The lobster is delicious, freshly caught from the bay. My villa is cooler this time of year but I’m not one to complain after the torturous months of intense heat. My Patek strikes 9pm as the wind sifts through the trees overhead and the sound of our forks hitting the plates rings out across the patio. Cyndi Mason, a girl with dreams bigger than her station is sitting at the opposite end of my long table, anger wrought across her face.
She had been sniffing around the accounts far too much for the big boss’s liking. It was one thing to have some press curiosity, but this girl was tenacious and of course that was not good for business, it wasn’t good for him, it wasn’t good for me, it wasn’t good for the whole operation. So I intervened.
Of course, nothing would have been so complicated if I hadn’t developed some feelings for her. Intelligent, brave and a whole bundle of energy designed for a hundred women wrapped into one. She was a tall girl, dark olive skin, heavy black curls set against her gentle features, a fiery and full bodied American Latina. Wearing one of the Saint Laurent cocktail dresses I had spare in my wardrobe.