Sex on Flamingo Beach
Marcia King-Gamble

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the residents of Flamingo Beach, real and imagined.

Thank you for making this book possible.

Contents

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

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 1

“Emilie, your job is to make sure a warm body is in each bed.”

“Let’s be realistic, Tom,” Emilie Woodward pleaded with her unsmiling boss. “This is Flamingo Beach, not Las Vegas. Give me time to get us there.”

“Eighty-five percent occupancy. I’ll take nothing less.”

“Sixty-five percent,” Emilie shot back, “And that’s a stretch goal. It’s a brand-new resort, and the first of its kind to be built in a town known for motels. We have to build our reputation. That’s not going to happen on my minuscule advertising budget.”

“Seventy-five percent and that’s that, or else.”

“Or else what?”

Emilie placed her hands on her slender hips and blew a lock of flaming red hair out of her eyes. Not one to back down, those green eyes flashed a challenge.

Tom Burke, senior vice president of sales and marketing, stared back. His eyes looked like huge road maps either from lack of sleep or one too many martinis. A little of both Emilie suspected.

“We’ll both get canned, that’s what. Corporate is expecting us to put the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort on the map. They’ve invested a bundle in top-of-the-line appointments and world-class amenities. And in case you forgot there is that huge bonus at stake.”

She hadn’t forgotten. That bonus was money she really could use. She had plans to buy the condo she was currently renting from Quen Abrahams before prices went right through the roof. Even so she was not about to be intimidated or bullied.

“Let the muckety-mucks at headquarters know that unless my advertising budget is increased, they’ll be hard-pressed have a hotel at fifty percent capacity. I can’t be expected to work miracles.”

“You’re the director of corporate and leisure sales. You can make it happen. Look at what you did with that property in Painted Post.”

“I’m leisure sales, strictly leisure sales. When did I acquire the corporate title?”

“Since I appointed you. Did I forget to mention the title change?”

“Apparently you did.”

Pressing two manicured fingers to her forehead, she massaged the frown lines. “Did you also forget to mention the raise that came with this title change? Keeping that Painted Post property at maximum capacity added ten years to my life. I still haven’t recovered. Only a brain surgeon would build a five-star hotel in a little Upstate New York town.”

“That surgeon was our owner, Caryn Knight. Caryn has always prided herself on finding possibilities where none exist.” Tom glanced at his watch and shot to his feet. “Better get going. I have a flight to catch.”

After shaking the wrinkles out of his slacks, he grabbed his jacket and briefcase and took off.

“Guarantee that I won’t be transferred for five years and throw in a nice raise, and I can make it happen,” Emilie called after him.

“Three years, but I can’t promise a raise. A fat bonus should be incentive enough,” he said.

After Tom left Emilie sank into her chair and kicked off her high heel pumps. She stabbed the intercom button and called to her assistant.

“Hey, Zoe, can you get Rowan James on the phone?”

“Sure thing.”

Rowan was the hotshot developer buying up properties like they were going out of style. He was new to Flamingo Beach. The Knight Corporation, the company that owned the resort Emilie worked for, had used him to develop their waterfront land. They’d gone out a couple of times, but he wasn’t exactly what Emilie considered relationship material. Her goal was to find a smart, savvy, African-American man who didn’t come with baggage. That’s what she’d promised her father.

“Mr. James isn’t answering,” Zoe called from the outer room. “I left him a message to get in touch with you.”

“Try reaching Joya and see if she’s available for lunch.”

“Will do.”

Emilie had gotten her friend Joya Hamill-Morse a job as an event planner at the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort. The two women were close, but the hotel business being what it was they seldom crossed paths at work.

Minutes later, Zoe stuck her head through the door.

“Joya says she can meet you at Shellfish at twelve o’clock sharp. It’s that new place on the boardwalk. Is noon good for you?”

“Perfect. I’ll return calls and catch up on e-mails. Please don’t put anyone through.”

Almost half an hour later, Emilie sashayed into Shellfish and looked round. She finally spotted Joya seated on a high stool on the outdoor deck. Her friend had already ordered and a spread lay before her. Joya waved her over.

“Nice of you to wait for me,” Emilie chastised, easing onto the stool opposite and helping herself to a fattening French fry.

“Hmm, this is good. I haven’t had carbs in months.”

“You’re half an hour late. I’m not management. I have to be back on time. If I’m even five minutes late Keanu gets crazy. Who needs that stress?”

Emilie began pushing buttons on her phone. “I’ll fix things with Keanu. You know I always take care of my girl,” Emilie said.

Conversation over, Emilie shoved the phone back into her purse. “I bought you another hour. I told your temperamental boss we’re having a lunch meeting.”

Joya rolled her eyes and bit into her fish sandwich. “You’re going to get me fired.”

“I’ll probably be fired first.”

“Not you. You’ve got a position, and your employees think you walk on water.”

“Tell that to Tom Burke, my senior vice president. He doesn’t think I’m doing such a hot job. I just got told to get occupancy rates up or else. He doesn’t care whether it’s the season or not, and that people aren’t exactly flocking to North Florida in the summer.”

“You’ll just have to make it so they flock to the spa. You’re creative and innovative. Why don’t you offer promotional specials to people in the travel and hospitality industry? Give them rooms at a discounted rate and they’re there.”

“Maybe you should be my assistant,” Emilie said, taking a pad from her purse and jotting notes.

A server hovered nearby and she ordered a shrimp salad and sweet tea.

“What about singles events?” Joya suggested. “You could offer weekend specials or even minivacations so those looking for a soul mate can hook up. You could even partner with a dating site. Dr. Phil, the celebrity psychologist, does it, so why can’t the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort?”

“Keep those ideas coming,” Emilie muttered, continuing to jot. “I was thinking more along the lines of Girlfriend Weekends and Passion Parties.”

“What’s a Passion Party?”

“Events where adult toys are sold. Those parties are big with women.”

“Adult toys, as in sexual paraphernalia?”

“Lotions, potions, electronic gadgets.”

Joya’s eye roll said it all. “That should really go over big in this provincial town.”

“Come on now, Flamingo Beach is growing in leaps and bounds especially since all of those New Yorkers moved in. Look at all the changes since Flamingo Beach turned one hundred years old.”

After Emilie’s meal was set down, Joya jumped right back in.

“Yeah, we’re suddenly hot and everyone with a spare dollar is looking to buy property here. A new mall is going up and now there’s talk about a casino and resort being built.”

Emilie’s stomach suddenly felt queasy. There was a tightness in her chest that had her breath coming in little bursts. “What casino and resort?”

“Didn’t you hear? Derek and Rowan were approached for the project. Camille Lewis has the scoop on the whole thing. She claims Mayor Rabinowitz is taking kickbacks to make the casino happen.”

