Ocean of Love
Susan D. Taylor
OCEAN OF LOVE
Copyright: Susan D. Taylor
Published: March 2013
The right of Susan D. Taylor to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To Doug Taylor, my best friend and husband. Every moment with you has been a magical journey. And to the many other people who have shared with me a different kind of existence. One filled with caring, compassion, and a respect for life. Teachers, gurus, and guides. Life’s a journey, a cycle, a rhythm we can support or sabotage. The choice is ours. Shanti, Shanti, Shanti.
You have to be willing to live fully,
risking your soul to love deeply.
Chapter One
Wyatt inspected his architect’s proposed plans for the ocean-front condominiums. Stunning yet bordering on surreal considering the fact his company—Herndon Construction—had failed to locate the actual property.
His administrative assistant came through the doorway. “Your case is packed. We’re still waiting for an update on those plans. Another issue with the request for a pier structure came down. Those city officials are going crazy with the new elections.”
“I reread the preliminary zoning requirements for that section of beach. I’m not worried.”
“Looks like you’re camping out here again. There’s fresh coffee brewed.”
“What time is it? Never mind, it’s late. I’ll be in touch. Cross your fingers and hope that something materializes.” He turned away as she exited. A question had crossed his mind concerning shoreline dredging. Setting the plans back down on the table in the corner of his penthouse office, he picked up the beach building codes, scanning the index. He thumbed through the section of the binder containing the city’s zoning laws.
An hour later, his eyes burned from reading archaic ordinances. He closed the inch-thick folder and then languidly scrubbed his hand along his jaw. He couldn’t get his head around the problem in finding a piece of property along South Beach to match his vision.
Leaning back in his chair, he stared out his office window. This was worse than searching for a needle in a sandstorm. He’d received plenty of bids from real estate brokers wanting in on this project. But finding the right one continued to tax his patience. Not one of the men he’d spoken with had adequately answered any of his questions about the changing building regulations. Still, he had Apex Brokers on the back burner: a small real estate firm owned by Sinclair Morris, an old college buddy.
Sinclair had bid on the project, bringing to the table a close-knit South Beach firm. Wyatt had initially passed on Sinclair’s company given the complexity of this type of deal. His friend and he had close ties that went way back. He’d never known Sinclair to be one to front something he couldn’t deliver. The man had done well in Gold Coast real estate sales, and now had broken into the business of commercial properties all over Florida.
Wyatt drummed his fingers and clenched his jaw. He considered sending his friend an email giving him the go-ahead. Sinclair had suggested one specific real estate agent well-versed in zoning issues. A distracting woman. Wyatt highly doubted she possessed much experience from the looks of her on the digital business card. Well, he’d soon find out if she understood this was more than finding a pretty piece of property. He imagined she’d blind a man if he stared too long. He shook his head, putting off emailing Sinclair, and went back to reviewing the pitifully few available beach sites. This project had become a stumbling block consuming his energy, yet he couldn’t stop, so he’d done his homework concerning South Florida. One of the endless details that kept him busy from sun up to sundown and then some. Twelve-, fourteen-, sixteen-hour days—marathons he’d run—leaving him little spare time.
Herndon Construction was now an international corporation in the world of seaside land development. A business he’d built from ground up. Literally. Since high school, he’d worked on a construction site after school and on weekends. He began his career building rebar grids and pouring concrete. Back-breaking work he’d quickly learned. Over the years, he’d mastered the business side of the construction industry in ocean-front condo property development. He specialized in assessing a property for not what was out in the open, but what lay beneath.
Around midnight, Wyatt sent a response to Apex’s bid, making sure Sinclair understood, no favors, this was not some token friendship deal. Wyatt rethought his ideas about contracting with a small firm. Hell, he didn’t need a real estate broker with a penthouse view of the Atlantic. Truthfully, he required the services of a realtor who was keen enough to remain hungry. A realtor on the prowl.
Wyatt had every intention of staying ahead of the city’s building commission and the upcoming changes to zoning construction laws. Revised building ordinances were set to limit condo development along South Beach. He wasn’t about to miss this window of opportunity before it closed next month. His ability to purchase and begin building equated to a gold mine with an impeccable view of the Atlantic.
* * *
Before committing to using Sinclair’s suggested building-code specialist, he had his friend email him the broker’s qualifications. Sinclair and he had been closer than brothers. A long time ago when he’d needed more than a friend. That fact hardly negated that he would allow any bumbling of this deal. He planned on being in Miami for less than a week. No longer than necessary to find the property and hand over the details to Sinclair and his own financial team.
After Miami, Rio de Janeiro was his next destination. His travel plans were booked for Brazil. Another ocean, another piece of property, another deal. His calendar didn’t have a week free until the middle of August. Hurricane season was the only time he took to do more than hop from site to site.
