“Sure have. Then your thoroughbred persona revealed its donkey likeness and our cowboy exhibition was over.” Warner snarled, “Let’s recap.”
“No—”
“You tried to screw my brother.”
“Well.”
“Withdrew funds from my bank account.”
“I hoped to pay you back.”
“You’ve got two hundred thousand dollars you can give me?” He didn’t think so.
“I could.”
“Let’s not forget the biggest shitter of them all.”
“Stop.”
“Faking a pregnancy to secure our engagement.” His hands gripped the phone tight. He didn’t realize he’d get this worked up again over her, but he did.
Rielle released a puff of air over the line. “Why I never…” She cleared her throat, ramping up for a second attempt. “Plenty of time has gone by for you…to cool down. You should be as calm as a June bug, sugar.” Rielle pressed on. “I’m fixin’ to swing by your St. Barth’s home tomorrow. We can talk about us in person.”
“Stay in Dallas. There is no us.”
“I’m not in Texas, baby. I’m at the Delano in Miami.” Amused with herself she snorted, twice.
“You are not welcome here.” Warner leaned close to the desk’s edge. “We have nothing further to discuss, please do not contact me again.” He smiled in hopes she’d hear the sincerity and conviction in his voice and offered, “Have a wonderful New Year’s, Rielle, and a great life. I’m hanging up now.”
“Sugar pie.”
“Goodbye.”
“Warner, I’m coming to St.—”
He returned the phone’s receiver to its cradle and rested his head on the desk.
Warner hadn’t visited Secrète de St. Barth’s in months. Not since he’d called off his nuptials to Rielle. He hadn’t done much lately, spent time with his family in Newport, Rhode Island, toured his hotel properties in Middle and Far East Asia and spent the fall season in his favorite city in the world—Manhattan.
A knock sounded on the office door. “Come in.” It was Kip Von Scott, his general manager.
“My apologies for Rielle’s call,” Kip took ownership of the situation. “Our operator didn’t have your accepted phone number list when she patched her through.”
“It’s okay, Kip. The holidays make people nutty. Rielle would’ve flown down here if I didn’t talk to her.” Warner sat back in the chair as his heartbeat returned to normal. If his ex-fiancée was in Miami and flew to St. Barth’s, she’d arrive in three hours. Assuming she’d probably connect in St. Maarten. He prayed that was just another Rielle threat. He didn’t want to see her face.
“Yes sir.” Kip stepped farther into his own office, which Warner used during his visit.
“It’s nice to be back. Your team has kept the property in great shape.” Like most Manhattanites in his circle, he hated the snow and enjoyed St. Barth’s winters.
“We’re happy to have you with us this week.” Kip glimpsed around, his face showing he was missing his office.
“Thank you for offering your desk up this week.” He smirked. “Who do we have staying with us this New Year’s?”
“The usual. Mr. and Mrs. Hayashis from Tokyo, the Yesikovs from St. Petersburg, Chile’s prime minister is here too. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
It didn’t take Warner’s MBA from Harvard University to ascertain when a property manager answered with a “nothing out of the ordinary” to conclude something quite extraordinary had or would be taking place.
“Why did I see paparazzi when I came into the lobby a few hours ago?”
“Right…” Kip looked at the floorboards.
“Secrète de St. Barth’s retains a strict ‘no celeb’ policy.” Warner didn’t want this location to get lost to the Hollywood drama. He owned a mansion nearby. The island was as much his holiday getaway as his guests who came to relax. Each resort in the Truman Enterprise’s profile possessed different traits and characteristics. For example, Cannes, France, exuded glamour. Bangkok, Thailand, gave outstanding service and this Caribbean castle ranked high in privacy and seclusion.
“Understood, sir.”
“Our shareholders don’t want this property to become one of those types of establishments.” He stood. “They can go to Eden Mal Rock down the beach, but not here.” He pointed out the window.
Warner’s eyes squinted and then refocused. A bright orange racing boat was docked at their pier. Sleek in design, the vessel’s side read in bright yellow “Farnworth Firewater”. Underneath the brand logo was the slogan “Party with our girl Vive”.
What the hell…?
Located on the east end of the island, Secrète de St. Barth’s faced a picturesque beach on a turquoise cove protected from the ocean waves by a coral reef. Voted by Luxury Travel Channel as “the pre-eminent hush-lush hideaway in the world,” guests lounged in their swim trunks, women topless. Royal dignitaries and those born into old money came to Secrète de St. Barth’s to get away from the world. Not to whoop it up.
“I’ll tell them.” Kip turned for the door.
Curious, he asked, “Who is he?” Who’d come to Secrète de St. Barth’s for New Year’s Eve? This property exuded quiet.
“Our guest is a she, three young women registered under an alias. The bellman who took two of the ladies’ bags noted their luggage tags. They flew in from JFK,” he smiled. “It’s Lex Easton.”
“As in the late Eddie Easton’s daughter?” Suddenly, his favorite Eddie song, “Sandman’s Witching Hour”, played in his head.
“The one and only.” Kip’s excitement at her arrival showed on his face. “The press caught them at the airport and followed them here. We sent the reporters away.”
“Miss Easton received quite a raw deal.” Poor thing had gotten ruined in the press growing up. “Who did she fly in with?”
“A real beauty—didn’t give a name. I put them in the Nouveau Beauté suite.”
The Nouveau Beauté suite had been built as an old spa in the 1950s. When Warner acquired the property, he turned it into a villa for hotel guests and designed a new skin and body center adjacent. Secrète de St. Barth’s regular guests didn’t care for the room’s location. Too far from the lobby, they didn’t fancy the walk.