Rowan waved her over. Hard to ignore them now. A huge grin made his face come alive as his eyes roamed over her appreciatively.
“You look nice and relaxed,” he said when she approached, for once keeping his hands to himself, and giving no indication that the two of them had plans for the weekend.
He must have come from a meeting because his usual faded jeans had been replaced by a pair of pressed Dockers and a polo shirt.
“Hi,” Derek said, greeting her. His expression gave nothing away. Emilie couldn’t tell whether he knew of their plans or not. “Mack,” he said, turning to the other man, “you’ve met Emilie, right?”
“I sure have,” the engineer answered, giving her a great big smile. “In fact she promised to show me around when she has time.”
Emilie didn’t quite remember the conversation going that way, but best to let it go. She smiled back. Rowan’s initial animation dimmed a little. His blue eyes now seemed cold and his smile wintry.
“Emilie, you ready?”
He was staking claim to her.
In the parking lot he said, “Can we take your Saab? The truck has no trunk. I’d have to put the luggage in the bed and it could fall out.”
“No problem.”
Rowan helped her put their bags in the trunk and Emilie retracted the convertible roof before handing him her key.
“I’m driving?” he asked, clearly surprised.
“Yes, sir. I need a catnap just to get my energy going.”
As they roared out of the lot, Derek and Mack emerged. Emilie wasn’t sure whether the two men saw them, but she could guarantee before the day was over word would be all over town that they were off on some sordid adventure.
Flamingo Beach’s small executive airport was about a ten-minute ride and located in one of the more rural parts of town. It reminded Emilie more of a mowed farmer’s field than an actual runway. There was no tower and no terminal to speak of. The hangar where the planes were sometimes kept overnight served multiple purposes.
After parking the Saab, Rowan helped Emilie out. He took his luggage with him and ducked into the men’s bathroom, emerging shortly after more comfortably attired in baggy shorts and a linen shirt. A pair of aviator glasses now sat on top of his head. He looked very much the relaxed businessman on his way to a fun weekend. He took her hand.
“Shall we find our pilot?”
“Sure.”
Emilie walked through the huge hangar noting the planes being serviced and then onto an active runway.
A plane painted in vivid blue and yellow colors with B & L, the corporate insignia, on the tail was parked and waiting. A sandy-haired man dressed in shorts and a polo shirt in the same bright colors loped toward them.
“Mr. James?” When Rowan nodded he reached for their bags. “I’m Cory, your attendant. The pilot’s waiting to go.”
After stowing their bags, he helped Emilie up the steps and into the plane. Rowan was right behind her. The interior was upholstered in the signature blue and yellow although slightly more muted. They were the only two passengers in the eight-seater interior.
“Welcome aboard,” the pilot said, poking his head out of the cockpit. “Take a seat and strap in, please. Cory will take good care of you. We’ll be airborne in roughly ten minutes and in Harbour Island in a little over one hour.”
The attendant handed them plastic glasses of champagne.
“A little libation to start your weekend off on the right note. I’ll be back to collect your glasses in a few minutes.”
“To a relaxing, fun-filled weekend,” Rowan said, clinking his glass against hers.
“I’ll drink to that.”
Sipping on her drink, she closed her eyes and listened to the Cessna’s engines. Soon the plane began rolling down the runway and Cory was back to get their glasses and check to see if their seat belts were secured. Rowan held her hand all during the ascent. She must have drifted off because her next memory was of being shaken awake.
“You’re missing some very tasty lobster,” Rowan said, tempting her with the fork he held very close to her nose.
She rubbed her eyes and said groggily, “Did I snore?”
“Louder than a bear.”
“You’re lying,” she said.
He laughed and held the fork of lobster in nibbling distance.
“Just taste. If you like it you can have your own plate.”
“Delish.” Emilie smacked her lips.
Rowan was right on top of it, calling Cory over, who then graciously brought her food.
An announcement soon came from the cockpit.
“Time to buckle up. We’ll be landing at Eleuthera in approximately ten minutes.”
Below, the turquoise water held an assortment of small craft. On shore, pastel houses were graced with galvanized roofs. Emilie had read that Harbour Island had a three-mile beach with pink sand. She couldn’t wait to participate in the water sports and try the delicious cracked conch the island was known for. She was excited by the prospect of visiting one of the smaller Bahamian islands because it would be a different experience. Everyone went to Nassau and Freeport, but seldom ventured from there.
At the North Eleuthera Airport they were met by one of Brian Lanterman’s employees. He drove them to a dock, and as the sun dipped in the sky, the private motorboat pulled into Harbour Island. A few minutes later they’d checked into the Hibiscus Inn.
Emilie received a key to her own room, albeit on the same floor as Rowan. She had a game plan anyway, and if he’d been bold enough to book them one room, he would have been in for a rude awakening. She would have checked out, found herself another hotel and left him there.
The charming second-floor room with its wooden floors and wrought iron bed was what she’d hoped for. Emilie opened the window to reveal a picturesque bay view at dusk. As a cool ocean breeze floated in she unpacked her bag and hung up her clothes. The rotary phone on the old wooden desk rang, startling her.
