Meet Phoenix. Marcia King-Gamble

took a couple of long strides toward my assistant, who seemed spellbound by his physique. Her eyes practically bugged out of her head.

      Damon placed a hand on Whit’s arm and eased her out of the doorway, firmly shutting the door in her face. Not in the mood to be alone with him, I picked up the phone.

      “I’ll call the police and have you removed,” I threatened.

      He reached a hand out for the receiver. “One minute, Phe. Listen to what I have to say.”

      I’d never been one to take orders. That came from living with four bossy brothers who would run over me if I let them. I’d learned one thing at an early age: if you wanted to be heard, and respected, either you spoke up or fought back. So hoping to send him a message I was not to be toyed with, I grabbed Damon’s arm, right below the crease of the elbow and applied pressure.

      His sharp intake of breath told me I’d accomplished my mission. I relinquished my hold and his entire body relaxed.

      The moment I let go, Damon’s free hand clamped down on mine. “Hang up, Phe,” he ordered.

      My reflexes kicked in and my hand opened of its own accord. The receiver catapulted, clunking against Damon’s temple.

      Startled, I reached out to press my fingers against the injured flesh. I hadn’t meant to hit him that hard.

      “Oh, Damon, I’m sorry.”

      We exchanged a long, charged look. Damon’s fingers remained twined around my wrist. Sympathy was not what he was after.

      “That hot temper hasn’t mellowed with age, I see,” he said more amiably than I would have.

      “It was an accident, I’m sorry. But if you hadn’t manhandled me it would never have happened.”

      “Manhandled you? I reached across to touch you, chica.” Smoky gray eyes swept my face. Blood thudded in my ears. Damon Hernandez could no longer get to me. I repeated it like a mantra.

      And chica wasn’t going to work. Not this time. Using my free hand, I poured water from my water bottle on some tissues and tossed them to him.

      Damon held the wad against his bruised temple. “Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

      “That’s all you’re getting.”

      It was all he was getting. And, yes, I was sorry I’d hurt him. But he’d hurt me badly, too. It had taken me forever to recover from Damon’s betrayal.

      But I’d filed that painful experience under “Lessons Learned,” and cautioned myself never to give my heart to a man who thought that women weren’t equal.

      And I had learned some things from the experience: independence and resilience. How many African-American twenty-eight-year-old females could say they owned their own business? How many twenty-eight-year-olds owned anything at all?

      Damon took another step toward me.

      I stepped back.

      He advanced.

      “I’m not going to get on my knees and plead for forgiveness, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I jabbered, feeling like a cornered rat. This was my office. My studio. I was still in control.

      “Then make it up to me in another way,” Damon said, his voice deceptively low. “Take me to Tibet with you.”

      “When hell freezes over.”

      “Oh, Phe,” Damon said, shaking his head and pressing his advantage. One hand still held the wad of tissues against his temple. “Admit you need me.”

      A morsel of guilt finally kicked in and with it my normal compassion. “Maybe you should have that…uh…injury looked at by a doctor. I’ll pick up the tab, of course.”

      “It’ll heal.”

      He balled up the tissues and tossed it at me. I deftly caught it. For a brief moment I considered stuffing it down his arrogant throat. But I’d done enough damage for one day.

      He reached around me and picked up the newspaper, reading out loud.

      “‘Maitreya, “Future Buddha,” one of a priceless trio, found on the grounds of a deserted Tibetan monastery.’ Now that’s intriguing stuff.”

      He took his time reading the article while I seethed. After he was through, he uncapped a pen and scribbled some words down on a card before thrusting it at me.

      “By the way, Maitreya’s supposed to be yellow. That statue has a greenish tinge to it. Here’s my home and cell numbers. You’ll need my help.”

      We were on the same wavelength, always had been. The idol did look more green than yellow, but I’d be damned if I’d agree with him out loud.

      Tucking my newspaper under his arm, Damon flashed me a grin and wiggled his fingers.

      “I’ll be waiting to hear from you, Phe. Don’t keep me hanging, I’m a pretty busy boy.”

      He backed out of the room, taking the paper with him. My paper.

      Damon would be waiting a damn long time for my call. I certainly didn’t want him involved in any project I was associated with.

      Yet seeing him after all these years made me realize a few things. It made me grateful and proud that I’d had the courage to end the relationship. If I hadn’t walked I wouldn’t be where I was today.

      Time to get focused and make some phone calls. I needed an X-ray infrared specialist and I needed one soon. I got out my BlackBerry, scrolled through the list of names and found Lyle Greenspan’s, Felicia Michaels’s and Earl Kincaid’s. I quickly scribbled down their numbers.

      Fifteen minutes later I conceded Damon was right. All three were busy and unable to make it.

      What choice was I left with?

      Taking a deep breath, I picked up the phone again. As I punched in the numbers, I thought about my throwing arm. Damon’s temple was probably really swollen now, and most likely hurt like hell. Good; let him suffer for once.

      Damon’s voice mail kicked in and I left a message.

      Less than five minutes later he called me back.

      “What’s up, Phe?”

      “Where are you, Damon?”

      “Heading home?”

      “Do you have a visa?” I almost choked on my words. I pictured him grinning.

      “Why do I need a visa?”

      “Stop playing games.”

      He’d known all along that I would get back to him. Not only was he eminently qualified, I’d found out during my conversation with Lyle that Damon had converted to Buddhism, Tibet’s most popular religion. That, to my mind, was an added advantage. He would at least be familiar with the culture and he wasn’t expecting an exorbitant salary.

      “You there, Phe? Did you say you want me to go to Tibet with you?”

      “Yes. I need your services.”

      “Cool. Sounds like the perfect assignment for someone like me, a follower of the Dalai Lama.”

      “Last I knew you were Roman Catholic. Your mother must have had a cow when you converted to Buddhism.”

      “My mother died. It hasn’t been the best of times lately. Buddhism was my salvation, especially after you left me.” He chuckled.

      Left him? More like the other way around. Damon had made it difficult for me to stay with him, especially if I wanted to remain my own woman. He’d let his machismo get in the way—of everything. But I was sorry to hear of his mother’s death. She and I had gotten along well. She had enjoyed regaling me with stories of growing up in the Dominican Republic. And I’d enjoyed every last one of them.

      “I’m