Exposed

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EXPOSED

DAFINA BOOKS

Chapter One

Jolted awake by her boyfriend's frantic voice, Tamia Luke opened her eyes and stared at his dark, handsome face. "What time is it?"

"After seven," Brandon replied.

"Shit!" Tamia threw back the covers and sprang out of bed, naked breasts bouncing. "What happened? Why didn't the alarm clock go off?"

"The power must have gone out when it rained last night."

"Shit," Tamia repeated, bending over to retrieve her discarded clothing from the floor. "I can't be late for work. Especially not tod—Ow!" she yelped as Brandon slapped her soundly on the ass.

He grinned, dimples flashing in his cheeks. "That's for keeping me up late."

Tamia laughed. "I didn't hear you complaining last night, Negro!" she called as Brandon ducked inside the large master bathroom, a blur of mahogany stretched over lean, taut muscles. "And hurry up so you can take me home!"

Brandon's response was muffled by the sound of running water.

If they hadn't been in such a rush, Tamia would have joined him in the shower for round two of what they'd started last night. After attending a cocktail party at a ritzy downtown hotel, Brandon had invited her back to his place to spend the night. They'd doused themselves with a bottle of champagne, then licked, sucked, and fucked each other until they collapsed from sheer exhaustion. They probably would have overslept even if last night's storm hadn't knocked out the electricity.

Grinning slyly to herself, Tamia hurriedly tugged on her bra and panties and the black Christian Lacroix dress she'd worn to the cocktail party. Leaving Brandon to his shower, she headed out of the bedroom and made her way to the kitchen. It was a large, ultramodern room with gleaming granite countertops, black-lacquered cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. It was as immaculate as the rest of Brandon's plush condo, thanks to the cleaning lady who came like clockwork twice a week.

Tamia got busy brewing a pot of gourmet coffee, though she knew Brandon usually stopped at Starbucks on his way to the office. It was the thought that counted. If she'd had more time, she would have whipped up some eggs, bacon, and grits, though she knew Brandon often grabbed breakfast with a colleague at the prestigious law firm where he worked. Again, it was all about taking care of her man. Which was why she'd blown off her friends last night to accompany Brandon to some social mixer he'd forgotten all about until the last minute. And she hadn't batted an eye when he'd sheepishly asked her to pick up his tux from the dry cleaner. Tamia would have gone anywhere and done anything he'd asked of her.

Because she was on a mission to become Mrs. Brandon Chambers.

Oh, she knew she had her work cut out for her. Truth be told, Brandon was more interested in making partner at his law firm than getting married. Although Tamia frequently spent the night at his place, she was barely allowed to keep a toothbrush there. And after seven months of dating, she had yet to meet his parents, one of the most powerful political couples in Texas. Whenever she hinted at being introduced to them, Brandon always told her that his folks could be very intimidating, so he didn't want to scare her off.

What he didn't realize was that Tamia didn't scare very easily. So she'd be a good little wifey for as long as it took to convince him to put a ring on her finger.

Smiling at the thought, she poured steaming coffee into two fancy paper cups and snapped on the lids just as Brandon strode purposefully into the kitchen. He was impeccably dressed in a dark pin-striped suit that accentuated his tall, athletic build.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

"Been ready." Tamia straightened his tie, admiring his smooth chocolate skin, midnight eyes, and boyishly sexy smile. Brandon was the total package: fine as hell, rich, smart, and successful. He was going places, and she had no intention of being left behind.

"Here. I made you some coffee."

Accepting the cup from her, he took a long sip and let out an appreciative groan. "Damn, baby, you make the best brew. What would I do without you?"

Tamia smiled privately. If I play my cards right, you'll never have to find out.

Twenty minutes later, they turned off the main road and into a lushly landscaped development located in the shadow of Houston's Galleria. Brandon was on his BlackBerry, assuring his secretary that he wouldn't be late for a scheduled deposition that morning. So he didn't notice the way Tamia's hands clenched in her lap as they passed another car on the narrow street, nor did he hear the small sigh of relief that seeped past her lips.

He pulled up to a one-story stucco house situated on a perfectly manicured lawn. Tamia's red Honda Accord was parked in the driveway.

Grabbing her purse, she leaned over to kiss Brandon. "Have a good day."

He smiled. "You, too. Don't be late for work." "If I am, I'll just blame it on the rain," she said, crooning the old Milli Vanilli song.

Brandon laughed as she climbed out of his Maybach.

Although he was in a hurry, he waited until she'd reached the front door before he pulled off with a wave.

Tamia inserted her key in the lock, stepped inside the cool interior of the house, and closed the door. But she didn't move beyond the foyer. Staring anxiously at her watch, she waited until three minutes had ticked by. Then, opening the door, she poked her head outside and glanced up and down the tree-lined street, watching as cars backed out of driveways and joined the flow of other vehicles headed to various workplaces.

