The restaurant with its floor-to-ceiling window afforded a panoramic view of a manicured golf course, a shimmering emerald under the tropical sun. Beyond the golf course, lay the stunning turquoise expanse of Grand Bahama Island bay.
Wobbly on spiked heels, she stepped into the room and glanced around, trying to get control of her nerves. Her misgivings about this scheme flooded her brain circuits like a computer virus. What had she been thinking, pretending to be a suave and dynamic CEO? Yet she had lacked the sense to find out in advance what this reporter looked like. During her prep sessions last week she should have asked Chris to describe the formidable Steve Donovan of the <>Wall Street Business World.
She would just have to guess who was a journalist in this room.
It shouldn't be too hard, she thought. The late lunch crowd was sparse. Nibbling on her lower lip, she surveyed the customers and spotted a likely candidate. A man sitting at the bar having a tall drink with a pineapple and cherry was the embodiment of her idea of a business journalist. He looked like a writer, with his round, doughy face and his wrinkled nylon jacket. On the other side of the room lounged a blond teenaged surfer. Another male customer, white haired and in starched shirtsleeves, was reading a magazine while the chic European looking woman at his table stared absently at the view. Was he Donovan? Not likely.
She turned her head to glance in the direction of the tables set out on the veranda, accessible through a French door. There sat another male specimen. About thirty, she guessed. He was tall, judging by the way his legs encased in khaki trousers jutted out from under the table, and he was wearing running shoes marked with the Nike swish. A lingering look suggested to Mimi that this guy was too physically active, with his taunt runner's body, for the profession of journalism. Her eyes enjoyed their dalliance as she noted how the tanned skin of toned arms contrasted with his white polo shirt.
His hair was the color of espresso and tended toward unruliness over the forehead. His gold-brown eyes, when suddenly they met hers over the edge of a newspaper, were molten. He was not the sort who she would expect to be chained to a computer in a newsroom. That observation, not his inappropriately intimate eye contact, was surely the reason why she turned away quickly and moved toward the pudgy-faced man at the bar. A moment later, she heard her name, or rather, her sister's name called out.