Emilie stopped eating and stabbed the air with her fork. “If that’s true that’s no surprise about the mayor. What about the casino? The Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort can’t stand the competition. This town can hardly support one resort much less two. Do you know who’s funding this venture?”

Joya’s glance met hers head-on. “James Morse, Inc., is arranging the funding, but the brain behind this is a black Native American. He’s someone I went to school with. He lived in Flamingo Beach way back when.”

“What’s his name?”

“Keith Lightfoot. Hey, Rowan and Derek just walked in. Rowan can fill you in. I’m off to say hi to my honey.”

Joya leaped from the stool and went off to greet her husband.

In a matter of seconds after she’d sat down at his table, Rowan James, the developer, came loping over. He was a big man at almost six foot five and built like a football player. He had blond hair that flopped over his forehead and sky-blue eyes that could be mesmerizing at times. Rowan’s jeans were faded in all the right places and snug. There was a slit in one knee exposing a tanned kneecap. His large hands were amazingly clean, the nails neatly clipped. His boots were dusty and if she were to guess hid size fourteen feet. Mama Mia!

“Hey, you,” he said, sliding onto the chair Joya had recently vacated. He reached over, touching the tip of Emily’s nose with his index finger. “So when are you and I going to hook up again?”

“We’ve never hooked up. Let’s get the verbiage straight,” Emilie said, laughing.

“Hook up” implied they’d done the nasty. They’d come close, but then she’d decided better not go there. What she really hoped to find was a brotha, though it seemed all the good ones were taken…at least in Flamingo Beach.

Joya had nabbed Derek Morse; Jenna, Tre Monroe and Chere, oversized personality and all, had married Quen. That left pitifully few black males of a certain age. Emilie with her light skin, red hair and freckles was not short of suitors, except that most of them were white.

Not that she had a problem with cross-cultural dating. It was just that bronze skin and dark eyes turned her on. She was the product of two light-skinned African-American parents, and she found a dark-skinned man especially appealing. There was also the promise she’d made to her father.

“Okay, when can we go out again? Is that better?” Rowan asked, his glance lingering a tad too long on the white linen shirt that stretched across her full breasts.

Emilie played with her top button and gazed into his eyes. She knew she was playing with fire.

“I’m available tomorrow night. Take me to dinner and you can tell me all about this casino you’re building.”

“Invite me to your place to eat and we can talk all night.”

“Sorry, dude. I don’t cook.”

Rowan groaned loudly, his massive shoulders rising and falling. “Figures I’d pick a woman who can’t cook and who gets a kick out of playing with me. Okay, pick the restaurant and I’ll take you there.” He reached for her glass and gulped down most of her tea.

“Might as well finish it,” Emilie said, inspecting the almost-empty glass and shoving it back at him.

“I just might.” Rowan’s tongue rimmed his lips. She tore her eyes away. Rowan James was much too sexy for his own good. “Thirst quenching.”

Before Emilie could come up with an appropriate retort, Joya came back to the table with Derek in tow.

“Looking good as usual. Are you taking care of my wife?” he asked, kissing her cheek.

“Always.”

His partner glanced at his BlackBerry and shot up. “Keith Lightfoot is on his way over to our offices. We need to go.”

“Why do I keep hearing Keith Lightfoot’s name mentioned?” Emilie called after both men.

Rowan’s index finger jabbed the air. “We’ll talk tomorrow night at dinner.”

“What’s the deal with this Lightfoot guy?” Emilie asked Joya after the men had left. “He seems to command a lot of respect around here.”

“Keith does. As I mentioned he’s a black Native American businessman with deep pockets. He’s on the tribal council. He moved away, made some money in real estate and now he’s back.”

Emilie raised a finger and placed her phone to her ear. “Hold on for a minute. I have an incoming call.”

“Yes, Zoe. Shoot! I totally forgot about that meeting. Make Mr. Pendergrass comfortable, get him water, coffee, anything he wants.” She disconnected. “Listen, I really have to run. Let’s talk about this Lightfoot guy later.”

Grabbing her purse, she took off.

This was not good. She was late for her meeting with Ian Pendergrass, the publisher of the Flamingo Beach Chronicle. Ian was not one to be kept waiting, and she was the person who had called the meeting.

Emilie made it back to the hotel in record time. She entered her office to find Ian lounged on her couch. One tasseled loafer tapped impatiently as he waited.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I had a meeting that ran overtime,” Emilie lied.

“Not to worry. Your assistant kept me wonderful company.” Ian rose and took both of Emilie’s hands, pressing them to his lips. “You are one gorgeous woman.”

“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.

Chapter 2

“Tell 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.”

The conversation was getting a bit too intimate for her liking. Glass in hand, Emilie stood. “How about showing me around?”

Rowan gave her the grand tour of his surprisingly neat home. Downstairs, French doors separated the living room from a small office with tons of shelf space. The dining room was an extension of the kitchen, and a half bathroom provided a convenient place to wash up. Upstairs were two spacious bedrooms all with tiny back decks. One bathroom had a Jacuzzi tub as well as a shower. The other was more of a powder room and designed for the lady of the house. Recessed lights illuminated the vaulted ceilings. All in all it was a charming place to live.

“So how’s a big-city girl from Joisey adjusting to small-town life?” Rowan asked when they were seated downstairs again. He’d slipped off his loafers and began poking her with his toes.

She grabbed his big toe playfully, capturing it between her thumb and index finger and squeezed.

“I love it here. This little town’s got style and possibilities,” she said.

“You’ve got style.”

“You never give up, do you?”

On the radio, D’dawg, the popular radio personality, was having a field day picking on Mayor Solomon Rabinowitz.

“Don’t y’all think it’s high time this village loses its idiot?” he drawled. “Hit me up and tell me if you agree. Lines are open y’all.”

One caller after another said their peace. The mayor apparently had few supporters.

“How come no one will ever admit they voted for Rabinowitz, yet he’s serving a second term?” Rowan asked, shaking his head.

“Because he stole the election from Miriam Young, better known as the Flip-flop Momma. She’s a single mom who likes to wear flip-flops. Florida has a reputation for not being able to count votes.”

Rowan guffawed loudly. “You’re funny. Don’t know about you but I’ve had enough. I’m cutting this off.” He took his foot back from her and crossed the room to turn off the radio. Returning to the sofa again, he took Emilie’s glass and set it down. “What if I were to ask you to stay the night?”

“If I said yes, you’d probably run.”

“Try me.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll stay.”

She didn’t know what had gotten into her. It wasn’t as if she and Rowan would be taking this further. And that was precisely why she’d agreed to stay over. There would be no emotional involvement between them, and so he was safe. It wasn’t as if this was the first time they’d been out, more like their fifth, and she did find him attractive.

“I should have filled you up with cosmopolitans sooner,” he mumbled, taking her hand and leading her upstairs.

“I’m perfectly sober.”

