given her nothing. She’d never had an interview subject shut down on her that way.
What Ken didn’t know was that his insistence on being evasive only fueled her curiosity. Their encounter had made her more determined than ever to find out what made him tick. It also made her think he had something to hide, something he didn’t want the public to know. Who or what was he protecting? Before their association ended, Nona was determined to discover the answers.
Finishing up her breakfast, Nona straightened up and went to get dressed. She was grateful that she didn’t have to be in to the newspaper office until ten today. She’d still gotten up at her usual time because she planned to consult the internet to do a bit of digging. She wanted to see what she could find out about Ken’s life before she took Sheba out for a morning run.
Once she’d dressed in her running shorts, tank and sneakers, she eased onto her couch with her laptop. Sheba took up residence on the empty cushion next to her with her furry face pressed against Nona’s thigh.
Opening a browser window, Nona performed a basic search on Ken. That search pulled up very little, but the top two results were somewhat helpful. One was an inactive profile from one of those classmate connection websites, which listed Ken as a graduate of Independence High School. The other was an article on running in Charlotte from a fitness magazine. There was a photo of Ken along with a quote about how much he enjoyed running at Freedom Park. Nona made a mental note of those tidbits as well as the name and email of the writer of the article. Obviously that person had had some success with interviewing Ken and had even managed to get a photo out of him.
In a separate window, she shot off a quick email to the writer, hoping to garner some tips on how to get Ken to open up. The running article was fairly recent, having been published in the past six months. That gave her hope that the writer would remember her interactions with Ken and be able to offer some insight. At this point, Nona would take whatever help she could get.
Next she performed a search of Ken’s name in conjunction with Hiro Yamada. The way Ken had bristled at the mention of Hiro’s name let her know there was definitely a close association between them. Hiro had served as county commissioner during the late ’70s and early ’80s, so she checked the image search results to see what the former official had looked like during his tenure. When she placed the image of Hiro in the ’70s next to the photo of Ken from the fitness magazine, the resemblance immediately became apparent. Nona smiled.
I’d bet my press pass that Hiro and Ken are father and son. There wasn’t any other logical conclusion. Ken was basically the identical twin of a young Hiro. That would also explain why Ken had become so agitated when she brought up Hiro’s name. Ken had been particularly unwilling to talk about his upbringing. What better way to get to the root of someone’s childhood experiences than to bring up their parent?
Going a bit deeper into the image results, she came across a family portrait. It had been taken for the Observer as part of a profile on Hiro during the time he occupied the commissioner’s seat. It showed a young Hiro with his arms around a demurely dressed young woman, who in turn cradled a baby.
The caption read: Commissioner Yamada with his wife and son. Nona knew the baby was probably Ken. But while her dash through the internet had revealed a few things to her, it also left her with so many more questions. Why had Ken tried to hide the fact that Hiro was his father? And why had he been so reluctant to talk about his childhood? The family photo seemed to show two loving parents doting over their precious infant. But she’d been around long enough to know that looks could be deceiving.
Sheba began whimpering from her spot on the couch, a telltale sign of the pup’s restlessness. She nudged Nona’s thigh, further communicating her need to go outside.
“All right. Let’s go run, girl.” She shut down the computer, slid it into a blue laptop sleeve and set it on the coffee table. Grabbing the leash, her house keys and her phone, she tucked them into the fanny pack she wore when she ran.
Just as she started to zip the pack, her phone buzzed. Checking it, she saw that the writer from the fitness magazine had replied to her message. Thankful that the reporter had gotten back to her so quickly, she clicked the leash buckle to Sheba’s collar, then opened the email.
Good morning.
Just saw your message. Yes, I remember Mr. Yamada. He’s a hard nut to crack. The best way to get him to talk is to run with him. That’s what I had to do. It seems to relax him and gets him to open up. You mentioned he’s very evasive, and he was initially the same way with me. Even if you’re not a runner, if you don’t get out on the trail with him, expect more of the same.
