The Way to a Billionaire's Heart: Part Two: BWWM Interracial Romance (3 page)

Maybe it was just the rum talking, or the constant Bob Marley, but I thought, “Everything’s gonna be alright.”

When the band took a break, we sat down at a table.

“So, how long have you been here?” asked Dylan.

“Two days,” I said. My ears felt like there was cotton in them, but it was certainly easier to hear than when the band was playing. “You?”

“I live here.” He smiled.

“Wow, that must be nice.”

“Oh, it is. I’m a chef, so Sunday and Monday are my only free nights. Lucky I caught you.”

Something in his tone or his eyes suggested that maybe he meant that
I
was the lucky one. But maybe I was being too quick to judge. And really, who cares? It’s vacation!

“Hey, I’m a chef, too! But back in Washington, D.C.”

“How’s the kitchen going to get on without you?” he asked with that really, really cute smile.

“Well, I’m a personal chef, so it’s a bunch of kitchens that will have to get on without me. For my regular clients, I cooked extra last week, they’ll just have frozen dinners. Really good ones.”

“Cooking for the rich and famous, huh? How’s that work out? A lot of assholes?”

I stirred my drink and took a sip. “Not like in the kitchens. I went into business for myself so that I didn’t have to take orders from a bunch of arrogant jerks.”

“But you’re still working for others, the clients.” Ah, he was a devil’s advocate sort, those people that just like to argue for sport. They’re a dime a dozen in D.C. I know how to deal with those.

“Huh. Fair point.” BAM. Argument over.

But he wasn’t done. “I used to work in Bonaire, but it had more rich tourists. These guys come in to dive and just want everything their way. I couldn’t take that shit. I punched one old dude right in the nose when he came into my kitchen to complain about butter on the fish.” He’d gotten very excited as he told this, but then smiled sheepishly. “So, uh, I left the island and came here. More families, fewer millionaires.”

I wasn’t in the mood to discuss class warfare. Frankly it was hitting too close to where my thoughts wanted to go, anyway. “So,” I asked, “what do you like to cook?”

His face lit up, the way we do when we talk about food. “Fish. I have a couple of fisherman who’ll sell directly to me. Vegetables are hard here, desert-y climate, you know, not much grows but coconuts and aloe.”

“Yeah, I was expecting fresh mangoes at every meal and being able to just pluck bananas from the trees…” I trailed off. Dylan was running his fingers up my arm.

“No, go on,” he murmured. But I’d lost my train of thought. It was time for Andrea to shut her mouth and let Drea take over.

“Do you want to dance some more?” I asked. The band was still on break, but there was music playing.

“Yeah. It’s hot in here, though, let’s go out on the beach.”

“Hang on, let me tell my friend where I’m going.”

I found Kiera snuggled in a corner with that lanky guy she’d been dancing with. When I got closer, I could hear that he was speaking Papiamento, the local patois. I motioned for her to come away.

“Can you understand a word he’s saying?” I asked when she wove over to me.

“No, isn’t it perfect? He speaks English, Dutch, and French, too, but I’m insisting on Papiamento. It sounds so nice and I don’t have to care what he’s saying.”

I just shook my head. “Girl, I don’t even know what to say. I’m going outside with Dylan, just wanted to let you know.”

She waggled her eyebrows at me. “You go git some, Dre. Have fun. Don’t worry about me, I’ll see you in the morning.” She threaded back through the crowd to her man, bumping her hips like a stripper as she went.

Okay, let’s do this
. I took a deep breath and headed outside. Dylan was leaning against a palm tree, smoking. Yuck. He tossed the butt into the sand when he saw me coming. I’ll just let Drea handle this.

“Hey,” I said, digging in my purse, “You’re going to need a mint before you kiss me.” I opened my Altoid tin at him. “Take two.”

“Oh,” he said with that devilish grin, “I have to kiss you?”

"You don’t
have
to, but you’re going to
want
to and I’m not going to let you if you taste like an ashtray. You’re killing your tastebuds, you know."

“I only smoke when I drink.”

"I’ve worked in enough kitchens to know what
that
means. Come on, let’s dance."
No Woman, No Cry
was on again–first the band had played it, now it was on a recording. Marley was doing it better, for sure.

