Sex on Flamingo Beach (6 page)

It was an older, arts and crafts–style home that had been in foreclosure and they'd gotten it for a good price. Quen now spent his weekends fixing it up while Chere worked in the garden. Emilie was anxious to see what they'd done with the house and the grounds because it hadn't looked like much initially.

After a ten-minute walk through an area of town that was currently being gentrified, they came to a freshly painted house with a white picket fence. A stone walkway led to a cedar front door. The well-tended lawn was sprinkled with pink flamingos in various poses.

Chere pointed to the birds. “I must be making my neighbors crazy.” She gave them one of her great big smiles.

“Makes the house have personality,” Rowan diplomatically said.

Inside was cream. The crown moldings were painted a smidgeon darker. The wood floors were a new addition. Quen pointed out that he'd laid them himself.

“We're considering moving in after the house is done,” Chere added. “We'll need more space and we really enjoy working in the garden.” She was positively beaming. Something was up.

As Emilie followed the proud newlyweds through their house she felt a sense of emptiness as if something in her life was missing. She'd always wanted to own a home and settle down. More and more she'd been thinking about what it would be like to have a family. At almost thirty-five she had a biological clock that was rapidly ticking.

Finding the right man was the key.

When the men wandered into the lit backyard to look at Quen's vegetable garden, the women seized the opportunity to talk. Emilie suspected they'd gone off to smoke cigars and male bond.

“Come see what I've done with the flower beds,” Chere said, tugging on her arm. She opened the side door and led Emilie out to another lit area with a shady oak and hammock. Garden beds grew a profusion of hardy geraniums, dahlias and New Guinea impatiens.

Emilie politely “oohed” and “aahed” as she circled the boxed-in flower beds. By then the crickets, frogs and other night sounds were starting to intrude.

“You want to hear my news, girl?” Chere said, dancing around. “I was waiting for Jen to get here, but if I don't tell someone soon I'm going to burst.”

Emilie had always admired Chere's exuberance.

“What is it?”

“I'm pregnant. We just found out.”

“Awesome! Quen must be so excited.”

“He is. And now I'm probably going to gain back every pound I lost, but you know, I don't care. I am so looking forward to being a mother.”

Emilie hugged her tight. She was happy for Chere. She'd had a huge crush on Quen Abrahams for some time, and although they'd come from different worlds they'd managed to work things out.

“What's going on with you and him?” Chere asked when they finally separated. Him meaning Rowan.

“Oh, Rowan and I are just hanging out.”

“Looks like a lot more than that to me. He's hot for you, girl. You should see the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's looking.”

“I have to start thinking about long-term possibilities. Rowan's not it.”

“Why, because he's white?” Chere asked bluntly. “Quen says he's the real deal. You could be hooked up with Dickie Dyson. He's supposedly a black professional. Would you want that?”

“No, I'd rather be single.”

The two women began recounting tales of the women Richard Dyson had gone through. Dickie owned a successful limousine business and liked to throw around his money, but he came up short in the important areas, lovemaking being one of them.

“Anyone home?” a female voice called from the front yard, interrupting them in the midst of a good laugh.

“Jen and Tre are here,” Chere shouted to the men out back. “Stub out those stinky cigars and get your butts inside.” She headed off to let the couple in.

Left alone for those few seconds, Emilie reflected on what Chere had said. Maybe she shouldn't entirely dismiss Rowan James. It wasn't as if there were black professional prospects knocking down her door. At least none that she would consider relationship material.

But then again there was that promise she'd made to her father on graduation day. He'd been concerned that now she had a degree she would forget where she came from, and marry outside of her race. Emilie had assured him she would not. She'd promised to find a strong, educated black man, just like her dad was, to start a family.

She meant to keep that promise. She owed it to the man who'd paid for her education, and had instilled pride in her.

T
wo days later, Rowan and the Seminole development team were summoned to City Hall.

“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Solomon Rabinowitz's assistant said as they entered the mayor's office. “The mayor is running behind, but he should be ready for you shortly. Can I get you anything?”

“Water if you have it,” Keith Lightfoot requested.

“Anything else?”

What followed was a lot of head shaking. The men were waved into several uncomfortable-looking chairs.

The mayor's assistant, a fussy little man who had probably been handpicked, still wore crisp long-sleeved white shirts and suspenders. He pushed a button on the intercom and spoke to an unseen person. Within minutes a woman dressed in a drab gray smock appeared with glasses of water on a tray. As Rowan sipped on his water he wondered what this meeting was about. Both Stephen and Keith were dressed more formally than he'd ever seen them. Unusual, as in this heat most tended to go for a corporate-casual look. When he'd received a call from Keith, Rowan had dropped everything to make this meeting. He'd had no time to change but at least he wasn't wearing jeans. Keith had made it sound urgent.

And urgent it was. In a town the size of Flamingo Beach, the mayor wielded clout. It would definitely be to everyone's advantage to show up.