Best of luck,
M. Hargrove
Smiling, Nona tucked the phone away. Now she had what she needed to get Ken to tell his story. Luckily, she happened to be a frequent runner and was in very good shape. Since she and Ken were close in height, she was sure she could keep up with him on the trail.
As she headed out the door with Sheba, she started planning how to make this run with Ken happen.
* * *
The interior of the kendo room at Satori Martial Arts was filled with the sounds of shouting, feet stamping and wood striking wood. The noises echoed in Ken’s ears, partly because he was making some of them as he and Marco moved around the wooden floor, sparring. Their bare feet made a shushing sound as they slid over the floor’s surface, then a boom as they stomped in time with the thrusts of their bamboo swords.
Their bodies were encased in traditional practice clothes. The outfit worn frequently by students and those who sparred casually consisted of loose-fitting white jackets and trousers. Because they were friends and didn’t spar for competition, they generally didn’t wear the full kendo armor.
When the match ended, and both men bowed to each other, Marco groaned. “You know, I’m tired of coming here to spar with you and getting beat every time.”
Ken shrugged as the two of them left the sparring floor. “I told you to practice more often. How do you expect to improve without practice?”
They entered the locker room, where Marco shrugged out of his sweaty shirt. “I don’t have time. And now that I’m married, I have even less time.”
With a shake of his head, Ken stuffed his own damp clothes into his gym bag. “It’s about commitment. You’re not committed.”
“You should be committed. My loyalty is to Joi.” Marco pulled a towel and his shower caddy from his locker and started moving toward the showers. “It’s strange that everything that excites you involves wooden sticks. You work with a pencil, play drums for the band and then come here and swing a bamboo sword for kicks.”
“What can I say? I’m a steady guy.” Ken chuckled and punched Marco in the shoulder as he walked by.
After the men had showered and changed, they moved to the snack bar. Seated at a small table with two protein shakes, they continued their conversation.
“Are you ever going to get serious about kendo?”
“No.” Marco didn’t hesitate with his answer. “To be honest, I don’t know how I let you talk me into coming here in the first place. We both know I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
Ken laughed. “Based on how much you suck at this, I’d have to agree.”
Taking a drink of his shake, Marco frowned. “You know what? I’m not coming back here. When I was single and had free time to kill, that was one thing. But now that I’m married, I see no reason to leave my beautiful wife just to come here and be insulted by the likes of you.”
Ken shook his head. “Do you even know what kendo means? What it’s all about?”
“I don’t, but I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”
“Yeah, I will. Kendo means ‘the way of the sword.’ It has its basis in the time-honored tradition of Japanese swordsmanship. It builds character, increases physical strength and...”
“Blah, blah, blah.” Marco rolled his eyes. “You know what else builds my character and increases my physical strength? Being home with my wife.”
Ken could see he was losing this battle. “I get it, Marco. I won’t be upset if you decide not to come back to the dojo.”
“Good, because I’m not,” he said as he finished up his smoothie. “What’s going on with you and the newspaper reporter, by the way? Told her your life story yet?”
“Actually I haven’t told her much of anything.” He leaned back in his chair, remembering how irritated Nona had looked when she’d left the coffee shop that day. “Trust me, it wasn’t due to lack of effort on her part.”
“What do you mean?”
“I understand that she’s trying to collect information and that it’s part of her job. But she comes across as a little...pushy.”
Marco shrugged. “What did you expect? Like you said, she has a job to do. Why do you insist on making it hard for her?”
Ken looked past Marco, through the window. Outside, the sun was setting, and the city lights that illuminated the streets of the Queen City by night were starting to appear. He thought of his past and his present. Even though he considered Marco his closest friend, there were many things about Ken’s life that Marco didn’t know. “I have my reasons.”
Groaning, Marco got up from his seat. “If you say so. At any rate, she seems like the type who isn’t going to give up. If you want to get her out of your hair, you’re going to have to answer some questions.”
