Sex on Flamingo Beach (2 page)

“Thank you.”

As soon as she could gracefully extricate herself she stepped away, finding safety behind her circular glass desk. She'd heard the stories about Ian. The old man had an eye for the ladies. But he was wealthy and influential, and she could use the
Chronicle
's business.

“Can I top that off for you?” Emilie asked, noting Ian's coffee cup that was no longer steaming.

“No, no, I'm fine.” He looked at his watch pointedly.

Emily went for the direct approach. “I wanted to speak with you because I heard the
Chronicle
has a major recruitment effort going on.”

“That's true. We're expanding. I'm hiring staff to fill several key positions. Are you thinking of applying?”

Emilie shook her head. “Me? I'm hardly reporter or editor material.”

“You could be. I'd groom you.”

“I don't think so.” Emilie softened her words with a smile. She steepled her fingers. “I also heard you're offering assistance with relocation. The candidates you fly in are going to need a place to stay. The Flamingo Beach Resort is a logical option. I would, of course, adjust the room prices.”

Ian ran a hand across iron-gray hair. “I'm not sure what Human Resources is doing about accommodations. We could talk in more detail over, uh, dinner. Are you available?”

“I'm afraid not. I have a dinner engagement.”

Somewhat of a stretch, but he didn't need to know that. She planned on getting takeout and parking herself in front of the television set.

“Tomorrow then?”

“Sorry, but I have a previous commitment.”

Ian handed her his business card. “Why don't you call me when you're free and we'll take it from there?”

She thanked him and handed him her own business card.

He stood towering above her, holding on to her hands.

“Because I like you I'm going to tell you this. Keith Lightfoot's bringing in men from out of state to get his casino built. Those men are going to need accommodations for an extended period of time. I've heard they'll be around for a good six months to a year. I could put in a good word for you,” he said.

Keith Lightfoot again.

“Why would Mr. Lightfoot consider having his men stay with the competition?”

Ian winked at her. “Don't worry your pretty little head. I can make it happen. What better way for the Seminoles to see what they're up against than to experience life at the resort?”

Emilie was now seriously beginning to worry. If the Lightfoot man had grown up in Flamingo Beach and Mayor Rabinowitz was really in his pocket, it spelled trouble. The Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort didn't stand a chance.

No, she refused to have negative thoughts. She should view it as a challenge. She had a huge bonus at stake here and one she needed to buy a place she could call home.

No way was she going down without a fight.

“T
ell me more about this Lightfoot guy,” Emilie said to Rowan the next evening as they were having dinner at Mario's.

Rowan reached across the table, capturing her fingers in his. “What would you like to know?”

He'd cleaned up for the occasion and instead of his usual jeans, he was wearing khaki slacks and a formfitting polo shirt that hugged his chest in all the right places.

“Everything. I'm especially interested in hearing about this casino he's looking to build.”

“So much for having a nice relaxing evening without work creeping in. The project is actually a partnership between the Seminole Indian tribe and Landsdale International. Keith engineered the deal.”

Emilie almost choked on her Long Island iced tea. She set down the drink and reached for her water. There was more here to worry about than she'd initially thought.

“Landsdale International, owners of the luxury resorts?”

“Right on the money. Partnering with the Seminoles to pull this off is going to put Landsdale in a whole other league. They're looking at a one-thousand-room resort on at least a hundred acres. We're talking a huge casino, lagoon-style pool and there's even talk of a theme park. The idea is to have investors buy the suites and villas, which can then be rented out on a daily, weekly or even monthly basis.

Emilie was starting to feel sticky. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to sit outdoors after all. She picked up her menu and began to fan.

One of Mario's waiters came hurrying over.

“I can reseat you, madam. You might be more comfortable inside.”

“No, no, I'll be fine.”

It was difficult not to burst out laughing. Not so long ago the help at Mario's diner consisted of Mario and his extended family. Service was friendly but incidental. If you were looking for fine dining then you went elsewhere. What Mario was known for was good food and huge portions. But now Mario, like everyone else, had jumped on the expansion band-wagon, adding upstairs seating and a pretty little garden out back. He'd also hired trained waitstaff.

Sitting outdoors had been Emilie's idea. She'd convinced Rowan it would be far less crowded than the air-conditioned interior. Now she was beginning to regret it.