“I found your bio online,” Stephen Priddy snickered, letting Rowan know none too subtly he'd been checked out. “How did a boy from Brooklyn whose father worked in a factory escape the same fate?”

It was meant to be a put-down, Rowan was as sure of that as he was that his last name was James. Stephen was an obnoxious man but his was a business filled with obnoxious people. He didn't have to like the man to get the job done.

“How did you become a CFO of your organization?” he countered. “You probably went to college, majored in business, then applied for positions in finance. Same thing here. I got a degree in economics at Wharton, worked in corporate real estate where I gained a reputation for brokering deals most people thought were impossible. The rest, as they say, is history.” Rowan smiled to soften his words.

“Wharton, yes, I noticed that. But mine wasn't a rags-to-riches story,” Stephen said sourly. “I am solidly middle-class.”

“What do you really want to know, if I got help getting to where I am?”

Keith, picking up on the tension between the men, smoothly interrupted. “Any ideas as to why the mayor wants us here?”

“Unfortunately not. I assumed this was a done deal,” Stephen quickly said.

“Well, something must have come up or we wouldn't be here. The mayor must have questions or need assurances. He's always been our biggest advocate. If he can get the residents of Flamingo Beach on our side there will be fewer problems,” Keith said.

“We should be prepared to address environmental concerns, permit issues and regulatory hearings,” Rowan said smoothly. “Stephen and I can both tackle the financing questions, and, Keith, I assume you'll address the gambling licenses.”

Keith managed a slight nod before they were ushered into the mayor's spacious office.

Mayor Rabinowitz was not alone. It took Rowan all of two seconds to figure out that they'd been invited to a press conference. In typical fashion the seventy-five-year-old mayor, not one to be put on the hot seat, would be deferring the uncomfortable questions to them. This was pure manipulation, but at this late stage what could they do?

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Mayor Rabinowitz boomed, waving them into seats at the front of the room. He played to his audience. “As you know, the building of the casino is of interest to everyone in this town. I can think of no better way to put to bed rumors than to hold a press conference. Who better to answer questions and soothe fears than those who are involved? You are the key folks responsible for making this casino happen.”

His ruddy complexion turned even redder when he faced the camera.

“Everyone please introduce yourselves.”

Rowan struggled to keep his expression neutral. He was conscious of the television cameras on them. Paparazzi from all the key papers were there. The
Southern Tribune
and the
Flamingo Beach Chronicle
had sent their reporters as had some of the smaller papers from the neighboring towns. WARP, the radio station, had a representative on hand, and there were reporters from two local television stations.

By then Stephen Priddy had a tight, pinched look on his face. Hard to tell whether he was expecting this or not. As usual Keith's expression was neutral and it was difficult to decipher what was going on in his head.

Up front, one of the technicians began a slow countdown.

“Three minutes to showtime,” he announced, “We'll do a brief lead-in and then you can introduce yourselves before we open the floor for questions. We'll wrap this thing up in twenty minutes tops.”

The mayor was already preening. The fringe circling his pate bobbed with every movement. Tugging at his bow tie, he brushed imaginary lint off his powder-blue suit jacket while smiling brightly into the lights. The press conference began right on time.

After the men introduced themselves, the mayor pontificated. He went on and on about how good it would be to have a casino in town, and how it would mean jobs and revenue for Flamingo Beach. When a reporter stuck up his hand, Mayor Rabinowitz quickly turned the microphone over to Keith. The reporters went for the jugular, tossing out questions as if they were confetti.

Keith Lightfoot, an obvious pro at this kind of thing, spoke eloquently about the joint venture between the Seminole Indians and Landsdale International and how important that partnership was. He spoke of the town's opportunity to shine after the casino was built and the positive cash flow that would be quickly generated.

Stephen Priddy read from a script he took from his pocket. He spouted statistics to support Keith's point, likening Flamingo Beach to Atlantic City, a fading town once in distress that had been turned around. What he failed to mention was that parts of Atlantic City were still slums. Then he went on to say how much Las Vegas's image had changed and why it was now one of the prime vacation destinations.

Rowan finally admitted he just couldn't stand the man.

“Trump, you ain't seen nothing yet,” Stephen ended.

When it was Rowan's turn to speak, he touched on the successes his company had had with previous ventures. He assured his audience that the project would come about with minimal disruption to everyday lives. And he spoke about his commitment to preserving the environment. These were all touchy issues that needed to be addressed.

“Why Flamingo Beach?” a reporter shouted at them. “Why not some other town?”

“Flamingo Beach has something for everyone,” Rowan said smoothly. “It's a beautiful waterfront town with many historic homes. There are clean white sand beaches, quaint restaurants, and when the mall is built, you'll have all the right shops. The only thing this town is missing now is nightlife. If you want to attract families and professionals on vacation they'll need something to do after dark. The casino will give them that.”

