Some Like Them Rich

by Shirley Hailstock

  “I see you changed your mind.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. Don Randall was directly behind me. I could feel the heat of his body on my back. Granted, the cocktail dress I wore bared my skin halfway to my waist, and I wasn’t sure that Don wasn’t standing a bit too close. I turned around, careful to make sure I put a little distance between us. I was prepared to greet him with a smile and a comment. But seeing him dressed in evening clothes, a black suit with a gleaming white shirt and black crossover tie, took my words away. He was gorgeous.

  He reminded me of a movie star I’d once seen. When he appeared on the screen for the first time, I was so unprepared for his good looks that I melted down into my seat. I felt that way now, but locked my knees to keep from repeating that movie experience.

  Also by Shirley Hailstock

  Last Night’s Kiss

  On My Terms

  The Secret

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Some Like Them

  RICH

  Shirley

  Hailstock

  All copyrighted material within is

  Attributor Protected.

  Copyright

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2011 by Shirley Hailstock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  All Kensington Titles, Imprints, and Distributed Lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational or institutional use. Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington special sales manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018, attn: Special Sales Department, Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6837-2

  eISBN-10: 0-7582-6837-8

  First mass market printing: March 2011

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Candice Poarch, who listens to me whine.

  And to Donna Hill, who teaches me

  even when she’s just talking.

  Contents

  “I see you changed your mind.”

  Also by Shirley Hailstock

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty–One

  Chapter Twenty–Two

  Chapter Twenty–Three

  Chapter Twenty–Four

  Chapter Twenty–Five

  Chapter Twenty–Six

  Chapter 1

  Life had to change. Specifically, my life. Never again would I let a man put me through what Emile had. It had been a year since we separated for good. Add that to the two years we were together. I gave that man three years of my life. And what did I have to show for it?

  Nothing.

  Nothing, except muted pain and knowledge. He taught me well. And now I was done. From now on, I was no longer looking for love. Rich was just as good. Maybe better. No, definitely better. As my best friend, Jack, that’s Jacynthia Sterling, liked to say, “It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.” Not that she’d put practice to her words. But they are good words. Ones I intended to live by.

  So love, the now-and-forever, dying-for-you type of love, was no longer on the menu. Rich is the operative word. I’m a woman of action, never sitting back and letting things happen, so when I decide to do something, I waste no time in researching the options.

  You see, I’m not so impulsive that I don’t think things through before starting the engine. I’d done that with Emile. At least I thought I had. He was French, born and bred. A second-generation war baby with beautiful latte skin, dark eyes that oozed chocolate, a smile that melted my heart, and an accent that charmed my clothes off. Unfortunately, he proved to be a French pastry that was more puff than substance.

  Emile was the grandchild of a Parisian nurse and a U.S. soldier who’d met briefly during World War II. He’d come to America to study at Columbia University and stayed on working at the United Nations until several months ago, when he’d dumped me and returned to his native France.

  One thing I would miss was our time in bed, which was most of the time. I fanned myself, using both hands, as heat flashed through me. My body still went hot when I thought of some of the things we did in bed—and other various places that will not be named or revisted.

  I plunged into life, lust, and love with Emile. From the moment those beautiful eyes found mine, I thought I’d found the mother lode. I had fantasies of spending my life with him, but that is where the understanding between us ended. Even with a two-year association, great sex, and conversations that went long into the night, he was not interested in stepping up our relationship.

  So we stepped it down.

  He was gone. Good riddance! And now I was on to another plan. And another man. You see, I wasn’t totally off the species. And I didn’t want to make the next one pay for Emile’s shortcomings. We all get born naked and new, without the knowledge of someone else’s baggage.

  So here’s the plan. The Amberlina Nash Marriage Plan. That’s me. Amber. It reads Amberlina on my birth certificate, but no one would dare call me that except Jack and my mother. And both of them would have to be really angry to do it.

  But back to the plan: go to a place where the richest black men under fifty hung out. I really wanted one who was under forty, but in a stretch, who knows? I wasn’t someone who wanted to marry a man three times my age. I didn’t want to nurse him into the casket and make off with his money. I was perfectly willing to try the love thing.

  Again.

  I’d certainly be the best wife he ever thought he deserved. But I was not going to fall so hard that I lost my mind. My reward for playing the role was to live in luxury. Houses, clothes, cars, kids—notice they are all plural—and membership in the country club. If I was really lucky, there’d be travel, political or embassy parties. I’d also sit on charity boards and make a valid contribution to underprivileged causes. I’m not totally shallow.

  But country clubs and underprivileged causes would have to wait. First I had to find the perfect husband—well, the almost perfect husband. So where are rich, black men under fifty?

