Big Girls Don't Cry Excerpt

My Books

Excerpts

Freebie Reads

Articles

Mythology of my paranormal romances

Contact me

Props

Quotes on my paranormal books and stories

Events

...coming sooner or later. I'm planning to show at the Romance Slam Jam 2008

Newsletters

I don't have the heart to spam folks with a newsletter, beloved author tradition that it is. When I write one, I'll just post it on the site and list them here.

Contact webmistress (that would be moi) for broken links or rants in general about the site.

From BIG GIRLS DON'T CRY with Donna Hill, Brenda Jackson and Francis Ray
coming from NAL Signet January 2005

Heat

Two years ago somebody would have risked a sore jaw if they told Shepard Fraser he'd be painting pictures to decorate some backwater beauty salon chain in Kansas City. But in two years, things can change.

Shepard's eyebrows rose as he watched pink smocked magicians work their alchemy over women stretched out in pink leather chairs. R&B music thumped a loud bass beat, while the shades of raspberry and pink covered every surface, and caustic scents mixed with incense and perfume assaulted all his senses.

Cherice Givens had to be kidding. What was he supposed to do with a place like this? And where the hell was she?

A man in a bright pink smock approached him. "I assume you're Shepard Fraser?" he asked. Shep nodded. "Ms. Givens is waiting for you. Follow me."

The man led him into a small darkened room lit with scented candles. A woman was sitting on a chair in a white bathrobe, her head wrapped in a thick white towel. Another man was at her feet polishing her toenails.

"Shepard Fraser is here."

"Later," she told the man who polishing her toenails. Then she stood and looked up at Shepard. For a second, he forgot to breathe. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life.

She had golden cat's eyes that set off light honey skin and full heart-shaped cherry lips. There was a beauty mark at the corner of her mouth that furthered the exotic, sexy effect. The robe was closed with only a belt, tantalizingly revealing her lush body with a wonderland of curves. Shep checked out the hills and valleys that begged for exploration, their endless softness, in surreptitious male fashion.

This lady was one-hundred percent luscious, heavy-duty woman. The assignment was starting to look a touch more interesting.

"Shepard Fraser, it's wonderful to finally meet you," she said, holding out a small-boned plump hand with exquisitely manicured nails. He set aside his cane and she grasped his hand in a surprisingly strong grip.

"The pleasure is mine," he said.

"You're quite in demand. I appreciate you flying out here," she said.

Since she was paying quite well for the privilege, Shep simply nodded. He'd never guess that this kittenish bombshell with her dark velvet voice was a shrewd and successful business woman who'd grown a basement beauty salon into a multimillion dollar profitable operation.

"I think you're the right artist to give our salons a new flavor," she said.

Shep decided to get right to the point. "You're going to have to lose the pink," he said. "Is that workable for you?" He needed to know--because if it wasn't, he might as well bounce now. There was no way his style would fit with the harem-boudoir-whorehouse look, if that's what she was going to insist on having.

"It's time for a new look," she said. "I want you to consult with a local designer I've contracted. She's quite good. I set up an appointment for tomorrow morning."

Shep exhaled in relief and then stiffened as he noticed her golden gaze running up and down the length of his body. He was intimately familiar with that look of assessment, but he wasn't used to it being used so directly on him by a woman. It both disconcerted and aroused him.

"I figured you were tired tonight, so why don't you rest at the hotel," she said in her husky voice. "We'll meet for dinner later. I'll pick you up in my car. Eight?"

She smiled at him briefly, then turned and exited, taking his assent for granted. The two men followed in her wake like lapdogs. Cherice Givens was a take-charge sort of woman. Shepard was unused to the type, but if that was her thing, he'd go along for a while. She'd come around to his way of thinking eventually.

Cherice studied the outfits in her closet. What should she wear for dinner with an artistic type? Was black too cliché? She wanted to impress Shepard Fraser. She took out a red suit and hung it back up. Too much. Slacks? No. Not sexy enough.