“But that's just the point,” another reporter shouted at him. “Our citizens are concerned, and rightly so, that we'll become another Vegas, a city that never sleeps, and that we'll draw undesirables. We have minimal issues now, except for that situation at the resort where drugs were involved. Some say that's casino related. We're not looking to attract strip clubs, pimps and hookers.”

“What about organized crime? And money laundering? Build a casino and that comes with the territory,” someone else shouted out.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Stephen Priddy shouted back. “The money a casino will bring to this town will more than make up for the occasional drug bust or mugging. You people are being shortsighted.”

It was definitely the wrong thing to say. The reporters had a field day with Stephen while the mayor sat silent. It was left up to Keith and Rowan to bail him out and try to convince the media it wasn't just about money.

And even when the press conference ended, Rowan knew their would be a backlash from Stephen's unfortunate choice of words.

“Your man's on the news,” Zoe shouted from the outer office, her eyes glued to the small television that sat on the shelf directly in front of her desk. “He doesn't look happy.”

“What man?” Emilie shouted back.

“That hot developer, Rowan James. The one building the mall and now the casino.”

Curiosity more than anything else forced Emilie to stop in the middle of sending an e-mail to the business development team. She stepped out of her office to find Zoe's eyes glued to the television set.

“Such drama,” her assistant said, one finger twisting a cranberry-tipped dreadlock. “And here's our lovely mayor puffed up like a Thanksgiving turkey while those guys take the heat.”

“What did I miss so far?”

Zoe filled her in, her comments about the mayor getting uglier by the moment. She definitely wasn't a fan of his.

“I'd much rather be watching my favorite soap opera than this,” she groused. “They've been going on and on about how good the casino will be for this town. Money is going into someone's pocket.”

“I'm sure,” Emilie said dryly, “No one's talking about the tax abatements these guys will get to make it happen. Turn up the volume, please.”

Emilie listened to the reporters go at it. The camera panned to Mayor Rabinowitz's constipated face as he expertly deferred all the difficult questions to Rowan and Keith Lightfoot. The reporters were mercilessly pelting question after question at them.

She was pleased to note Rowan handled himself with aplomb. He answered the most difficult questions with a forthrightness that surprised even her, speaking in simple terms so that the average layperson got it. Instead of revenue, which she'd thought a man in his position would be espousing, he talked about showcasing the town, improving property and revitalizing business while at the same time preserving the environment.

Finally it was over. A reporter wrapped up the broadcast by saying, “Will the Seminole-Landsdale partnership be good for the town of Flamingo Beach? Only time will tell.”

“What do you think?” Zoe asked, her eyes again glued to the monitor and her soap opera that had come back on. “Will building a casino be good for this town?”

“You're asking the wrong person,” Emilie answered, retreating back to her office. “When I hear about a casino all I think about is competition. I'm going to try to get some work done. My next meeting isn't for another couple of hours. If someone from the
Chronicle
calls put them through, anyone else take a message.”

Emilie shut her door. She needed a moment of quiet. She'd been trying not to think about Rowan, but for one reason or another he kept popping into her head. And now seeing him on television made her realize how much he'd gotten under her skin.

She still blushed thinking how she'd raced from his truck the other night and headed for her apartment. She couldn't let temptation get in the way and sleep with him again. This unwanted attraction called for drastic measures. She needed to get involved with someone else. She'd have to put the word out she was looking.

Right now she had more important things to do, like ensuring future guests her hotel was a safe place to be. This past Sunday she'd run advertisements in all the major papers in big cities and paid for choice radio spots. The Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort was now officially promoting the heck out of romantic weekend getaways. And it was paying off. She'd been told by Reservations that the phones were ringing.

Another plus was that in the next few days the contracted workers who'd be building the casino would begin arriving. That should take care of two hundred rooms. She needed sheer luck and some creativity to ensure she met her goal of sixty-five percent occupancy.

An idea had been niggling at the back of her mind for some time. It had taken seed when she'd attended the jam session with Rowan. It was a bit out there, but if executed well the result could be huge. She knew just the person to discuss it with.

Emilie reached for the phone.

“Hi, Jen, Emilie Woodward here. Wasn't the other evening fun?” she asked the advice columnist. They talked for a while about the wonderful job Chere and Quen were doing restoring the house. Their topic changed to the recent press conference.

“Tre's thinking of having all the participants on his show,” Jen said.

“Speaking of which, is your husband home?”

“Hang on. I might still be able to catch him before he runs off to the radio station.”

Jen must have caught him because soon Tre's voice boomed through the earpiece.

“Hey, good-looking, what can I do for you?”

Emilie told him about the idea she had.

“Girl, you may be on to something,” Tre said, making it sound like she had come up with a winner. “The weekly jam could be better organized. I like your idea of having it take the same format as the
American Idol
broadcast. Let the citizens of Flamingo Beach cast their vote, then eventually as it gets bigger you'd open it up to the rest of the nation. If auditions were held at the resort you'd have no problem filling rooms. The hotel would have more business than it needs.”