The Way to a Billionaire's Heart: Part Two: BWWM Interracial Romance Read online

  But it was. Blue-green water and I could see my feet, even in water to my shoulders. In Ocean City? You’re lucky to see your feet in water to your ankles. Also, on this side of the island, the waves were gentle, so for the past two mornings, we’d gone out with our inner tubes and just bobbed along, enjoying the swells when a boat’s wake rippled toward the beach. Yeah, the hotel had a pool, but I can get in a pool in Washington.

  “Hey,” Kiera called from a few feet away. I looked over to see her head draped back on the tube, face toward the sun. The first day, she’d worn a swim cap to protect her hair, but I convinced her a good rinse would be just as effective. I swim at the Y all the time and I haven’t gone bald yet. And if a cap looks dumb with my sporty cut bathing suit, it looked ridiculous with her string bikini. “Want to try snorkeling today?”

  "Sure, I’ve got no plans. Mrs. Alex–a client told me to try Baby Beach."

  Kiera lowered her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and looked at me over them. I’d been warned–no more talk about Walker Alexander. I was never going to get over him if I kept bringing him up. But while not speaking a name might work at keeping Voldemort or Beetlejuice away, it wasn’t doing much to keep those green gold eyes and boyish smile out of my mind.

  It was stupid. In spite of his apparently being a hotshot billionaire and local celebrity, I’d never even heard of Walker until last week. When he talked me into cooking for his mother every day, twice a day, I just figured he was some spoiled rich man, used to getting his way. I tried to shake him off by doubling my usual fee, but he hadn’t even tried to bargain. Now I knew it was just a pocket change to him, but at the time, I’d been impressed enough to make it work with my schedule. You want to build up a clientele of big spenders.

  But, of course, it hadn’t been that simple. Walker was gorgeous, sure, but that wasn’t it. There’d been something…electric between us. In spite of my fondness for romantic comedies, I don’t believe in love at first sight. But there was something.

  That’s what made this whole thing so awful, so hard to just forget. There had been some undeniable attraction between us. Even before he took my shirt off on the couch, before he rolled my nipples in his mouth…

  Shit. Sorry.

  I tried to convince myself that what I’d overheard–if I can use that word for Celia’s shouting into the phone–was a misunderstanding. But I couldn’t spin it no matter how I tried. She was clearly talking about Walker–making a booty call after he left me, and agreeing to marry her. The booty call I could maybe work my way past. Maybe not. But marriage is still kind of a big deal, you know? Makes me think that what I’d seen as so meaningful, so emotional, had just been a game to him.

  He’s a man used to getting what he wants and apparently he wanted the chef, if only for a little while. So first he used money, and then he used charm. But I’m not willing to be that girl.

  I’ll just forget about him. Him and his poison-cakes.

  No problem, right?

  As we walked back up the beach to our hotel, Kiera put her arm around my shoulders. “Dre, I brought you here to have fun. I wanted you with me because you make me laugh and because you deserve to just mess around for a while. We’re in the islands! We’re young and hot! Let’s act like it!”

  She steered me toward the poolside bar. “Two pina coladas, please, charge it to Room 1650.”

  “Is drinking and snorkeling really the best idea?”

  "It’s one drink and by the time we get there, even that will have worn off. They are not pouring with a heavy hand. Lighten up, Doc."

  I rolled my eyes and took a sip. Mmm…artificial flavors and cheap rum. “Delish! like frozen hair oil!”

  “Shut up and drink your medicine. This is a week free of Walker Alexander AND food snobbery. Let’s go. ”

  So I faked it. Kiera was paying my way, which was very generous. She made good money to only be three years out of law school, but money still mattered to her. The least I could do was be a good friend. And it’s not like it’s hard to be happy in Aruba–sun warm but not too hot, breezy but not windy, and a whole island dedicated to keeping tourists coming back. All I had to do was pretend like the emptiness I felt was just hunger and keep filling it with food and frozen drinks.

  When we got back from snorkeling late that afternoon, I was nearly desperate for a nap, but Kiera was in go-go-go mode.

  “You can sleep in Washington. Tonight, we are going to Lambada Joe’s.”

  “Sounds classy, what is it?”

