Beautiful Deep

by Jordyn White

  There are broad wooden trays with gourmet meats and cheeses, olive tapenade with mini rounds of sourdough, silver platters with an assortment of grapes and strawberries and other fruits, seared salmon crostini, stuffed mushrooms, and prime rib tapas. The sights and scents alone are enough to get the mouth watering.

  Connor tosses me a mischievous smile. “This is better than the fifth night in a row of Guido’s, huh?”

  “You can never get too much Guido’s.”

  Guido owns the pizza place at the bottom of the hill from the resort, is an old family friend, and makes the best damn pie in California.

  Connor isn’t remarking on my choice of pizza. He’s harassing me because I never cook. Almost never. Well, no. Never. I subsist on fast food, meals from the restaurants at the resort, and the dinners my family prepares when we get together. Though they give me a hard time about it every now and then, it’s not that big of a deal.

  “Hey, speaking of that,” Lizzy says, “I haven’t told you yet. Alice has some new blood.”

  I groan. All right, my disinterest in cooking is not a big deal to most people. Our banquet manager, Alice, however is another matter.

  “Great.” I take a little spoonful of olive tapenade. “Yet another employee who promises to repair my dietary deficiencies.”

  Lizzy laughs and tucks a little stuffed mushroom onto her plate. “She actually didn’t say anything about that. But you know it’s just a matter of time.”

  “Maybe she’s finally accepted the fact that I don’t need a personal chef.”

  “You may not want one,” Connor pipes in, taking a grape from his plate and popping it in his mouth as he waits for the line to advance, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”

  “Don’t you start in, too.”

  He grins. “I’m telling you, just let her give someone a trial run. It’ll satisfy her and then she can let go of the whole idea.”

  “Not interested.”

  If it were anybody else, I would just tell Alice ‘no’ in a way that means business. But she’s one of the resort’s original employees and part of my earliest memories. She’s been mothering the three of us ever since Mom and Dad died a year and a half ago. It can get tiring, but her heart’s in the right place. It’s hard to get too upset about that.

  “I agree,” Lizzy says, glancing at Connor. “Do it for a week and tell her you didn’t like it.”

  “Or maybe you will like it,” Connor says. “It’d be better than the crap you eat now.”

  “I like the crap I eat now.”

  “You can’t subsist off chicken nuggets and French fries forever, old man.”

  I’m pushing thirty these days, and lately Connor has taken great pleasure in reminding me of it.

  “You’re only three years behind me, kiddo.”

  He gives me a look. “Don’t call me kiddo.”

  Lizzy and I both laugh.

  We make our way toward one of the tall cocktail tables scattered about so we can eat before we make the rounds. The conversation turns to Lizzy and Brett’s upcoming nuptials. They’re getting married in just three months.

  At first I wasn’t too happy about the timing. It’ll still be busy at the resort, for sure, and I thought she should work around high season. We’re the owners, so business comes first. But she and Connor convinced me it won’t be too bad now that we have an executive assistant helping out. They’re probably right.

  “Do you know who you’re bringing yet?” Lizzy asks.

  I’ll definitely need a proper date for her wedding. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll bring Sarah.”

  “I like Sarah,” Lizzy says.

  “You like everybody.” She does, too. My sister has a heart the size of California.

  “Don’t you like her?”

  “I like her fine.”

  Sarah’s fine. They’re all fine. There’s nothing spectacular between us, but maybe some people don’t get to have spectacular. I’ve seen the way Lizzy looks at Brett, and the way Connor looks at Whitney. Not to mention the way my parents looked at each other. I’m fairly certain I’ve never experienced such emotion a single day of my life.

  I had a few girlfriends in college, and another one briefly when I was getting my Masters, but there were no big fireworks like my siblings seem to have. There’s been nothing of significance since then. I don’t have time for significant anyway. Business and family keep me plenty busy.