As vexing as it was, Ken knew Marco was right. Nona Gregory did not strike him as a woman who’d be content with failure. She didn’t even seem like the type who’d be satisfied with knowing him on the surface level, either. No, she was going to keep digging and digging until she hit pay dirt.
That dogged determination to know everything about him was what worried him the most.
“Listen. I need to get home to Joi. She’s making my favorite dessert tonight.”
“What’s that?”
“Whipped cream.”
“What?” He couldn’t make any sense of his friend’s answer.
Marco winked. “Strategically placed whipped cream. Get yourself a good woman and you too can enjoy this decadent treat.”
Shaking his head, Ken grabbed their empty cups. “Get out of here, Marco.”
“With pleasure.”
Ken tossed the cups in the trash as Marco made his way out the door.
Chapter 4 (#ub26e6138-15d8-5f05-b6bd-00d9b648604f)
As dawn painted the sky on Thursday morning, Nona stood by a bench in Freedom Park. Dressed in her close-fitting running pants and a black tee, she stretched by lifting first one ankle, then the other, behind her bottom. Sheba sat dutifully at Nona’s feet with her leash looped around the bench armrest. The dog’s steady breathing was the only sound that competed with the chirping of birds and the soft morning breeze rustling the grass and trees.
The bench Nona had staked out was strategically located near the only entry point to the park’s running trail. As she stood, bouncing in place to prime her muscles for the upcoming run, she smiled.
He’ll be here any minute.
She’d spoken with Ken briefly by phone Wednesday evening and had asked if she could accompany him on his morning run in order to chat with him. To her surprise, he’d agreed right away. Now all that was left was to keep up with him, but she didn’t have any worries about that. She was in incredible shape due to her own running and other fitness habits.
The sound of an engine pulled her attention toward the nearby parking lot. The two-door coupe slipped into a spot a few places down from her car, and the driver cut the engine.
When Ken stepped out of the car, Nona’s gaze fixed on him.
He looked somewhat different in the early morning light, dressed in his running clothes. He wore a sleeveless white shirt and a pair of dark blue running shorts, which left the muscled expanse of his arms and legs visible. As he walked her way, the muscles flexed in time with his movements.
Her heart began to pound in her ears. When she’d met him a few days ago in his business casual dress, she would never have imagined he was built so solidly. She swallowed to empty her mouth, which suddenly watered. Reaching to her waist, she pulled the water bottle from her pack and took a quick swig.
Entering her space with an easy smile, he spoke. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” she managed.
He stooped down to give Sheba’s head a rub. “Cute pup. You two ready?”
She smiled. Sheba hadn’t backed away from him to indicate any dislike. That was a good sign. “Yes, we’re ready.”
They walked to the trail ahead as Nona held the end of Sheba’s leash.
“I see you’re on time today,” Nona teased.
“I’m never late for my runs.” Ken squatted to tie his shoelace, moving fluidly into the runner’s mark stance. “I suppose you have more questions about my life?”
She shrugged. “Of course I do. You didn’t give me anything last time.”
“You knew I run here.”
“I found that out on my own.”
He chuckled. “Beat me back to the trailhead, and we’ll talk.”
Her face scrunched into a frown. “You didn’t say that on the phone.”
“Those are my terms.” He raised his hips, indicating his impending start.
Matching him, Nona drew a deep breath.
He took off like a shot, his powerful legs propelling him forward.
She followed a second later and soon matched his pace.
Sheba kept up with both of them, allowing her youthful energy to have its head.
While Nona ran, cutting through the humid morning air like a knife, she thought about his trickery. In his overconfidence, he obviously thought he’d beat her in this impromptu footrace and then be released from any obligation to speak to her. She had no intention of letting him off the hook, so she made sure to keep her strides long.
When he glanced to his left and saw her easily keeping pace with him, a flicker of worry crossed his face. It was only there for a moment before he kicked into second gear and picked up his pace.
With a smile, Nona sped up as well. The wind whipped her ponytail as Sheba ran alongside her. She felt powerful, exhilarated. There was nothing like a morning run to get the blood pumping and the gears turning.