Rowan’s bedroom was comfortably air-conditioned, the sheets fresh smelling and crisp. Fully clothed, Emilie hopped onto the king-sized bed. He climbed in beside her and immediately began helping her out of her shirt.

As Rowan’s rough palms stroked her body and his mouth began an intimate exploration of her flesh, she found herself responding. Soon she was giving as good as she got.

Don’t think, Emilie. Just live in the moment.

It had been almost a full year since she’d been made love to and her body was wired and quickly on fire.

Rowan was making loud noises as she tore at what remained of his clothing. Much as she would have preferred to slow things down, neither of them seemed able to wait.

“Before this goes any further, let me ask the obvious question,” Emilie said. “Do you have protection?”

“Like a good Boy Scout, I’m always prepared.” He showed her the condom that had magically appeared in his hand. Emilie helped him slide it on.

“Get on top of me so that I can see you,” he said, shifting her into the dominant position.

She was quickly impaled on Rowan. He wasn’t at all selfish. In fact he was a giving and considerate lover. She didn’t have a single regret. Emilie closed her eyes and allowed the sensations to wash over her. It could only get better if they were in love. But love complicated things and emotions caused you to make wrong choices.

Rowan James was not the kind of man who would ever settle down. By his own admission he was always off chasing one dream or another, and he was clearly the wrong man for her. But his hands on her flesh caused her to do a sexy gyration. Rowan’s deep baritone, and the next thrust, had Emilie clutching his broad shoulders. Her body came alive as he took her on a wild ride. She’d turned into a bucking bronco.

And he was bucking right along with her, in tune with her body and satisfying her more than she’d ever thought possible. Even their breathing had synchronized.

When Rowan held her around the waist and sat her down hard on him, she bit down hard on her lower lip. Never in her wildest imaginations had she expected it to be this good with a man who was just a booty call.

And as Emilie spiraled out of control, she thought about the old Tina Turner tune.

What did love have to do with it?

Chapter 3

Making love with Emilie Woodward had been a far more moving experience than Rowan had ever imagined. Three days later and he still couldn’t get her out of his head. He was still thinking about her and trying to get rid of the perfumed scent that lingered in his nostrils. He’d been attracted to the vivacious redhead from the first day he’d laid eyes on her. He’d been determined to have her, and not just in a sexual sense.

Fortunately the company she worked for, the Knight Corporation, had hired him to develop the land butting up against the golf course. That had given him reason to saunter into Emilie’s office every chance he got. Eventually he’d worn her down and she’d agreed to go out with him. Their first official date had been Chere Adams and Quentin Abrahams’s wedding.

Initially, Rowan had thought Emilie was white but it was no big deal when he found out otherwise. He was used to dating women outside of his race and in fact that was his preference. He’d married a black woman. The issues leading up to his divorce had nothing at all to do with their different ethnicities.

Emilie was a striking woman with great shoulders and magnificent breasts. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit those full breasts had turned him on from the moment he’d laid eyes on them. But it was her take-charge attitude and outgoing personality that he’d really been attracted to. He wanted to know what made her tick.

Getting Emilie to trust him and realize he was sincere was going to be a challenge. She had her guard up—a barrier he planned on penetrating. Rowan had tried everything to convince her he was cool, and that her ethnicity wasn’t a problem for him, but she either wasn’t listening or he wasn’t getting through. He refused to believe she didn’t care.

What he’d failed to share was that his upbringing was far more humble than hers. He’d grown up in the projects in a tough Brooklyn, East New York, neighborhood. While other white families raced for the suburbs, his parents, both factory workers, stayed put. He’d been left with no choice but to adjust and fit in. And so he’d grown up playing stickball and basketball with black and Latino kids.

As he got older, he began dating his playmates’ sisters, who by then didn’t seem to notice the color of his skin. He knew the urban slang, holding his own with the best of them, and when it came to street brawls he could match the nastiest gang leader blow for blow. Growing up under those circumstances made him appreciate his success even more.

Rowan wondered if helping Emilie fill up her overpriced hotel would guarantee her attention.

Derek Morse, his new partner, was at his door.

“Keith Lightfoot just pulled up,” he said. “Are you ready for him?”

“Sure.” Rowan took his feet off the desk, stood and stretched. It was an important meeting. Rowan needed to convince Keith that although the competition might come in cheaper, James Morse, Inc.’s, work spoke for itself. They would get the job done according to specifications and in the allotted time.

“Hey, Keith,” Rowan greeted, meeting him at the front door of the office he’d leased.

Keith had brought with him a sullen-looking man that he introduced as Stephen Priddy, the Seminole group’s newly hired CFO.

Inside his cramped office, Rowan waved both men into chairs. Derek went off to get them water, and Rowan wondered why his part-time assistant, Blanca, wasn’t doing her job. He hadn’t seen her in at least half an hour.

“Landsdale is interested in working with you,” Keith said, getting to the point. “They like your reputation. But you’ll need to get your pricing in line with the other guys to be considered.”

“Just how far off am I?”

“Way off,’’ Priddy said, slapping down a spreadsheet on Rowan’s desk. He stabbed a finger at a bidder whose name had been whited out. “You’ll need to come in around here for us to even look at you.”

Rowan quickly did the math in his head. “I’m not sure that’s doable,” he said. “You often get what you pay for. My references are excellent and my jobs all come in on time. I would consider taking less of a bonus to make this work.”

“How much less?” Stephen inquired, his calculator of a brain already crunching numbers.

Rowan named a figure and Keith shot Stephen a charged look.

Derek had found Blanca wandering around somewhere. She carried foam cups, water and coffee on a tray. When she bent over to place the items on Rowan’s desk, Stephen Priddy almost lost it. Blanca’s tight, short skirt left little to the imagination. Her ridiculous high heels made her totter.

Rowan had tried talking to her about professional dress, but she wasn’t getting it. Since he was paying her minimum wage, and she could at least type and had computer skills, he’d given up. Good enough that she showed up to work and actually got something done.

“If you want to meet Lansdale’s tight six-month deadline you’re going to need men in place within ten days,” Derek said dryly. “There’s construction going on all around us and you’ll be hard-pressed to find an unemployed builder or laborer for miles. I don’t think we can count on Shore Construction to help out, either. They’re booked solid,” Derek said, referring to his old employer.

“Hmm. Then we’ll need to bring in people from other parts of the country. I have that card from the woman at the resort. Stephen, you call and see if she’ll cut us a deal. Let’s guarantee her two hundred rooms for the next six months.”

“I’m assuming you’re speaking of the Flamingo Beach Resort and Spa,” Rowan interjected, spotting an opportunity here. “It’s the only place in town that can guarantee the number of rooms you require, and they need the business. The added advantage is that it’s a Knight property. Your men can see firsthand how the place performs.”

“They’d get an insider’s view at the competition,” Keith said astutely, following his comment with a chuckle.

“Exactly.”

