Sex on Flamingo Beach (4 page)

“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.”

T
he 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?