Sheba reached the trailhead first, followed closely by her mistress.
When Ken got there, he leaned over, placing his large hands on his knees as he caught his breath.
Nona, still standing upright, felt winded yet triumphant. “What’s the matter? Didn’t get your coffee this morning?”
He stood, making a show of rolling his eyes at her. “Oh, please. The dog obviously tugged you across the finish line.”
Sheba cocked her head to the side, as if she took offense.
Nona waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever. Don’t be a sore loser.” She pointed to the bench. “Now, you owe me an interview, sir.”
As if admitting defeat, he trudged over to the bench and plopped down. “Three questions. Ask away.”
Parts of her wanted to kick him in the shin. “After all that, all I get is three questions?”
He nodded. “For now, yes.”
She shook her head. He certainly had an odd way of approaching things. Having interviewed artists in the past, this wasn’t her first time encountering this type of behavior. “Fine.”
He watched her as she called Sheba to sit and joined him on the bench. “What do you want to know?”
“Plenty, but we’ll start with this.” She laid her smartphone on her lap and set it to record. “Mr. Yamada, when did you first sense that you wanted to pursue the arts?”
He raised a hand to scratch his chin, his gaze fixed on some faraway point. “I was in college, majoring in computer graphics. We completed a class project that involved developing plans and schematics for a fictional skyscraper. I’d always loved to draw for as long as I could remember. But when we worked on that project, I fell in love with architecture. It’s the meeting of math, science and art.”
She nodded, both impressed and intrigued by his answer. “I see. My next question is, what was the first architectural design of your professional career?”
“Hmm. When I first opened Yamada Creative a few years back, I took on a project to build a new library for Duck, North Carolina. It’s a very small town, and their entire collection fit into a one-story building of about seventy-five hundred square feet. It wasn’t a glamorous project, but I was able to provide the residents of Duck with a new facility that met their needs.”
She was enjoying discovering some facts about Ken’s architecture work. If she were honest with herself, she’d admit that she was also enjoying his company. Aware that she only had one question left, she decided to make it a good one. “What has been your favorite project so far?”
He didn’t hesitate. “The children’s hospital in Lillyville. My team and I worked on the design over the course of eight or nine months. The town didn’t have a proper facility for kids with serious injuries and diseases, and we took that into consideration in our design. We wanted to build something that incorporated meeting the medical needs of very sick children while also conveying a sense of whimsy and playfulness. I think we accomplished that.”
“Wow. You speak very passionately about the hospital project.”
He smiled, turning her way. “It’s definitely the one I’m most proud of. I still go over there about once a month to visit with the patients and just enjoy what I created.”
Her eyes connected with his, and a prickle ran up her spine. Hearing the way he spoke about the children’s hospital touched her in a way she hadn’t expected.
His voice broke into her thoughts. “That was your last question.”
“I know.” She continued to keep eye contact with him, not wanting the moment to end.
He leaned closer, the heat of his body radiating out to mingle with hers. “Are you saying you’re satisfied?”
She didn’t move away. “Not at all. I’d love to see your office.”
“Why?”
“Seeing your workspace may help me understand you better. I may not even need to ask you much else.” She inhaled, taking in the scent of his woodsy deodorant.
“I’m okay with that. Call me and we’ll set it up.”
Before she could draw her next breath, he placed a peck on her cheek.
“What...?” she stammered. She’d been caught off guard, but she couldn’t say she hadn’t enjoyed it. The warmth spreading from her cheek made her reach up to place her hand there.
He smiled, his dark eyes twinkling.
She got the distinct sense that he enjoyed seeing her so off-kilter.
“Have a good day, Nona.”
Without another word, he strode to his car, got in and drove away.
Nona sat on the bench for several minutes, gathering her focus.