  “Just what it sounds like, a touristy dance club full of strong drinks and loud reggae. With luck, it will also be full of hot men. It’s time to get you liquored up and laid.”

  “Maybe I can just be your designated driver?”

  “Walking distance from the hotel. Nice try, Doc. Look, meaningless sex with a man you’ll never see again will do you a world of good. Would I prescribe a treatment I wouldn’t take myself?”

  I laughed. “Okay, okay, let’s do it.”

  “Good girl. Here, wear this.” Kiera fished a dress out of the closet, a white sheath that looked way too small.

  “Girl, that will fit you, but not me. I’m flattered, but no.”

  "It has spandex, it stretches, you will look fine in this."

  "Can’t I wear something that suggests a man might have to at least try?"

  "Andrea," she pronounced it like my mom, onDRAYuh, but shoved the dress back into the stuffed closet and pulled out another. It was a jersey knit maxi–certain to also hug my curves, but at least bigger than a cocktail napkin.

  “Fine,” I said taking it, “but I’m not wearing heels.”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Of course not, Dre, this isn’t Miami.”

  When I put on the dress, the mirror reflected a lot more curve than I was quite ready to display. The chevron stripes seemed to be saying “Here are her big ol’ titties! Here is her waist! Here’s dat ass!” I’m generally a Netflix-on-the-couch partier, but when I do go out, I tend toward more…coverage. The neckline on the dress was deep and wide and had the urge to pull it together in front. But, I had to admit, I did look good.

  “Ooo, girl!” exclaimed Kiera when I came out of my room into our sitting area. “I just knew there was a sexy thing in there! Come here and let me braid your hair, you aren’t going to waste this look on an old ponytail.”

  I sat on the floor while Kiera pulled my hair into braids that wrapped around my head. It’s funny how something like that can make you feel all peaceful. By the time she was done, my scalp was tender (it had been a long time since my own Mama fought my hair into braids for school), but I felt calm and ready to face the evening.

  Bring it on.

  As we walked up the beach, I could hear the music thudding out of Lambada Joe’s. There were people all around outside, drinking and talking in the light of the tiki torches. My calm started to recede, but I decided I could just pretend to be the sort of girl that goes to nightclubs. Good old Andrea could just rest comfortably. I’d send Drea into the noisy crowd.

  Kiera took my hand as we wove through the room to get to the bar. While she ordered, I looked around. It was packed with people, mostly around our age. A lot of blonde girls in bikini tops and sarongs. I thought of Celia in her sports bra and my stomach tightened up. No, Drea is not going to be thinking of some rich boy. Drea is here to find a new man.

  Kiera handed me a drink. “Mojito!” she shouted over the music. “Drink up!”

  I downed it in just a few drinks. It was strong, but I was a woman on a mission. It was just going to take more than one rum drink to get me ready.

  I was on my third when a tall muscular man came up to me. I assumed he was coming up to Kiera–all the others had been–but when I glanced her way, I saw that she was gone. Off on the dance floor.

  “Hey there, beautiful, why are you all alone?” He had a deep, rumbly voice that carried well, he didn’t need to shout.

  “My friend is out there, dancing,” I said, p
ointing toward Kiera, currently grinding against her partner.

  “Are you here to dance, too? C’mon,” he said, without waiting for a reply, taking my drink and setting it aside.

  I let him take my hand and lead me onto the floor. He was good looking, like the evil preppy from a 1980s movie–sandy hair cut so that a sun-bleached lock kept falling over grey eye. When he smiled, his teeth were perfect and white. And he was built like a football player. I’m not going to lie, he looked good. His Hawaiian print shirt was open in front, revealing a smooth chest with perfect definition, the kind you only get if you really work at it. Andrea thought it probably meant he was vain and shallow, but Drea? She wanted to run her fingers along those ridges, trace that six pack. What the hell, right? It’s vacation.

  “I’m Dylan,” he said, “what’s your name?”

  “Drea,” I told him.

  Dylan danced closer. He wasn’t a very good dancer, but you don’t need to be when you look like that. He didn’t quite have the beat and mostly kept his feet planted, swaying his hips and arms, but I wasn’t looking for a partner for “So You Think You Can Dance.” I came in close, too, close enough that I could smell his sunscreen-shampoo-and-cigarettes scent.

  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.
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br />   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.