It was good that he didn’t have to push. The minute the meeting was over Rowan planned on calling Emilie and tipping her off. He’d make sure she knew he’d been the one to put in a good word. Maybe he could even convince her to go to this Saturday’s jam session with him.

Keith stood and shook Rowan’s hand, signaling the meeting had concluded.

“Stephen and I will discuss adjusting the bonus and see if the figures make sense. We’ll get back to you.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” Rowan said, keeping his voice even. Let them think he wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to work on their project. He wanted the business, but not that badly that he would discount his services. He and Derek already had their hands full building the enclosed mall.

“Something about those two makes me uneasy,” Derek muttered after they’d left.

“Lightfoot’s okay, but Priddy’s an unknown quantity. It’s getting Landsdale on our client list that has me jazzed. I’m going to run down to the mall and see what progress has been made. Want to join me?”

“Can’t today. I’m chasing some business on Pelican Island and I have to be at a meeting within the hour.”

“Okay, we’ll talk when I get back.”

Both men headed off in different directions.

Rowan made a stop at the construction site and spoke briefly with the project manager and foremen. Satisfied that work on the mall was on track, he decided a surprise visit to Emilie might be in order. He hoped to persuade her to have lunch with him.

He pulled into the resort’s parking lot and made his way to the executive offices. Zoe, Emilie’s assistant, had always liked him.

“Hey, good-looking, long time no see,” he greeted her when he sauntered in.

“Hey, yourself. The boss is in a staff meeting. Want me to page her?”

“No, she’s not expecting me. What’s her lunch schedule look like?”

Zoe checked her computer monitor. “You’re in luck. She doesn’t have anything scheduled until later this afternoon. Why don’t you hang out with me?”

“Okay.” Rowan folded himself into the chair she indicated. “So what’s the boss’s favorite flower?”

“Sunflowers. She’s not your traditional rose girl.”

“Gotta remember that.”

Zoe stuck a pen behind her ear and gave him her full attention. “So what’s up? You took her out to dinner the other night. Now you’re talking flowers. You two must be getting serious.”

Rowan raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Emilie told you we were out?” He wondered what else Emilie had told her assistant. The two seemed friendly enough, but he’d gotten the impression that Emilie wasn’t one to cross the line between business and pleasure.

Zoe laughed loudly as if he’d said something funny.

“Hon, this is Flamingo Beach. Everyone knows everything or makes it up. If you ate at Mario’s you might as well have advertised it in the Chronicle.”

“Something else for me to remember,” he joked. “So how much longer do you think your boss is going to be?” He crossed his arms, preparing to take a catnap while he waited.

Zoe glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. “The meeting should wrap up in ten to fifteen minutes. Where are you taking Emilie for lunch?”

“You ask way too many questions.”

Emilie’s assistant didn’t seem at all bothered by his gentle chiding. “I was going to suggest a place on the Row, Flamingo Row. It’s sort of retro. The carhops roller-skate to the car and take your order.”

“Sounds like fun, but I have something entirely different in mind.”

Closing his eyes, Rowan ended the conversation.

Emilie felt the animosity in the air. It was a palpable thing and had been this way from the moment she walked into the meeting. She’d known it wasn’t going to be easy addressing the business development group, requesting them to get their numbers up. They already thought she was too demanding.

Most had driven in for the meeting from the surrounding towns and they were a group not used to sitting. She’d already reminded them of their quarterly goals and that had elicited loud groans. It was Emilie’s responsibility to keep the team motivated and make sure that they understood what needed to be accomplished. So far every statement she’d uttered had been challenged or met with a negative comment.

“This wasn’t our understanding from the last meeting.”

“How can you all of a sudden change the numbers midperiod?”

Emilie tried explaining that a major increase of sales was needed in order to keep the hotel open and the bills paid.

“We face another challenge,” she said. “I’ve just learned that there are plans to build a casino and resort across town, which means we’ll have to fight that much harder to keep occupancy levels up.”

The business development group uttered a collective groan.

“Isn’t Rowan James, your good friend, the developer heading up that effort?” someone asked.

There were titters. The “good friend” bit was meant to be a dig. She chose to ignore it. Earlier when she walked into the room she’d overheard the mumblings about the “sistah selling out.” They’d quickly shushed when she took her position at the front.

Emilie kept a straight face when she answered. “James Morse, Inc., is one of many being considered.”

Flamingo Beach was still provincial in so many ways. The vast majority of the population was African-American and although they coexisted with other ethnicities, people for the most part didn’t date outside their race.

She’d not hidden her friendship with Rowan. The assumption was that theirs was a budding relationship, and she’d known that would not necessarily go over well with a fiercely proud African-American demographic. Not that it was anyone’s business whom she dated, and certainly not the business of her employees. But Emilie was certain that there was gossip since most made it their business to keep informed.

“Here’s the deal,” Emilie continued. “You are going to have to increase your sales calls to meet the new goal. I’m expecting each of you to do your part to get us there.”

Another audible groan resonated then the reps began whispering amongst themselves. Emilie clapped her hands, bringing the group back to order.

“We can do it. Your incentive is that very attractive trip to Europe that the Knight Corporation offers its top performers. Let’s use the next few days to brainstorm. You’ll break into six groups and select a leader. That leader will e-mail me your collective ideas and plans to execute them by Monday at the latest. The meeting is now officially over,” Emilie said.

This conversation had left Emilie mentally drained and feeling that Tom Burke should have at least been there to give her his support. She stopped to answer questions and clarify points for the sales force. They were panicked and feeling overwhelmed. Tourists did not normally flock to Florida during the summer months and each salesperson knew they had a big job ahead. It was another fifteen minutes before she was able to leave the meeting room.

When Emilie returned to her office she found Rowan, eyes closed, sprawled in a chair across from Zoe. She shook her head and groaned out loud.

“How long has he been here?”

“Maybe a half an hour or so,” Zoe whispered.

“Where did you tell him I was?” she asked, attempting to tiptoe by.

“In a meeting. I thought you’d be done sooner so he decided to wait.”

Emilie groaned again and Rowan opened his eyes.

“I thought you’d be a lot more excited to see me,” his gruff, wide-awake voice called. “I’m here to take you to lunch.”

“Lunch? I may not have time.”

“Sure you do. Your calendar is wide-open until—What did you tell me, Zoe?”

Rowan’s dreamy blue eyes focused on her assistant, who was all of a sudden engrossed in her typing.

Emilie was going to kill Zoe. She’d warned her time and time again not to share her schedule with anyone outside of the corporation. And Rowan was so nervy assuming that because he showed up she would go waltzing off to lunch with him.

“So what do you say?” he asked in his usual cocky manner.

“I say you’re used to getting your way.”

Rowan’s laughter rang out.

He was brash and overconfident, and although they’d slept together she’d had no expectations beyond that. Rowan James was not relationship material, at least not in her book. But her reaction to him now was very confusing, and even more confusing was her suddenly dry mouth. Maybe she should go to lunch and put it on the table.