“Hey, good-looking, hungry yet?” Rowan asked. “Brian’s invited us to cocktails and dinner at his home on the north end.”
She still wasn’t hungry, not after that delicious lobster she’d wolfed down, but this sounded like a command performance and she wasn’t about to let Rowan down. So far he’d been a gentleman and he was picking up the tab.
“What time does Brian want us there?” she asked.
“In about an hour. Does that give you enough time to get dressed?”
“Yes. I’ll meet you downstairs in front of the reception desk.”
Although Rowan’s room was just down the hall from hers, meeting at that neutral location was better for everyone involved, and this way no one would be tempted to linger upstairs.
Emilie spent the next hour putting herself together. She took a long, cool shower; curled her hair; and slipped on a spaghetti-strap emerald dress that turned her green eyes an even deeper shade of jade. A touch of makeup, a dab of mascara and lipstick, and she was ready. Grabbing a silver wrap and an evening purse, she raced down the one flight of stairs to meet Rowan.
She was now fifteen minutes late. Being on time had always been a problem.
Rowan seemed to take her lateness in stride although he pointedly glanced at his watch.
“You look hot and definitely worth the wait,” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “The driver’s out front.”
“Why didn’t you call me and tell me to hurry?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I figured you’d show up eventually. Another five minutes and I would have come up.”
Brian Lanterman lived in a huge white clapboard stilt house right on the beach. It had a huge wraparound porch and crank-out windows. Orange Japanese lanterns hung off the trees and balustrades.
A tall, willowy woman who could easily have been a model but turned out to be an artist greeted them.
“Hi, Rowan,” she said before turning to Emilie. “I’m Gisele, Brian’s other half. Come in, we’re in the middle of cock
tails.”
Three other couples dressed casually stood on the back deck; the men in one group, the women in the other. Brian Lanterman, a grossly overweight man, broke away to greet them.
“You’ve already met Gisele,” he said warmly. “Come meet my business partner, Nat, and his wife, Judi.”
The remaining two couples were neighbors, people occupying waterfront homes to the right and left of Lanterman and his live-in companion. Drinks in hand, the men regrouped. Emilie was left to the mercy of the women.
“How long have you known Rowan?” Gisele asked as they sampled the codfish and johnnycakes that the maid brought around.
“Not very long.” Emilie wondered where this was leading.
“Well, I have to tell you, you’re a much better choice for him. He used to be married to this awful Bahamian woman, much younger, and an obvious gold digger.”
The other women who’d remained silent so far were definitely tuned in.
Emilie wondered whether “awful” had anything to do with Rowan’s ex being a woman of color. She was a bit taken back that Rowan hadn’t once mentioned a previous marriage. But she guessed he’d had no reason to since there was no relationship to speak of between them.
“You didn’t know, did you?” Gisele quizzed, biting into her codfish cake. “I can tell by your expression. I can’t get enough of this island food. Anyway, I don’t think the marriage lasted very long. She got pregnant or said she did. Rowan did the right thing and married her. A few months later she supposedly miscarried and they quickly divorced. She got a very generous settlement out of it, considering it wasn’t a very long marriage. It wasn’t a healthy relationship.”
What exactly did unhealthy mean? It was none of her business whom Rowan married or had become involved with. It did make Emilie wonder, though, if he was one of those white men who preferred to date black women because he was insecure and it made him feel superior. A coworker had once told her that he found minority women less demanding, and willing to put up with more crap than their white counterparts. Thus no more white women for him.
Emilie was already counting the minutes until the dinner party was over. No way was she going through the weekend without getting some answers. Rowan had omitted mentioning a vital part of his history and now she was being put in an uncomfortable position.
The minute they were alone she’d address this issue and see what kind of response she got.
Chapter 12
“You didn’t seem yourself tonight,” Rowan said after they were dropped off in front of the inn by Lanterman’s driver.
“Was it that noticeable?”
“Yes. What’s going on?”
It was late. They were tired. Now was probably not a good time to broach the subject. On the other hand, no time would ever be a good time. It wasn’t as if they were vacationing here for a week.
Emilie started up the steps leading to the inn. “How come you never once mentioned you were married?” she asked.
“Would it have made a difference?”
Biting back the sharp retort on the tip of her tongue she took a calming breath. How could Rowan sound so cavalier? Pausing on the top step, she looked him directly in the eye.
“You had no problem telling me about your humble upbringings and how cool you were with dating black women, but you omitted mentioning marrying one. How come?”
“Because it’s no one’s business. My marriage is hardly relevant to us.”
“Us? There is no us, and there will never be an us if you have secrets you refuse to discuss.”
“I don’t have anything to hide and I resent you saying that I do. I just prefer not to talk about a relationship that was brief at best. Why are you angry? You have no reason to be.”
“I’m not angry, more like perplexed. We talked about a lot of things but never once about your having a wife.”
“An ex-wife. It didn’t come up. It’s not relevant.”
“Your ex-wife is from the Bahamas.”
