Читать книгу Sex On Flamingo Beach - Marcia King-Gamble - Страница 9

A million thoughts flittered through her head as Emilie paced the lobby of 411 Flamingo Place. On one hand she was looking forward to seeing Rowan again, and on the other she had feelings of trepidation. He’d called last evening to remind her about the jam session. It was a popular event and parking was usually a nightmare, so they’d agreed to leave the cars behind and walk from her place to the beach.

The town was still talking about the drug bust, and it had made all of the local papers, preempting every story on the television channels. D’dawg, the popular radio personality, and his audience, practically all of Flamingo Beach, were having a field day. Nothing this big had ever happened in town. It was being blamed on the influx of new people moving in. But amazingly, bookings at the spa and resort for the summer months were now at a record high.

“This is not the way I’d hoped to get business,” Emilie’s boss, Tom Burke, groused when he saw the increase in bookings before quickly adding, “But I guess I’ll take it.”

It wasn’t the kind of press Emilie wanted for the hotel, either, but a jump in room occupancy meant she was closer to her goal.

Squealing tires now got Emilie’s attention. Rowan’s big black truck pulled into a visitor’s spot. Leaping out, he took long strides toward the building. His shorts rode low on his hips and stopped slightly below the knee, exposing bronze runner’s legs, the hairs almost as light as on his head. A short-sleeve linen shirt brought out the blue in his eyes. The lock of hair that peeked from under his baseball cap was even more sun streaked than she remembered.

“Hey, babe,” Rowan greeted her, dipping his head to steal a kiss. “Mmm, you look good enough to eat. Taste so, too.”

“Do I, now?”

“You know you do,” he said.

Emilie held up both arms and pirouetted. She loved to tease him. The eightysomething-degree weather called for skimpy attire, and her walking shorts and halter top were a perfect choice for a warm day. Because of the heat she’d piled her hair high, securing her curls with rhinestone and emerald clips, the same color as her earrings.

Was she leading Rowan on by flirting with him? If he thought the evening was going to end in the same manner it had a week or so ago, he was in for a rude awakening. She’d vowed it would not happen again. Good as the sex had been, this relationship couldn’t go anywhere.

“What’s in the bag?” Emilie asked, noticing for the first time the paper bag Rowan carried.

“A little something to cool us down.” He took her hand and walked with her through the condo’s grounds and toward the boardwalk. “How are things at the hotel? Is it back to business as usual?”

“Sort of.”

Emile told him all about how they’d increased security and that guards were now stationed in the paid parking lot. If you didn’t have identification you weren’t allowed on the premises.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing,” Rowan said. “Other hotels have gone that route. It costs plenty to provide additional security so it makes sense to charge guests for parking.”

“But that’s not what the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort is about. Parking’s always been rolled into the room price so guests feel as if they’re getting something for free. Our rooms aren’t exactly cheap.”

“How about we just concentrate on having a good time,” Rowan proposed, holding open the gate that led to the boardwalk and waiting for her to go through.

She’d put the shop talk on hold for now, but later she would ask if there was an update on the plans for the Seminole casino. According to the resort’s arrangement, the first set of workers would be arriving next week. That could mean only one thing: construction would start shortly after.

From the sounds coming from the beach the musicians were already tuning up. What had started off as an informal gathering with local musicians gathering to play had taken on a life of its own. People now came in from neighboring towns, and even as far away as South Florida. The jam had grown and grown, spilling onto the beach, showcasing the talented and untalented. Since most stores closed early on Saturdays, the session became a nice way to start off the weekend. What’s more it was free.

People whizzed by on bikes or skates. The little souvenir shops that had recently received face-lifts were crowded with browsers.

“Let’s find somewhere away from the madness,” Rowan proposed.

“Yes, let’s.”

They continued down the beach. Emilie was conscious of the stares and whispers. She was certain there was speculation that they were in a steamy relationship. And while there weren’t overt comments, she sensed the locals disapproved of interracial dating.

She’d never made a secret of being black. She strongly suspected that was the reason she’d been transferred to Flamingo Beach in the first place. Her employer’s decision probably had a lot to do with demographics.

“Oh, no,” Emilie muttered.

“Is there a problem?”

“A big one.” She pointed a discreet thumb in the direction of Camille Lewis. She was the last person Emilie wanted to run into.

Unfortunately, the busybody had spotted them.

A few feet away, Camille said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Well, just look at Ms. Thing. African-American males aren’t good enough for her. Got herself a white developer with money instead. Is he better in bed than our men?”

“It’s none of your business, Camille,” Emilie said. Her grip on Rowan’s hand tightened.

Rowan smiled blandly at Camille. “Well now, Camille, since from the looks of things you’re married, you’ll never know, will you?” Waving a hand, he continued on his way.

Emilie burst out laughing. “Thanks for putting that witch in her place.”

“Does that happen often?” Rowan asked when she’d finally stopped laughing.

“You mean people taking potshots at me?”

“Dissing you. Making inappropriate comments.”

