Sex on Flamingo Beach (8 page)

This was news to Rowan. He wondered what else Keith and Landsdale had up their sleeve. Now was not the time to ask those questions. That kind of conversation needed to happen in private. He'd agreed to take on this project because he'd wanted Lansdale and the Seminoles on his client list. But the way things were shaping up he was beginning to have regrets. Stephen Priddy he didn't trust, and after what Solomon Rabinowitz had pulled with that press conference, he was wondering if the rumors about him were true. All in all he was not feeling good about these people.

Rowan was used to controversy and neighbors kicking up a stink when they felt a residential area was turning commercial. But people speculating about their mayor taking kickbacks wasn't something he dealt with often. As a developer he'd gained a reputation for being hard-nosed, but he'd also been respected and ethical. He had no intention of ruining the reputation he'd worked so hard to build nor did he plan on getting involved in a shady deal.

“How do we get in touch with you if we're interested in a job?” someone from the growing audience shouted. “Who do we see?”

“We'll have a trailer parked on site in the next day or two. There'll be a big sign that says Help Wanted. All you have to do is go in and apply. Tell everyone you know we're hiring. We're an equal-opportunity employer so everyone gets a fair shot. Now, I'm here to play pool. Anyone care to join me?”

Charismatic as he was, Keith soon had more than his share of takers. The tables soon filled up, and Priddy, sycophant that he was, walked around slapping backs and issuing empty promises. Spotting Rowan, he nodded but made no attempt to initiate conversation.

“Might as well forget about pool now,” Rowan muttered. “No available tables.”

He'd almost forgotten about Sheena when she pulled on the tail of his shirt.

“Aren't you at least going to say thank you and buy me a drink?” she asked, her fingers curling around his forearm.

“What are you having?”

“Something pretty with an umbrella in it,” she said, lowering her eyelashes and tightening her hold on his arm.

Word must be out that he was into African-American women, not that he thought Sheena Grace was that discriminating. When she spotted opportunity she moved in.

Rowan bought her a drink while an expressionless Derek stuck close to him. He was working on his second beer.

“I hear you and Emilie Woodward have a thing going,” Sheena whispered in Rowan's ear. “What would Emilie say if she knew I was here with you?”

“We aren't exactly together, Sheena.”

“We could be.” Sheena made her point by running the tip of her killer shoe across his instep.

He needed to stop this right now and let her down easily.

“Baby, you need a man who can give you the attention you deserve. I work 24/7 and that doesn't leave a lot of time for hanging out.”

“But you're making time for Emilie.”

“I don't have the time or inclination to be juggling women. You'd be shortchanged.”

Sheena now wore the ugly expression of a woman dissed.

“You know what I think?” she said, stabbing a fingernail with a rhinestone half moon in his face.

“Actually I don't care what…”

Derek, noticing he was about to lose it, clamped a hand on his arm and swung him around.

“We're going to be late for dinner. Joya's going to be one unhappy woman.”

It took Rowan a few seconds to catch on.

“Yes, I guess we'd better leave. Catch you some other time, Sheena.”

Derek was already nudging him toward the exit.

F
or the next couple of days Emilie mentally calculated the pros and cons of accepting Rowan's invitation to Harbour Island. On the one hand she didn't want to encourage him, and on the other, it might be nice to have a minivacation away from it all. She would just have to set the boundaries and make sure he knew there would be no meeting between the sheets this time around. Sex only confused the issue.

If getting to know her was really what Rowan wanted then he should understand. At the end of it all she expected him to deliver Twenty Cents and Ice Cube, and that's what her acceptance would hinge on.

Zoe stuck her head into the open office door. “Ian Pendergrass's assistant called while you were out.”

“Please tell me it's good news,'” Emilie said, brightening instantly and crossing her fingers behind her back. She was still hopeful that the
Chronicle
would commit to putting up their prospective employees at the resort. It would certainly help her with the occupancy level.

“I'm sorry, I wish I had better news,” Zoe said, shaking her head. “She said the paper decided to go in an entirely different direction. They're going to reimburse the candidates for whatever accommodations they choose. The paper has budget cuts and it's too expensive to guarantee rooms.”

Emilie whooshed out a mouthful of air and tossed her hair back. “That stinks. You think those budget cuts had anything to do with my not being receptive to Ian's advances?”

Zoe chuckled and glanced at the clock. “He's an old goat for sure. You'd better get going. Some of your business development team's waiting to see you. They're in Salon A.”

“Shoot, I forgot I called that meeting.”

“Go, go, go.”