* * *
Saturday morning, Ken gathered with the rest of the Queen City Gents at Marco’s house for band rehearsal. As the four of them set up their instruments in Marco’s spare room, Ken looked around at the faces of the men he considered to be his closest friends. Each man wore a smile, one that seemed to have been put there by the woman in his life. Shaking his head, Ken eased onto the stool behind his drum set, and began tapping out a simple rhythm on the snare and kick tom to warm up.
Soon, Ken segued into “Drum Waltz,” which he’d learned from the techniques of his idol, jazz drum great Max Roach. The cadence moved in three-quarter time, making use of almost the entire drum set. As Roach had done, Ken threw in taps on the rims and outer casings of the drums to increase the depth and variety of sounds he could make.
As was usually the case when the guys sensed Ken was in the zone, conversation in the room ceased as Ken ran through the waltz a couple of times then moved into a freestyle, improvised rhythm. He was used to having inspiration grab hold of him this way, but the source of today’s inspiration was a surprise. In his mind’s eye, he pictured Nona in her fitted running gear. She had a body built for pleasure, and he would have to have been blind not to see that. As he remembered her tall, lithe figure, his drumming slowed but became richer, more passionate. Before he knew it, he’d slipped into a sensual, lilting ride cadence. His sticks struck the cymbals and the snare in a pattern reminiscent of the movements of her body as he imagined her slowly strutting toward him. His lips stretched into a smile.
Nona Gregory is a whole lot of woman.
When Ken finally looked up from his drum set, he saw Darius, Marco and Rashad all staring at him. No one said a word.
Ken’s brow crinkled. “What?”
Still, no one responded.
Ken chuckled, shaking his head. “You act like you never saw me get into a groove before. Darius, pick your jaw up off the floor. And Rashad, you look like your eyes are about to pop out of your head. Fix your face, man!”
Marco spoke first as the other two men tried to straighten up. “Sure, we’ve seen you in a groove before. We’ve all been there. But this is different.”
Ken shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Taking a few steps closer to Ken, Darius looked closely at him. “It’s a woman.”
Ken frowned.
“Oh, it’s definitely a woman.” Rashad clapped his hands together. “Wow. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Marco added, “I know who it is. It’s the reporter from the newspaper, right? The one who’s writing the story about you?”
“And what makes you think I have any interest in her?” Ken set his sticks on the snare, folding his arms over his chest.
“You spent almost an hour complaining about her when we sparred in kendo this week.” Marco folded his arms over his chest, mirroring Ken.
“You’ve never cared enough about a woman to mention her name to any one of us, let alone talk about her for that long.” Darius shook his head, eyes wide with amazement. “I think it’s finally happening.”
Ken groaned. He never would have thought someone could make him regret his fantasy. If he’d known his thoughts were so plainly displayed on his face, he’d have tucked his daydream away until he was alone.
“I’m glad a woman has finally gotten under your skin. I was beginning to worry about you, bro.” Rashad took a seat behind the keyboard he used for rehearsals.
“Looks like our last single member is about to be taken down, boys.” Darius chuckled as he set his upright bass, Miss Molly, on its stand.
“Whatever. You guys are full of crap.” Ken waved them off, already sensing the futility of the discussion. His bandmates were always bringing up his singlehood; it had been that way ever since Marco had married Joi a couple of months ago. Now that they knew he’d been thinking about a woman, there was no way they’d quit harping on it.
“I just want to know her name.” The remark came from Darius.
When Ken didn’t answer, Marco volunteered the information. “Her name is Nona.”
“I’d love to meet her.” Rashad played his hands over the keys. “Just to say thanks for taking Ken down a peg.”
Rolling his eyes, Ken vowed not to mention that he’d kissed Nona. He saw no need to add fuel to this fire. “Can we just get on with rehearsal?”
Darius grinned. “As much as I like teasing Ken, he’s right. We really should get to work on this week’s set.”
Conversation turned toward the music the band would play and away from Ken’s personal life. Relieved, he grabbed his sticks and waited for Rashad’s cue.
