Not Even if You Begged Read online

  Also by Francis Ray

  In Another Man’s Bed

  Trouble Don’t Last Always

  I Know Who Holds Tomorrow

  Somebody’s Knocking at My Door

  Someone to Love Me

  Rockin’ Around That Christmas Tree

  Like the First Time

  Only You

  Irresistible You

  You and No Other

  Any Rich Man Will Do

  Dreaming of You

  ANTHOLOGIES

  Rosie’s Curl and Weave

  Della’s House of Style

  Welcome to Leo’s

  Going to the Chapel

  Gettin’ Merry

  Let’s Get It On

  F r a n c i s R a y

  Not Even If You Begged

  St. Martin’s Griffin New York

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  A Reading Group Guide

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  NOT EVEN IF YOU BEGGED. Copyright © 2008 by Francis Ray. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ray, Francis.

  Not even if you begged / Francis Ray.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-94817-7

  ISBN-10: 0-312-94817-4

  1. Women lawyers—Fiction. 2. African Americans—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3568.A9214N68 2008

  813′.54—dc22

  2007039760

  First Edition: February 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Elaine Koster, my fabulous agent, for your guidance and wisdom. This one is for you.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my agent, Elaine Koster, for her continued support and guidance. I am forever indebted to you.

  I would also like to thank, as always, my daughter and friend, Michelle Ray, who reminds me of why I write.

  Prologue

  Man had fallen from grace again … just as Traci Evans knew he always would.

  Standing amid the hushed and tensed selective few in the wings of the auditorium at one of the largest churches in Charleston, South Carolina, Traci watched her client, Andrew Crandall, struggle to maneuver his wheelchair to the lone microphone positioned at the center of the stage. The moment he’d appeared, the standing-room-only audience had surged to its feet, applauding loudly. The ovation was deafening.

  Waiting with Traci, Brianna Ireland muttered a curse. “He can walk!” she hissed. Since she was the lawyer for Justine Crandall, Andrew’s soon-to-be ex-wife, Traci thought the other woman was entitled to be angry.

  “But not for long distances,” Traci said, which was the truth, but both women knew the wheelchair would elicit more sympathy. Andrew was going to need every bit he could get. It was time for him to pay the piper, to a degree, of course. That was where Traci came in.

  Once in front of the microphone, Andrew glanced at Traci. She tipped her head slightly, their signal for him to begin. Instead he bit his lip. Perspiration dotted his forehead. His manicured hands clenched. He didn’t want to do this. Tough. She stared straight back. People needed to know the high price he had paid, was still paying, for his adultery.

  On the other side of the stage, the side Andrew had wheeled himself from, stood his number one fan and staunchest supporter, his mother, Beverly Crandall. Traci and the overprotective woman had clashed at the first meeting. But Traci had to give it to his mother; she’d backed off and kept out of the way once she saw that Traci was running the show and wouldn’t stand for any interference. Beverly wanted Andrew out of the mess he had gotten into, and their best bet was Traci.

  Finally understanding that Traci was not going to come out and rescue him, Andrew reluctantly reached for the microphone, then momentarily bowed his dark head just as he and Traci had rehearsed. When he spoke his voice trembled, stumbled. “G-good ev-evening.”

  A hush fell over the crowd. Gone was the smooth baritone voice that had persuaded thousands to shell out their hard-earned money to hear him speak about relationships. Personally, Traci thought it a fitting punishment. Each word was now an effort. The grimace in his handsome face showed his embarrassment. She hoped the audience would see it as remorse.

  People began to slowly sink to their seats, their eyes glued on Andrew. “I-I com-mitt-ed t-the un-for-gi-givable sin.” He visibly swallowed, bowed his head once more. When he lifted it, tears glistened in his brown eyes. “It-it c-cost m-me m-my m-most cher-ished po-possession, my-my wife.”

  Tears pooled on his lids, rolled down his cheeks. Traci thought that a nice touch and totally false. Andrew loved himself most of all, first and foremost.

  “M-my wife, Justine, ha-has asked for a d-divorce and I have to gi-give it to her.” There was a collective gasp. Andrew had made his considerable fortune, his sterling reputation on reconciling couples, yet he was unable to help his own marriage.

  He swallowed, his grip on the microphone tightening. “Sin co-cost me ev-everything, p-put m-me in this chair, almost killed m-me. I’m ma-making this pu-public con-confes-sion so you won’t blame Justine.”

  “And because you don’t want the whole truth coming out,” Brianna muttered.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Traci saw Brianna’s fiancé, Patrick Dunlap, run his large hand up and down her arm in a loving, soothing gesture. The pending marriage was three weeks away. Traci suspected there was a reason for the short six-week engagement. Her gaze drifted to Brianna’s stomach, concealed by a long black tailored jacket. With another lawyer Traci might have tried to use her intuition to press for more leverage for her client, but Brianna was known as a badass.

