One of a kind, p.1
One of a Kind, page 1
One of a Kind
Bette Ford
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Dear Reader
Her Second Chance Excerpt
Also by Bette Ford
About the Author
This e-book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.
This e-book may not be sold, shared, or given away.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
* * *
One of a Kind
Copyright © 1999 by Bette Ford
Ebook ISBN: 9781617508875
* * *
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
* * *
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
* * *
NYLA Publishing
121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, NY 10001, New York.
http://www.nyliterary.com
My first hero:
In loving memory of my father James R. Ford You are truly loved and dearly missed and in memory of my dear, sweet cousin Kathleen Porter-Melton, who’s loving and caring spirit lives on.
One
Anthia Jenkins could not stop smiling as she looked around her combined studio and office. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. At thirty-four she was finally her own boss. No more waking to an alarm clock or having to deal with rush-hour traffic first thing in the morning and late in the evening. Her business suits were pushed to the back of her closet and her work clothes consisted of jeans, sweats and T-shirts.
Had it only been a little more than two years since that horrible day when she thought her world had come to a tragic end? Her son, Jeffery, had been unconscious in the hospital in critical condition after having been shot in the back. It had been days of not knowing if he would live or die, weeks of not knowing if he would ever walk again, followed by more than a year of intense physical therapy and rehabilitation.
She had to leave her job as a legal secretary because of the time she had to devote to Jeff’s recovery. With time on her hands as she watched her son’s progress, first at the hospital then later at the rehab center, she indulged herself by pouring her heart into her lifelong hobby of doll-making. She smiled as she remembered the large tote bag she carted around with her filled with doll paraphernalia that needed to be hemmed, stitched or embroidered. It kept her from biting her fingernails off on those bad days when Jeff was in so much pain. Who would have guessed that that indulgence would lead to a highly successful business venture of her very own. It had all started when one of his nurses was so impressed with her work that she bought a doll for her mother’s art gallery. It mushroomed from there.
Thank goodness, the horror of that time was behind them now. Her boy was away at college, preparing for the future. Anthia could feel herself swelling with pride because he was doing very well.
Anthia managed her doll-making business out of her home. A home she was able to purchase because of her own efforts. She could not prevent the lovely smile that enhanced her amber skin tone as she lovingly smoothed her hand over the scalloped edged lace hem of the pink doll dress she had been putting the finishing touches on. It was a dream concoction of ivory and pink ruffles. It would be perfect for the one-of-a-kind doll she was close to completing. She was so proud of her individually sculpted dolls, from their hand-painted eyes, molded open mouth, satin smooth natural colorations, thick natural-looking wigs to their exquisitely handmade costuming.
Her work was shown in a private gallery in Birmingham, Michigan, as well as several prominent galleries across the country. She had more orders than she could possibly keep up with and more coming in daily. Things were definitely looking up.
There was only one area in her life that was painfully empty: She didn’t have the one special man that she had cared for for some time now. Love was something that had to be given freely. Unfortunately, she had learned that lesson the hard way.
When the doorbell sounded, Anthia carefully folded the tiny dress before placing it in her sewing basket. Her window-lined studio was situated on the side of the modest size house between the garage and the large, combined living and dining room.
“Coming,” she called. She absently smoothed her shoulder-length black hair that had been pulled back into a ponytail—not very original but comfortable.
Anthia was surprised to see the tall silhouette of a man with his back toward the sun thus throwing his face into shadow. But she would have known his large muscled frame anywhere. He was a throwback to the strong warriors who could run for miles without tiring in the hot African sun.
“Dex ...” she said around a sigh, with trembling fingers she unlocked and opened the door. “Good morning. How are you?” Dexter Washington was the director of Detroit-based Malcolm X Community Center, which sponsored a mentoring program geared toward saving black teenage boys from life on the streets. He was a broad-shouldered, lean-hipped man with bronze coloring. At six-one, he topped Anthia’s petite frame by a foot. He let his dark brown eyes caress her small, brown features before lingering for a moment on her seductively full, lush mouth. He was smiling when he gazed down into her pretty ebony eyes.
Swallowing with difficulty, he said, “Mornin’. It’s been awhile. You look well.” He allowed himself one all-too-brief hug before he pulled back, his hands clenched at his side.
He devoured her through his veiled lids, enjoying the way her jeans clung to her shapely thighs and her lemon-colored knit top caressed the lush swells of her small breasts. His memory hadn’t been playing any tricks on him. She was just as beautiful and tempting as he remembered. He suppressed a hungry groan, acknowledging his private struggle to keep her out of his thoughts... out of his dreams... from beneath his skin.