Emilie grabbed the pad Zoe handed her and raced from the room. She was scheduled tight all day. In another hour she was meeting with the manager of community relations at the chamber of commerce.

Emilie entered the room to a buzz of conversation. The noise immediately ceased when the sales force caught on she'd arrived. She guessed she'd been the topic of whatever was going on.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling warmly. “Thanks for making it on such short notice.” She took a seat at the front of the room. “This is as good a time as any to update you on the initiatives the hotel is considering. You should be kept informed in case you get questions.”

“We've heard the ads on the radio about the romance packages. Can you tell us about them?” one bright-eyed rep asked.

“I sent you an e-mail recapping the details. What's being offered are all-inclusive romantic weekend packages. Prices range from the affordable to anything goes. Couples can customize their package to include flowers, breakfast in bed, massages and water sports. They can even learn to ballroom dance if they want.”

“That's a great idea. Much better than those passion parties,” another rep interjected, a major smirk on her face.

“The first of those passion parties is scheduled for this Friday evening. I'm told they're major revenue generators. Is anyone interested in attending?”

Several hands shot up. Emilie planned on being on the premises to observe the event, as well. Joya had mentioned this type of party attracted an entirely different crowd, mostly females and all big spenders.

The same rep who'd spoken before rolled her eyes. “Let's hope it's a better crowd than that singles event. I was embarrassed to let anyone know I work for this outfit.”

“We can't afford another scandal,” someone else added.

“Speaking of which, whatever happened to those people who were arrested? According to the television newscasters hundreds of people were carted off to jail.” This came from one of the men.

“Hundreds? That's a slight exaggeration.” Emilie tried to set the record straight. “A few guests were held overnight and then released after posting bail. The dealers were the ones in real trouble. But the good thing is that it's no longer front-page news. Shall we get back on topic? How's everyone doing with their sales goals?”

A collective sigh resounded.

“That doesn't sound good. Let me tell you about an idea I came up with.”

For the next fifteen minutes Emilie explained how she hoped to cash in on the growing popularity of the Saturday jam session. She wanted to turn it into a more organized and polished showcasing of talent similar to
American Idol.

“Moving the location is going to take forever to implement,” the same eye-rolling rep, whose name was Marnie, said. “We need something more immediate to jump-start business.”

“What do you suggest?” Emilie threw right back at her.

The rep's response was another eye roll. Emilie made a mental note to have a private chat with the woman. She did not need an attitude problem, what she needed was an involved and supportive sales team with ideas.

She closed the meeting with a reminder to send any and all suggestions for increasing business to her, and thanked everyone for coming. On her way out, Emilie overheard two of the more tenured business development team members commenting that the
Idol
idea wouldn't fly. So much for an engaged team willing to support her.

“She's way over her head. The town will never go for it,” one of them said. “The session's always been held on the beach. If it's not broke who the heck is she to fix it?”

“She's just trying to get ahead. Haven't you heard she's got something going with that property developer? He's probably the one behind this, pushing her to come up with something creative. She's never struck me as being particularly bright or innovative.”

Just what she needed, people looking to undermine her. Negative energy she could do without. It only served to pull the rest of the group down. She'd have to do something about the cancer spreaders, but not right now. Her energy needed to be directed to convincing the chamber of commerce that this would be a good move. If she could sell them and the citizens on making the change from the outside location, and show them that it was all about bringing business to Flamingo Beach, then maybe the resort stood a chance. Her one ace card was Ice Cube and Twenty Cents lending their celebrity status to the event. She hoped she could pull it off.

It took Emilie all of ten minutes to get to City Hall where the chamber of commerce's office was located. When she entered, a disinterested receptionist at the front desk raised an eye from her book.

“Who are you here to see?” she asked.

“Isabella Fuentes, your community relations manager.”

“Hmm. Is she expecting you?”

“I have an appointment.” Emilie made a point of glancing at her watch.

“Sign in here.” The woman pointed to an open book on the desk.

Emilie did as she was asked and sat in the seat the receptionist indicated. Fifteen minutes later, a woman that had to be Isabella with big platinum hair and flashy jewelry bounced over to the reading receptionist.

“I was expecting Emilie Woodward from the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort. Has she shown up?”

“Dunno. That woman's been sitting there for a while though.”

Isabella looked over in Emilie's direction. Emilie stood, business card in hand.

“Hi, I'm Emilie.”

“Were you waiting long?”

“Uh…”

Isabella's attention returned to the surly receptionist. “You could have called me.” The receptionist was back to her book and didn't seem too bothered.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

Shaking her head, Isabella bounced her way across the tiled lobby and into her small office.