  And Andrew deserved a bit of payback. Just like most men, he couldn’t keep his zipper zipped.

  “S-she’ll forever be the light of m-my life. S-she stuck by m-me, pulled m-me back from m-my coma knowing I had betrayed her trust, her love.” Tears rolled faster down his cheek. “I-I ask for her forgiveness and yours.”

  Silence was his answer. Another idol had fallen. Such was life, Traci thought with a bit of sarcasm. You play, you pay. To her and the party you wronged. Andrew’s divorce settlement could have made his ex, Justine, a very rich woman. Instead she had donated it to the senior center Andrew’s foundation was building.

  Andrew saw the move as wasteful, even spiteful, instead of what it really was. His wife simply wanted no reminder of him.

  Two of the most influential ministers in the country stepped around Andrew’s mother and continued until they flanked Traci’s shaky client. He had a right to be. If things went badly tonight, his once bright future was in the garbage. What happened in the next few minutes was crucial.

  Each minister placed a comforting hand on Andrew’s s
lumped shoulder. Traci had personally picked them: one young, charismatic, handsome, and the other older with a balding head, a kind face, and no-nonsense manner. Both had balked until Traci had reminded them that her client wasn’t the only one who had sinned. She hadn’t meant metaphorically either. A nice personal check had further convinced them.

  “Who among us has not sinned or committed a fault?” asked Reverend King, his eyes sweeping the audience as he had done for thirty years in the pulpit. “Which of us would not want forgiveness?”

  Reverend Coggins took up the plea. “Jesus was the only perfect man. Man is sinful by nature.”

  Which has made me a very rich woman, Traci thought.

  “How many in this audience are happier today because of this man?” Reverend King asked softly, his husky voice carrying his conviction. Andrew’s mouth tightened and Traci knew it was with envy.

  Good. Payback is a bitch in high heels and she’s doing a tap dance on Andrew’s once proud neck.

  “Judgment is not ours, but a higher power’s,” Reverend Coggins said. “We have counseled with our brother and find him truly remorseful and have forgiven him.”

  Andrew lifted his face, tears still sliding down his cheeks. He was probably thinking of all the money he’d lose. He certainly wouldn’t be able to afford the custom suits, expensive sports cars, and life in the lap of luxury he had become accustomed to if things went badly.

  “I-I am going to Los Angeles to work with Reverend Coggins’s foundation. I pray that I can take your forgiveness with me,” Andrew told the audience.

  Several seconds passed before one person in the middle section stood to applaud, followed by another in the balcony, and another, until almost the entire audience was on their feet.

  “How can they forgive that creep?” Brianna asked, her voice sharp with anger.

  Because I made sure of it. Traci had discreetly hired twenty actors from Atlanta, then sprinkled them among the audience. The two renowned ministers were further insurance. She didn’t believe in taking chances.

  Once was enough. Her eyes momentarily chilled as an old memory surfaced. Thrusting the image away, she faced Brianna. “Justine’s good name is clear. You have what you wanted.”

  Brianna shot her a look that would make most people cower. Traci wasn’t the cowering type. “If I had my way he’d be hung up by that part of his anatomy that thinks for him.”

  Traci shrugged. She’d heard and thought worse. “He’s a man.”

  “Not even close,” Brianna said. “If he was, he wouldn’t have strayed.”

  Traci’s gaze again flickered to the man standing so protectively by Brianna’s side. Broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome, and dressed casually in a sports coat and slacks, he hadn’t said a word after he’d greeted Traci. Yet his silent presence showed he trusted Brianna to handle the situation. He supported her. He’d fight the world for her. But what about six months, six years from now? She hoped Brianna might be one of the lucky ones. Her best friend, Andrew’s soon-to-be ex-wife, certainly hadn’t been.

  “Perhaps. If you’ll excuse me, I have another engagement. Good night.” Traci turned and saw people coming on the stage from the audience. Many of them were women. No one had to tell her that the majority of them were wondering if they could be the next one Andrew did a little sinning with. The tears were gone but, in keeping with their plan, his face remained remorseful, his shoulders slumped.

  A young, slender woman in a stylish suit and killer heels bent to kiss Andrew on the cheek, pat his chest. If Traci was a betting woman, she’d wager the woman had also slipped her phone number into his jacket pocket.

  Shaking her head in disgust, Traci left the stage using the back stairs. Some women didn’t mind taking leftovers or stepping over another woman to get a man. She should know.

  Shoving open the back door with more force than necessary, she spied her car waiting for her. The driver snapped to attention and rushed to open the back door of the black Lincoln. Nodding her thanks, she slipped inside the plush luxury of the automobile.

  Love made fools of people, shattered lives. And she collected big bucks helping the guilty party skate the blame.

  She reached for the crystal whiskey decanter and poured a shot just as the car pulled away from the curb. She was looking forward to the weekend with her best friend, Maureen Gilmore, and the rest of the lovable ladies of the Invincible Sisterhood where she could forget sin … including her own.