The trouble was she was never truly forgotten and always somewhere in his thoughts. Desire would not control his life. He had made that mistake once when he lost control and learned the sweet taste of her luscious mouth... never again. He was one man who learned from his mistakes.
Recognizing she was staring, Anthia blushed. “Come on in. Sorry, it took me so long. I was in the studio.”
Dexter’s slow, easy smile caught and held her interest. “Thanks. Hope, I didn’t call at a bad time?”
There was no such thing as a bad time when it came to Dexter. “A friend is always welcome,” she laughed. Oh, she knew what was missing from her life... Dexter Washington.
She had been forced to accept that without his cooperation there was nothing she could do about her undeniable attraction and tender feelings for him. It was a painful situation that she had no alternative other than to live with it.
Her feelings for him had blossomed so gradually that she hadn’t been aware of the change until it was too late to do anything about it. It was not as if she suddenly woke up one morning and realized that she was indisputably in love with Dexter. It had happened over time, stemming from his support and consideration throughout her son’s lengthy recovery.
His kindness and thoughtfulness over the last few years had proven to be invaluable, which was surprising considering that he was such a private, self-contained man. Dexter was not what she would call an easy man to get to know. He kept so much of himself hidden. Very few people could honestly say they knew him well.
When Dexter stepped into the foyer where a dark oak table stood with a framed mirror above it, sharing the small space, his strong male presence seemed to dominate his surroundings. No woman could fail to take note of his masculine appeal, Anthia rashly decided. He was all man from his close-cut black natural to his keen even features. His strong angular bone structure reminded her of the Ethiopian people. He exhibited a natural strength and arrogant grace that was a throwback to the desert nomads of old.
It was a cool, crisp spring morning, the sun framed by fluffy white clouds. Even though it was April, the possibility of a spring snowstorm was still a real threat, especially in Michigan.
Anthia slowly closed the solid oak door. “Come on into the kitchen. Keep me company while I put on some coffee. I made a caramel and walnut coffee cake. Would you like a slice?”
She knew she was babbling, but she could not seem to stop. She was a mass of nerves, which was silly, considering they were such good friends. She had so much to be grateful to him for.
When she was ready to purchase her and her son’s very first home, it was Dexter who had taken time from his busy schedule at the community center to go house hunting with her. He had also made sure she was making the best deal. He proved to be very knowledgeable about architecture and design as well as the real-estate market in general. He had been with her when she closed on the house. Most importantly, he had shared the most glorious day of her life when she and Jeff moved into their new home in the Detroit northwestern suburb of Southfield.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t seen him since that day last fall. The funny part of it was that she had no idea why. Had he been spooked by that kiss they shared? It was a warm, triumphant kiss they’d exchanged at the end of that long day. She could not deny that she had been giddy with happiness and overwhelmed now that the dream of owning her own home was real. Sharing her excitement, Dexter had picked her up and whirled her around the room. Laughing, she had hugged him tight.
The next thing she knew, he let her petite, curvy frame slide slowly down his long, muscular body then lower his head to press his mouth against hers. That kiss had been so wonderfully sweet, yet sizzling hot with desire. She knew then that she had done the unthinkable, that she had fallen in love with him.
“Sounds wonderful,” he grinned. He would be the first one to admit that he enjoyed her down-home-cooking. The girl knew her way around the kitchen. She also knew how to fill a pair of jeans.
He tried his best not to take notice of the way the denim hugged her soft, round behind as she walked ahead of him but failed. His nostrils flared automatically as he tried to catch her sweet woman’s scent. She didn’t wear heavy perfumes, yet her body always smelled seductively sweet.
He often found himself remembering how she tasted on his lips... against his tongue. She had small plump breasts that he could not stop himself from imagining how they would feel in his mouth, his tongue slowly licking her nipples until they were little peaks hard with desire... desire for him alone. He swore beneath his breath, impatient with himself as his body prepared itself to join with hers.
“Did you say something?” she asked.
“I like what you have done to this place.” His eyes fondly took in her special touches that made her home uniquely hers, from the small, black, sculpted clown doll on the table in the entrance way to the pretty black rag doll dressed in corals on the mantelpiece. On the window seat was a row of one-of-a-kind dolls. She used her dolls as decorative artwork. “This place looks like you.”
She had used warm tangerine tones to decorate the house from the deep tones of the oversize sofa and love seat, to the pale peachy beige on the walls and carpeting throughout. It was a place of beauty, comfort and relaxation.
