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  He started for the door and looked over his shoulder. “By the way, Travis is also single.”

  She smiled but said nothing. She recalled reading the results of a study on the progression of single females in the corporate world. Price could be right. Of course, the cost of moving a family as opposed to a single employee would not have been a consideration if Price has been promoted; he already lived in Houston. Trying to unclutter her mind, Susan filled her head with pleasant thoughts.

  Travis was a pleasant thought. He was handsome, and she had noticed that even when his voice quivered, his hands remained steady and strong. Her mother had always said the hands always betray the heart and that steady hands were a sign of strong character. What she did not see was confidence and potency. She also did not feel a physical attraction.

  She thought of Stan and wondered if he was happy. She had not wanted to end her marriage, but it was the only thing that made sense. His needs for constant reassurance and ego boosts became draining. The more she gave, the more he required. She shook her head free of those thoughts, the tension and emptiness she was feeling. A man, a husband, was not paramount to her happiness. Nonetheless, emotional and physical merging of souls and bodies was part of her prescription for a totally satisfying life. She knew she would one day find the right combination.

  * * *

  After purchasing a sandwich from the first-floor deli, Susan returned to her office, closed the door, and started reviewing the reports Price had provided. Remembering the customary lull in home buying after school started, she planned to use the weeks of late August and early September to get acquainted with her new surroundings. She finished the sandwich and turned to reapply her lipstick.

  “Miss Cross?” The receptionist tapped on her door and came inside.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but there are some people here to see you.”

  Surprised, she asked, “Did they ask for me specifically?”

  “No, they said they wanted to speak with…I believe the exact words were ‘head honcho,’ and Mr. Bishop said to have them see you. The leader of the group is Rev. Willard Cartwright. He didn’t introduce the others.”

  Ignoring Ann’s Cheshire cat grin, Susan checked her inter-office directory and dialed Price’s extension.

  “Who is Rev. Cartwright, and why is he here?”

  “I’m not sure why he’s here, but Rev. Cartwright is one of the city’s leading ministers and community activists,” Price said. “He does a lot of moralizing and makes a lot of waves. He said he’s here about our lending practices, and since you’re head of lending, I had Ann direct him to your office. Is that a problem?”

  When she didn’t answer, he made an openly patronizing offer.

  “I’ll be happy to sit in on the meeting if you don’t feel you can handle it.”

  Resisting the urge to scream, she spoke calmly. “Just remain available until they leave, please.” She hung up. “Show them in, Ann.”

  Susan took a deep breath and stood as the five people were ushered in. She stopped in mid-exhalation. The man in front was larger than life—not just in size, which was considerable, but also in sheer magnetism. Standing tall and proud, his broad shoulders were squared with military erectness. His eyes were large and dark, almost black, she thought. His features were in perfect symmetry: a wide, unlined forehead, prominent nose, and strong, square chin.

  Susan thought of old Western movies in which tribal warriors stood on hilltops watching their people. This man reminded her of such a warrior. His expression and his stance spoke clearly; he was chief of his tribe. His companions faded into the background, overshadowed by his prominence and the most intriguing smile Susan had ever seen. Impeccably dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and red print tie, his broad shoulders and smooth black skin were enough to make him stand out, but the thundering baritone of his “good afternoon” was as electrifying as an echo in a canyon.

  She anchored her right hand on the edge of the desk and spoke above the pounding of her heart. “Good afternoon. I’m Susan Cross. How may I help you?”

  “I’m Rev. Willard Cartwright, and I certainly hope you can help us, Miss Cross,” he said, gesturing to his companions. “This is Mrs. Whitehead, Deacon Roosevelt Jones, and Mr. and Mrs. Jessie Carter.”

  Susan acknowledged each with a nod and a smile, ending with Deacon Jones, who was touring her body with his eyes. She refocused on Rev. Cartwright. His looks. His presence. His calm effervescence. His generous mouth remained in a crooked smile as if he sensed her uneasiness.

  “Please have a seat,” she said, pointing to the six chairs around the mahogany conference table.

  Rev. Cartwright held a chair for Mrs. Whitehead and waited until everyone was seated before unbuttoning his jacket and taking the chair across from Susan, who sat facing the window. She watched his every move. Something new was happening to her heart.

  “We came here to discuss a serious problem, but before we get into that, may I first ask why we were directed to you?”

  His deep voice was insistent but had a hint of sweetness. Susan was insulted and angry, and she was sure it showed as she looked from one to the other. Ashamed of her intensely sexual response to a stranger, and a minister at that, she chose her words carefully.

  “The receptionist said you asked to see the person in charge. In the absence of the company president, that would be me. If you’d like to speak to someone else, I’ll be more than happy to redirect you, although I must advise you, we rarely see visitors without appointments.”

  She spoke with measured clarity, hoping her voice did not convey her inward irritation. “We do have a customer service department on the nineteenth floor, but since you described your problem as serious, I doubt customer service would be of much help.”

  The ire she had hoped to mask brought stern looks from his associates and a big smile from the reverend. She shivered, but her face was scalding hot.