As Tamia locked the house and hurried to her own car, her cell phone rang. She fumbled it out of her purse and answered with a breathless, "Girl, that was close!"

"I know," Shanell Jasper agreed. "I was running late this morning. And so are you! What happened?"

Tamia grimaced, sliding behind the wheel of her car. "The power went out last night, so we overslept."

"Uh-oh. You've got that client meeting at nine. Are you going to be late?"

"I hope not." Tamia glanced at her watch, mentally calculating how long it would take her to get home, shower and change, and make it to the office on time. If only she'd had the foresight to leave a change of clothes at Shanell's place last night. But everything had been so rushed. After picking up Brandon's tux from the dry cleaner, dropping it off at his condo, and hurrying home to get dressed for the cocktail party, she'd reached Shanell's house just minutes before Brandon arrived to pick her up.

"How long do you think you can keep this up?" Shanell asked.

Tamia pulled onto the main road. "What?"

Shanell snorted. "You know damn well what I'm talking about. This crazy charade of yours, lying to Brandon about where you live and using my house as your cover. How long can you keep this shit up?"

"However long it takes."

"And what if it takes that man, like, five years to propose?" Shanell paused. "Or what if he never does?"

"He will," Tamia said resolutely.

Before Shanell attempted to sow more seeds of doubt in her mind, Tamia told her that she'd see her at the office, then ended the call.

She knew her coworker meant well, and God knows Shanell had every right to voice her concerns since she was doing Tamia such a huge favor. But Shanell didn't understand what was truly at stake here. She had no clue what it was like to grow up on the wrong side of the tracks and dare to aspire to greater things. The crumbling shotgun house Tamia still called home was a world away from the lavish River Oaks estate where Brandon had been raised. He wouldn't be caught dead dating someone from Houston's notorious Third Ward—no matter how smart, successful, and educated Tamia now was. So showing him where she really lived was out of the question.

Sure, she felt a pang of guilt every time she lied to him or had to inconvenience her coworker. But she was compensating Shanell for her trouble. And once she and Brandon were married, Tamia would spend the rest of her life proving to him that he'd made the right decision.

Chapter Two

"Thanks, Marjorie." Tamia rushed past the receptionist, barely sparing the woman a glance. She was ten minutes late to a meeting with a new client. Not exactly the best first impression to make. Thank God her boss was out of town this week, or she'd be in a shitload of trouble. Hell, if the client decided to go with another agency after today's consultation, Tamia could pretty much kiss her promotion good-bye.

Reaching her sleek glass cubicle, she stowed her Coach handbag in the bottom drawer of her desk and grabbed her OneNote tablet. Out of habit, she inspected her appearance in the hand mirror she kept hidden under a tray on her desk. Her MAC makeup was flawless, perfectly accentuating her dark, slanted eyes and full, juicy lips. Her lustrous black hair was cut in a stylishly layered, Rihanna-inspired bob that drew compliments wherever she went. Her silk button-down blouse molded large C-cup breasts, while her black pencil skirt showed off a round, healthy ass and long, toned legs.

As she hurried from the nest of cubicles that housed the agency's brand creative team, one of the copywriters popped his head up.

"Hey, Tamia, I need the final mock-up—"

"Not now," she said, cutting him off. "I'm meeting with a client. We'll talk later."

She headed quickly down the corridor, passing walls that were covered with framed awards, plaques, and press clippings the firm had garnered over the years, establishing it as one of Houston's top advertising agencies. Tamia had worked there for seven years, diligently climbing her way up the ranks. As an account executive, she'd spearheaded several successful ad campaigns and now boasted an impressive client list.

She loved her job. More important, she was damn good at it. So she had as good a shot as anyone else to land the coveted promotion to assistant brand manager of advertising.

Reaching the end of the corridor, Tamia strode briskly into the large conference room. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood at the huge picture window that overlooked the glistening downtown skyline. Dominic Archer, a Crucian-born businessman who'd made his fortune selling prepackaged Caribbean food products.

"Good morning, Mr. Archer. I apologize for keeping you wait—"

As he turned from the window, Tamia promptly lost her train of thought. The man was at least six-four and copper brown, with sleepy dark eyes and a manicured goatee that framed full, sexy lips. Beneath his expensively tailored Gucci suit, his body looked well-toned and muscular. Solid as a rock.

Oh dayum, Tamia thought. This brotha is foine!

Recovering her professionalism, she stepped forward with an outstretched hand. "Tamia Luke," she introduced herself.

He clasped her hand, his eyes roaming her face. "Dominic Archer." His deep voice held a hint of a lazy island lilt. The scent of his expensive cologne wafted up her nostrils, subtle yet intoxicating.

