Sealed With a Kiss Read online

  Her reply read, “Dear Mr. Meade, next time you’re on the air, I’d appreciate your explaining what a two-month-old squash does when it no longer needs its mother and fends for itself. (Something tells me it gets eaten.) You didn’t really mean to equate the maturity of a squash with achievement of adulthood in humans, did you? I’d try to straighten that out, if I were you. Don’t bother to write. I’ll keep tuning in to Capitol Life. Well, hang in there. Yours, NL.”

  She only had to wait four days for his answer. “Dear Ms. Logan, you have deliberately misunderstood me. I stand by my position that as long as women guarded the home rather than the office and the Mack truck, juvenile crime and divorce were less frequent occurrences. You are not seriously concerned with these urgent problems, so I will not waste time writing you again. I’m assuming you’re a career woman, and my advice is to stick with your career; at least you’ll have that. Yours, RM.”

  Naomi curved her mouth into a long, slow grin. She always enjoyed bedeviling straitlaced, overly serious people, though she acknowledged to herself that her cheekiness was a camouflage. It enabled her to cover her vulnerability and to shrug off problems, and besides, she loved her wicked side. Rufus Meade’s words told her that he was easily provoked and had a short fuse, and she planned to light it; never would she forgo such a tantalizing challenge.

  Curled up on her downy sofa, she wrote with relish: “Dear Mr. Meade, I’ve probably been unfair to you. You remind me so much of my grandfather, who was born just before the turn of the century. If you’re also a nonagenarian, my sincere apologies. For what it’s worth, I am not a ‘career woman.’ I am a woman who works at a job for which I am well trained. The alternative at present would be to marry a male chauvinist in exchange for my keep, or to take to the streets, since food, clothing, and shelter carry a price tag. But considering your concern for the fate of the family, I don’t think you’d approve of the latter. But then, it isn’t terribly different from the former, now, is it? Sorry, but I have to go; the Saturday afternoon Metropolitan Opera performance is just beginning, and I’m a sucker for La Traviata. Till next time. Naomi Logan.” After addressing it to him, she mailed it and hurried back to listen to the opera.

  Several days later, engrossed in her work, Naomi laid aside her paintbrush and easel and reluctantly lifted the phone receiver. In a voice meant to discourage the caller, she muttered, “Yes?”

  There was a brief silence, and then a deep male voice responded. “Miss Logan, please.”

  She sat down, crossed her knee, and kicked off her right shoe. That voice could only belong to him. She had heard it only twice, but she would never forget it. It was a voice that commanded respect, that proclaimed its owner to be clever, authoritative, and manly, and, if you weren’t annoyed by its message, it was sensually beautiful.

  “Speaking,” she said almost reluctantly, as if sensing the hand of fate. There was more silence. “I’m hanging up in thirty seconds,” she snapped. “Why are you calling?”

  His reply was tinged with what struck her as a grudging laugh. “Miss Logan, this is Rufus Meade. It seems that your spoken language is as caustic as your letters.”

  Her world suddenly brightened; she’d made him angry enough to call her. She tucked a little of her wild hair behind her ear and laughed. Many people had told her that her laughter sounded like bells clinking in the breeze. “I thought I had apologized for being disrespectful,” she said softly, with an affected sweetness. “If Grandpa knew how I’d behaved toward an older person, he’d raise the devil.”

  “At the expense of being rude,” he replied tightly. “I doubt that there’s a ninety-year-old man on the face of this earth who is my equal, and if you’re less than eighty, I’m prepared to demonstrate it.”

  Oh ho, she thought, and howled with laughter, hoping to infuriate him further. “My, my. Our ego’s been pricked, and we’ve got a short temper, too.”

  “And less patience, madam. You’re brimming with self-confidence, aren’t you, Ms. Logan?” She assured him that she was. Up to then, his conversation had suggested to her that he didn’t hold her in high regard, so his next words surprised her.

  “Taking a swipe at me in person should be much more gratifying than having to settle for snide remarks via the mail and over the phone, so why don’t you have lunch with me?”

  She laughed again, turning the screw and enjoying it. “You couldn’t be serious. Why would you think I’d enjoy the company of a man who prefers bimbos to women who can spell? No, thank you.”

  She sighed, concerned that she might have overdone it and realized that she had indeed when he replied in a deadly soft voice. “I hope you enjoy your own company, Ms. Logan. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  He hung up before she could reply, and a sense of disappointment washed over her, a peculiar feeling that warmth she hadn’t realized she felt was suddenly lacking. It was strange and indefinable. She didn’t welcome close male friendship because she couldn’t afford them, and she had not been courting Rufus’s interest. She had just been having fun, she reasoned, and he wasn’t going to have the last word.