In the back of his mind, he thought of Nona and the problem she presented. He’d agreed to let her interview him for the newspaper because no sensible businessman would turn down good publicity. But being attracted to Nona had come as a surprise, something he’d never considered would be part of the equation. The way she made him feel only served to further complicate an already complex situation. He was a private man, and letting someone into his personal life was difficult enough without the added burden of growing attraction.
He knew he’d have to work doubly hard now. He had to protect his single status as well as his privacy, no matter how intoxicating the determined reporter might be.
Chapter 5 (#ub26e6138-15d8-5f05-b6bd-00d9b648604f)
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen. I need your attention on me, please.”
Nona stood before her intermediate jazz dance class, dressed in her leggings, tank and felt-bottom dancing shoes. Her students, ranging in age from eleven to fourteen, were lined up in front of her. All ten of her students were present, eight girls and two boys, each standing on their designated mark on the wooden floor.
She’d been teaching this class two nights a week at Butterfly Ballet and Dance for the past five years, and she truly loved the work. It wasn’t the highest-paying gig in the world, but the joy she got from working with her students and seeing them improve their art more than made up for the paltry paycheck. Her parents’ prodding, and the sense of obligation she felt to them, had led her into journalism as a main career. Pure passion drove her to teach dance.
As the children settled down, ending their conversations and focusing on her, she smiled. “Thank you. Today, we’ll continue to work on our turns as a basis for our recital choreography. Everybody into first position parallel, please.” She moved into the position, standing with her feet eight inches apart and her toes pointed forward.
The children mimicked her stance.
“Second position legs.” She waited as the children adjusted. “Now add second position arms.”
Over the next forty minutes, Nona walked her students through the practice of a series of turn maneuvers. Moving between the two rows of students, she stopped to reposition little arms and feet as they executed paddle turns, piques and pirouettes. They worked hard, staying focused even as they repeated the same maneuver over and over again. When they achieved good form and proper execution, Nona heaped them with praise for their efforts.
The intermediate group was full of students who’d begun dance lessons as young children, some as young as four or five years old. Those who didn’t like dance or didn’t feel capable enough to handle it usually dropped out before the intermediate level. By the time they reached Nona’s class, they were serious about learning all they could. Their interest level and dedication were growing, with many of them eager to move on to advanced classes. They were still excited about dancing but knew they had a lot more to learn, and that was what appealed to her about teaching students at that level.
As the end of class approached, Nona had her students sit on the floor in a circle, as usual. Sitting down between two of the kids, she looked around at their faces. “Great class today, everyone. Now, let’s have our chat. Who has something they want to talk about today?”
Class chats were something Nona had implemented early in her dance teaching days. Due to the age of her students, they often were facing complex issues at school or with their families. They were middle schoolers, navigating a veritable minefield of social, personal and academic issues. She hoped the class chats gave them a forum to speak to their peers in dance and to ask advice from her as an impartial adult. She kept what the children said to her in confidence, except in instances where one of her students might be in danger. Thankfully, she hadn’t run into that issue so far, so she’d built a rapport with the youngsters under her tutelage.
Eleven-year-old Marie raised her hand. “Some of the girls at school have been calling me a geek because I read comic books.”
Nona shook her head. “I’m sorry to hear that, Marie. What is our motto when it comes to our interests?”
The children repeated the often-said phrase in unison. “Being me is the only way to be.”
“Right.” Nona sent a smile Marie’s way. “So if you like comic books, keep right on reading them.”
“I like comics, too.” The remark came from twelve-year-old Diamond. “Maybe we can trade.”
Marie’s eyes lit up.
Nona smiled even brighter. “See? You got yourself a comic buddy, right here in class. Now, does anybody else have something they want to talk about?”
The question was met with silence and head shakes.
“You’re sure?”
The only noise in the room was Diamond and Marie’s excited comic book–related banter.
Nona clasped her hands together. “Okay. Then I have a question for you all.”
Ten sets of surprised eyes looked her way.
Ralph, her oldest student at fourteen, asked, “You want our advice on something?”