“Okay, as long as lunch isn’t one of those three-hour deals,” Emilie said grudgingly.

Rowan eyed her high-heeled pumps with the open toes. “You’ll need to change your shoes.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“On a boat.”

“I don’t have the whole afternoon,” she reminded him, sliding by and heading into her office.

Emilie kept a change of clothing and sneakers in her desk drawer. It was a habit she’d picked up earlier in her career. In the hospitality business you had to remain flexible since client meetings could be poolside or on a golf course. However, Rowan James was not a client.

“Do I pass inspection?” Emilie emerged from her office and twirled around.

“You always do. Nice sneakers.”

She ignored Zoe’s slightly raised eyebrows as they headed out.

Within five minutes they’d pulled up in front of a marina on one of the more isolated canals in town.

“Lunch is here?”

“I take it you haven’t been to Davey’s Locker before.” Rowan led the way across the parking lot. Colorful pontoons were docked in the back.

“I guess I’ve missed this experience,” Emilie said.

“Lunch cruises, they’re called. The marina showcases their boats for sale while their passengers have a pleasant experience. Some days it’s fishing vessels, others, sailboats or cabin cruisers. Today looks to be pontoon day. It’s a pretty innovative idea, don’t you think?”

Emilie had to admit it was quite novel. She was already thinking how to partner with the outfit and increase the resort’s business.

Rowan purchased their tickets, and they were handed box lunches as they boarded. They quickly found seats in the back. Emilie noted that the passengers were mostly families on vacation, but she did spot a few locals who looked at her curiously trying to assess the situation.

As they floated down the canal, Emilie shed her jacket and bit into her fish sandwich. She took a swig of delicious orange juice and decided to enjoy the time. However, relaxing was somewhat difficult when she was so close to Rowan. She could smell his uniquely masculine scent, and feel the brush of a muscular arm. She decided to focus on the water and the homes being renovated along the shore. Being away from the hotel was exactly what she needed after that stressful sales meeting.

“Let me be the first to tell you the good news,” Rowan said, breaking into her thoughts, his arm grazing hers again. He swigged his orange juice while Emilie tried not stare at his hands. Those very large hands were capable of magic.

“I’m all for good news.” Emilie tossed a mass of curls back and took a rubber band out of her purse. She bunched her hair into a ponytail and gave him her full attention. “What?”

“Stephen Priddy should be calling you.”

“Who’s he?”

“The Seminoles’ chief financial officer”

One of Emilie’s shapely eyebrows rose. She couldn’t help being suspicious. “Why would he call me?”

“Because I put in a good word for you. Stephen is going to need two hundred of your rooms for the next six months. I thought you would be pleased.”

“Pleased is an understatement. I’m ecstatic.”

Not caring who saw, Emilie threw her arms around Rowan’s neck and kissed him. He reciprocated by wrapping his arms around her waist and really kissing her, giving her tongue and all.

“Bad, boy,” she said, pushing away from him. “By far this is the best news I’ve heard in weeks. Reason to celebrate. I owe you big-time.”

“How about we celebrate together on Saturday evening at the jam session?”

After what Rowan James had just done for her there was no way she could say no.

“Okay. You’re on. Come over to my place around six and we’ll go together.”

“Baby, baby, baby, you know I’ll be there.”

Chapter 4

The first of Joya’s singles parties looked to be a huge hit when Emilie entered the lobby. There were wall-to-wall people. The noise level was deafening and the bar packed. Emilie had noticed how crowded the parking lot was when she’d pulled into the employee lot. Cars were double-and triple-parked.

Joya was to be credited for bringing in the business. As the resort’s in-house event planner, it had been her idea to partner with a party organizer. She’d negotiated a lucrative contract for at least half a dozen of these parties. The resort was also offering discounted rooms to those who hoped to get lucky.

Emilie was surprised Flamingo Beach had this many singles. She figured the advertisement must have gone out to the neighboring towns. It amazed her how much people were willing to pay for a social function with no guarantee of finding a soul mate. That reminded her it was high time she did something about finding her own Mr. Wonderful—someone with the potential to go somewhere.

As Emilie was about to slip into her office, a dark-skinned man in sunglasses stepped into her path, folding a business card into her palm.

“Hey, I’m Duncan,” he said. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the lobby.”

Emilie was so taken aback she stuttered, “Uh…I beg your pardon.”

“You’re here for the party, right?” He glanced at her ring finger and smiled. “The singles party?”

“Actually I’m not here for the event. I work here.”

“Too bad. Maybe you’ll change your mind and attend.”

“Some other time, perhaps.” Emilie smiled vacantly and attempted to slide by. A noticeably crestfallen Duncan slunk past her.

Duncan seemed pleasant enough but so not her type. The last thing she needed was to have it all over town that she attended a singles party at her work-place. It would surely scream “desperate” and get the tongues wagging even more.

Emilie entered her office and flipped on the light. Zoe was long gone, out of there on the dot of five. But Emilie had forgotten a folder she needed. She’d promised Tom Burke he’d have the room occupancy report on his desk first thing tomorrow and she planned on working at home. Hopefully business would pick up in the next two weeks. If not, it wouldn’t be for her lack of effort. Tom would be pleased with the signed six-month, two-hundred-room contract from Landsdale International but that still wasn’t enough.

Emilie grabbed the folder and left. As she was crossing the employee parking lot her cell phone jingled. She glanced at the screen, smiling as she recognized the number.

“Hey, Chere,” Emilie said, after pressing the receiver to her ear.

“Hey, girl, what’s the deal? I haven’t heard from you lately. You still interested in buying my husband’s condo?”

“Of course I am. I’ve just been crazy busy and haven’t had the time to do much about it. “

“Well, I’ve had an out-of-town offer so huge I’m going to have to talk to Quen about it. I thought maybe you’d want to counter.”

“How much are we talking about?”

Chere named a figure.

Emilie’s stomach plummeted. “Ouch! I can’t come even close to that. You’ll have to start shopping for something else in my price range.”

Just the thought of having to pack up and move made Emilie groan. Plus moving was expensive. She’d have to cough up first month’s rent, last and security. It would be a sizeable chunk and she’d have nothing to show for it afterward. Maybe she should try to rustle up the money for a down payment for a condo from somewhere.

Hardly good timing though, especially since she had no assurance she’d be in Flamingo Beach long-term. Tom’s instructions were clear: the hotel’s occupancy rate needed boosting or she would be out of a job, and therefore unable to pay a mortgage. She had to think about this.

“Emilie, you there?”

“I’m here. Just wondering how I can swing this.”

“Get creative, child. If this doesn’t work out I’ll find you something else. You know I got your back.”