“All my life. Interestingly enough no one has a problem with me dating a white guy when they think I’m white. But once they find out I’m African-American you’d think I’d committed some horrible crime.”

“They’re just ignorant people,” he said.

“Doesn’t it bother you when someone stares at you when you’re walking down the street with me?” Emilie asked.

“No. I figure they’re looking because we make such an attractive couple. Dating black women is not new for me.”

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re an unusual man.”

“Not all that unusual. I grew up in an urban neighborhood. Black women are all I know. They’re what I’m used to. No false airs. No pretensions. They’re really down-home and comfortable with themselves.”

“And your family didn’t have a problem with these relationships?”

“My parents were too busy putting food on the table for three children to care.”

Fascinated, Emilie flopped down at the end of the pier. She wanted to learn more about Rowan. He sat down next to her.

“You probably never had people spit at you and use the N word. I have,” she said. “It causes you to be really careful.”

“I’ve had far worse done to me, and sometimes just to gain respect I fought back with my fists. Flamingo Beach is relatively tolerant. I’ve yet to hear of crosses being burnt on anyone’s front lawn.”

What Rowan didn’t say was that he was once married to a black woman, short-lived as the marriage turned out to be. It had cost him plenty to get out of the relationship. But he’d done what he’d thought was the right thing at the time. And as soon as he’d discovered what his ex, Nija, was all about, he’d cut his losses and moved on.

“The residents are not as tolerant as you think. Look at the looks you and I got just walking here. When you’re in the hotel industry you could end up just about anywhere. It would be a heck of a lot easier if my man were black.”

Rowan said nothing for a while. He uncorked the wine he’d brought along and poured them both a glass.

“News flash. Most people don’t have a clue that you’re black, at least not at first sight. I think you’re the one with the chip on your shoulder. Nowadays people date whomever they please,” he said.

He was making a good argument for himself she supposed. And truthfully she was curious about a guy who by his own admission grew up the only white kid in a black neighborhood. She’d never quite met anyone as sure of himself as Rowan, or as comfortable in his own skin.

“You’re a strange man. You’re more comfortable with my people than your own.” Emilie looked at him curiously.

“Like I said before, your people are my people. They always have been. Let’s just listen to the music and shelve the topic of race for now.” Rowan looped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a kiss. “Let’s give them something more to talk about.”

He was so much cooler than she was. Emilie focused on the music and tried not to think about what people were saying. For the next couple of hours she listened to a number of musicians play their instruments. A few even attempted to sing. And as the sun sank low in the sky, and twilight made its appearance, she finally relaxed. She was actually liking having Rowan’s arm around her shoulders.

On their way back she spotted Chere Abrahams and her husband, Quen.

“Would you mind if we said hello for a moment?” Emilie asked, pointing to the couple.

Chere had never gotten back to her about the sale of the condo. Now was as good a time as any to find out whether she’d have to find another place to live.

As luck would have it, Camille Lewis got to Chere before Emilie could. There was a lot of eye rolling and huffing. The two weren’t exactly friends and Chere made it no secret she disliked Camille. It seemed doubly odd that the two were now engaged in conversation.

Having no desire to run into the woman again, Emilie deliberately slowed her steps. Camille, after tossing a disdainful look their way, took off.

“Hey, guys,” Emilie greeted. “Wasn’t that an awesome session? Wouldn’t it be great if we had more concerts?”

“I was just saying that to Chere.” Quen nudged his wife with his elbow. “Wasn’t I, sugar?”

“Yeah, yeah, you were. Sorry, that woman gets on my last nerve.” Chere aimed a poisonous glance at Camille’s departing back. “You’ll never guess what she just said to me.”

“Don’t repeat it and spread her cancer,” Quentin Abrahams warned, squeezing his wife’s hunched shoulders. “Camille’s bad news, sugar. Don’t pay her any mind.”

Rowan and Quen exchanged one of those bear hugs that men had perfected. It was the male version of the woman’s air kiss. Chere held her cheek out for the real thing.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm, if only you were single, girl,” Rowan said.

“Honey, if I were single you’d be dead of a heart attack.”

Rowan swept a handful of hair out of one eye and roared. “I’d be dying with a smile on my face.”

Chere forgot about Camille’s acid tongue and burst out laughing.

“Do I need to start looking for a place to live?” Emilie asked Chere.

“Not right away. Quen’s still thinking it over. He was hoping that you’d counter.” Chere elbowed her husband. “Say something.”

“Make me an offer and we’ll work something out. If I don’t have to pay a real estate agent a commission fee it just might work out.”

“Just you wait a minute,” Chere howled. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean I’m waiving my commission.”

Rowan got in on the action. “Emilie, you’re thinking of buying a house?”

“It’s Quen’s condo, and thinking is the operative word. This market’s gotten ridiculous,” Emilie said.

Falling into step, they began to walk down the boardwalk together.

“I have a town house I could let you use for free,” Rowan whispered in Emilie’s ear.