She'd been dying to meet Shepard Fraser for ages and lord a' mercy, the man looked every inch of his hype. He was off the hook fine. Tall, with long, lean muscles and high cheekbones, sexy, kissable lips and deep chocolate eyes fringed with lashes that belonged on a woman. His marked limp and cane gave him an air of vulnerability, making him more appealing. He was the type of man you wanted to take home and keep, preferably in bed.

He'd recently exploded on the art scene with passionate, impressionistic looking art work featuring black culture. Instead of gritty urban settings, his art reflected his people in beautiful, natural settings. His landscapes were as varied and expressive as the people in them. His art was incredible, as was his presence, sensitive, earthy and sexy.

There was nothing better then a fine man. Money had its attraction and power was intoxicating, but Cherice had always been drawn to fine, pretty types oozing sexual magnetism. Shepard Fraser was like candy and she was a greedy, greedy girl. She had to have him.

Her doorbell rang and Cherice sprinted to answer it, hoping to find one of her girlfriends. She pulled open the door and grinned at Rosaline and Brandy.

"What happened with Shepard Fraser?" Rosaline asked immediately.

"Do you have anything to eat?" interrupted Brandy. "I'm about ready to starve."

"Come on in and help me choose something to wear for my night out on the town. Brandy, you can pick up the phone and order food. Shep and I are going out to eat."

"So he was as good as you thought he'd be," Rosaline said.

"Honey, he's better then I hoped. The man is melt-in-your-mouth luscious."

"How about I order barbecue?" Brandy asked.

"That sounds fine," Rosaline said.

"I asked Shep out to dinner," Cherice said. "I think I'll take him to Jazz in Blue, but what to wear?"

Rosaline’s brow creased. "Cherice, maybe you should take it easy with this guy. You know you tend to . . . take the upper hand."

"That's because they let her. Wimps. Admit it, Cherice, you’re a dominatrix at heart," Brandy said, stretching out on the sofa.

Cherice's perfectly plucked brow shot up. "Please. What I get from my men, weaklings can't offer."

"That is correct, Brandy," Rosaline said, nodding.

"Just because a man can rock it, doesn't mean he isn't a wuss. I've seen you snap your fingers and your men flinch."

Cherice's eyes were wide and innocent. "Isn't that the what they're supposed to do?"

Brandy and Rosaline both laughed. "You need to quit," Brandy said.

"Cherice, you might as well admit it. You have issues with men," Rosaline said.

"I must agree," said Brandy. "You got a giant heart, but for some reason, with men you always have to be in control. I've been your girl since childhood and I've never seen you trip over any man. No crush, no longings, no angst. You just decide who you want to get, go get him and that's it. It's not natural, girl."

"What's wrong with it? Think about it. Y'all are complaining because I don't need a man, and I use them as I see fit. I like fine men, and I like variety and I've never lacked for either. If I were a man, you'd be slapping me on the back and congratulating me."

"The point is that you're not a man."

Cherice turned back to her closet. "That fact has never ever been a matter of dispute."

"One day you're going to come up across a man who isn't going to give it up and give in to you. You are going to slam up into a jones so big and hard you won't know what to do with it," Rosaline said.

Cherice picked out a simple chocolate silk wrap dress that set off her skin and startling dyed blonde hair. "Surely you jest. There's not been a man invented that is bigger and harder than what I can handle."

Rosaline smiled at her. "When you finally fall in love, girl, it's going to be like an earthquake. You're not going to know what hit you."

"Baby, I don't have time or space for earthquakes. I have way too much to do." Cherice considered an ivory lace dress. "Anyway, I know you're tied up at the hospital, Rosaline, but Brandy, how about you and Jackson coming with me for a relaxing weekend in California? There's a party at the record company and then we can swing on up and see Topaz, Jon and the baby. Arrival Records is going to let me fly with the company plane. Shelly owes me a favor for hooking her weave up real good. She headed on to New York on a 747."

"It sounds good, but I have to check with Jackson about his schedule."

"Shep doesn't know it yet, but he's flying back with us too," Cherice murmured.

"What if he wants to go home?" Rosaline asked.