Dylan put his hands on my hips and swayed with the rhythm I set. I tried to feel electricity in his touch, but it just wasn’t there. I leaned into him, felt the warmth of his chest on my mostly exposed breasts. My body was responding–my nipples contracted, I felt the stir of interest between my legs–but my mind wasn’t in it. I tried to let Drea take over my brain, too.

I looked up into Dylan’s grey eyes and he leaned in to kiss me. His minty, cigarettey, rummy taste was all wrong. It was not the kiss I wanted. I pulled back.

“Sorry,” he said, “still taste the cigarette?”

“No, it’s not that. I just…I think I should go back to my room.”

He pulled back and held me at arm’s’ length. “You okay? Was it something I did?”

“No, no, you’re great. I’m just…I feel kind of sick, I think. I should go.”

“Meet me tomorrow night for dinner? Kitchen is closed Mondays.”

Maybe I’d get my head together by then. He seemed nice. Certainly nice enough for an island fling. Hell, if Stella could get her groove back, so could I. “Sure. Where should we meet?”

“I’ll pick you up outside your hotel. How’s that?”

I gave him the name and we decided to meet at 8. I kissed his cheek and started walking back toward the hotel, grateful that he didn’t try to come with me. Back at Lambada Joe’s I could hear Marley singing “I don’t want to wait in vain for your love…” Yeah. The breeze coming off the water helped blow away some of the cobwebs in my head. I needed sleep. That was all. I was tired and not thinking clearly.

Tomorrow, I’d wake up sober and I’d swim in the Caribbean Sea and I’d spend the whole day not thinking about Walker Alexander and then I’d go to dinner with a good looking chef and go home with him afterwards. And I wouldn’t think of Walker Alexander at all. Not even once.

Walker

Goddamned job and responsibilities. I had all these meetings lined up this week, hoping I’d have Andrea on board by now. I’m an optimist by nature. And I’m used to getting my way. But right now, without Andrea, I don’t feel the fire for these meetings. I just want to go tell Andrea the truth, face to face.

Only, I have no idea where she is.

Okay, I know Aruba, but that doesn’t narrow it down all that much. It’s an island with a lot of hotels, many of them very big. Luckily, money can make things happen.

“Steph,” I said to my assistant, “I need you to do whatever is necessary to find a girl for me.”

“Have you tried Tinder, Mr. Alexander?”

“You’re hilarious. No, a specific girl. Remember the chef I was telling you about, Andrea Wilson, the one I want to bring on board for the new snack line? She’s somewhere in Aruba, with a friend named Kiera. But that’s all I know. I need to find her, quickly.”

Steph was tapping it into her iPad. I had no doubt she’d find Andrea by the end of the day. I hoped it would be sooner.

Meanwhile, I needed to postpone meetings. I called in Zach, my appointment secretary.

“Yes sir?” Zach was young, just out of college, but he was almost disconcertingly eager to serve.

“Zach, next week is full of meetings I can’t actually have. At least not at the beginning of the week. I’m going to need you to reschedule anything that happens before Wednesday, including tonight’s dinner meeting with the ad guys.” Better to give myself a buffer. I couldn’t stand the thought that Andrea might not be willing to believe me, might not be willing to help with this line. But it was clear I shouldn’t just assume anymore.

“Will do, sir. Shall I take that out?” He pointed at the saute pan sitting on my desk.

“No, I’ll take it home with me this evening. Thank you, Zach.”

He left the room briskly and would, no doubt, have my schedule rearranged before day’s end. I can afford the best, so there’s no reason to settle.

Having dispatched my minions to solve my obvious problems, I was left with the more complicated one. How to win Andrea back.

I tried to distract myself with plans for the new line, but of course that just made me wish I had her input. In the end, rather than get in the way of people trying to do their jobs, I took the saute pan and went back to my condo.

Losing track of her on a Friday was making it especially hard to track Andrea down. I texted Steph every couple of hours, no matter how she assured me she’d let me know as soon as she found something. Hotels were extra busy and not returning her calls.

Generous to my core, at ten p.m., I told Steph she could take a break until Saturday. As soon as I rose, I started pestering her again. I’m sure she was ready to quit by noon, but I
am
awfully charming.

I’d just headed out for a jog when Zach called me.

"Mr. Alexander, I’m not having any luck moving your Monday dinner with Kerrington & Klaus. Well, I can
move
it, but the day is the same."

