Read an Excerpt
Prologue
Sasha Borianni
Protector of Men
March 2003
Fine needles prickled my shoulders and moved down to my elbows. Moisture seeped from inside me and onto my thighs. Hot sweat gathered in my armpits. I felt like I was outside myself, looking in at the person having this experience. I could actually feel my head swelling with blood, and my pounding heart was surely about to come through my skin. Some force had been pulling me further and further away from myself. Part of me wanted to relax, let whatever was taking over have me, but I'd held on. How long had I been in this? Fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe? It always seemed longer than it actually was. I looked over at the clock: 6:00 A.M.
The sweat from my naked skin made me stick to the sheets. I eased my body farther under the comforter until it touched my chin. I longed to breathe in the cold air that blew in through my open bedroom window. But my cotton-dry mouth made it impossible for me to swallow. How would I get through this one? Use another one of my remedies? I'd been using them too often; it just didn't seem right to do it in the morning, even though I knew it would ease my personal trip.
My eyes took in the bedroom; the blank TV screen held my reflection, and the antique dresser where my collection of perfume bottles sat was a blur. Maybe my bed was too high off the floor, and that's why I felt like everything was in motion. I tried to focus my eyes and my thoughts.
Reluctantly, I eased one arm from under the covers and reached under the bed to where I'd kept the box hidden — from whom, I didn't know: nobody visited. I slid the box out and flipped through its contents withoutlooking. Maybe I'd surprise myself by what I chose. Just the thought of it made my body relax. But no, it was too early. I should wait until later. Maybe tonight. Yes, definitely tonight.
Phoenix Carter
Another dead-ass hotel suite. They all looked the same at three o'clock in the morning, no matter what city I was in. I hadn't turned the television off, so I watched as highlights of the game we'd won replayed on ESPN.
My effort to get comfortable in the custom-made bed was useless. I gave up, rolled over, and headed to the bathroom. Relieving myself, I looked in the mirror over the toilet and wondered why the same people who had made my career were now trying to ruin it. On the television I heard the commentator ask, "Phoenix, is there any truth to the rumors about you recently winning three hundred grand at the poker table in Vegas?"
I'd done damn near everything over the last three years to clean up my image. I was no longer considered a thug. No more entourages of twenty deep. Shit, I was wearing three-thousand-dollar suits, but of course the media harassed me for that, always asking me how much they cost. And just because I'd picked up one little dirty habit, I was catching hell. I mean, I should've gotten some respect. I was twenty-eight, had been in the NBA for eight seasons, voted five times to the All Star team, had seven scoring titles and three championship rings, and made MVP countless times. Didn't they realize who I was?
Dragging myself back into the bedroom, I picked up her business card. I didn't even remember how I'd gotten it. Public Relations. Yeah, she'd been good at that, but Sasha Borianni had been good at a lot of things. I knew I'd need to call her after getting into LAX last night and having the press stick microphones in my face. Platinum Images. She wouldn't have that damn company if she hadn't worked for me. But I had to admit, right now I needed her ass.
Lyor Turrell
I hated waiting for flights to take off, listening to the airline stewardess tell me how to escape — as if there actually were a way for me to save myself at thirty-five thousand feet in the air. I'm usually still not awake at six o'clock in the morning, much less able to figure out how to operate an air mask and what to do with the seat cushion.
It didn't help that I hadn't slept well the night before, so I summoned the stewardess. "Can you please bring me a black coffee with a shot of VSQ alongside it?" I asked, ignoring her surprise at my early-morning drink request.
Luck had definitely been on my side last night at Ari's art gallery opening when he introduced me to Sasha Borianni, the CEO of Platinum Images. She had been quite impressive, with those long legs and mouthwatering figure. I enjoyed the way her beautiful hand gripped mine in a firm handshake. Every time she moved, I'd catch just the slightest scent of her perfume. It was hard for me to concentrate. Sasha had a subtle sexuality that made me want to find out where it was coming from and, more importantly, why she was trying to hide it.
I'd studied her as she sipped and swirled a brandy snifter half filled with Hennessy Paradis. No apple or watermelon martinis for her. Listening to the way she described her company, it was evident that she was a woman with the ability to manipulate any situation she wanted. But more importantly, I watched and listened to what she was not saying.
During our brief conversation, I'd caught her looking at me, sizing me up like I could be a possibility. It was like that with black women; they were always cautious of crossing the color line. But when it came to money, it never mattered. I knew I had to be careful with Sasha because "sistas" were my weakness, and this time too much was at stake.
I'd never been in the habit of rushing business, but I also could not afford to waste time. I reminded myself that Sasha's having worked for one of the country's wealthiest and most recognizable athletes would make her unimpressionable where money was concerned. I was certain her first instinct would be to protect her ex-employer, ex-lover, whatever the hell he had been, but I'd win her over. With the right amount of planning, Ms. Sasha Borianni would carry me on her back straight to Phoenix Carter.
Sasha
Pushing the box back under the bed, I turned over and hugged the pillow. I hated waking up feeling lonely, but I guess it was better than lowering my standards just to have a man to warm my bed. That's probably the other reason why I kept having these personal trips. I spent way too much time alone, thinking about the things I don't have in my life. But I couldn't deny that I enjoyed my antidote. It allowed me to slip away into my own private world.
In the past I'd tried a number of things — yoga, relaxation techniques, changing my diet, medicine, exercise — but nothing took it away. Ignoring it definitely hadn't worked. I didn't know what I was so damn anxious about anyway. The doctor said there was no physical cause for my panic attacks, that I was probably working too much. But no amount of rationalization had been able to rid me of what I preferred to call my personal trips.