Cherice shrugged. " New Mexico's on the way. We can drop him off."

"Maybe we can get an invite to his place. I hear it's fabulous. He raises sheep, doesn't he? Or is it goats?"

"Sheep!" Cherice said. "I can do without the livestock. What's in New Mexico anyway?"

"Desert, some interesting plants, reported aliens, and caves," Rosaline answered.

"Some native Americans, I believe," Brandy added.

"You are not talking me into asking Shep about a detour. Sheep, aliens, plants, and a few of the native peoples the white folk didn't slaughter--sounds exciting, but it doesn't quite measure up to the shindig that Arrival records is going to be throwing in LA."

The driver pulled in front of Shep's hotel. Cherice bit her lip and took a deep breath. She returned the bottle of Perrier to the limo refrigerator and refreshed her lipstick. It wouldn’t do to be nervous. There he was. She slid over on the leather seat.

Shep got in the car smoothly for a man with a cane. He smelled good, not like cologne or aftershave, but like clean soap. Fresh. He reminded her of crisp white sheets.

"Jazz in Blue," Cherice told the driver.

Shep smiled at her, a crooked grin that made her feel off-center. "You seem like a woman who knows exactly what she wants." His gaze dropped to her expanse of honeyed thigh. His eyelids were half closed as he surveyed her body from the corner of his eyes. Cherice was practiced in reading a man's desire. Warm it up. She crossed her legs and swayed toward him.

"I am." Cherice decided that it was too early to add that he was high on that list of desires. Anyway, he'd find out soon enough. Shepard would make a nice dessert after a satisfying dinner.

The driver pulled up to the restaurant too soon. Inside, the atmosphere was right, close, intimate and sexy. A singer crooned jazzy love ballads.

When the waiter came to take their order, Cherice told him, "We'll have the lamb. It's very good here," she said to Shep.

"I'll have filet mignon, rare," he said.

Shep looked at Cherice. "I'm a man who knows what he wants too," he said.

She sipped her wine. "Touché," she said, watching the couples filling the dance floor.

"I'm sorry, but I don't dance," he said, gesturing toward his cane.

"Did you dance?" Then she felt her face heat, realizing that asking that question to a man lamed in an accident was gauche.

"Not really. But there are a lot of other things I miss quite a bit. I used to hike, to rock climb. I was quite active and I loved the outdoors."

Shep gazed at the dancers. "My lifestyle has changed considerably."

"Has it?" Cherice murmured, feeling awkward. This was not a sensation she was accustomed to, so she covered with words. "I hear your ranch is amazing."

"I wouldn't call it a ranch. I have a few animals. Some land. But I like it, it's home. The land is beautiful out there, you should see it. The colors . . ."

"Colors? Of what? The grass, the sky?"

"No, the land. New Mexico is unique. It's like God used a different set of paintbrushes."

"What made you decide to go into art?" Cherice asked, bored with the talk of the colors of dirt.

"You can say that I fell into it. I had time on my hands for the first time in my life. A buddy of mine had a wife with an art gallery. I've always played around with painting. She wanted to put on a showing of my work and the rest is history."

"That's it? Usually artists have a lot of passion behind their stories and suffering for their craft. They say that it’s what they wanted to do their whole life."

"I don't think I'm the usual artist."

"No, you're not that, you came from nowhere."

"That's not true. Everybody came from somewhere."

Cherice laid her glass on the table and leaned toward him. "Tell me where you came from."

"I was born in Oakland. Yourself?"

" Kansas City." She studied Shep from under her lashes. He knew very well she hadn't been asking about the city of his birth. She was trying to get to the good stuff, what did Shep Fraser want, his hopes and his dreams.

But he gazed out at the dancers with a pleasant, bland expression. Obviously, he was going to give her nothing.

They ate, and agreed the food was good. The conversation light and soon the waiter came and removed their plates. "Would you like to order dessert?" he asked.

"No, coffee will do," answered Shep.

Cherice agreed although she wouldn't have minded a bit of chocolate.

