by Tara Brent
But I’m fairly confident neither is going to be a problem. As indiscriminate as Jimmy can be in his private life, he has always behaved with discretion as a professional. So do I, for that matter. Although in this case, the practical voice in the back of my mind tells me that no matter how “interested” Blake Okoye might look at this moment; with my nearly naked bod shoved in his face, under normal conditions, I hardly think I would draw his attention. I don’t fit into his “type”. That would be impossible. Because anyone who’s ever glanced at a supermarket tabloid, or an internet gossip hub, knows the type Blake chases. There are simply dozens of publically known examples. Actresses, models and Goddesses.
Blake Okoye has a well-earned reputation as an international, jet-setting playboy. In fact, he fits the profile so well he could be the prototype. So no matter what my hormones might urge when they kick into overdrive (and he shifts me right through every gear), I know this guy is off limits. And put up against the long list of knockout women he’s been publicly linked to, I don’t even make the menu.
But that doesn’t stop Blake Okoye from being charming, kind, and considerate. Goddamn him anyway.
“Miss Ricci, if I may—”
“Oh, please, I think under the circumstances, we can skip right to ‘Kira’.”
“Good. Kira, then. Please don’t let this... this...”
“I’d call it a goat grab,” I offer.
“Don’t let this ‘goat grab’ ruin your impression of me. I feel very badly about barging in on you. Against the wishes of your able colleague, I will say in Jimmy’s defense.”
“Jimmy will be in charge of his own defense,” I say, as Jimmy tries to shrink down small enough to slip through a crack in the pool deck and disappear.
“What I want to say, Kira, is that I know your reputation.” Oh, shit, I think. “You will do anything and everything to make an event a total success. And the way you saved this situation tonight from disaster is proof of that.”
“Well. Maybe the cake part,” I concede. “I don’t know about the skinny dipping.” I don’t want to add there’s not much about my dip that’s ‘skinny’, but I bite that back.
“You’re too modest,” he says.
“Modesty may not be my most obvious quality this evening.”
“What matters is this. You impress me.” And the way he says it, the way he looks me in the eye, he seems to layer that with all kinds of meaning. Nah, has to be my imagination...
“...Thanks. I can believe I made an impression, anyway.”
“I think we should move this to the next level.”
Really. Then take off those pants, too, hunky boy. That’s what I thought. What I said was: “You still want to talk about your wedding job?”
“Are you free for brunch tomorrow? Say, one p.m.?”
“I can check the schedule,” Jimmy pipes in. The look I give him sends him sliding back down into that crack in the pavement.
“One o’clock would be perfect. Where should we meet?”
“I will send a car for you, if that’s okay.”
Part of me thinks, I’ll just carjack the limo and sell it for parts, then flee the country. Because as I think about it seriously now, this job is a logistical nightmare. And spending the next couple weeks drooling over Mr. Dreamcock won’t make it any easier, and might just end up to be crippling.
But against my better judgment, I hear the words spill out of my mouth: “That sounds heavenly. I can’t wait.”
I just hope I kept the simper out of my voice.
Chapter 3: The Prince of Coronado
The limo Blake sends to pick me up looks like something that should have little American flags on the front of the hood or diplomatic plates. I look around to be sure the Secret Service isn’t there guarding some President. Or the pope, maybe.
I want to ask where the liveried driver is taking me. But I don’t want to spoil the pleasure of feeling that I am surrendering totally to Blake Okoye’s whim. It’s a dangerous feeling. And I love the delicious thrill it sends vibrating through me.
“There is a full bar if Madame cares for refreshment.” The chauffer window is closed, but the driver’s voice comes out from the fifty or so Bose speakers of the limo’s premium sound package. I mumble thanks, but I do not dare to let booze weaken the tenuous hold I’m struggling to maintain on my romantic fantasies, as I anticipate seeing Blake again. If I dare to put a couple drinks in me now, I may end up making last night’s midnight swim look like a church social.