By the time Emilie got to her rented condo in Flamingo Place her head was pounding. She had so much to think about. Quen’s two-bedroom apartment with the view of the bay suited her perfectly. Not often did you find a twelve-hundred-square-foot apartment in a gated community with really nice oak floors, and a fireplace that was seldom used. She used that fireplace to stash candles. The spacious balcony held a table and two lounge chairs where she liked to get sun.

Emilie’s cat, a rust-colored tabby she had rescused from a Dumpster, greeted her as she entered. She squatted down to pet the beast behind the ear.

“Did you have a good day, Big Red?”

The cat’s answering meow indicated she wanted her meal. Emilie kicked off her heels at the front door and went off to feed her. There would be no relaxing until Big Red had her dinner.

She changed her clothing and quickly heated up yesterday’s leftovers. Emilie gobbled her meal and booted up her laptop. For the next two hours she worked on spreadsheets, inputting numbers and deliberately ignoring the ringing phone.

Room occupancy was nowhere close to the winter months but it was slowly improving. By the time next month’s report was due she’d be darn close to meeting that sixty-five percent goal. Maybe she should jump on Joya’s suggestion and market to the travel-industry crowd.

Emilie sent off her report then continued typing as a myriad of ideas popped into her head. By the time she was through she had four pages of notes and had earned herself a glass of wine. Taking the wine and the Flamingo Beach Chronicle with her, she went out to the balcony.

A cool breeze blew off the water and the twinkling lights signified there were boats on the bay. It was a peaceful time of evening and one of the few times she relaxed. For the next hour Emilie read the paper from cover to cover. All of the news centered on the casino and Keith Lightfoot’s plans for a mega entertainment center. Already the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort was being upstaged by a property that hadn’t yet been built. She had to be proactive.

The residents were doing something. Some had written letters to the editor about the type of clientele that gambling would attract. Others felt that the money and jobs that would be created were well worth the additional traffic. One concerned citizen addressed the rumor that Mayor Rabinowitz was getting kickbacks to make the casino happen. The editor didn’t seem to want to touch that and the citizen was quickly squashed.

Emilie figured she had six months before she would seriously worry. In that time a lot could happen. The Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort was already up and running, and that in and of itself gave her an advantage. It was up to her to make it the “it” place to be.

She made a mental note to meet with Owen Schwartz, the hotel’s general manager, in the next few days. No point in selling rooms if their service wasn’t top notch. They needed to make a concerted effort to get the hotel there, and that might mean training employees or replacing a few. She needed his buy in for that.

Continuing to flip through pages, Emilie found the “Dear Jenna” column and settled in. She was prepared to read all about the latest romances that had been derailed. Flamingo Beach was heartbreak hotel.

The telephone rang inside as it had been doing off and on since she got home. It was close to her bedtime and she was tempted to ignore it, but what if it was the hotel?

“Yes,” she said, somewhat impatiently.

“Miss Woodward, you need to get over here. Now.”

“Who is this?”

“Melody at the front desk. Mr. Schwartz asked me to call you again. We’ve been trying both of your phones for half an hour.”

“What’s the problem?”

A moment of hesitation as the woman debated. “Ma’am, the police are here and Mr. Schwartz wants all management to get over here on the double.”

“I’m on my way.”

In a New Jersey minute she was back in the clothing she’d hastily discarded. Driving like a person possessed, she made it to the hotel in record time. A huge crowd was gathered out front and all four of the town’s police cars had their sirens going. The WARP van was parked down the street, which meant reporters were there. Cameramen from the local television station had zoomed into action.

Realizing it would be an impossible feat to walk into the lobby, Emilie opted for the employee entrance instead. Inside, she was greeted by total chaos. Guests from the singles party milled around and people lay facedown on the floor being handcuffed.

The general manager, Owen Schwartz, was barking orders at security guards who’d been called in for backup. On the fringe of all the activity were the management types she worked with. Judging by their outfits they’d all been at home relaxing before the call came in.

Emilie, spotting a visibly distressed Joya, made her way over to her friend’s side.

“This is a disaster. What the hell happened here?”

Joya wheezed out an exasperated sigh. “I wish I could tell you. Everything seemed to be going well until a woman said she felt woozy and accused one of the men of slipping something into her drink. There was a huge argument and others got involved.”

“Did he really put something in her drink?”

“Who knows, but it set off a chain reaction. Several women claimed they were dizzy and nauseous. And they all claimed to have had only one drink. There was a lot of finger-pointing and name-calling.”

“I bet. How did things get to the point that the police became involved?”

“In the midst of all the screaming a man came to the front desk claiming there were people doing drugs in the mens’ room. Melody from the front desk called her boss at home, who insisted she call the police. By the time Greg and Lionel got here with backup, the drug users panicked and were trying to flush the evidence down the toilet. They were caught climbing out the windows.”

“Must have been some scene,” Emilie said. She looked over at the two policemen who were handcuffing several empty-eyed guests. Joya had introduced her to Greg Santana and his partner, Lionel. They were two very visible members of the small Flamingo Beach police force.

“Guests have started asking for their money back. What should we do?” Joya asked. “Chris, the party organizer, thinks we might both get sued,” she added.

Emilie hadn’t thought of that. The resort didn’t need that kind of press, especially now that a casino that provided guests with another option was being built in town.

“Let me see what Owen wants to do,” she said, heading over to the area where several colleagues were standing around openly gaping at the scene.

Owen Schwartz, spotting Emilie, met her halfway.

“It’s about time you showed up,” he chastised, as if she’d been in some way remiss or lacking in her duties.

Emilie was so surprised by the rebuke that she said nothing for a while, but then, conscious of her colleagues listening, she felt the need to defend herself.

“I got here as soon as I was notified, Owen,” she said, hoping that her irritation didn’t show. “The police seem to have everything well in hand. Is there something specific you’d like me to do or take care of?”

“Yes. I’d like you to work with the guest relations manager and get our guests calmed down. We need to be in control. Put your heads together and come up with some way to appease these people. I’d like to minimize the number of people wanting to check out.”

His gaze drifted to where a line was beginning to form at the front desk. The resort’s harried personnel were doing their best to pacify people and answer the questions being screamed at them.

“Who’s handling the media?” Emilie had the presence of mind to ask.

“Public relations. I want this lobby cleared immediately so we can get back to business as usual. Whose idea was it to have this singles bash, anyway?” Owen looked at her expectantly as if expecting her to fess up. Emilie refused to take the bait. Instead, she decided to take charge of the situation.

“I’ll go and help the folks at the front desk,” Emilie answered, retreating as soon as she decently could. She’d never been a fan of Owen Schwartz. She didn’t care for the way he did business.

For the next couple of hours Emilie worked with the front desk agents and other managers to allay the guests’ fears. And despite offers of free dinners and even a complimentary extra night, several people decided to check out. The lobby, meanwhile, was slowly being cleared. The cops were now leading away the drug dealers and buyers.