A short time later, Cherice was alone in the limo. She didn't get any dessert in more ways then one. After the meal, when the limo pulled up in front of Shep's hotel, he'd thanked her for a delightful dinner and gone to his hotel room without a backwards glance. He didn't offer a touch of the hand, much less a kiss.

Cherice's ego deflated like a tire leaking air. He must not be attracted to her. A woman can't control a man's desires, but for a confident, attractive woman such as herself, it was rare that, once she fixed her attention on a man, he didn't respond.

It hardly ever mattered that she was big. She learned long ago that what mattered was the value a woman put on herself. When the clothes came off, if she knew without a doubt that her body was fine, he'd know it for sure too. She'd had plenty of men who once they tried her, the higher grade cut, the one with plenty of fat--they weren't about to go back to gnawing on soup bone and gristle. No, her weight never cost any men worth having. It had to be more than that. What a disappointment. She swallowed hard.

Then she raised her chin. It wasn't like her to be defeated before the game had started good. She needed to pull up and regroup. There was something there between them. She could feel it. She'd sit tight. After all, tomorrow was another day. Cherice smiled to herself, her usual humor restored. She could hardly believe she was wasting time worrying over a man. She must have lost her mind.

Shep stopped outside Cherice's office door, filled with nervousness that he hoped didn't show. He'd never met anyone like her. She attracted him, aroused him, but something about her brought out his primitive male instincts. There was a place deep inside that wanted to knock her upside the head, duct tape her mouth, and drag her off to his lair. For a man who'd never come remotely close to oppressing a woman in his entire life, that need to dominate was scary.

A man in a hot pink smock walked by him and stared appreciatively at Shep's buttocks. Shep suppressed the urge to shake his head. That man should be ashamed to allow his boss to dress him in something like that. It would take a gun to his temple before he put on one of those pink things.

Shep knocked on the pink door. "C'mon in," she called.

He walked in and suppressed the urge to flinch. Cherice's office was decorated in hot pink and black, redolent of oriental incense and outfitted with chaise lounges instead of chairs. It resembled the parlor of a French whorehouse. A thin, intense looking white woman with short black hair and horn-rimmed glasses was perched uncomfortably on one of the lounges.

"Meet Fontaine, our interior designer," Cherice said.

"I love your work," Fontaine murmured as he shook her hand.

"Thank you. What do you have?" Shep asked, ready to get down to business. She handed him a portfolio.

Shep stretched out on the other chaise, leaving his shoes on the floor. If Cherice had the nerve to only provide the near-equivalent of beds to sit on, he might as well be comfortable. He opened the portfolio and perused Fontaine's ideas for the salons, along with the color swatches. Cherice was right, she was good.

"Great stuff. I can work with this," he said, handing the portfolio back.

"The colors are fine with you?" Cherice asked, her voice almost sounding like a purr.

Fontaine's vision of the salon palette was a mixture of hip, urban smoky greens and grays, only accented by Cherice's trademark hot pink.

"It looks great. My art will fit in fine."

Cherice walked from behind her desk. "We have a deal then. I'll have the blueprints sent over to your hotel room and you can indicate the size and placement of the pictures along with the delivery dates."

He nodded. Cherice was paying him handsomely. He got some flak from his fellow artists about churning out originals for commercial purposes, but he needed the cash. He never understood the point of artistic sensibilities if you didn't have the sense enough to use your talent to pay the bills.

"Thanks for coming, Fontaine," Cherice said as the decorator gathered up her materials.

As soon as they were alone, Cherice came from behind the desk and sat on the edge of his chaise. Shep felt his pulse and blood pressure increase. Her perfume was so soft he could barely smell it. Feminine and sexy. Her breasts were full enough that each would overflow his big hand. He wondered what her nipples looked like. His mind snapped back to reality when she put her small hand on his thigh. He felt himself deflate and anxiety replaced his former inappropriate thoughts.

"Our business is almost wrapped up," Cherice said. "I'd like to treat you to the works, the complete salon experience on the house."

Her hand was burning through his trousers like a small brand. He intensely wished she would move it. "No thanks," he said. "I've never been the beauty salon experience type."

