Sex on Flamingo Beach (12 page)

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 cocktails.”

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.

“Y
ou 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.

“Have you seen our library?” he asked. “That's where most of the tourists head.” He pointed to a sign that read South Street.

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.

Emilie wandered into a tiny shop with umbrellas and tables on the sidewalk. For the next twenty minutes she sat at a table taking in the island sights and watching the people on bicycles or taking a leisurely walk. Right before lunchtime as many shops were closing, she headed back to the Hibiscus Inn.

Rowan was waiting for her on the inn's porch.

“Looks like you got a nice tan,” he called, putting the glass he was holding down on the table.

“I feel like I did.” She touched the tip of her nose. “Looks like you got sun, too. How did the fishing go?” Rowan was a golden brown all over and his hair had platinum highlights.

“We threw back mostly everything we caught. It was a good business meeting though. Brian and I are usually in sync.”

“Awesome.”

Rowan sat back down, patting the spot on the rattan settee next to him. “Take a load off.” He raised a finger, getting the server's attention. “Can you please bring the lady a drink, same as I'm having.”

“What is it?”

“Ginger beer. Made with fresh ginger. It's both thirst quenching and excellent for the digestion.”

Another hour passed with them chatting about one thing or another. They were getting along so well that, coward that she was, Emilie was reluctant to bring up last evening's conversation. At least for now.

“I don't know about you,” Rowan said, standing again and holding out his hand. “I've had way too much sun for one day. I'm going to get a couple of hours of shut-eye. Want to join me?” A sultry wink followed the invitation. “Okay, got it,” he said when she didn't bite. “We'll meet up in a couple of hours and go listen to steel pan music. We'll sample some island beverages and dance.”

“Maybe I'll get some ideas on how to improve the jam,” Emilie joked. “And by the way, you'll be napping alone.” She tapped his arm playfully.

“You're no fun.”

Two hours later, Emilie took her second shower of the day and changed into a cool ankle-length skirt and halter top. A wide-brimmed canvas hat helped keep her unruly hair manageable. Off she went to find Rowan.

He was not in front of the reception desk or out on the porch as she had expected. Fifteen minutes later and growing concerned as time went by, she approached the woman at the reception desk and asked her to call Rowan's room. Maybe he was turning the tables on her. She was the one who was usually late.

“I can't, miss. The phones are down,” the woman said apologetically. “But I can send someone up to see if he's in.”

It would be quicker if she checked. The relaxed island lifestyle did not lend itself to speed and it would probably be another half an hour before someone got to it. Taking the steps two at a time, Emilie used the walk down the hallway to catch her breath. She stood in front of Rowan's door, took another deep breath and rapped.

No answer and not a sound coming from the interior, either. An unsettling feeling beginning to build in her stomach, Emilie knocked again. This time she thought she heard rustling.

“Rowan, it's Emilie,” she called.

The door pushed open; a bleary-eyed, bare-chested Rowan faced her.

“You changed your mind about joining me?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

It took her a second to figure out what he meant.

“Forget it. You're late. We were supposed to meet downstairs almost half an hour ago.”

Rowan's open palm thudded his forehead. “Oops. I must have overslept. Might as well come in, I'll only be a few minutes.”

“I'll wait downstairs.”

“If I make you that nervous, wait on the veranda.” He held the door open wider. “There's an awesome view of the bay and people can hear you scream if I get forward.”

He was cocky as ever, but so far he'd not crossed the line. She had to admire that about him. Even so, she still entered the room with some trepidation. Rowan's manly scent was everywhere. She tried not to stare at his half-naked body and the boxer shorts that hung low on his hips. But she did dart a glance at the sun-kissed hairs on his chest, the same golden blond as his head. Rowan's toned arm muscles and six-pack abs were the stuff that women dreamed about. Temptation was much too close. She headed for the veranda and safety. Rowan's taunting laughter drifted after her.

“Coward!”

He was dressed and freshly shaved within minutes. Looping an arm around her shoulders, he joined her looking out on the bay.

“What a view, huh?”

“It's beautiful and still unspoiled. According to everything I've read, the island has changed some, but you don't feel as if it's a little America.”

“That's because the locals have embraced change while at the same time preserving their customs. They know that to keep the tourists coming they have to join the twenty-first century. They've made improvements and now electricity doesn't come and go at the blink of an eye. Video stores and Internet cafés aren't that unusual.”

“Too bad Flamingo Beach isn't so forward thinking.”

“Everything considered, it's not that closed-minded a place,” Rowan remarked. “People live side by side peaceably. There's even a fairly large gay population. The kinds of people drawn to the town are captivated by its charm, and they're bound and determined to preserve its history. Look at how they're restoring the old houses rather than tearing them down. They're making changes for the good and where necessary.”