Sitting at his desk with a cup of coffee in hand, he clicked the mouse and opened a link to Apex’s website. A snazzy design featuring South Beach nightlife filled the computer screen. Sinclair had advised him the website had been updated. But his warning had not been enough. Wyatt choked on the real estate broker’s bio suggested by Sinclair. The web page had several photographs of this woman. Fresh face, hell she couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty.
He phoned his college buddy, trying to avoid a real estate meltdown. “God dammit Sinclair, I’m not coming for a hot date. Man I need a broker with sharp-as-fuck teeth. Razor sharp.”
“Stop trolling my website.” His friend laughed.
“Trolling? The woman’s a neon sign with a message I’d rather not think about.”
“You’ll see. Trust me, Wyatt. Don’t let your eyes decei
ve you. I followed your directives. You said all business, and you’ll not find a more formidable ally. Marissa Silverpointe can sweat the best.”
Wyatt imagined the type of hot-and-bothered client this woman injected with her angelic looks. “If I get a sense that she can’t handle the heat, I expect your top man. Deal?”
“Simmer down. I’ll see you tomorrow, and then you can decide.”
Wyatt slammed the phone shut, cutting off his friend’s all-too-confident chuckle.
He’d been jerked around plenty. All of a sudden, so-called acquaintances became old friends making promises in exchange for broker contracts. He returned his gaze to the image of his soon-to-be realtor. Jesus Christ. He whacked the top of his desk with his palm. He wasn’t having any of that this time around. This deal held him to a strict time line of one week to find the property and close the deal. Expecting discounted points for a cash sale meant he required a broker with balls of titanium not a mouth that looked sweet enough to kiss.
Without warning, his cock hardened. That type of correlation set his teeth on edge. Too much rode on this deal, to fall under the spell of a woman; especially, one who made him wonder what she’d look like with her hair down and loose. With a piece of property anywhere on Ocean Drive, there’d be nothing short of a feeding frenzy for the next few days. He demanded the services of a professional broker, someone capable of keeping his cool—move in for the kill pushing aside boundaries in order to seal the deal. Would this be the first time he’d walk away empty-handed? He gritted his teeth, wondering how much this deal would cost him.
* * *
After arriving in South Beach, he found Lincoln Road, and the office of Apex Realty. He took a spin around the area before checking out Sinclair with his boutique brokers’ house sandwiched between a couple of restored Art Deco buildings.
“Jesus H. Christ.” He let out a sharp breath. His little realtor was sauntering up the sidewalk. He sat inside his SUV seriously contemplating Sinclair’s secret weapon—Marissa Silverpointe. She cradled a cellphone against her cheek. Moses. She stopped and must have chewed someone’s ear. She resembled a tiger out on a hunt. Man, oh man, he chuckled watching her. The way she swerved around people on the sidewalk, and then with one glance took care of a group of men who tried to stall her progress. Whatever she said, one man threw up his hands, and backed away while his friends elbowed him. They all looked after Miss Silverpointe with an expression of respectful admiration. Or veiled male lust.
After this little act of voyeurism, he was more than satisfied with his choice of realtor. He owed Sinclair. The bastard just might be his new real estate firm down south. Instead of false assurances, his old buddy delivered as promised. Same old Sinclair. And some package to boot. He texted his financial assistant alerting his team that he was ready to do the meet and greet at Apex.
He’d leave Sinclair with his staff to sort out the details for a cash deal. He unobtrusively studied Marissa as her hips rocked back and forth going up the steps. Earlier she’d sent him an email asserting she was prepared to deliver half-a-point discount to be brokered with financial institutes for a commercial developer loan. Even guaranteed he’d break ground before mid-March. Well, if she could make those promises a reality, he was ready to get this party started. The set of her jaw had him itching to see if she was all talk or the real thing. A couple of questions and he’d instantly know to fold or hold.
* * *
Sinclair’s clipped voiced pierced her hearing. “Marissa, you’re heading the Herndon deal. Wyatt is on his way to our office. I just spoke with him, and he knows you’re his realtor. He’s arrived early and is ready to meet. Where are you?” She stared at the front door of Apex Brokers. Out on the sidewalk, this was a splendid place to hear the news. She marched up the steps, almost pulling off the door handle.
“I’m coming into the office. Excuse me? Sinclair, when did all this change?” Marissa asked, steadying her voice from the stratosphere back to her office at Apex.
“Your new client will be here in about thirty minutes. I didn’t tell you sooner because I know how you tend to get stressed-out. Take a deep breath and you’ll do just fine. I reviewed all your notes, research, and the video presentation. Your game is on. Just do what you do.”
“Refresh me. What exactly is that?”