“What are you talking about Zach?”

“I told them that you needed to be in Aruba on Monday and they said that was terrific because Mr. Klaus will be there for a poker tournament. They suggest that you join him there.”

I sighed. I don’t have to scrape and bow to a lot of people, but I needed Kerrington & Klaus on board. “Fine, set it up. Send me the deets.”

Before I even got back from my run, I had the email telling me which casino in Oranjestad, 6:30 pm. He had contacted the pilot of the company plane, I was set to fly out from Reagan National at noon. Efficient.

It was Sunday evening before I had an answer from Steph.

“I found them! Holy crap, you’d think Aruba was running the Witness Protection Program.”

“I guess that’s good, in general, if not for me. Where are they?”

“They’re booked into a suite at the Palm Court. Palm Beach area. Do you know it?”

“Yeah, a good half hour from the city, more from the airport.” I sighed.

“Here’s the thing,” said Steph. “In the end, I just hired a PI, I figured it was more efficient than calling every hotel on the island three times a day.”

“Good thinking.”

“I’ve got him keeping tabs on them, so you can find her when you get there. Can I give him your number or would you rather he contact me and I’ll contact you?”

“No, no, just give it to him. Thanks, Steph, you’re the best. I’m not going to go down until tomorrow afternoon. Zach booked the plane for noon. Say, I’m meeting Klaus tomorrow at a poker tournament at the the Dolphin Casino. Can you find out about it and let me know what to expect?”

By the time I turned in that night, I knew I needed to wear a tux, it was a high-stakes game financially, but not an especially important one to serious players. I had the car lined up to take me from the airport to the casino and then on to wherever Andrea was when I got free. It’s good to have an assistant. I recommend it.

Just as I was about to leave on Monday, I grabbed the pan. Who knows, maybe it’ll be like Cinderella’s shoe. I imagined myself holding it out to her, saying “You forgot this.” Romantic comedies will mess you up.

What I’d forgotten, when I grabbed it in a romantic gesture, was that it meant I’d be at a high-stakes poker tournament in a tux, holding a shiny pan. As it turns out, though, doing weird shit at a poker match can psych out your opponents and I walked away with more cash than was reasonable, considering what a lousy player I usually am.

Mr. Klaus was a gracious loser, and impressed with my chutzpah. Our meeting went well, he was willing to support our new efforts to his stakeholders. And best of all, the meeting was
short
. By eight o’clock, I was texting with the PI, getting a location to catch Andrea.

She’s having dinner at the Palm Pier. With a man, local chef, known douchebag. Their res is for 8:30.
His text made me feel a bit sick in the pit of my stomach. Sure, she’d left D.C. with the impression that I was getting married, it’s to be expected that she’d move on. I’d just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. But maybe they were talking shop. Chef stuff.

The Palm Pier was on the other side of Oranjestad. Even an aggressive driver would take nearly an hour to get there in the traffic the tournament had generated. I wanted to interrupt this date before it started, if I could.

I went out to where my driver was waiting. “I need to get to The Palm Pier in thirty minutes. Can you do it?”

He looked at his phone for the time and shook his head. “Sorry boss, even if I lay on my horn it’ll take at least 45. Only way around this mess is helicopter or boat.”

Boat. Of course.
“Do you know anyone on this side of the city with a boat I can use?”

“No sir, I can make some calls, though.”

“No time. Thanks. You can go.” I sprinted to the back of the casino where yachts were moored, awaiting their owners. All too big, too unwieldy to pull up to the pier. I jogged down the wooden path along the shore until I came to a young guy polishing his fishing boat. It wasn’t fancy, under 20 feet, just a couple of seats and a motor. But it would do.

“Say, what did you pay for this boat?”

The guy looked me over, standing there in a tuxedo, holding a cooking pan. Clearly rich, probably crazy. “Ten thousand.”

A lie. If he’d paid more than five, he’d been ripped off. But what did I care. “I’ll give you twenty, cash, right now.”

He grinned. “Sold. You know how to drive it?”

“Of course.” I unrolled the cash from the poker game. His eyes were enormous as I handed it over. “Thanks. You drive a hard bargain.”

I took the key, climbed aboard, and started the motor. Once well off shore, I gunned it. Time to go get my girl.

Andrea