As more and more people exited, it became clear that the lobby was trashed. Cleaners were called in on overtime. The few that answered their phones were doing their best to pick up trash and mop the marble floors that were streaked interesting and colorful shades. But it was hard to mask the noxious odor of stale beer, cleansers and fragrances that lingered in the air.

“You look like you need to sit down,” a familiar male voice said when Emilie thought she would just about die from exhaustion.

She looked up to see Rowan regarding her with a look of both curiosity and sympathy. She wondered where he had come from. He couldn’t possibly have been at the singles event?

“I look that bad, huh?”

“You don’t look good. Why is the director of leisure sales working the front desk, anyway?”

“In crises management pitches in wherever they can. Were you here the entire time? Did you witness the nightmare?”

“I had a meeting in the Travelers Palm Room. It got interrupted when your singles party turned into a zoo,” he said.

“My singles party?” She raised an eyebrow.

“All right, the singles party your company hosted.”

Emilie was suddenly conscious of the surrounding employees regarding them with keen interest. Since the line at the desk was almost nonexistent now, there wasn’t much more she could do. She stepped out from behind the barrier and took Rowan by the arm, leading him to a more remote area.

“What happened to the other people attending your meeting?” she asked.

He laughed. “Are you kidding? They hightailed it out of here. No one with a smidgeon of common sense sticks around when drugs are involved, except for my man Derek, who was worried about his wife.”

“You stayed, too. Why?”

Those blue eyes regarded her carefully. “Because I was worried about you. I thought you might be working and could use my help so I pitched in and helped with crowd control.”

“That was nice of you.”

Rowan bowed from the waist, sweeping out his hand. “At your service, ma’am. Always at your service.”

Emilie wasn’t buying it. She doubted Rowan had stayed on because of her. There had to be an ulterior motive here. No one was that nice.

Derek Morse came hurrying toward them, an arm around his wife.

“What a mess this turned out to be,” he said, as a tearful Joya nodded her head in agreement.

When Joya was able to pull herself together she added, “So much for making a profit on this bash. You probably paid out a bundle in compensation.”

“We offered credits on future stays, complimentary drinks, meals, that kind of thing,” Emilie assured her.

“I was so proud of myself for snagging a contract for six singles parties. Owen’s probably not going to want any more of these parties on the premises now. Who would have guessed they would attract riffraff?” Joya blew her nose in the tissue her husband handed her.

“You’re beating yourself up unnecessarily,” Emilie said, giving her a hug. “The Knight Corporation would be hard-pressed to turn up its nose at a half-a-million-dollar contract. I doubt they would want to refund the sizeable deposit. Next time your party planner is going to be asked to pay for extra security and there’ll be a sizeable damage deposit requested.”

“There’s another positive,” Rowan chimed in. “The Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort will be the talk of the town tomorrow. You will have made every newspaper. You couldn’t buy yourself that publicity.”

Emilie shot him a disgusted look. “Who wants publicity of that kind? People were dealing drugs on the premises. Look at the condition of this lobby.” Her eyebrows shot to her hairline as she spotted Keith Lightfoot. “What’s he doing here?”

“He was part of my meeting,” Rowan explained. “When all hell broke loose he ended our conversation abruptly. Let me find out what’s going on.” Rowan loped off.

It would figure Keith Lightfoot had been a witness to this whole debacle. She wondered if he was spying on her or had even set up the whole thing. It seemed ironic that of all places to have a meeting he would choose her hotel. But maybe that was Rowan’s doing.

On the other hand, she couldn’t exactly ban Keith from coming on the premises. In some ways she was grateful to him. He had just committed to housing his workmen here for the next six months. If you counted meals and accommodations he was shelling out a small fortune. Money the resort desperately needed.

Still, it made Emilie wonder about the coincidence. Since the hotel had been built there hadn’t been one drug problem. It made her think that maybe the townsfolk were right. Talk of a casino was already attracting the worst human elements.

Were Keith Lightfoot and the Seminoles behind this? He wasn’t exactly the enemy but neither was he a friend. And what about Rowan? Whose side was he on…?

Chapter 5

A million thoughts flittered through her head as Emilie paced the lobby of 411 Flamingo Place. On one hand she was looking forward to seeing Rowan again, and on the other she had feelings of trepidation. He’d called last evening to remind her about the jam session. It was a popular event and parking was usually a nightmare, so they’d agreed to leave the cars behind and walk from her place to the beach.

The town was still talking about the drug bust, and it had made all of the local papers, preempting every story on the television channels. D’dawg, the popular radio personality, and his audience, practically all of Flamingo Beach, were having a field day. Nothing this big had ever happened in town. It was being blamed on the influx of new people moving in. But amazingly, bookings at the spa and resort for the summer months were now at a record high.

“This is not the way I’d hoped to get business,” Emilie’s boss, Tom Burke, groused when he saw the increase in bookings before quickly adding, “But I guess I’ll take it.”

It wasn’t the kind of press Emilie wanted for the hotel, either, but a jump in room occupancy meant she was closer to her goal.

Squealing tires now got Emilie’s attention. Rowan’s big black truck pulled into a visitor’s spot. Leaping out, he took long strides toward the building. His shorts rode low on his hips and stopped slightly below the knee, exposing bronze runner’s legs, the hairs almost as light as on his head. A short-sleeve linen shirt brought out the blue in his eyes. The lock of hair that peeked from under his baseball cap was even more sun streaked than she remembered.

“Hey, babe,” Rowan greeted her, dipping his head to steal a kiss. “Mmm, you look good enough to eat. Taste so, too.”

“Do I, now?”

“You know you do,” he said.

Emilie held up both arms and pirouetted. She loved to tease him. The eightysomething-degree weather called for skimpy attire, and her walking shorts and halter top were a perfect choice for a warm day. Because of the heat she’d piled her hair high, securing her curls with rhinestone and emerald clips, the same color as her earrings.

Was she leading Rowan on by flirting with him? If he thought the evening was going to end in the same manner it had a week or so ago, he was in for a rude awakening. She’d vowed it would not happen again. Good as the sex had been, this relationship couldn’t go anywhere.

“What’s in the bag?” Emilie asked, noticing for the first time the paper bag Rowan carried.

“A little something to cool us down.” He took her hand and walked with her through the condo’s grounds and toward the boardwalk. “How are things at the hotel? Is it back to business as usual?”

“Sort of.”

Emile told him all about how they’d increased security and that guards were now stationed in the paid parking lot. If you didn’t have identification you weren’t allowed on the premises.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing,” Rowan said. “Other hotels have gone that route. It costs plenty to provide additional security so it makes sense to charge guests for parking.”

“But that’s not what the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort is about. Parking’s always been rolled into the room price so guests feel as if they’re getting something for free. Our rooms aren’t exactly cheap.”

“How about we just concentrate on having a good time,” Rowan proposed, holding open the gate that led to the boardwalk and waiting for her to go through.