  Martha’s Vineyard.

  My face fell a few hours later as the computer screen displayed the spreadsheet I’d created. “It won’t be enough,” I said out loud. This plan called for enough money for me to appear rich. People with money tended to like to keep it close. It was a small group, and admittance to it was rare.

  But not impossible.

  I looked at the spreadsheet again. I’d tabulated the columns up, down, and across, and I knew even with
the technology of a machine to do my arithmetic that I didn’t have enough money. The sheet stared back at me as if accusing me of being poorer than I wanted to be. The Amberlina Nash Marriage Plan was in bold across the top. Along with the dates: June through August. In the next three months, I was going to find a husband.

  But as I looked at the numbers that made up my bank account, I couldn’t make them change to meet my needs if I was to get this venture off the ground. I needed partners. Of course I could count on Jack to help out. She didn’t approve of most of my plans, but she tolerated them, saying when they blow up she’d be there to carry me to the hospital or plan my funeral, whichever came first. Jack had a good heart and was always looking for Mr. Right and finding Mr. Wrong. Well, I had a deal she couldn’t refuse.

  Not that I would let her.

  Jack was instrumental for my campaign, the future one. She’d been there to help out in the past, like when Emile boarded the plane and flew back to some unpronounceable city in France and I went on a chocolate and Chinese food binge while crying rivers of tears for three days. But that was part of my past. I was only looking forward now.

  Jack, recently joining the ranks of downsized employees (as if that term meant shedding weight), could research anything and anybody. That would be useful since I wanted to make sure the guys we spent our time on had bank accounts to afford us. So she was a given. I just had to convince her. Or more likely tell her the plan and that she was in. No discussion. No dissension. I needed her. She’d be there.

  “Are you crazy?” Jack’s voice was accusatory. “That’s my entire life savings.” Several hours later we sat in her kitchen, a high-ceilinged, muted yellow room that had been painted and repainted at least a thousand times. It overlooked Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, and that was the best thing about it.

  “Jack, you work for an insurance company.”

  “Worked,” she corrected. “As in the past tense.” Jack’s voice was definitely alto, but when she was angry, upset, or nervous, it took on a shrill quality.

  “All right, you worked for an insurance company,” I conceded. “What’s your life expectancy?”

  Jack’s eyes rolled up toward the ceiling as if she was thinking. Then she looked at me and ticked the characteristics on her fingers. “Black female, unmarried, doesn’t smoke or do drugs, exercises occasionally but is still slightly overweight.” She paused, staring at me, waiting for a comment.

  While she was more than slightly overweight, I wisely clamped my jaws together. Jack was taller than I was and outweighed me by thirty pounds. But on her it looks good. I wouldn’t say it, because even a compliment like that veiled an insult.

  “My life expectancy is about seven-five to eighty years, more if I eat healthier and start a regular exercise program.”

  “See, you’ve got time to amass another life savings. Take a chance. If you’re lucky, you can marry your life savings.”

  Jack cut her eyes at me as if I’d set her up. And, of course, I had.

  “I swear, Amberlina, you come up with the most asinine schemes anybody has ever heard of. Who would think of going to a music festival to find a husband?”

  “Rich husband,” I corrected her. “Let’s get our adjectives correct.” I paused for effect. “It’s not just a music festival. It’s on Martha’s Vineyard. It’s a huge gathering of black people coming to hear the greatest musicians of our time. You know how black people love their music. The Vineyard is a perfect place to assure us of meeting wealthy men.”

  Jack stared at me as if that was not a valid explanation. She waited for me to continue. Her expression didn’t change and her foot didn’t move, but I could hear the toe-tapping impatience vibrate through the air.

  “Jack, we’re getting older. We’ll be thirty in two years. Have you thought about what you want to do with your life? Do you want to stay in these rooms for your actuarial lifetime?”

  Jack’s chin dropped a fraction before she raised it again. “I don’t have to go to a music festival to find a husband.”

  “No, there are plenty of men right here in Brooklyn.” I spread my arms, taking in the entire New York borough.

  Jack nodded as if she’d won an argument.

  “And you’ve lived here all your life?”

  “So have you.” She cut her eyes at me for asking a stupid question.

  Refusing to be deterred, I pressed on. “How many of those men have you met that you’d consider husband material?”

  From the expression on her face, Jack seemed to be reviewing her history of male relationships. “If I considered any of them worthy, I’d have married him by now.”

  “Does that mean you’re in?”

