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Vaughn Ellicott, Jr. sliced through the crashing surf at San Diego’s Black Beach on his custom-made surfboard. Surfing was his own piece of heaven and gave Vaughn the freedom he desperately craved after the rigors of Navy life as a lieutenant. For a decade, he’d done as he was instructed because that was what his father, Commander Vaughn Ellicott, Sr., expected of him. But now, Vaughn did what he wanted to do and surfing was as natural to him as breathing, even though at six foot two, he towered over some of the other surfers. When he was in the water, he felt an inner peace with Mother Nature as he challenged himself on the waves. He saw the waves as opportunities to lose himself and find himself at the same time.
And he had found himself. Five years ago, he’d started a company, Elite. After he began designing his own wet suits, other surfers had begun showing interest in his work. Seeing a business opportunity, he’d formed Elite and sold his wet suits online. From there, sales had skyrocketed. His high-end scuba gear company now sold dive computers and any other gear a surfer needed, from surfboards and bags, to leashes and wax. The fact that his business interests mirrored his passion was perfect for Vaughn.
Even though it was nearly the weekend, it was long past time for him to depart the beach. Vaughn should have left thirty minutes ago. He was due to attend a meeting of Prescott George—the Millionaire Moguls club, as the press liked to dub them. The nickname had been given to them because their national organization was comprised mainly of millionaires. The club had been formed in the 1940s by Prescott Owens and George Rollins. Today, Prescott George’s numbers had grown into the thousands and there were chapters all over the world. Vaughn was proud to be a member and the treasurer of the San Diego chapter.
Emerging from the Pacific Ocean carrying his surfboard, Vaughn began peeling off his wet suit when a pair of feminine eyes caught his gaze. She was giving him the once-over. And he didn’t mind the attention; he was used to it. In social circles, he was a sought-after millionaire bachelor with an impressive seaside estate. And on the beach, he was looked up to because of his fearlessness and passion for the sport.
Vaughn had no trouble attracting women. Any kind of woman. So much so that he couldn’t get a moment’s peace. Women adored his physique which he spent a great deal of time honing, and his impressive assets, but Vaughn had yet to find one worth keeping around. They all seemed a little too eager to be with a Millionaire Mogul, and so he dealt with them with a long-handled spoon, engaging only when he wanted companionship or needed physical release.
Vaughn gave the beautiful stranger one final intense stare. Long silky dark hair. Expressive almond-shaped eyes. Tawny brown skin slightly kissed from the sun. Although she was wearing a sleeveless dress, it was a bit too formal and didn’t fit with the unusually warm spring afternoon. Her only admission that she knew she was at the beach was the fact that she’d kicked off her pumps and they lay partially submerged in the sand. Maybe that was why she stood out.
But there was something sad about her though. And as much as Vaughn would love to find out her story, he was late. He purposefully trudged through the sand toward the locker room so he could get changed into business attire. Today was important for the San Diego chapter. Today, the Moguls had visitors. Joshua DeLong and Daniel Cobb, co-presidents of the national chapter in Miami, were in town.
There were rumors that San Diego could be awarded Chapter of the Year. Vaughn certainly hoped that was the case; it would be a prestigious honor. The chapter had been successful in attracting younger members to the organization, but it hadn’t come without drama. Some of the older members of Prescott George were less enthused. They felt like they were being pushed out to make room for a younger, hipper generation, which simply wasn’t true. Vaughn believed in the Moguls motto: From generation to generation, lifting each other up. If they didn’t pull in the next generation, how could they possibly continue providing college scholarships to needy students and funding to inner-city organizations?
All of these thoughts coursed through Vaughn’s mind as he took a quick shower, changed into a designer black suit with pinstriped tie and headed for his Ferrari California T in the parking lot. He smiled when he saw the expensive sports vehicle with its turbocharged engine and drop top. For such a new company, Elite had done quite well in the marketplace and afforded Vaughn the luxury of a fancy car, private jet and a beachside mansion in La Jolla. Before turning on the engine, he glanced back at the beach, wondering why a woman as beautiful as that stranger looked so forlorn. He shrugged. Wasn’t his problem. He had bigger fish to fry. He turned the ignition, the Ferrari roared to life and Vaughn sped away.
* * *
The San Diego Prescott George chapter was located inside a historic brewery near the East Village. Vaughn parked outside the renovated, environmentally friendly building and strode inside. He walked through the offices, glancing around at the exposed brick, loft ceilings and state-of-the-art canopy lighting that