“Are you sure you don't want to go in where it's cooler?” Rowan repeated, looking like he was ready to jump up and fan her if necessary.

“No, just give me a moment and I'll be fine.” Emilie took another sip of ice-cold water and stuck her head in the menu. When the waiter came to their table she gave him her order.

“So what role do you and Derek play in this deal?” she asked after the waiter left.

“Keith wants us to develop the land and make it happen. The PR alone should put James Morse Incorporated on the map.”

“That's cool.” Emilie touched Rowan's bare arm with the tip of her fingers. He used that as an excuse to capture her hand. “I'd imagine the project should take at least two years to get up and running.”

“Keith is aiming for six months. He wants the casino and accommodations constructed in that time and he's given us carte blanche to bring workmen in from all over the country. There's a huge bonus if the project's brought in on time.”

Emilie sipped on her water again and reflected. There was an unsettling flutter in her stomach and her forehead felt clammy.

“Six months! You can't be serious. It's going to take about that long just to get permits.”

“Not if you're the mayor's friend. Keith's a very powerful man and he has connections.”

Emilie remembered her earlier conversation with Joya. She'd said something about the mayor being in Keith Lightfoot's pocket. She wondered if Rowan might be getting a kickback, too, but she couldn't imagine Joya's husband, Derek Morse, involved in anything shady. Rowan, on the other hand, had a reputation for being an aggressive, hard-nosed negotiator, but she'd always thought he was honest.

“Lightfoot really believes that he's going to have enough business to keep a thousand rooms filled?” Emilie asked. She had to wonder where the traffic was coming from. She was at her wit's end trying to come up with ideas to keep her hotel at even fifty percent capacity, and her hotel had half as many rooms.

Rowan gulped his beer and set down the bottle. “Gambling's an addiction, babe. When you're hooked you'll follow that roulette wheel to the end of the earth.”

“Gotcha. But why would high rollers come to Flamingo Beach when they can go to Las Vegas? What makes us so special?”

“New turf. Gamblers flock to wherever opportunity lies. Must we talk about gambling and casinos? I would much rather talk about us.”

“I didn't know there was an
us,
” Emily said, hiking an eyebrow.

Rowan's hand covered his heart. “You're killing me. Here I am crazy about you, and you keep pushing me away. Is it the race thing that makes
us
a problem?”

Emilie bit into a breadstick and debated how to answer. “You want me to be brutally honest?”

“I'd be disappointed if you were anything but,” Rowan said.

This was going to be a lot harder than she thought.

“I like you a lot,” Emilie said, choosing her words carefully. “I think you're smart and sexy. However I'm pushing thirty-five and I have to start looking at long-term possibilities.”

“And I don't fit the bill?”

“I'm not saying that. I just think you and I are from different walks of life and that could create problems.”

“How so?”

He was asking her to spell it out.

“My family is African-American and very proud of their heritage. I'd be disappointing them if I got involved with you.”

“What you're saying is that I'd not be their choice because I'm white. Babe, I'm not looking to get married. Race aside, would I be your choice?”

Emilie had to think about that.

“You're hot,” she eventually said, “But what my family thinks counts a lot to me. It would be easier all around if my man came from a similar ethnic background. And frankly, I'd be more comfortable. Shared experiences make for better long-term partners,” she said.

Rowan's easy laughter rang out. “You're blowing me off, treating me like some stodgy white guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Babe, I grew up in a tough Brooklyn neighborhood, the only white kid for miles around. I had to fight for respect at an early age. I bet you anything I know more about your culture than you do.”

Emilie was completely taken aback. She hadn't known that about Rowan. She'd thought of him as solidly upper middle-class, and looking to experiment with someone who was different. A name like Rowan James was as Waspy as they came. Now she'd just discovered there was a lot more to the man than the sexy exterior package.

When their meal arrived the conversation veered off in an entirely different direction. Rowan told her how he'd first gotten into land developing and she shared with him her struggle to fit in with corporate America.

“Do you think some of your issues might have to do with people not being sure who you are?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you're so light skinned. I'm sure you are frequently mistaken for white,” he said.

“I'm used to that, but I've made no secret of being African-American. I've never tried to pass.”

Rowan cleared his throat, his glance now off in another direction. “Look who just walked in.”