They were on the front porch now and there was no one else around.
“What does it matter whether she came from Timbuktu?” Rowan asked, his voice dangerously low.
Good point. What Emilie didn’t say was that she’d wondered if he’d deliberately sought a woman in need of a green card, and one that would be totally dependant on him. What else hadn’t he told her?
“If you’re through grilling me, I’m going to bed,” Rowan said. “It’s been a long day and I need to be up early.”
Once he decided the conversation was over, she was supposed to slink off, tail between her legs, meekly heading for bed.
“I’m wide-awake,” Emilie lied, although her whole body drooped. She was bound and determined to find out why the topic of his ex-wife was off-limits.
“I’m not. I’m going fishing with Brian early tomorrow. We’ll talk more after I get back.”
Rowan headed inside leaving her to follow. On the second floor he insisted on walking her to her room.
“It’s really not necessary,” Emilie said, still miffed, pointing to his closed door only two rooms away. “You can see me safely into my room from right over there.”
“I’ve been taught to walk a woman home,” Rowan said firmly, “and I will.”
There was no point in arguing with him. By now she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She used the old-fashioned key to open her door.
“Okay, you’ve done your duty. Good night, then.”
Rowan’s hand squeezed her shoulder as he turned her around to face him.
“It’s good night for now.”
Then he was kissing her with an intensity that forced a response. Emilie’s hands splayed against his wide chest and her eyes squeezed shut. As usual she was responding, whirling off into orbit somewhere. This needed to stop. She pushed against him.
“You’d better go.”
“Only if you insist.” He turned away reluctantly.
Emilie watched him walk to his room. He turned, sending her a wink over his shoulder. In case he got any ideas she shut her door quickly.
It had been a brutal day. Tomorrow after a good night’s sleep she would decide how best to pick up the conversation where they’d left off.
After a restless night, dreaming dreams she should not be having, Emilie was up early. She threw open the window and peered out. A beautiful aquamarine bay greeted her. Taking a sniff of the salt in the air, she watched the seagulls swoop down for their breakfast.
Her stomach gurgled, a reminder that she was hungry. Normally she was not one to have a large meal in the morning, just a quick bite of a muffin and her usual two cups of coffee.
Emilie took a long, cool shower, threw on shorts and a tank top then scooped her hair into a ponytail. No need to worry about makeup. After breakfast she planned on walking around the island and getting some sun. She would not have to worry about running into Rowan. If he’d gone fishing he would be long gone.
A delicious buffet was set out on the porch of the charming Victorian house that had been turned into an inn. Emilie wolfed down several slices of papaya, drank her two cups of coffee and helped herself to several banana fritters. She bit into a yummy omelet but skipped the toast. Joining her for breakfast was an older man with his nose buried in the newspaper and a preoccupied family dressed for the beach. This suited her perfectly. She was in no mood for small talk or polite conversation.
The pamphlet in her room mentioned it was a thirty-minute walk to the town’s center. A brisk walk before the sun was fully up might be just what the doctor ordered; at the very least it would help clear her head.
Taking her camera with her, Emilie headed for Bay Street, stopping occasionally to admire the fixed-up historic homes and picturesque gingerbread cottages. As the street became a dead end, the bay provided a beautiful backdrop, and a set of ancient cannons got her attention. When a photo opportunity presented itself, Emilie eagerly turned over her camera to a local. She posed while the youth snapped several pictures.
Emilie followed the street to the end, stopping to admire the two magnificent trees at the front. The front doors were thrown open as few places on the island were actually air-conditioned. Emilie was immediately drawn to the black-and-white photos under glass depicting the island’s history.
With some amusement, she read the huge sign cautioning her to be quiet or there would be consequences for those who spoke. With the exception of the ancient librarian, she and a sleepy-eyed old man were the only ones there. There wasn’t even the distraction of clicking keyboards on a computer. It was an old library in every sense of the word. Emilie spent the next half an hour wandering around, leafing through the old books on the shelves and looking at pictures of the way island life used to be.
On her way out, the librarian suggested she might enjoy a visit to Uncle Ralph’s Aura Corner.
“Who’s Ralph and where is his corner located?” Emilie asked.
The old lady tittered and handed her a map. She pointed out the route with a gnarled finger.
“Everyone knows Uncle Ralph. Go down Dunmore Street a bit. He’s a local house painter and a very colorful man. The tourists enjoy him.”
Ralph Sawyer turned out to be just as the old lady described him. Colorful. He was a lively, talkative and gracious host. His aura corner was actually a collection of hand-painted signs and sayings, which had grown as more and more tourists came by to see him. In exchange for a couple of dollars, which Ralph said he would give to the medical clinic, Emilie was allowed to take pictures of the painter and his growing collection.
She continued on her way, stopping to snap pictures of the churches and an ancient graveyard she came across. At one point Emilie paused to read the plaque posted on the column of a minuscule park commemorating the island’s first doctor. Then, hot and very thirsty, she decided to pack it in and find a place to have a cool drink.
Sex on Flamingo Beach Page 11