And that, I lecture to my libido, is off the table.
We cruise past downtown San Diego, and take a ramp that puts us onto the Coronado bridge. It is a beautiful span. It rises in a gentle soar, taking you very high over the harbor. You could drive a sea-going skyscraper under the arc, it rises so high over the water. From the peak, you can see for miles, see all the glass towers of downtown, the boats crowding the waterfront, the big naval ships in the channel; destroyers, battleships, aircraft carriers.
But the best part of the view is looking across at the “island” itself. In contrast to the tight urban packing of downtown on the mainland, Coronado is an inviting swath of green, dotted with residential homes. At the near end, where the bridge descends toward the island shore, you approach a long, open strip of green, with a park, and even a golf course. The island spreads out below, inviting and verdant. It always gives me a feeling that I have taken off in a small plane, flying away from the crowd, from the busy bustle of downtown, and sailing across the water to land in a magical wonderland.
The majority of residences we pass are older. Not “old” – just not built along today’s now too common style: i.e. McMansions expanding to the very edge of their postage stamp lots, all frosting and no substance. The classic Coronado look is either California Craftsman, with expansive, shady eaves and big wood beams, river rock, and wide porches; or else classic Spanish Colonial, arched doors and windows, shady courtyards, wrought iron, and red tile roofs. Homes that speak of class, stability, and pride. Oh, and astronomical net worth. Can’t forget that. There is more wealth here than most of the countries on the planet.
The Okoye house, no, let’s make that compound, is the Spanish variety. Spectacular colorful mosaics of tile work details the walls, which are all absent of right angles, all curves and rounded edges. The grounds are segmented, forming alcoves and atriums, inviting private contemplation next to gentle, soothing fountains, flowering cactus, and towering fern-like conifers. It has balconies, arched covered walkways and winding paths of dark red Saltillo pavers. Thick exterior walls and naturally cool interiors, a gatehouse. A Pool house for showers and changing, and tented cabanas next to a shimmering swimming pool so long, you try to spot Mark Spitz doing laps. There is a Guest house, and, oh look! There’s a second Guest house, too. And servant quarters on the second floor, over the ample garages, their eight doors of dark wood bound with bands of black iron.
A man in livery admits me. Is he a Butler, a Factotum, a Eunuch, a who knows what? This Majordomo leads me deep into the sprawling home, passing opulent rugs, fine art, beautiful, heavy furnishings.
Finally we reach an expansive room with a towering, vaulted ceiling, a fireplace you could park that big limo inside, and a wall of French Doors on the far wall that opens out to the patio and pool area outside. I don’t know what to call this room. We’ve passed a large dining room already. A living room. A library. A game room with monster screens, a pool table, wet bar, and eight-sided poker table. Another room that must be the den. A second, even bigger living room. Even a huge, wide open room with little furniture - this would probably be called a ballroom. Perhaps because the Padres could play there.
And now, the Grand Vizier delivers me to this final room. I have now run out of room names and can’t even guess what these aristocrats would call it. The Court Jester-King’s Hand-Chief-Cook-and-Bottle-Washer, or whatever he is, nods gravely for me to sit on a leather-covered sofa so long it could function as an air-strip. He procee
ds to the glass doors and goes outside.
I decide to call him Igor.
Igor walks over to an enclosed tent-like cabana (one of several). He stops at the flap and speaks to someone inside, in a manner suggesting The Master is within. He nods with obsequious deference to the instructions emanating from behind the curtain and walks back to where I’m cooling my heels on the runway-cum-sofa.
“Beg your pardon. Mister Okoye lost track of time. If you’ll follow me to the solarium, he will join you in a moment.”
“Should I top off the tank, or is there a gas station on the way?”