  “I apologize to you, Miss Cross.” His smile widened and his dark eyes danced merrily. “Is it Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Miss is just fine.”

  “Miss Cross, I apologize, first for barging in without an appointment and then for questioning your authority. I assure you, it was not intended as an insult.” His eyebrows drew together inquisitively. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is your position with Sealand?”

  She turned and lifted one of her brand new business cards from the crystal holder, a gift from her parents, and held it out to him. “Executive vice president. My responsibilities include, but are not limited to, managing the company’s mortgage-lending division. I report to the president of the company, which, in his absence, makes me the head honcho in charge of this division.”

  His penetrating gaze was weakening her resolve. “Now, how can I help you?”

  She tilted her head to the right and tried not to come undone, but out of sight, her legs trembled and her heart pounded furiously.

  “I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot, Miss Cross. I’m here on behalf of six individuals, maybe more, who were turned down for loans with your company. The only common thread is that all six were attempting to purchase homes in the same neighborhood, Cedargrove Heights. Four of the six were easily approved elsewhere. Our concern, Miss Cross, is the reason they were denied credit with this company.”

  Deacon Jones grunted as Rev. Cartwright continued.

  “Other lenders readily approved their applications. Since there were no problems with the applicants, it must have been the neighborhood. That’s redlining, Miss Cross; a practice that’s severely frowned upon by all bodies that govern the lending industry.”

  “I’m familiar with redlining, Rev. Cartwright, and it is a serious matter. Do you have proof of your suspicions?” she asked calmly, having regained some control over her runaway emotions.

  “The proof is obvious, Miss Cross. Cedargrove Heights is a predominately black community. It’s an old neighborhood with some blight, but its residents are mostly proud and consc
ientious homeowners. Quite a few professionals live in the older section. They’ve raised their families there. First-time homeowners, some newlyweds, and quite a few older couples are purchasing the less expensive homes in newly developed areas. The neighborhood is very special to me. I grew up there.”

  Awestruck by his charm and still angry at his intrusion, she tried to concentrate. There was a gleam in his eyes, a sparkle. She imagined his inviting lips on hers and felt at once ashamed, angry, and aroused.

  “May I ask how all of this concerns you, Rev. Cartwright? If you’re here in a legal capacity, you should speak with the honcho in—”

  “No, no; I’m not an attorney, Miss Cross. My church, Cedargrove Baptist, is in the heart of this community. The six families in question attempted to purchase homes in this particular community, and those attempts were met with discrimination. I’m a concerned citizen, as is everyone here. We want to try and settle this matter amicably.”

  His smile had disappeared. Susan was happy to have riled him almost as much as he had rattled her.

  “I’ll certainly take your concerns under advisement, Rev. Cartwright. If this problem exists, I can assure you, Sealand will handle it in a responsible and equitable manner. Please provide the names and phone numbers of the applicants in question and I will forward my findings to them.”

  Deacon Jones stood and shook his head, saying, “No way, sugar pie. We ain’t giving you nothing. You ought to have records of the people you turned down. We don’t want you to get back to us. We want answers now. That’s why we come down here.” His fingers fumbled with the breast pocket of his jacket while his eyes strayed to the crystal ashtray on the table. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

  Susan watched his elastic jaws fold and elongate like an accordion. In this gnat of a man, she saw generations of crusaders whose tireless fight for equality had not ceased. That, and her profound respect for his age, prevented an equally nasty reply.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “but this is a no-smoking building, Deacon Jones. You’re correct; we do keep files for all loans. Unless what you say is true, there is no reason for our files of approved or rejected loans to be segregated by subdivision. So then, I could spend days, weeks, searching for information that you can readily provide.”

  Arms flailing and projectile drops of spittle skidding across the polished wood of the conference table, Deacon Jones took loud exception to the smoking ban. “Well, somebody in this building must smoke. Where do they go when they want a cigarette? You’re supposed to facilitate everybody, handicapped and all. Why you got this big ashtray here if nobody smokes?”

  Before she could respond to the deacon’s rant, Mr. Carter rose from his chair and declared. “Your company turned us down, and I want to know why. There’s nothing wrong with our credit. We moved here from Silsbee six years ago. We been renting since we got here. We worked hard to save enough money for a down payment, and now you say we don’t qualify. I just want to know why.”

  “Mr. Carter, if you don’t mind, please allow me to answer Deacon Jones,” Susan responded, looking at the wrinkled black face with more admiration than anger. “Deacon, I have no knowledge of the smoking habits of the employees, and while I consider cigarette smoking a grave annoyance and definite health hazard, to the best of my knowledge, it’s not a handicap. This building has proper facilities for the blind and those in wheelchairs, but smoking is not allowed. As for the ashtray, it was here when I arrived. Maybe someone smoked in here at one time, but I’m sure you’re aware of recent laws prohibiting smoking in public buildings.”

  She turned to Mr. Carter, who had slumped back into the chair. “Mr. Carter, I’ll be happy to pull your file, review your loan application, and provide further information on the outcome. I will reply in writing, in person, or over the telephone if you prefer, but I will not, cannot, give you an answer at this time.”