“Thank you.” she said, recalling that he hadn’t been here since she moved in. “So, how have you been? How are things at the center?”
Dexter was a hard worker and devoted many hours to the center. Most of the boys he worked with didn’t have the benefit of a father or man in their lives like her own son. Dexter, along with a host of male volunteers, worked to combat the situation. They were determined to save a whole generation of males. A huge undertaking to say the least.
“Busy,” he grumbled, taking a seat at the small kitchen table against the far wall of the sunny room. He rested his hands on the table relieved that his arousal was hidden.
“Oh!” she jumped as a coffee mug dropped to the mosaic orange and yellow pattern floor tiles. Luckily, it didn’t break and shatter as she expected.
“Here, let me get it.” He quickly crossed to her and squatted to retrieve it. The firm muscles in his taut thighs and buttocks flexed bringing her eyes to his muscular frame. He was all male, beautifully made and so damn self-contained that she wanted to shake him.
She never knew what he was thinking or feeling. She saw no more than he wanted her to see. It was disturbing what she didn’t know about him. Goodness, she didn’t even know if he was involved with another woman. The mere thought of it tore at her tender heart. She forced herself to turn away from him, furious with herself for wanting him.
“Thank you,” she said, careful not to touch his warm bronze skin. She was trembling as she placed the mug in the divided sink, and busied herself by getting another one and collecting the dessert plates, utensils and napkins.
Dexter touched the pretty tangerine mushroom-shaped creamer and sugar bowl that decorated the top of the small kitchen table, hoping to distract himself.
“You look tired,” she couldn’t help saying. “I don’t know how you have time for a private life. You spend so many hours at the community center.”
He shrugged. “It’s important work. The two things we never seem to have enough of at the center are money and volunteers.”
Dexter had been at the center during the three years he’d been back in Detroit. What he had done before that was a mystery. Other than the fact that he had grown up in Detroit, but had a faint Texas accent, she had no idea what he had done with his life. He didn’t talk about himself. He kept his thoughts to himself. Outside of the center, she had no idea what his personal hopes and dreams were for his future. She often found herself wondering if it was just her he didn’t trust.
For a time, she had firmly believed he was not involved with anyone. But lately she had decided that was very naive. The man was gorgeous. There was certainly nothing wrong with the eyesight of the women in the Motor City. He had no reason to be alone or celibate for that matter. It had nearly driven her crazy trying to figure out without asking who the woman in his life was. Why did he keep her hidden from his friends? Perhaps, if Anthia was forced to meet the woman, she could get over this childish infatuation with him.
But Anthia knew what she felt for Dexter was not a schoolgirl’s crush. Her feminine desires for him were quite real. She craved his strong arms, yearned for his tongue-thrusting kisses and hungered for his lovemaking with a woman’s appetite. He had no need to prove his virility to her. It was as much a part of him as his fingers and toes.
“We’ve been especially flooded since Charles proposed adding the year-round sports camp. We have so much going on these days with martial arts classes, computer classes, plus the GED classes. There is not enough time in the day to keep it all running smoothly while trying to get the fellows off the streets and out of trouble.”
Dexter referred to their mutual friend, Charles Randol. He was a wealthy backer who believed in the center so strongly that he had been willing to put more than his money into the effort, but also his time. It was Charles’ fraternity brothers who had initially sponsored the community-center-based project. He had been the one to hire Dexter as director of the center. Charles had not stopped there but had recruited men with expertise, like pro basketball player Donald Williams.
Anthia watched Dexter closely, when she said, “Did I hear a catch in your voice? Aren’t the new programs going to work out?”
He smiled, glad he had finally come. He could talk to Anthia. “Oh, yeah. All we have to do is find additional funding for the year-round camp and a security guard, not to mention funding the new centers needed throughout the city.” His shook his head wearily “Anthia, we still have so many kids that are falling through the cracks. That really gets to me. There are too many black boys to count who are being lured into gangs. Damn it, it happens every single day because of their deep need to belong, to be part of a family, even a substitute one.”
His concern was genuine, for it was in his eyes, his frustration in his voice. “It never seems to stop. Who’s going to be there for them? Who’s going to keep them from becoming just another causality of the streets? Somebody has to care.”
Dexter knew what it meant to be alone. He lived and breathed that life each and every day. But he was an adult able to take care of himself. He had met just such a boy this past week while speaking at Kettering High School. He’d asked around and learned that the kid was a loner. He had no one. He lived in the rooming house with no family to call his own, another casualty of the foster care system. How long did they have before he was swallowed alive by the streets? Maybe this time they could reach this one.