  She stared me down for a long moment. I refused to drop my gaze. I believed in the plan. We had to do something. No man was going to come knocking on our doors and say here I am. We had to go find them. And this festival was a place where men gathered. The Vineyard provided sun, sand, music, moonlight, and sports men liked, with the exception of football and basketball. But there was always television to cover testosterone-reeking men, and anyway, summer put those sports on hiatus.

  “What about my apartment?” Jack asked. “I can’t afford to pay rent and go away for three months. Especially since I now don’t have a job.”

  “Jack, give up the damn apartment,” I said. “You don’t like it anyway.”

  Jack’s legs and arms went slack and she slumped back in her chair as if every muscle in her body had suddenly relaxed, including her jaws—her mouth opened as if to catch flies.

  “Give it up? And what am I supposed to do when I come back? After you lose all my savings, I’ll be both poor and homeless.”

  “You can find another apartment. You can move in with the man you meet. You can stay with me until you find something if nothing pans out. There will be options, Jack. Stop putting obstacles in the way and get onboard.”

  “All right,” she sighed after a long delay. “I’m in.” Her voice held none of the enthusiasm I had hoped for.

  “Good. Now we need a third.”

  “A third?”

  “Pooling our money won’t be enough. We’re hunting big-time, Jack. We need to be able to put on a good show, and for that we’re going to need someone else. Preferably someone we won’t mind spending the summer with.”

  “Ya think?”

  The house sat across from the ocean, a hundred yards or so from the famous beach, the Inkwell. The place was a huge Victorian with a wide porch and plenty of gingerbread scrollwork.

  Checking out the house was something I always did when a new tenant was due. Although I owned the property, I didn’t manage it. I’d grown up in the hotel business. Customer service was in my blood. And it helped to know that the management firm I’d engaged was doing an admirable job.

  It appeared I had nothing to worry about. The rooms were spotless. Everything neat and in its place. Fresh flowers adorned a center hall table. Juice and water in ample quantities covered two shelves of the refrigerator. Bathroom amenities were fragrant and in place. I was sure the women would like the look.

  Finishing my inspection, I headed for my car and the short drive back to the St. Romaine, a hotel I’d managed for the better part of a year.

  A limousine turned into the driveway as I slipped behind the wheel of my car. Since it sat in front of the house, I had a clear view of all activity. I waited, interested in the new tenant. There were a lot of comings and goings during the summer season. People brought their cars, light trucks, and SUVs, but few limos boarded the ferry for the trip from the mainland. I knew there were eyes behind the neighboring windows, searching for a glimpse of the newest summer inhabitant of the island.

  I’d intended to find out more about Ms. Amberlina Nash when my agent said the house had been taken for the season by one tenant. It was rare for a vacationer to stay the entire summer without having relatives on the Vineyard. My duties at the hotel had eclipsed any thought of Ms. Nash until today, when the reminder notice po
pped up on my electronic calendar.

  The limousine door opened and one long, shapely brown leg slid to the ground. My stomach clinched. The leg ended in a red high-heeled sandal. I waited, holding my breath, not sure why. I appreciated anatomy, especially female anatomy. I wanted to know if the owner of the leg could follow through on the whole package.

  My eyes followed the shape of her ankle, sliding up her calf to the secret skin behind her knee as if my hands could feel the weight and texture of her skin.

  The driver reached the side of the car and took the woman’s hand. Her fingernails were the exact same color as the shoes. She stepped out. She looked like trouble. Trouble for me.

  “Damn,” I said out loud, breath leaving my body as if all the air had suddenly been snatched from the earth.

  This was Amberlina Nash, the woman who’d rented the only Sheldon St. Romaine property for three months, at $3,000.00 a week plus security. She was an anomaly. Most people came for a week or two. A few for a month. With the music festival increasing rental fees, mine included, I expected more tenants and more turnover, but here was my summer ticket, guaranteed.

  It wasn’t that I needed the money. I’d bought the house years ago trying to prove to my father that I was the son he’d always wanted and not some playboy spending his money as fast as he could make it.

  I’d failed miserably. That is, until a year ago, when I’d convinced him to bet on me and my ability to change his mind.

  I looked back at the woman in the driveway. Ms. Nash looked out of place. It wasn’t the clothes. She was impeccably dressed. I didn’t recognize women’s designers, but she looked as if she’d stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine wearing all the best labels. No shorts and T-shirt for Lady Legs. She wore a white linen dress with slits up both sides. They stopped mid-thigh, enticing the viewer with the promise of concealed secrets. Her hair was perfect, dark, thick, lustrous, and piled up on her head, allowing a view of her long neck. My hands itched to touch that hair, sink my fingers into the mass, releasing it from the pins that held it up and feeling the softness of falling tendrils.