  She got out her pen and paper and wrote: “Dear Rufus, how could one man have so many quirks? Bimbos, short temper, heavyweight ego, and heaven forbid, spoilsport. You need help, dear. Yours faithfully, Naomi.”

  Naomi hadn’t heard from Rufus in three days, and she was glad; their conversation had left her with a sense of foreboding. She arrived home feeling exhausted from a two-hour argument with her fellow board members of One Last Chance that the foundation, which she had cofounded to aid girls with problems, would overstretch itself if it extended its facilities to boys. In the Washington, D.C., area, she had insisted, boys had the Police Athletic League for support, but for many girls, especially African American girls, there was only One Last Chance. And she knew its importance. How different her life might have been if the foundation had been there for her thirteen years ago, when she had been sixteen and forced to deal with the shattering aftermath of a misplaced trust.

  She refreshed herself with a warm shower, dressed quickly in a dusty rose cowl-necked sweater and navy pants, and rushed to her best friend Marva’s wedding rehearsal. Dusty rose reminded her of the roses that her mother had so carefully tended and that still flourished around the house on Queens Chapel Terrace, where she had lived with her parents. She couldn’t recall those days well, but she thought she remembered her mother working in her garden on clear, sunny mornings during spring and summer. She regularly resisted the temptation to pass the house and look at the roses. She’d never seen any others that color, her favorite. It was why she had chosen a dress of that shade to wear as maid of honor at Marva’s wedding.

  Marva was her closest friend, though in Naomi’s view they were exact opposites. The women’s one priority was the permanent attainment of an eligible man. Marriage wasn’t for her, but as maid of honor, she had to stand in for the bride—as close to the real thing as she would ever get. At times, she desperately longed for a man’s love and for children—lots of them. But she could not risk the disclosure that an intimate relationship with a man would ultimately require, and to make certain that she was never tempted, she kept men at a distance.

  Naomi knew that men found her attractive, and she had learned how to put them off with empty, meaningless patter. It wasn’t that she didn’t like any of them; she did. She wanted to kick herself when the groom’s best man caught her scrutinizing him, a deeply bronzed six footer with a thin black mustache, good looks, and just the right amount of panache. She figured that her furtive glances had plumped his ego, because he immediately asked her out when the rehearsal was over. She deftly discouraged him, and it was becoming easier, she realized, when he backed off after just a tiny sample of her dazzling double-talk.

  I’ll pay for it, she thought, as she mused over the evening during her drive home. Whenever she misrepresented herse
lf as frivolous or callous to a man whom she could have liked, she became depressed afterward. Already she felt a bit down. But she walked into her apartment determined to dispel it. The day had been a long one that she wouldn’t soon forget. “Keep it light girl,” she reminded herself, as she changed her clothes. To make certain that she did, she put on a jazz cassette and brightened her mood, dancing until she was soaked with perspiration and too exhausted to move. Then she showered, donned her old clothes, and settled down to work.

  She took pride in her work, designing logos, labels, and stationery for large corporations and other businesses, and she was happiest when she produced an elegant, imaginative design. Her considerable skill and novel approaches made her much sought after, and she earned a good living. She was glad that a new ice-cream manufacturer liked a logo that she’d produced, though the company wanted a cow in the middle of it. A cow! She stared at the paper and watched the paint drying on her brush, but not one idea emerged. Why couldn’t she dispel that strange something that welled up in her every time she thought of Rufus? It had been a week since her last provocative note to him, and she wondered whether he would answer. It was dangerous, she knew, to let her mind dwell on him, but his voice had a seductive, almost hypnotic effect on her. Where he was concerned, her mind did as it pleased. Tremors danced through her whenever she recalled his deep voice and lilting speech. Voices weren’t supposed to have that effect, she told herself. But his was a powerful drug. Was he young? Old? Short? She tried without success to banish him from her thoughts. While she hummed softly and struggled to fit the cow into the ice cream logo, an impatient ringing of her doorbell and then a knock on the door startled her. Why hadn’t the doorman announced the visitor, she wondered, as she peeped through the viewer and saw a man there.

  “May I help you?” She couldn’t see all of him. Tall, she guessed.

  “I hope so. I’m looking for Naomi Logan.” Her first reaction was a silent, “My God it’s him!” Her palms suddenly became damp, and tiny shivers of anticipation rushed through her. She would never forget that voice. But she refused him the satisfaction of knowing that she remembered it. She’d written him on her personal stationery, but he’d sent his letter to her through the station; she didn’t have a clue as to where he lived. She struggled to calm herself.

  “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?”