"Don't worry, we're not going to curl your hair or put mascara on your eyes. We have a spa special for men only. I want you to try it. To create art for us, you need to have at least some concept of what we're about."

He really couldn't argue with that, nor could he think straight with her hand on his body. So why didn't he move his leg? Because her hand felt so damn good.

"You're not going to try and make me wear one of those pink things, are you?" he said. "Because I'm not doing it."

Cherice squeezed his thigh and chuckled. "C'mon," she said.

Shep's hair was washed, scissor-cut and blow dried. His face was shaved with way too much stinky cream rubbed into his skin. His toenails cut, feet scrubbed, prodded and massaged until the poor dogs wanted to beg for mercy. Now, he was buck naked, flat on his stomach on a hard table being enthusiastically rubbed by some queen who was showing far too much interest in his posterior area.

Shep would rather be in enemy territory under fire. Hell, people actually paid for this? "You need to head north," he growled.

"'Scuuuuse me," the masseuse said, lifting his hands momentarily and wriggling his fingers. "I was only trying to be thorough." He patted Shep's buttock.

Fortunately, just before Shep cold-cocked the SOB, Cherice walked in. She took in the situation at a glance. "Antoine, I'll take over," she said.

Shep suppressed a groan. Just when he thought things couldn't get worse . . .

She laid small, soft, strong hands on him with smooth, even strokes, totally different from the pounding Antoine let him have.

And best of all, she didn't talk.

As the minutes passed he felt himself relax. Then he felt the press of her breasts against his back. Shep decided that he wouldn't complain a whit if her hands tended to drift southward. Surrounded by her scent and touch and blessed silence, his eyes closed as he dwelled on that pleasant possibility.

"Why did you diss my pink smocks?" Cherice asked, jolting him out of his reverie.

"Hot pink smocks don't exactly project the image of urban sophistication that you're going to try to cultivate," he answered.

A beat passed and the strokes of Cherice's fingers never wavered. "Then how do you suggest I approach outfitting my hair designers?"

"Traditional black smocks over blue jeans. It would be hip and it would have to be cheaper then those pink monstrosities you're having custom made."

He flinched as she gave him a sharp slap on the ass, the sound reverberating through the small room. But he didn't dare turn over because he had an obvious woody. How was he going to get up with her in the room and him buck naked except for this tiny towel?

"I have a favor I need to ask of you," Cherice said, her voice buttery.

He wouldn't mind if the favor was of a carnal nature. He turned his head to check to see if there was a lock on the door.

"I want you to fly to LA with me. There's a party at Arrival Records and I desperately need an escort.”

Shep couldn't imagine Cherice being desperate about hardly anything, especially a man. She was as cool as they come.

He hesitated, and thought about how to answer her. He wasn't a hasty man.

"Chicken?" she challenged him.

However she must be a hasty woman. He could barely believe his ears. He turned over; forgetting his state, then quickly gathered the towel around his middle. Cherice's gaze went unerringly toward his mid-section, her mouth curved in a small smile.

"What did you say?"

"I asked if you were chicken."

"I'm never chicken."

"You should never say never. I say you're chicken."

"Why?"

"It seems as if you're afraid to play with me."

He caught his breath at the boldness of her challenge.

She leaned toward him, her perfect cupid-bow lips looking perfectly kissable, her hand on his thigh. She made him nervous as hell, but his woody had a mind of its own and it apparently wasn't a little bit afraid of her.

Shep, however, who had faced down assassins and flying bullets, who'd made it through minefields and entire enemy battalions, hesitated some more.

She withdrew. "That's all right. Most men aren't man enough for me."

Her words were a glove thrown in his face. Shep's eyes narrowed. She stared back at him, so cool, as if whatever he said or did, she really didn't give a damn.

Did she know who she was messing with? Once he got through with her, she'd be the one begging for mercy. Pleading for satisfaction. His woody apparently liked that thought.

Because, "Bring it on," is what came out of his mouth.

"I will do that, Mr. Fraser," she said as she slipped out the door, leaving him and woody all alone.