She nodded. “Yes. You all know that I work as a reporter for the newspaper. I have an article to write about a man who just won a very important contract from the city.”
“Okay, so what’s the problem?” Diamond focused on Nona, eyes filled with questions.
“The man I’m supposed to interview is very secretive. I’ve spoken to him twice and still don’t know very much about him. At least not enough to write my story. So what do you all think I could do to get him to tell me about himself?”
She looked around the room, taking in her students’ thoughtful expressions. She hadn’t intended to ask them about this when she’d come into the studio today, but she figured she didn’t have anything to lose. She needed to get Ken to open up somehow if she were to have any chance of meeting her deadline.
Ralph spoke first. “What does he like to do for a hobby?”
“I know he likes to run. I went on a run with him the other day, and that helped some.”
“Well, I’d see what else he likes to do. If you do what he likes to do, I bet he’ll talk to you some more.” Ralph folded his arms over his chest. “Yeah. That’s what I’d do.”
She nodded. “Thanks, Ralph.”
“No problem.”
Betty, the youngest of her students, spoke then. “What about cookies? Have you tried baking him cookies?”
That suggestion made her chuckle. “No, I haven’t. But at this point I’m willing to try it. Maybe I’ll take him some cookies the next time I interview him. Thanks, Betty.”
The girl responded with a shy smile.
“I’d say be nice to him, but you’re probably already doing that.” Diamond tapped her chin with her index finger. “Be honest with him and let him know you’re not trying to get in his business, you’re just doing your job.”
Nona nodded. “Good suggestion, Diamond. Anybody else?”
No one else had anything to say.
“Well, thank you all for listening, and for your helpful suggestions to my problem. Class is dismissed.”
As the children got up and gathered their belongings, Nona watched over them. Through the side windows of the one-story building, she could see their parents’ vehicles idling in the parking lot. She got her clipboard from her dance bag, prepared to check off names one by one as the students were picked up. Once she’d seen all her students safely off, Nona took a minute to straighten up her space, then switched off the lights and headed to her car.
Crossing the parking lot, she enjoyed the crisp breeze that blew over her, giving her momentary respite from the humid night air. Thinking back on the advice of her students, she smiled and wondered what kind of cookies she should bake for Ken.
Knowing she’d be willing to give him cookies of a much more adult nature, she shook her head and climbed into her car.
* * *
Wednesday morning, Ken strode into his office around seven. It was a bit earlier than he usually came in to work, but he wanted to get an early start on his drafting for the Grand Pearl project. He knew Nona would arrive to interview him around nine, and he wanted two hours alone in the office to work. Lynn rarely came in before nine thirty, and the two interns came in the afternoon when they were released from their college classes.
Instead of flipping the light switch, he walked across his semidark office toward the windows. The windows went from floor to ceiling, making up the entire eastern wall of his office. Once there, he turned the handle to open the vertical blinds. Sunlight flooded the space, and he took in a deep breath. Morning light always seemed to jump-start his artistic inspiration, making mornings his most productive time for the creative side of his business. He reserved afternoons for paperwork, phone calls and the other activities constituting the practical side of his work.
He faced away from the window, looking around his private office. The walls were painted in a shade of gray so muted it appeared white. His desk was glass, with chrome legs and hardware, and had no drawers. Instead, he stored all his important papers in the two silver filing cabinets occupying the south wall behind the desk. Two bookcases sat near the cabinets, storing various mementos and trinkets. Two chrome chairs with white vinyl seats sat facing the desk. On the rare occasion he had guests in his office, they occupied those chairs.
In the center of the room was his drafting table. Comprised of chrome and stainless steel with a vinyl-covered drawing surface, the table had a matching leather-topped stool for him to sit on. The drafting table was the focal point of the space, positioned in a way to take advantage of the natural light. On the north side of the room sat a seldom-used white microfiber love seat. In place of artwork on the walls, he’d hung blueprints and sketches of his past projects.
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