She’d put the shop talk on hold for now, but later she would ask if there was an update on the plans for the Seminole casino. According to the resort’s arrangement, the first set of workers would be arriving next week. That could mean only one thing: construction would start shortly after.

From the sounds coming from the beach the musicians were already tuning up. What had started off as an informal gathering with local musicians gathering to play had taken on a life of its own. People now came in from neighboring towns, and even as far away as South Florida. The jam had grown and grown, spilling onto the beach, showcasing the talented and untalented. Since most stores closed early on Saturdays, the session became a nice way to start off the weekend. What’s more it was free.

People whizzed by on bikes or skates. The little souvenir shops that had recently received face-lifts were crowded with browsers.

“Let’s find somewhere away from the madness,” Rowan proposed.

“Yes, let’s.”

They continued down the beach. Emilie was conscious of the stares and whispers. She was certain there was speculation that they were in a steamy relationship. And while there weren’t overt comments, she sensed the locals disapproved of interracial dating.

She’d never made a secret of being black. She strongly suspected that was the reason she’d been transferred to Flamingo Beach in the first place. Her employer’s decision probably had a lot to do with demographics.

“Oh, no,” Emilie muttered.

“Is there a problem?”

“A big one.” She pointed a discreet thumb in the direction of Camille Lewis. She was the last person Emilie wanted to run into.

Unfortunately, the busybody had spotted them.

A few feet away, Camille said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Well, just look at Ms. Thing. African-American males aren’t good enough for her. Got herself a white developer with money instead. Is he better in bed than our men?”

“It’s none of your business, Camille,” Emilie said. Her grip on Rowan’s hand tightened.

Rowan smiled blandly at Camille. “Well now, Camille, since from the looks of things you’re married, you’ll never know, will you?” Waving a hand, he continued on his way.

Emilie burst out laughing. “Thanks for putting that witch in her place.”

“Does that happen often?” Rowan asked when she’d finally stopped laughing.

“You mean people taking potshots at me?”

“Dissing you. Making inappropriate comments.”

“All my life. Interestingly enough no one has a problem with me dating a white guy when they think I’m white. But once they find out I’m African-American you’d think I’d committed some horrible crime.”

“They’re just ignorant people,” he said.

“Doesn’t it bother you when someone stares at you when you’re walking down the street with me?” Emilie asked.

“No. I figure they’re looking because we make such an attractive couple. Dating black women is not new for me.”

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re an unusual man.”

“Not all that unusual. I grew up in an urban neighborhood. Black women are all I know. They’re what I’m used to. No false airs. No pretensions. They’re really down-home and comfortable with themselves.”

“And your family didn’t have a problem with these relationships?”

“My parents were too busy putting food on the table for three children to care.”

Fascinated, Emilie flopped down at the end of the pier. She wanted to learn more about Rowan. He sat down next to her.

“You probably never had people spit at you and use the N word. I have,” she said. “It causes you to be really careful.”

“I’ve had far worse done to me, and sometimes just to gain respect I fought back with my fists. Flamingo Beach is relatively tolerant. I’ve yet to hear of crosses being burnt on anyone’s front lawn.”

What Rowan didn’t say was that he was once married to a black woman, short-lived as the marriage turned out to be. It had cost him plenty to get out of the relationship. But he’d done what he’d thought was the right thing at the time. And as soon as he’d discovered what his ex, Nija, was all about, he’d cut his losses and moved on.

“The residents are not as tolerant as you think. Look at the looks you and I got just walking here. When you’re in the hotel industry you could end up just about anywhere. It would be a heck of a lot easier if my man were black.”

Rowan said nothing for a while. He uncorked the wine he’d brought along and poured them both a glass.

“News flash. Most people don’t have a clue that you’re black, at least not at first sight. I think you’re the one with the chip on your shoulder. Nowadays people date whomever they please,” he said.

He was making a good argument for himself she supposed. And truthfully she was curious about a guy who by his own admission grew up the only white kid in a black neighborhood. She’d never quite met anyone as sure of himself as Rowan, or as comfortable in his own skin.

“You’re a strange man. You’re more comfortable with my people than your own.” Emilie looked at him curiously.

“Like I said before, your people are my people. They always have been. Let’s just listen to the music and shelve the topic of race for now.” Rowan looped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a kiss. “Let’s give them something more to talk about.”

He was so much cooler than she was. Emilie focused on the music and tried not to think about what people were saying. For the next couple of hours she listened to a number of musicians play their instruments. A few even attempted to sing. And as the sun sank low in the sky, and twilight made its appearance, she finally relaxed. She was actually liking having Rowan’s arm around her shoulders.

On their way back she spotted Chere Abrahams and her husband, Quen.

“Would you mind if we said hello for a moment?” Emilie asked, pointing to the couple.

Chere had never gotten back to her about the sale of the condo. Now was as good a time as any to find out whether she’d have to find another place to live.

As luck would have it, Camille Lewis got to Chere before Emilie could. There was a lot of eye rolling and huffing. The two weren’t exactly friends and Chere made it no secret she disliked Camille. It seemed doubly odd that the two were now engaged in conversation.

Having no desire to run into the woman again, Emilie deliberately slowed her steps. Camille, after tossing a disdainful look their way, took off.

“Hey, guys,” Emilie greeted. “Wasn’t that an awesome session? Wouldn’t it be great if we had more concerts?”

“I was just saying that to Chere.” Quen nudged his wife with his elbow. “Wasn’t I, sugar?”

“Yeah, yeah, you were. Sorry, that woman gets on my last nerve.” Chere aimed a poisonous glance at Camille’s departing back. “You’ll never guess what she just said to me.”

“Don’t repeat it and spread her cancer,” Quentin Abrahams warned, squeezing his wife’s hunched shoulders. “Camille’s bad news, sugar. Don’t pay her any mind.”

Rowan and Quen exchanged one of those bear hugs that men had perfected. It was the male version of the woman’s air kiss. Chere held her cheek out for the real thing.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm, if only you were single, girl,” Rowan said.

“Honey, if I were single you’d be dead of a heart attack.”

Rowan swept a handful of hair out of one eye and roared. “I’d be dying with a smile on my face.”

Chere forgot about Camille’s acid tongue and burst out laughing.

“Do I need to start looking for a place to live?” Emilie asked Chere.

“Not right away. Quen’s still thinking it over. He was hoping that you’d counter.” Chere elbowed her husband. “Say something.”

“Make me an offer and we’ll work something out. If I don’t have to pay a real estate agent a commission fee it just might work out.”

“Just you wait a minute,” Chere howled. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean I’m waiving my commission.”

Rowan got in on the action. “Emilie, you’re thinking of buying a house?”

“It’s Quen’s condo, and thinking is the operative word. This market’s gotten ridiculous,” Emilie said.

Falling into step, they began to walk down the boardwalk together.

“I have a town house I could let you use for free,” Rowan whispered in Emilie’s ear.