Now Igor leads me out to the pool deck, turns right, and I follow him past a gazebo where, I imagine, the New York Philharmonic must give starlight performances on a summer’s eve. I happen to glance back and see Blake exit the cabana tent. He is wearing a silk dressing gown, carelessly over his shoulders like a cape, as he hasn’t put his arms in the sleeves. It’s open in front; I can see his chest (yep, still prime cut), and the Speedo suit (gulp) with his long, bare legs below. He walks quickly in the opposite direction, towards the wing where the bedrooms are; I am guessing.
Just as I start to turn back, so I can follow Igor to the Laboratory, I see the curtain of the cabana tent open again. Out flits a lithe nymphet, as naked as a diet plate of steamed vegetables. She dives gracefully into the pool.
Well. Okay then. At least there was only one.
Time to put my own poolside escapades last night back in their proper context, and focus on business. I’m not going to be competing with Ms. Ariel for naked mermaid of the month.
There is a beautiful brunch spread laid out in the Solarium. The mountain of bacon almost grabs me by the nostrils and drags me to the buffet. But if I could resist the urge to jump on Blake last night, then I can be strong now. I can sit down before my setting of crystal, bone china and solid silver utensils, whilst I demurely confine myself to a cup of the superlative coffee Igor pours for me.
“May I fix Madame a plate?” The aroma of Eggs Benedict, fresh strawberries, and warm croissants tempts me to say A plate? No thanks. Have you got a trough?
Instead, I delicately sip java and reply “I’ll wait for Mr. Okoye.”
“He’ll be along presently.”
“Yes. I’m sure he’ll need some nourishment to keep his strength up, after his vigorous... morning swim.”
Igor melts away, returning to the Crypt, no doubt.
I sip some more coffee.
I want to rip the corners off the fine linen napkin and stuff them into my nose to block the scent wafting over from that buffet table. I try not to look at it, but my neck just pivots anyway, turning my eyes on the feast. Shit, I didn’t even see that mound of lox before. And one, two, three kinds of cream cheese for those assorted bagels? Looks like I won’t be able to pack away quite as much of that French Toast as I hoped. Have to save room for the waffles, or all that whipped cream could go to waste. I am just trying to convince myself that there are actually leather straps holding me to this chair, but I am unable to resist, so I’m half way to my feet, when Blake breezes in.
“Oh, please. Don’t get up”, he says.
Why thank you, your Grace, I keep from saying. “This place is just... breathtaking,” I manage.
“I just love it here.” He sweeps his arm in an arc, as if he personally could conjure miracles from the cool ocean breeze. “We try to spend at least three or four weeks here, every summer.”
“Oh, it’s a Time Share?”
He looks at me puzzled for half a beat, then bursts out with a laugh so genuine and infectious, it sets me off laughing too. “Kira, you are...” He stops, shakes his head. Staring at me with a look that can’t mean what I wish it means. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“Really?” I glance around. “This little cottage by the sea isn’t quite as posh as most of the guys I date, but it’s not bad for a summer place.”
He smiles at that and looks over at the waiting banquet. “We have some Breakfast Jacks and McMuffins. As well as a couple other things there. Have you eaten yet? Can I get you a plate?”
I am out of my chair and halfway to the table as I say, “Don’t bother. Let’s just help ourselves.” At my approach, I think I hear the bacon whimper in fear.
I try to never talk business while I’m eating. It ruins my concentration on the food, not the business. And it does take a while to plow through two helpings. Now, it’s not that I went back for seconds, I went back for variety. It’s just that there were so many choices, there was no way to fit even a taste of each on a single plate. But I manage (with regret) to refrain from going back again, to pile on the “best” of the choices.
I am aware of Blake Okoye watching me eat, with a look on his face that resembled either shock or awe. But what the hell. I figure this job is going to be way over my head, and that I’ll probably never see him again anyway. Not that I couldn’t pull it off with enough lead time. Give me six weeks, I could probably manage a Royal Wedding, but his brother Sebastian is due to tie the knot in only two and a half weeks.