  No longer interested in presenting a calm posture, she stood, trembling and legless. Holding onto the table with both hands, she looked into Rev. Cartwright’s enthralling eyes. “Why are you really here? Is this about lending practices, working conditions, or did you just drop by to insult me?”

  “We’ve—”

  She stopped Rev. Cartwright with a wave of her hand. “You didn’t bother to make an appointment.” She spread her hands and shrugged. “You’ve questioned my authority and my ability. You’ve made allegations of faulty lending practices. And, you want immediate and specific answers. It doesn’t work that way.”

  She saw Price walking past her door for the third time.

  “The proper sequence of events entails a written complaint or an appointment that will make your concerns known before your arrival. I have no knowledge of the community in question, and I will not disrupt the work schedule of every other employee to satisfy your concerns.”

  She stopped and took a deep breath. “If that is not to your liking, please feel free to file any complaint your facts will substantiate, or return when the real honcho is in. His name is Waylon Deeds. He is chairman of the board and CFO of Sealand.” She tilted her head in Rev. Cartwright’s direction.

  “Miss Cross, please—”

  She held up her hand. “I haven’t finished, Rev. Cartwright. Do you know how many loans are originated within this company? I could possibly find Mr. and Mrs. Carter’s file, review it quickly and give you a preliminary answer. But I certainly can’t discuss files for the unnamed people you’re supposed to represent. As for your concerns that everyone receive fair and equitable treatment, I doubt that any of you would have…”

  Leaving the thought unfinished, she struggled for calmness and a way to stand firmly on rubber legs. Cartwright’s obtrusive approach was annoying. She abhorred violence, but would have found great satisfaction in slapping his wonderfully arresting face. In the midst of her anger, his image conjured up thoughts that put her dreams to shame. The physical attraction was immediate and amazing.

  Rev. Cartwright stood. “Let me apologize again, Miss Cross. You’re correct. We should have made an appointment and allowed you time to research this matter. It was not our intent to blindside you, but I felt certain you would be familiar with Cedargrove Heights, if not this specific problem.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Rev. Cartwright, but I’ve been in this city for seven days, and this is my first day on the job. I’m not familiar with your neighborhood, or even the one in which I reside.”

  His eyes widened. “Oh, were you just hired by Sealand?” he asked, sitting.

  “No, I’ve been with the company since my junior year in college. I just transferred here from Ohio.”

  He nodded. “Again, I wish to apologize for the intrusion. We’ll wait for your response, and I would simply appreciate your reviewing any loan rejections for purchase of properties in Cedargrove for the last thirty days, if that’s not too much trouble. We have substantial proof of our allegation or we never would have bothered you.”

  He paused to adjust his fetching smile. “And since you’re new in Houston, let me extend a welcome to our worship service at Cedargrove Baptist Church. We have eight and eleven o’clock services each Sunday, with adult Sunday school classes in between. We also have a great singles’ group, which I chair. We meet in the sanctuary on Wednesdays at six-thirty, and would love to have you join us. Here’s my card if you’re interested.”

  The back of his fingers brushed her hand and lingered. She felt a rush of warmth and a deep desire to hold on. In spite of his occupation and the anger he triggered, she could not ignore the obvious. He was as enticing as a snow cone on a blistering afternoon, and almost as cool. His expression changed with the conversation, but his deep voice remained perfectly modulated. He was a minister and a warrior.

  “I appreciate the invitation, Rev. Cartwright. I’ll review your concerns and let you know my findings as quickly as possible.”

  Mrs. Whitehead lingered behind the others. “I want to apologize if we upset you, Miss Cross. Just
seeing you in this position makes me proud. God bless you.”

  “Thank you.” As soon as they left, she began assembling pieces of a puzzle that made her blood boil. Looking up, she saw Price walking toward her, his face plastered with victorious smugness.

  “I waited for your call.” He leaned across her desk. His eyes again fell on her cleavage. “What did they want?”

  “I’ve got it covered, Price. Thanks for standing by.”

  He left, and she stared at her name on the buff-colored cards.

  You know why they were here, you condescending little worm. You may even know why I’m here.

  CHAPTER 2

  Susan spent the remainder of the afternoon gathering data on loan applications for the past two months, and pulled everything connected to Cedargrove Heights. She compared the number of loans approved to those rejected and reviewed each denial. In the first two files, she found glaring reasons to preclude approval, but the reasons given to the applicants were not only vague, they were largely unsubstantiated.

  Comprehension struck.

  If this was a set-up, if Sealand planned to use her, and she found that a distinct possibility, she would not accept the blame for Price Bishop’s bias. Like Rev. Cartwright and Deacon Jones, she had to walk on the side of fairness. She had to fight for her dignity and her career. If her promotion had been the company’s saving grace for their faulty lending practices, she would have to prove her worthiness and seek retribution for the families who were wronged.

  Taking the street names from one of the files, she reviewed the numbers on all active loans for the area, and those paid in full, foreclosed, or sold. After drafting a summary of her preliminary findings, and not knowing whom to trust, she typed it herself and made an appointment with the head of Sealand’s legal department.