“Please have a seat.” She indicated a comfortable armchair upholstered in coral and mint, then took a card from an acrylic holder and handed it to Emilie. “Tre Monroe and his wife, the columnist, called asking me to see you. They said you had an interesting opportunity worth listening to.”

“I do.”

Emilie laid out her plan and watched Isabella's eyes grow huge.

“But the jam has always been on the beach for as long as it's been around. Families come to picnic and listen to the tunes. It's an inexpensive way to begin their weekend and unwind. How can the resort possibly accommodate that sizeable crowd?”

Emilie had given that question some consideration.

“What I'd like to do is put some organization to the event. In nice weather we'd hold the auditions around the pool, or on the boardwalk out back of the hotel. We'd make sure we had the right amplifiers so that those on the beach could still hear the performers. It would really be no different from what's happening now. Most people aren't able to see the entertainers, just hear them.”

“True, but it's always been a community event. Changing the location may send the message that we're trying to make it more exclusive and shut out the local people.”

“How much money is the event bringing into the community?” Emilie asked bluntly.

Isabella cleared her throat. “None that I know of. That wasn't the initial purpose. It was supposed to be a gathering of people from the community getting together to play music and have fun.”

“And like everything else, things changed. The jam's growing and you've got private vendors hawking everything from fish tacos to T-shirts that say
Jam Flamingo Beach,
and not a penny is given back to the community.”

“Would you be looking to sell tickets then?”

“Not initially. The hotel will make its money from the food and beverage sales and from the rooms booked. We'd only sell tickets when it gets down to the finals and we promote our celebrity judges. Some profits would go back to the city.”

The thought of money made Isabella perk up.

“I like your idea. But it's really not my decision to make. I'd have to bring this up before the rest of the town council, and then we'd have to get buy in from the residents.”

Emilie stuck out her hand. “How about I check in with you in a week or so?”

“Yes, do that. It will give me time to put out feelers and there's a city council meeting coming up. Meanwhile you should talk to Larry Moorehouse. He was the one who got the jam session started. He's still involved and very influential.”

“Thanks for the tip. I'll be back in touch.”

Emilie left feeling more optimistic. Isabella had given her several things to think about. In a town this size, you needed the residents on your side. She'd contact the Moorehouse guy and point out the advantages of moving the locale, and she'd call Tre Monroe. Maybe he could book her on his show. He was the kind of personality known for introducing controversial topics and right now two very controversial topics were the building of the casino and Flamingo Beach losing its community feel.

To sell her concept she would have to come up with a way to communicate to the townsfolk that this change could actually bring the community together. Now how to do that? Maybe there was a way to get Miriam Young, the Flip-flop Momma, who'd lost the election to Mayor Rabinowitz, on her side. It had been common knowledge the election had been stolen from her.

Miriam was fairly new to Flamingo Beach and open-minded. It had taken the residents some time to embrace her. But the midforties single parent, known for her flip-flop wearing and plain speaking, had won the locals over. She could also spot an opportunity a mile away. Miriam's style was entirely different from the mayor's, no pretensions or posturing. She had no issue getting into people's faces and calling it the way she saw it. She would be a good ally to have.

Back in her office, Emilie picked up the phone again. Tre Monroe, aka D'dawg, picked up on the third ring.

“How would you feel about having me on your show?” Emilie asked.

“What would be the topic?”

“Are the changes to Flamingo Beach a bad thing? Something like that?”

“Hmm. Go on.” Tre gave her no indication as to whether he knew where this was leading.

“Well, I was thinking you could put together a panel. If you got Keith Lightfoot representing the casino, Miriam Young, the former mayoral candidate, me from the resort and Larry Moorehouse, who started the jam sessions, you'd have different perspectives and we'd get people engaged.”

“I know Larry well,” Tre interrupted. “He keeps pushing CDs on me. He always wants me to listen to some new artist he discovered, hoping I'll give them airtime.”

“Maybe the panel could get things jumping by talking about the positives and negatives of new business coming to Flamingo Beach.”

“I'd mix it up a bit and substitute Rowan James for Keith Lightfoot. He'd be a better person to answer questions about the casino and mall. And since he's the outsider he's more suspect.”

“You know best. You're the expert.”

Why did Rowan's name always have to come up? Tre did have a good point though. The construction of a megamall had been a hot topic and the towns-people had been up in arms, claiming it would take away from the town's charm and ruin the vacation experience. Rowan would be able to speak to both the issues surrounding the casino and mall.