So, after my second plate is empty, clean, and shiny, I ask Blake if he wouldn’t mind moving our location. I don’t add ‘away from the rest of this incredible food’ and there is a trace of amusement on his face; I get a feeling he understands what a distraction that buffet table will be if we stay where we are.
“We can go anywhere you’re comfortable,” he says.
The first thought that flashes through my mind is ‘how about your bedroom’? But instead I say “How about we sit by the pool?”
“Of course,” he agrees, dropping his napkin on the table. He’s up and around the table by the time I start to push my chair back. Which I don’t need to do. He’s already pulling my chair back for me.
“Thank you, Mr. Okoye.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Ricci. Only I thought we settled on ‘Blake’.”
“I guess we did at that.”
“Right this way, then. Kira.”
As we head back toward the pool deck, he walks behind me. Is he doing this to check me out? The silk dress I’m wearing is one of my favorites, and I’m glad I wore it today. It accents my “curvy” figure, revealing shape and proportion without emphasizing size. And I know I look good in it, because Jimmy picked it out for me.
“Shall I have Marcel bring some coffee out for us?”
Marcel, is it? Not Igor. Oh well. “Only if you want it. I’m good.”
“I’m sure of that,” he says.
We settle into two patio chairs so cush and comfy I wish I could take them home for my living room. I’m glad to see the pool is now empty of water nymphs. Good thing she finished her laps.
“I’m curious,” I say before we dive into specifics. “In general, I usually deal with the bride’s family. Or else, with the groom’s mother. I’ve never had a groom’s brother so involved in wedding plans.”
“Ah, yes. In fact, you’ll be working with my mother. It’s just that she’s in New York at the moment. When I told her about Williams and Bartholomew, she insisted on firing them and told me to hire the very best to replace them.”
“And she gets back from New York...?”
He cuts in to tell me. “Tomorrow. She’d like to meet with you.”
“Oh. I see...” So I won’t be working with Mr. Pool Bunny. If I take the gig.
“You’ll love mom. She’s a real hoot.”
“Sounds like my mom.” Which is another problem. My mother. She’s coming out from Arizona for her annual visit in two days. Mom is like a lot of folks in Arizona. Their second home in the summer is San Diego. It’ like the opposite of the Midwestern Snow Bunnies that flock to Arizona in the winter.
“Well, before we go too far, I need to tell you about the logistical problems we’ll have to solve.” And with that, I shift into biz mode. Obviously, the timetable is brutal and even if I could handle the intense timetable, although I have Jimmy working his magic, the biggest problem would be my vendors. That’
s where things can go out of control, no matter how well I do my job. I explained that my responsibility is to plan the overall event, as well as bring in the necessary vendors to handle their specific duties; a photographer, flowers, party rentals, parking valets, bartenders and security guards.
But the biggest problem of all is a caterer. Of course, the Okoyes will want the best, so do I, but with two weeks’ notice? Not possible. The real primo stars are booked far in advance. Some as far out as a year. Any caterer who’d be available on such short notice isn’t going to be top tier, exactly. I mean, I know this barrel. I’ve scraped it before. A ridiculous idea hit me, and I almost laughed. Instead of hiring some bland, lame, C-Team caterer, why not hire three dozen food trucks to pull up. Park them all over the place. Plenty of tasty food, sure. But for THE formal wedding of the year? Not so cool.
Blake listened to all my concerns. Even took notes. When I finished, he looked almost crushed. “Well, obviously we want an event to remember. I understand the difficulties. But...”
He paused. He was looking into my eyes now, so deeply I could have dived in and done the backstroke. “Kira. We’ve only just met, but I can see there’s something very special about you. Something more than mere proficiency. I saw what you did with that cake, for example. Genius. You attack problems head-on. You’re confident, fearless and spontaneous. You remind me of a great general; like Patton. Sure, you can plan the most intricate, meticulous battle plan but when the shooting starts, and everything starts going to hell? That’s when you start to kick ass.”