  With a flick of her wrist she tossed back the amber-colored drink in one quick motion. The liquid burned a trail down her throat to her stomach. Her hand clenched on the glass.

  Helping the guilty was what she did best. People said she was a natural. They didn’t know how right they were.

  C h a p t e r

  1

  “What do you miss most about your husband?”

  Nettie Hopkins asked the question of the four women sitting around the spacious great room in Maureen Gilmore’s lavish beach house on the Isle of Palms. The ocean was less than two hundred feet away. As usual, when Nettie was in charge of leading the book club discussion, no matter what the plot, somehow she always managed to turn the conversation to her deceased husband.

  Since Nettie had been married to Samuel Hopkins for forty-one years, neither Traci nor any of the other women minded. Samuel had passed away of natural causes quietly in his sleep eight years ago, leaving the woman who loved him with millions. More important, he had left the good-hearted woman with wonderful memories and children and grandchildren who adored her. Priceless.

  There was a discernible yearning in Nettie’s soft eyes, a wistful look, then she quietly said, “I’ll start. The tender way he always held my hand when we went out or strolled in the park or in our garden.”

  “The smell of his cigar,” Betsy Young said just as quietly, her hands for once still instead of knitting. At sixty-five she had been a widow for seven years. Her husband, Rudolph, a successful trial lawyer, had been a womanizer, but she had loved him despite his unfaithfulness. Never once had she said a word against him or her twin adult sons, who were unfortunately following in their father’s faithless footsteps. “I’ve kept his humidor all these years.”

  “The way he used to tease me out of my anger.” Sixty-five-year-old Donna Crowley sighed. She was a robust, large-boned woman with a boisterous laugh. She was also the best cook in the county, and had a hair-trigger temper but a heart of gold. Gary, a financier, hadn’t made it off the operating table for his quadruple bypass five years ago. “And you all know that’s not an easy thing to do.”

  “My Raymond always made me feel safe.” Ophelia Simmons, sixty-four years old, told them quietly, her apple martini, her favorite drink, forgotten. She’d married her high school sweetheart a week after graduation. They had been inseparable. She’d held him as he took his last breath due to lung cancer six years ago. “I still remember him walking me home after band practice the times my mother was late picking me up. I lived two miles from the school and enjoyed every step.”

  Quietness and good memories settled over the room. The only way to be considered for membership in the Invincible Sisterhood was to be a widow who overcame, a woman who had lost a great love, but who refused to let that loss dominate her life. Maureen had started the group six months after she had lost her husband, James, four years ago.

  Traci was a guest of the Sisterhood and considered it an honor. In an overstuffed wing chair near the massive stone fireplace, her bare feet tucked under her hips, she took another sip of the scotch she had switched to when she arrived an hour ago.

  It was her second for the night and she was on her way to a comfortable buzz. Usually she didn’t drink more than a glass of wine during social engagements, and she never drank alone at home. She’d seen the disastrous consequences in her clients too many times. Then too, the stronger stuff often made her morose and talkative. Although tonight she didn’t have to worry. The Sisterhood was sworn to secrecy. What happened in these meetings was
sacred.

  Traci took another sip and let the aged liquid fuzz her brain so she wouldn’t have to think about the cheating bastard she had just helped or the one she had married. She refused to miss anything about Dante Babers. Although a recent graduate of SMU Law School in Dallas, she’d remained naïve and insecure, and was still trying to prove something to a mother who would never love her.

  Dante had given Traci the love and acceptance she had longed for all of her life … or so she thought. She often wondered afterward if she would have known about his infidelity were it not for the accident.

  “Thinking of Dante?” Betsy asked, her hand paused over one of Donna’s high-calorie chocolate brownies crammed with pecans. “I miss my Rudolph the same way. I keep his smoking jacket in a plastic clothes keeper so I can still smell the aroma and remember him.”

  Traci had donated every stitch of Dante’s designer clothes to Goodwill. She had wanted nothing to remind her of her stupidity.

  “He didn’t suffer. You have to remember that,” Maureen said.

  Traci almost choked on her drink. The policeman and the mortician had mouthed the same thing. He’d been dead from the massive heart attack when his twin-engine plane crashed. They’d said it with a straight face, although she’d learned from a not-so-discreet attendant at the funeral home that her husband’s pants were undone and that there were teeth marks on a part of his anatomy that shouldn’t have been exposed.

  Dante’s companion had been ejected from the aircraft. They had found her by accident when they were searching the area for her husband’s downed aircraft. Dante hadn’t listed her as a passenger when he’d filed his flight plan. Traci didn’t want to think of the two-timer. She wasn’t as forgiving as Betsy.

  “Maureen, you’re next,” Traci told her.

  Maureen looked around the room, a light dancing in her laughing almond-colored eyes. Traci took another sip, for the first time glad she wasn’t an official member of the Sisterhood. Even she didn’t think she could lie that good.