  We spend the next couple hours meandering through the rooms on each floor, occasionally picking up desserts or fresh drinks along the way. There’s a little bit of hobnobbing with some people in our Swan Pointe network, but for the most part I get to enjoy the show and my siblings. Occasionally we’ll separate as one person lags behind to make a purchase, but we catch up with each other eventually.

  By the time we’ve left the second floor and have scattered to examine the offerings on the third floor, we’ve each found at least one painting to add to our collection, an investment habit instilled in us by our parents.

  It’s when we catch up with each other at the booth of a new artist from Florida that a harmless conflict ensues.

  “I’ll take that one,” I say to the woman, who’s probably in her late twenties but has artificially-gray hair with a pink streak that weaves in and out of the thick braid she wears over her shoulder.

  I point to the painting in question, a large landscape at sunrise, perfectly executed, and something I like well enough to find a place for at my house, rather than putting it in the bowels of the resort so we can rotate it through the collection there.

  “No, no!” Lizzy puts her hand on my forearm. “I want that one.”

  “Too bad, sis.”

  “No, no, no. I wanted it for the dining room. ” Still hanging onto my arm, she steps slightly between me and the artist. Lizzy looks at her. “I’ll pay you more.”

  I laugh. “It’s too late. I already said I’m buying it.”

  Connor laughs, too. “I should get in on this just to make it more interesting.”

  Lizzy holds a finger to him in stern warning. “Don’t you dare.”

  Connor and I exchange amused glances.

  She turns back to the woman. “I’ll pay you $500 above your asking price.”

  “Six hundred.”

  “Rayce!” She spins on me, her green eyes blazing.

  Brett is laughing too, now. “You guys are so competitive.”

  Lizzy looks at him, all seriousness. “Are not.” She turns back to the artist. “Eight hundred.”

  The artist is looking between us with a mixture of disbelief and glee, like she doesn’t know if she can take this seriously or not, but sure as hell hopes that she can. She’ll find out soon enough. Lizzy and I could go on like this for a while. Anyway, it’s a fantastic painting and worth the money. This young artist hasn’t figured out her value yet and is undercharging.

  I assume she could use the money, too. Our father cautioned us against talking down an artist on their price. He said the starving artist cliché is pretty close to reality for most working artists, and to never take advantage of their possible desperation by bargaining.

  “One thousand,” I say.

  “Noooooo.” Lizzy bends her knees slightly as she turns to me and hangs on to both my arms. “Please, please, please. I love it so much.”

  Still hanging onto me with one hand, she makes a broad gesture toward the colorful canvas, melting a little as she looks at it. “Wouldn’t it look perfect in my dining room?”

  She turns those big doe eyes of hers on me.

  Uh-oh.

  “Please, big brother.”

  Connor laughs out loud at that one.

  This battle is lost. Sneaky thing. I have a soft spot for my sister, and she knows right when to press her little finger on it.

  “You’re shameless,” I say. “You’re also the new owner of that painting.”

  Her face lights up and she clasps her hands in front of her chest, grinning first at me, t
hen at the painting.

  “You’d better top my last bid though.”

  She comes up on tiptoe and kisses my cheek, which makes it all worth it I guess, then grins at the artist. She starts digging her credit card out of her purse. “Add $1100 to your price.”

  You’ve never seen an artist whip out a card reader so fast.

  “Big softy,” Connor says grinning. He takes a sip of his drink, looking down the aisle toward the booths we’ve yet to check out.

  I open my mouth to respond, but the words disintegrate on my tongue as something catches my eye. Or I should say, someone.

  She’s standing at one of the cocktail tables on the other side of the room. In between us are the food tables, more cocktail tables, and probably a couple dozen people. But I can’t take my eyes off her.

  She has soft blonde hair that flows just past her shoulders in silky waves. She’s by herself, her forearms resting on the table and her hands wrapped loosely around her glass. She’s just standing there, not talking to anyone. Not even looking at the artwork. It’s like I’ve caught her in a moment of calm, right here in the middle of the art show.

