“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 abo
ut 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.”
“I was thinking in nice weather we could still hold the talent show outdoors, maybe on the boardwalk. Remember those old beauty contests? You’d emcee, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d love to, and the sessions could be taped live. WARP would go for this in a big way. It’s just their kind of thing to increase ratings. Who would be your judges?”
“I was thinking they’d change every week. Hopefully we can get some big names in. You must have entertainer friends, people looking for more exposure. Anyone owe you favors?”
“Half the nation,” Tre joked. “You’ll need a couple of big names for the launch, and you’ll need to talk to the town or chamber of commerce about moving the jam session to the resort, but I think it can be done,” he said.
“I really value your opinion. You think this can work?”
“Absolutely. Have you talked to Rowan about this?” Tre asked.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because some of the brothas he grew up with in Brooklyn are big-name rap artists. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you that. That white boy is cool and very well connected.”
Emilie was beginning to realize that there was a lot about Rowan she didn’t know. The more she found out about him the more he intrigued her and that needed to stop.
“Call him,” Tre urged. “Get Rowan on board and cash in on his contacts.”
“I’ll think about it. Now I’m going to set the ball in motion.”
“I’ll talk to Bonzo and Bozo when I get to the station. I’m certain they’ll jump on the idea.”
“Bonzo and Bozo?”
“The brothers, Zachary and Joshua, WARP’s owners.”
Tre was so irreverent. Laughing, Emilie hung up.
Who would have guessed that Rowan had the kind of contacts he did? She’d have to put aside her reluctance to initiate contact with him. This was business.
Emilie picked up the phone again and punched a number. There was a fluttery feeling in her stomach as she waited for the phone to be answered. She hated that she felt this way.
“Rowan James.”
She’d expected a secretary, not him. Her tongue was a pretzel. Finally it unknotted itself.
“Uh, hi, this is Emilie.”
“Emilie. It’s great hearing from you. Tell me you missed me?”
He chuckled. The man never gave up.
“No, but I did see you on TV earlier. How did that come about?”
“Ask your mayor. Let me guess, after seeing me on TV you couldn’t control yourself. You felt the need to reach out to me.”
She couldn’t help laughing. He had a way about him.
“Actually I need a favor,” Emilie said.
“Ask and it’s yours.”
“You think you could possibly get a couple of your more prominent rapper friends to Flamingo Beach?”
“How did you find out that Twenty Cents and Ice Cube are buds of mine?”
“I have my ways,” Emilie said.
“Why do you need them?”
It was not an unreasonable question and one she would have to answer.
Emilie explained what she’d just discussed with Tre.
“That is an awesome idea. It won’t exactly be a Las Vegas–style revue like a casino might have, but it’s innovative.”
He would have to mention the casino.
“So you’ll do it? You’ll get Ice Cube and Twenty Cents here?” Emilie asked.
“Yes, on one condition.”
“And what would that be?”
“That you agree to go away with me. I have a business trip coming up in a couple of weekends and I’d like you to come along.”
Emilie pinched the space between her eyebrows and gulped in a breath.
What happened to the days when people did you a favor without expecting something in return?
Nothing in this life was free. She’d always known that.
Chapter 7
Rowan held the receiver to his ear long after Emilie had hung up the phone. What was it with her? he wondered. She’d been noncommittal about the invitation he’d extended to spend the weekend with him. He’d expected her to be more excited about the prospect of three whole days on Harbour Island in the Bahamas. Shoot, he was excited even though it was supposedly work.
Brian Lanterman, a wealthy entrepreneur, had purchased land in Harbour Island way back when with the thought of one day having it developed. Now that day had come. He’d invited Rowan to come over for a weekend, which really meant they were going to enjoy the water sports and talk. Rowan had done work on some of Brian’s other properties so he knew the drill. Brian would fly him and whomever he chose to Harbour Island, put him up at an inn and pick up all of his expenses. It would be the perfect opportunity to get to know Emilie better.
Well, at least she hadn’t turned him down flat. He’d managed to get an “I’ll think about it” out of her.
He now sat in his office, hands clasped behind his head, feet up on the desk, trying his best to get Emilie out of his mind. The flashing green eyes, fiery red hair and sprinkle of freckles across her nose were making him crazy. He’d never been so obsessed with a woman before. Of course that might have to do with him gettin
g his way with the ladies. Emilie was proving to be a challenge.
The ironic thing was that he’d always been attracted to dark-skinned black women with features that clearly defined their African heritage. He loved the dusky velvet of their skin and the bewitching flash of their brown eyes. He loved Afro-centric hair-styles, and the confidence and assurance those strong women exuded. Often their lives weren’t easy, yet they remained fiercely independent. More importantly they spoke their minds. No such thing as communication issues with them.
Emilie with her pale skin and long, curly red hair wasn’t typically his style. Although she was definitely a go-getter and sharp as they came. She didn’t mince words, either. What he really liked about her was that she made it known up front exactly who she was and where she stood. The fact that she did not play games made him want her more. He was bound and determined to have her and not just in a sexual way. They’d already straddled that hurdle and damn they’d been good together. With time they’d get even better.
What he needed to do was get those two brothas on the phone and talk them into coming to Flamingo Beach. Emilie would then be suitably grateful and he would gain a point or two. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know Twenty Cents, whose real name was Willy Corbitt, and Ice Cube, otherwise known as Dwayne Ramos. They’d grown up in the hood together. They’d been brothers in every sense of the word. Growing up, he’d kicked butt for them and in turn had his own kicked. And even though the men were now mega rap artists, they were still good friends and hung out when time and geography permitted.
Rowan was forced to leave a message with Twenty Cents’s publicist after he’d called the rapper’s private line and got voice mail. He’d left a message on the recorder as instructed but wanted to hedge his bets. He had better luck with Dwayne. After a rigorous grilling by a suspicious-sounding female, he was put through to Ice Cube.
“Hey, Dwayne,” Rowan greeted. “It’s been a while, man. You’ve been on the concert circuit, I hear.”
“Hey, R.J., I was beginning to think you were dissing me.”
“Oh, come on, give it a rest. I’ve been in Florida for the last couple of months juggling more projects than I have hands, trying to make some money.”
Sex on Flamingo Beach Page 6