“Deliver. Marissa, free up those properties you’ve been working. I trust you. Now, don’t screw this up.”
Great advice from her boss. Not the most inspiring of pep talkers she’d ever met.
Piss ant. No point in stewing. She envisioned what needed to take place in order to prepare for this meeting. Wait, she was head on the deal. Tonight was the full moon. Marissa’s fingers trembled, fully understanding she was in a bind and what it meant to be head.
What the heck did Sinclair do with clients of this caliber? Client after-hour meetings, dinners, night-club rendezvous. Schmoozing. She swallowed the lump lodged in her throat. Entering her office, she pressed the skin at her temples. She slumped at her desk, opening the computer file she’d prepared.
After glancing at her laptop clock, she stopped flipping through the digital presentation. She’d finished reviewing her complete file on the Herndon deal, and now, she had less than five minutes before her client showed. Crud, her client.
Only minutes ago—the news, similar to a sonic boom, had hit somewhere in her chest, and the after-effects were still running rampant—the biggest developer had been dropped into her real estate broker lap.
She rose and paced in front of her desk, practicing her greeting and a firm handshake. Wyatt Herndon was a hard-nosed construction manager from what she gathered. Those men tended to resemble defensive football players spouting a beer gut. She imagined him showing up with in a loud sports coat, a ruddy complexion, and cracking his knuckles.
Sinclair stuck his head into her office. “Wyatt’s here. I’m going out to the reception area, and I’ll bring him back to your office.”
“I’m more than ready.” Great. If her voice reflected her anxiety, she was dead in the water.
Listening to his footsteps moving down the carpeted corridor, she couldn’t resist and snuck down the hall expecting to find a short, stocky man in the reception area. Marissa peered at the back of her client, nearly falling over. The man towered above Sinclair, sporting a set of broad shoulders from what she could tell, clinging to the edge of a chair while spying on him from behind. Alongside Mr. Herndon stood a stylish redhead, who turned and smiled at her.
Marissa feigned interest in an exotic fern on the nearby table. When the woman shifted her gaze toward Mr. Herndon, she edged back into the hallway. What a way to start as lead—sprinting toward her office.
Conflicting thoughts muddled her line of thinking. At least her boss could have warned her. Really, what type of disclaimer would come with someone like Wyatt Herndon? Warning: hot, rich client—definitely hands-off.
Her boss understated everything. Sinclair had pushed into her office a month ago, giving her a heads-up on the Herndon bid, assigning her to work out condo building codes and prospective beach properties. She had worked deals like this before but never in a lead position, or with a man who seemed so demanding and powerful. He had explained little other than her ability with commercial properties with zoning issues required her involvement.
Sinclair’s words of wisdom echoed inside her imagination. “Don’t screw this up.”
Marissa flinched at the rap on her door. At first glance, the man who stood next to Sinclair drew her entire focus. He took up most of the space in the doorway, not to mention in her head. She quietly absorbed the way her client’s body eclipsed the sunlight pouring from the hallway windows in back of him. He stood with his face shadowed, preventing direct eye contact.
“Take care, Wyatt. I’ll leave you with my best broker. Marissa Silverpointe has an inner line on the zoning boards as well as connections to more than a few properties. I’m sure you’ll find each one spectacular.” Sinclair winked at h
er before he exited, clapping the back of the man who continued to consume the space of her office.
She realized she’d been sitting in the dark. “Sinclair catch the lights.” Throughout this ordeal, her client regarded her while leaning up against the doorjamb cool as a cucumber. Except he wasn’t green or… Stop staring. She visually feasted upon his groin, which appeared to house such a vegetable.
Seriously? She sprang to her feet. “Would you care to come in?” she asked, refusing to be undone under his perusal—or body parts.
“Yes. Thank you. Miss Silverpoint?” He entered her office as she picked up a file off her desk.
He regarded her with a stoic expression. “How old are you?” He asked her point blank, speaking in an acerbic tone.
There was nothing brash or flamboyant about him, belying what she’d believed prior to his arrival. Conversely, the way he acted reinforced her imagined impression of her client as someone obstinately aloof.
Until her gaze locked with his.
She gasped, staring across the room at him. His unbelievably blue eyes were live wires arcing flashes of alternating hot and cold charges. Oh, he rocked her world in a single glance.
Tongue-tied, she stood with her desk separating them. His good looks went beyond gorgeous into a realm giving him the ability to curl her toes. Tight. His impervious nature, coupled with his slight sneer, worked her over. He employed a tough demeanor as though it were a weapon used to rightfully dominate whomever lay before him. At that moment, she was his victim.
Tit-for-tat Mr. Herndon. Marissa strode from behind her desk and handed over her resume. If he cared to be rude, then he’d have to do the work to gather his own answers.
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