not saying that. I just think you and I are from different walks of life and that could create problems.”
“How so?”
He was asking her to spell it out.
“My family is African-American and very proud of their heritage. I’d be disappointing them if I got involved with you.”
“What you’re saying is that I’d not be their choice because I’m white. Babe, I’m not looking to get married. Race aside, would I be your choice?”
Emilie had to think about that.
“You’re hot,” she eventually said, “But what my family thinks counts a lot to me. It would be easier all around if my man came from a similar ethnic background. And frankly, I’d be more comfortable. Shared experiences make for better long-term partners,” she said.
Rowan’s easy laughter rang out. “You’re blowing me off, treating me like some stodgy white guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Babe, I grew up in a tough Brooklyn neighborhood, the only white kid for miles around. I had to fight for respect at an early age. I bet you anything I know more about your culture than you do.”
Emilie was completely taken aback. She hadn’t known that about Rowan. She’d thought of him as solidly upper middle-class, and looking to experiment with someone who was different. A name like Rowan James was as Waspy as they came. Now she’d just discovered there was a lot more to the man than the sexy exterior package.
When their meal arrived the conversation veered off in an entirely different direction. Rowan told her how he’d first gotten into land developing and she shared with him her struggle to fit in with corporate America.
“Do you think some of your issues might have to do with people not being sure who you are?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re so light skinned. I’m sure you are frequently mistaken for white,” he said.
“I’m used to that, but I’ve made no secret of being African-American. I’ve never tried to pass.”
Rowan cleared his throat, his glance now off in another direction. “Look who just walked in.”
Emilie spotted the man in the entranceway waiting for a table. He had a commanding presence. He was olive skinned with high cheekbones, silver-tipped hair and a regal bearing. The man accompanying him she recognized as a reporter from the Southern Tribune.
“Who is the darker man?” Emilie asked.
“That’s Keith Lightfoot. I’ll introduce you.”
He was already up and heading over to where Keith and the reporter had just been seated. Curiosity prompted Emilie to follow. She might as well see what she was up against.
The men were shaking hands by the time she got to their table.
“Keith, this is Emilie Woodward, my date,” Rowan said, introducing her.
Keith towered above her when he stood. He was long and lean with piercing gold eyes that didn’t appear to miss much. Those eyes were carefully appraising her.
“A pleasure, Ms. Woodward.”
“Emilie.”
“Emilie is the director of leisure sales at the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort.”
“You don’t say.”
Keith Lightfoot had a clipped way of speaking and an accent she couldn’t quite place. His clasp was firm and his unyielding gaze disconcerting.
“Rowan tells me you’re building a resort that will put mine to shame,” Emily said when the silence stretched out.
“Only time will tell.”
The reporter cleared his throat as if to remind them that he was still there. He was observing the exchange intently and taking mental notes.
This might be her only opportunity. She couldn’t wait for Ian Pendergrass to pave the way. “You’ll need someplace for the builders you’re bringing in to stay. I hope you’ll consider the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort,” Emilie said, handing him her card.
Remaining noncommittal, Keith glanced at the business card before pocketing it. Rowan’s hand remained on the small of her back as he steered her back the way they’d come.
“Dessert?” he asked when they were seated again.
“None for me. My hips can’t afford it.”
“Babe, you don’t have an ounce of excess flesh on you. All that roller-skating’s done you good.”
Emilie smiled at him and blew a lock of red hair out of her eyes. “You must be spying on me. How else would you know I roller-skate?”
Rowan winked at her. “You’d be blown away at just how much I know about you.” He signaled the waiter for the bill.
Minutes later they were seated in Rowan’s souped-up Ford truck that had all the bells and whistles, zooming down Ocean Avenue as if there weren’t speed traps.
“What’s the rush? Where are we heading?” Emilie asked after a while. She’d assumed Rowan was taking her home but they’d already passed her street.
“To my place for a nightcap.”
“Uh…”
“You don’t trust me?”
“No, I don’t.’
He wiggled his eyebrows. “Nothing’s going to happen unless you want it to, babe.”
“Hmm.”
Emilie had never been to his house and was curious to see how he lived. She’d once been told you learned a lot about people from their living habits.
They sailed by a guardhouse entering a community of newly built town houses. One looked pretty much like the other except some had prettier landscaping.
“This is one of my developments,” Rowan proudly explained. “We’re just about sold out except for the town house I live in.”
“Is it for sale, as well?”
“I’m still up in the air. I’m uncertain whether I’ll be making Flamingo Beach home.”
“You don’t like it here?”
Rowan pulled into the carport and parked before answering. “Home for me is the road. I’m always looking for new terrain to conquer. That’s why Derek and I are such a good team. He’ll take care of business while I scope out new opportunities.”
Rowan James was definitely not the man for her.
She’d had enough of the nomad’s life. She was sick of living out of boxes and couldn’t wait to get settled someplace.
Rowan helped her out of the truck and hand in hand they walked to the front door. They entered a great room with huge fans whirling. A winding stair-case led up to a loft. The furnishings were minimal and the walls could use a picture or two.
“What would you like to drink?” Rowan asked the moment she was seated.
“Water, please.”
“You really must not trust me,” he said, feigning injury.
“If I thought you knew how to make a cosmopolitan that’s what I’d have.”
Chuckling, he left her and entered his state-of-the-art kitchen. Rowan returned a short while later, a beer in one hand and a martini glass in the other.
“Your cosmopolitan, madam,” he said, handing Emilie her drink before he turned on the stereo. He plopped down, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Here’s to you, babe.”
Emilie sipped her cosmopolitan and eyed him over the rim. It was one