Ocean of Love

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.

All rights reserved. No part of this
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Find out more about the
author and upcoming books online at http://
www.susandtaylor.com
or
@romancebysusan

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 fi
nancial
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 deceive 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.