It was probably last night that brought all this on. Freezing rain had been coming down all day, and I'd really wanted to stay home. But I'd agreed to attend Ari and Joan's art gallery opening.
"Lyor Turrell, international trader of many things, meet our friend Sasha Borianni, CEO of Platinum Images," Ari had said as I reached out to shake the hand of a handsome white man who stood about six-three and looked to be about forty years old.
"It's my pleasure," he'd said.
"Nice to meet you, Lie-or," I'd answered, curious about the foreign accent I'd detected.
"If you let your tongue roll off the roof of your mouth, you'd pronounce my name correctly. It's pronounced Lee-or."
"My apologies, Lyor. Did I get it correct that time?"
"I am sure there are not too many things you get wrong. Now, may I get you a drink?" he'd asked, as Ari excused himself.
"Yes, a Paradis, please." I'd turned and watched him stroll to the bar. He wore a black single-breasted, two-button suit that made him look like he'd just stepped off the runway in Milan.
He'd returned, handed me my glass, and took his seat beside me. I listened again for his accent when he spoke.
"Thank you. And what exactly do you trade, Lyor?" I asked, once again emphasizing the correct pronunciation of his name.
"As Ari said, I'm an international trader...of many things."
He quickly changed the subject back to me.
"What, may I ask, did you do prior to Platinum Images?"
I'd hesitated in answering, letting his voice linger in places where it shouldn't. "I provided executive services to Phoenix Carter."
Slowly he moved his head up and down. "I am quite familiar with Mr. Carter. I'm surprised we never met in that circle."
"What accent is it that I detect?"
Lyor paused, taking the time not only to decide on his answer but to let his gaze wander over my body.
"Israeli. I'm an Israeli Jew. If you would allow me the pleasure of your company, I'm sure I could offer you a business opportunity or two."
At that point, I should've told him that I didn't do white guys. But I was curious about his business, and I had to admit that he had struck a chord with me.
As if considering an intimate relationship with a white man wasn't enough, when I'd gotten home that night, I was surprised to find a message on my answering machine from a man I hadn't heard from in a long time. Phoenix Carter. I'd been reading tidbits about him on page 6 of the New York Post. According to the gossip column, Phoenix had picked up a taste for high-stakes gambling, and he'd been seen in some shady places. I'd assumed it wasn't a big deal, just something for the press to latch onto. But then again, maybe not.
Phoenix
Lying across the bed, staring up at the ceiling, I realized that sometimes I hated being Phoenix Carter.
People, fans, always want what they think we have, but they have no idea how fucked up our lives really are. It was so much easier when I had less and my private life wasn't up for public scrutiny. I mean, what crime had I committed? So what, I'd bet on a few rounds of golf and played poker a few nights. And whose business was it if I liked to pass time hanging out at the tables in Atlantic City and Vegas? I mean, it was all in fun — or at least, it was until I'd played around and bet on the wrong thing.
Now Crystal's bitching about how we're gonna lose everything. How dare she threaten to take my kids outta school and go to her parents in Sarasota? I told her ass there was nothing to be worried about. But I knew better; too many details were coming out, which meant someone close to me was about to snitch.
I should've gotten in touch with Sasha months ago, at least to get my packages out of the safe in her house. But now I was left with no choice. She knew how to handle the press, the NBA, anybody who came up against me. I refused to call her again because I didn't want to sound desperate. But I was.
Thinking back on our relationship, she'd been good at everything, especially at pleasing me. I'd often had to stop myself from thinking about the last time I'd really been with her. I'd been walking out the door of her hotel room about three in the morning, after a wicked night of lovemaking, when I'd looked back and noticed her sheer, black panties, ripped and crumpled on the floor. And there was Sasha, lying on her stomach all sprawled out across the bed, whispering good night to me. Damn, she'd been good.
I picked up my cell from the nightstand and scanned through the numbers. But instead of calling Sasha, I found the number of a woman in Santa Monica who would immediately make herself available to me.
Lyor
First class had certainly changed. I looked around me at the young punks with their headphones turned up too loud, crying babies, and the woman polishing her nails. If I had not been so cautious, or as my family would say, economical, I would've purchased a private jet by now to take me wherever I needed to go. But all in good time.
Until then, I was forced to sit on a four-hour flight from Philadelphia to Dallas trying to score another deal while my mind was on Sasha Borianni. I called over the redheaded stewardess, whose heavy body soon would not be able to fit down the aisle, and ordered another VSQ, this time without the coffee. Reclining in my chair, I thought about what it would be like to be in Sasha's company. I pulled her card out of my pocket. But instead of concentrating on the business I intended to offer her, I could only think of the pleasure of having her long legs wrapped around me.
And as for Phoenix Carter, no matter how rich and famous he was, he would soon discover that the game he was playing wasn't on a level playing field.
Sasha
My first instinct had been to call Phoenix, but so far I'd resisted, even though the thought of him had me lying there thinking too hard about how it used to be. He hadn't mentioned anything personal in his message, but it was there, our sex, our memories, and I knew he felt it too by the way he kept pausing in his message. He'd left all his numbers, two-way pager, business cell, personal cell, office number, and private numbers at home.
Closing my eyes, I drew a deep breath, recalling the feel of his strong hands and how they'd roamed my body. I'd acquired an appetite for Phoenix's type of loving, which was something I hadn't been able to get anywhere else. Without thinking, I picked up the notepad where I'd scribbled his numbers and considered...Then the phone rang, bringing me back to the morning.
Copyright © 2004 by Brenda L. Thomas
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