  She exudes this presence, simply from the way she’s holding herself. What is it? Confidence? Poise?

  She’s wearing delicate, strappy heels and a soft burgundy skirt that flows just past her knees. It has an angled hemline, and a subtle slit that reaches up her thigh. Her sleek, fitted top has buttons down the front, and a silky fabric tie at the base.

  The slit on her skirt seems perfectly positioned to give a glimpse of the thin, intricate tattoo on the outside of her left thigh. The bottom of the tattoo is a thin wisp that reaches almost to her knee, and the rest disappears beneath her skirt. I wonder just how far up that curving, flowing design snakes up her body.

  Her sleeves come to her elbows. I wonder if she has tattoos on her shoulders. Or back. Or anywhere else on her body.

  I’m not one to care for tattoos. A woman’s skin is more beautiful untouched, in my opinion. But this woman, and her tattoo, are different. It’s slender and delicate and lacey, almost in the style of a henna tattoo, but more fluid and elegant.

  That is a word I have never used to describe a tattoo before. Elegant. Maybe it’s the tattoo, or maybe it gains its elegance from the woman wearing it. She holds herself like a woman of class, but without the arrogance that often goes with it.

  Still, though she’s nicely dressed and well put together, she’s not wearing high-end clothing. The impression of high class doesn’t come from the quality of the cloth she’s wearing. It comes from her.

  Graceful. Beautiful. Intriguing. These are the words going through my mind as I look her. I’ve never seen a woman like this, and want to know what kind of person she is on the inside to make such a striking, unique picture on the outside.

  I take a step in her direction, but Connor’s hand on my arm stops me and I realize he’s been talking to me but I have no idea what he’s been saying.

  “—remember Ted from the Swan Pointe Business Summit, don’t you?”

  Now I see there’s someone standing next to Connor. He smiles and extends his hand.

  I do recognize Ted. We met last fall. He has the potential to bring a lot of conference business to the resort. I smile and shake his hand, saying something pleasant and polite, but keep one eye on the woman at the table.

  She takes an unhurried sip of her drink. Not many people can look so relaxed and comfortable alone in a social situation like this. Who is this woman?

  “I’m glad you tracked us down,” Connor says to Ted. “Rayce is definitely the one to ask about this.”

  “Your brother tells me I need to consult with you about an art investment,” Ted says. “What do you think of this painting over here?”

  He gestures towards a painting in the opposite direction of the woman who’s caught my eye. He takes a few steps in that direction, with Connor following. They’re obviously both under the assumption that I will come along, too, and very concerned about the painting this man wants to buy. I couldn’t care less.

  Buy whatever damned painting you want, I’d like to say.

  But my professional training takes over. I juggle the task of politely giving this man some assistance and keeping an eye on the woman at the table. It’s a challenge, because to look at Ted and his painting of choice, I have to face in one direction, and to check on her I have to face in another.

  A frustrating ten minutes go by. I tell him this is a reputable artist and a fine painting at a good price, but he insists on asking question after question after question.

  Meanwhile the woman at the table is clear across the room and I’m still here. I take a solid swallow of the full-bodied red I’m drinking, eyeing her over the rim of the glass as Ted drones on and on.

  Finally I’ve had my fill. “You’ll have to let me know how it looks in your study, Ted.” I clap my hand to his and shake firmly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  He yields with a smile, the way people do when I decide that’s how things are going to go. “Yes, of course. Thank you for the advice.”

  “My pleasure.”

  As I turn to leave, Connor gives me a look. I’m sure I haven’t been rude, it isn’t that. He’s probably wondering what’s up.

  However, I don’t care what he’s wondering, because when I look to the table, she’s gone.

  I comb all three floors. The crowds are thinning, and I fear she’s simply gone home. On my second circuit through the second floor, Connor comes up. “There you are. Where have you been?”

  I barely look at him. I’m too busy scanning the room, and coming up empty, yet again. “I saw a woman.”

  “Which one?” Connor asks, looking around the room himself.