Emilie spotted the man in the entranceway waiting for a table. He had a commanding presence. He was olive skinned with high cheekbones, silver-tipped hair and a regal bearing. The man accompanying him she recognized as a reporter from the
Southern Tribune.

“Who is the darker man?” Emilie asked.

“That's Keith Lightfoot. I'll introduce you.”

He was already up and heading over to where Keith and the reporter had just been seated. Curiosity prompted Emilie to follow. She might as well see what she was up against.

The men were shaking hands by the time she got to their table.

“Keith, this is Emilie Woodward, my date,” Rowan said, introducing her.

Keith towered above her when he stood. He was long and lean with piercing gold eyes that didn't appear to miss much. Those eyes were carefully appraising her.

“A pleasure, Ms. Woodward.”

“Emilie.”

“Emilie is the director of leisure sales at the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort.”

“You don't say.”

Keith Lightfoot had a clipped way of speaking and an accent she couldn't quite place. His clasp was firm and his unyielding gaze disconcerting.

“Rowan tells me you're building a resort that will put mine to shame,” Emily said when the silence stretched out.

“Only time will tell.”

The reporter cleared his throat as if to remind them that he was still there. He was observing the exchange intently and taking mental notes.

This might be her only opportunity. She couldn't wait for Ian Pendergrass to pave the way. “You'll need someplace for the builders you're bringing in to stay. I hope you'll consider the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort,” Emilie said, handing him her card.

Remaining noncommittal, Keith glanced at the business card before pocketing it. Rowan's hand remained on the small of her back as he steered her back the way they'd come.

“Dessert?” he asked when they were seated again.

“None for me. My hips can't afford it.”

“Babe, you don't have an ounce of excess flesh on you. All that roller-skating's done you good.”

Emilie smiled at him and blew a lock of red hair out of her eyes. “You must be spying on me. How else would you know I roller-skate?”

Rowan winked at her. “You'd be blown away at just how much I know about you.” He signaled the waiter for the bill.

Minutes later they were seated in Rowan's souped-up Ford truck that had all the bells and whistles, zooming down Ocean Avenue as if there weren't speed traps.

“What's the rush? Where are we heading?” Emilie asked after a while. She'd assumed Rowan was taking her home but they'd already passed her street.

“To my place for a nightcap.”

“Uh…”

“You don't trust me?”

“No, I don't.'

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Nothing's going to happen unless you want it to, babe.”

“Hmm.”

Emilie had never been to his house and was curious to see how he lived. She'd once been told you learned a lot about people from their living habits.

They sailed by a guardhouse entering a community of newly built town houses. One looked pretty much like the other except some had prettier landscaping.

“This is one of my developments,” Rowan proudly explained. “We're just about sold out except for the town house I live in.”

“Is it for sale, as well?”

“I'm still up in the air. I'm uncertain whether I'll be making Flamingo Beach home.”

“You don't like it here?”

Rowan pulled into the carport and parked before answering. “Home for me is the road. I'm always looking for new terrain to conquer. That's why Derek and I are such a good team. He'll take care of business while I scope out new opportunities.”

Rowan James was definitely not the man for her.

She'd had enough of the nomad's life. She was sick of living out of boxes and couldn't wait to get settled someplace.

Rowan helped her out of the truck and hand in hand they walked to the front door. They entered a great room with huge fans whirling. A winding stair-case led up to a loft. The furnishings were minimal and the walls could use a picture or two.

“What would you like to drink?” Rowan asked the moment she was seated.

“Water, please.”

“You really must not trust me,” he said, feigning injury.

“If I thought you knew how to make a cosmopolitan that's what I'd have.”

Chuckling, he left her and entered his state-of-the-art kitchen. Rowan returned a short while later, a beer in one hand and a martini glass in the other.

“Your cosmopolitan, madam,” he said, handing Emilie her drink before he turned on the stereo. He plopped down, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Here's to you, babe.”

Emilie sipped her cosmopolitan and eyed him over the rim. It was one of the best she'd tasted. “Mmm. Not bad. You surprise me!”

“I have a lot more surprises in store for you.”

She wasn't going there. “You're a good bartender,” she said.

His bushy eyebrows wiggled again. “That's not all that I'm good at.”