Tamia smiled at him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Archer. Are you sure you don't want any coffee, tea, or juice?" He smiled, revealing a set of straight, white teeth. "No, thank you. I'm fine."

Yes, you are. Clearing her throat, Tamia motioned to the long glass conference table. "Please have a seat."

Once they were both settled at the table, she got right down to business. "I understand that you want a memorable advertising campaign to launch your first Caribbean-style restaurant."

"That's right." As Dominic leaned back in his chair and casually crossed his legs, Tamia's gaze was drawn to his Dolce & Gabbana black calfskin leather loafers. The man had style, which boded well for their collaborative partnership.

"I want something that's gonna grab people's attention," he explained to her. "Something that'll lure customers who've never even thought about trying Caribbean food. And I want something that'll drive as much traffic as possible to my restaurant."

Tamia smiled at him. "Then you've definitely come to the right agency. We have a proven track record of satisfying our clients' needs."

"So I've heard." Dominic's eyes gleamed. "I've been a fan of your work for years."

"Really? I'm so glad to hear that." Tamia was thoroughly stoked. "Now, before my team gets started on developing the creative concept for your ad campaign, I need to familiarize myself with your restaurant so that I can decide on an effective target market. So let's talk about—"

"You're even more beautiful than I'd imagined," Dominic interrupted softly.

Her cheeks warmed from the unexpected compliment. "Thank you."

"No, for real. I mean it." He held her gaze. "I always wondered what you looked like behind that black mask."

It took a delayed moment for his words to register. When they did, Tamia's blood ran cold and she stared at Dominic, stunned. "W-what did you just say?" she whispered.

A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. "Does anyone still call you Mystique?"

The room swayed. Tamia swallowed hard as a clammy sweat broke out over her skin. "When ... how ..." Her throat tightened, choking off the rest of her question.

Dominic grinned harder. "Like I said, I've been a fan of your work for years."

Tamia got unsteadily to her feet, crossed the room, and closed the door. She couldn't risk any of her coworkers overhearing the conversation she was about to have.

As she made her way back to the table, Dominic's eyes traveled over her body as if he were picturing her naked. When he licked his lips, Tamia felt dirty in a way she hadn't felt in years.

She stood behind her high-backed chair in an attempt to shield her body from his view. "What do you want?" She forced out the words past dry lips.

Dominic reluctantly lifted his eyes from her cleavage to meet her accusing gaze. "Why did you stop acting? You were a natural, Mystique."

"My name is Tamia."

He smiled, slowly shaking his head. "To me, you'll always be Mystique."

Tamia's manicured fingernails dug into the soft leather of the chair. "Again I ask. What do you want?"

His smile widened. "I want you to come out of retirement. Become Mystique again."

"That's not gonna happen."

"You misunderstand me." Dominic leaned forward in his seat. "I don't want you to perform for strangers. This time around, I want you all to myself."

Incredulous, Tamia stared at him. "You're out of your damn

He chuckled quietly. "If I am, Mystique, it's your fault."

"Don't call me—"

"I own every last one of your movies. I can't tell you how many times I've watched them, wishing I was the lucky man you were fucking so enthusiastically. It never seemed like you were just acting. Like I said, you were a natural."

Tamia felt sick to her stomach. "Look," she said, darting a furtive glance toward the door, "I don't know who the hell put you up to this, but you wasted your time coming here. I stopped doing those movies a long time ago, and I have no intention of coming out of retirement for you or anyone else. Now you need to leave before I call security."

Dominic laughed softly, unfazed by the threat. "You won't call security."

"Think I won't?" Livid, Tamia spun away from him, rounded the conference table, and marched toward the phone at the opposite end.

"Do your colleagues know about your past life as a porn star?"

That stopped her dead in her tracks.

She stared across the table at Dominic. The wicked gleam in his eyes chilled her to the bone.

"Do they know about your alter ego Mystique, the submissive with a sublime pussy?" he taunted. "Do they know how much you enjoyed being spanked and fucked in the ass? Do they know how much you loved sucking your master's big, black—"

"Stop," Tamia whispered, feeling faint. "Just stop."

But he ignored her. "What about your boss? When I contacted the agency and specifically asked to work with you, he couldn't stop singing your praises. But does he know how truly talented you are? Would he risk the company's outstanding reputation by promoting an employee with a ... checkered past?"

Tamia gaped at him in horror. "Are you blackmailing me?"

Dominic smiled narrowly. "Blackmail is such an ugly word, you know? I prefer to think of this as a business transaction, one that can be mutually beneficial."

"How?" Tamia hissed. "You're the only one who'd get something out of this damn deal."

"That's not true," he countered mildly. "In exchange for your cooperation, you'd get my sworn promise to keep your dirty little secret."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from EXPOSED by NAOMI CHASE Copyright © 2011 by Naomi Chase. Excerpted by permission of DAFINA BOOKS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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