  “None of these. She isn’t here.” Saying it out loud only irritates me further. She isn’t. She isn’t here. “Dammit.”

  Connor laughs and claps me on the back. “I think you’ll be okay. You have plenty of women.”

  “None who matter.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. What’s he surprised about? He knows there’s no one I’m serious about.

  I scan the room again, as if I don’t already know she’s not here. I let her get away. She’s only ever going to be a vision I saw once, and that’s it.

  “Let’s just go.”

  Chapter 3

  Emma

  It’s been a couple weeks and I’m getting a better feel for things at work. I’ve received my first partial paycheck and tried giving some money to Aaron and Pierce, but they insisted I wait until I have a full check. Pierce did well at the art show so he’s in no hurry. Aaron said he wouldn’t care if I never paid him back. He wants me to worry about replacing the car I was forced to sell, but I can’t stand the thought of being in debt to them. I have to pay what I owe first.

  I’ve exited the service elevator and am making the long walk down the underground parking garage. Up ahead are the spaces reserved for the owners. Their spots are right next to one of the glass-backed elevators that’s for guests and upper management. I’ve been dying to take one to the tenth floor at the top so I can check out the view, but that’s a big no-no.

  All three of their vehicles are here, a couple BMWs and a shiny black Jaguar. This time of day they usually are, but when I get off late at night, the only one I see from time to time is that Jag that belongs to Mr. Rayce Rivers.

  Though all three siblings own the resort, the only one I’ve seen is the youngest, Mr. Connor Rivers, because he’s over the restaurants and banquet, among other things.

  I’ve heard Mr. Rayce Rivers has come through banquet a couple times recently. I wasn’t around, but heard about it later. When the elder Mr. Rivers comes through for inspection, people talk about it.

  Well before I reach their cars, the elevator doors ding open. Two people exit, Mr. Connor Rivers and the woman I can only assume is his sister, based on appearances alone, Ms. Elizabeth Rivers. They resemble one another for sure. Such a handsome family. Young. R
ich. Some people get it all.

  Another man steps out after them. This has to be Mr. Rayce Rivers. Aside from the family resemblance, he carries himself in a way that practically screams “Boss.”

  He cuts a fine figure and wears that expensive-looking suit as if it were made just for him. Which, I realize, it probably was.

  The three of them make their way to their cars, continuing whatever conversation was going on in the elevator. I take him in, my blood starting to run thick. He has dark hair, a smooth jawline, and lips that probably stop hearts all over Swan Pointe.

  Well, fuck me. That’s the owner? Of course it is. Because fate is out to get me, clearly.

  I mean, no. His GQ hotness is irrelevant. This place is ginormous. There’s a billion people working here. I could probably work here for years and never interact with him.

  Not that he’d be interested anyway.

  Why is my brain going there when all I’m doing is looking at him from across the parking garage? What the hell is wrong with me?

  Maybe I can’t be trusted around men. Especially men like this. I should’ve tried for a kitchen job at a nunnery or something. Nuns gotta eat too, right?

  My eyes drift down his form again. He’s a sight, from the way he fills out his suit jacket, to his smooth, purposeful stride, to the expensive-looking shiny shoes. Apparently I’m a sucker for a man who knows how to wear a suit. My eyes travel back up his body, wondering what he looks like underneath it all.

  Ms. Rivers says something and he breaks out in a broad smile that actually slows my steps. Fucking gorgeous, that smile. I’d bet anything he’s not the sort of man to give that kind of smile easily. I feel I’ve been given a glimpse of something private. Hidden.

  Still unnoticed, I watch as he and his sister wave goodbye to their younger brother, who disappears inside his car. The remaining two continue to talk as he walks her to her door. I keep my head down as Mr. Conner Rivers’ car passes me. As soon as it does, my eyes fly back to the older brother.

  He opens the door for her and gives a slight wave before shutting it. He casually approaches his driver-side door, smoothly extracting his keys from his pocket.