The elevator slows and the doors open revealing a beautiful figure standing in the center of the space. A white dinner jacket, crisp white shirt, black pants and no tie. His blond highlights look lighter from the afternoon sun. Further confirmation they’re natural.
Placing my hands on my belly, I try to calm my nerves. Pushing my shoulders back and lifting my chin, I exit the elevator. As if feeling my presence, Asher turns in my direction. His golden eyes light up as I approach him, and it forces me to stop and take a deep breath.
His lips part as his eyes travel the length of my body, taking in my appearance. He opens his mouth farther to say something, swallows, and then speaks. “You. Look. Beautiful.”
The words travel off his tongue like a song. My favorite song. I wish I could stay mad at him, but against better judgment, I smile back at him and feel my guard being quickly let down.
“Shall we?” Asher offers me his arm. Hesitantly, I take it as he escorts me to The Grove, an outdoor area at the hotel where the cocktail portion of tonight’s event will be held. Retro antiques and lanterns adorn the space, making it overflow with sensuality. Twinkling lights line the palm trees, illuminating the space with a heavenly glow. Waiters walk by with champagne and hors d’oeuvres. After last night’s fiasco, I forgo the champagne. I need to keep my head on tonight.
Asher escorts me around the room, introducing me to Miami’s elite and the many from the southeast region whom Asher invited here for a siesta. Most people have at least a decade on us, yet all show extreme respect for Asher. For someone so young, Asher radiates wisdom and his presence displays authority. People respond well to it.
Our goal for the evening is to solicit large sums of money for the Asher Foundation. Since these people won’t be traveling to New York for the gala, we’re looking for people to promise five or six-figure checks to be presented during the broadcast. For Asher, it’s their way of showing respect. From a producer’s standpoint, it would make for better television if we can display an unbelievable amount on the screen of monies being donated.
Asher makes a short speech welcoming everyone and explains why funding music programs is important. Knowing his crowd, Asher keeps things very professional and speaks in numbers. The number of schools whose music programs have lost funding and the rise in adolescent arrests and drug use, which he feels is because young people need a place to focus their energy after school, and music is the answer.
He gets a huge laugh when he assures everyone their donation is tax deductible, and he seals the deal by discussing the public relations explosion it will be for everyone and their businesses.
When Asher is done he gets a few promises on the spot for sums of money I can’t even believe these people can give up so easily. When people have further questions about the production going on, Asher lets me explain the various elements we have planned and when and where they can see it once it’s filmed.
We continue to circle the room, mingling with guests, but there’s one I have my eye on. One of the out-of-towners. We make our way over to a short, balding man and his well-tanned, ever-youthful wife.
“Oswald Thompson, may I introduce you to Kathryn Grayson. Ms. Grayson is heading our private benefit concert at Lincoln Center. Gray, Mr. Thompson here is…”
“An avid sportsman I understand. Pleasure to meet the man who recently purchased a minor league team. Congratulations, sir,” I say.
Asher gave me a few names of who would be at the event tonight, and I remember Malory telling me about one in particular. I wasn’t about to let Asher take this away from me. I was here to prove myself.
“Thank you, Ms. Grayson. May I introduce you to my wife, Ellie? Ellie has been incredibly bored since we got here. Perhaps you two could enjoy the party together.”
Ellie looks at me in disdain, the same look I get from Heather at the office. I eye Thompson, who has already started chatting with Asher. Accepting his dismissal of me, I turn to Ellie and speak a little louder than usual.
“Ellie, you must be quite impressed by your husband’s accomplishments. Especially his early career markings in the minor league.” I direct my attention back to Thompson. “I understand you had a 1.23 ERA. I heard you have a curve ball that would send the Babe swinging.”
Thompson’s ears perk up, as do his brows. He turns his attention from Asher. “I do know how to throw a ball, but my damn shoulder ended my career.”
“Better off. The way they build parks today, they’re made for homerun derbies with the fences drawn so close. Pitching isn’t the art form it used to be. It’s all about the hitting now.” I’ve been privy to plenty of conversations with my uncles.
“Sports fan, huh? What’s your team?” Thompson asks. I know he’s a White Sox fan from his minor league purchase within the franchise, but I’m not taking the bait. If I learned one thing from Asher, it’s that men of their caliber are tired of being told what people think they want to hear.
“New York Mets,” I say proudly.
“Mets? I thought all respectable New Yorkers were Yankee fans?” Thompson laughs. “At least you didn’t lie to me and say you’re a Chicago fan to get on my good side.”
Asher puts his hand on my back. “If I can assure you of one thing, Oswald, this woman doesn’t lie. That’s why she’s on my team.” The heat of his hand burns into my backside.
Despite my distraction, I try to speak calmly. “Actually, Mr. Thompson, my father was a ball player. Have you heard of Frank Grayson?”
“Holy God in heaven. Your father was Catch Grayson?” Thompson throws his hands in the air in surprise. “Fine ball player. Mighty fine ball player. I saw him in New York right before he died. What an arm. What an arm!”
“Thank you, sir. He was a good man. It warms my heart to hear you speak so well of him.” I will never tire of hearing stories of my father.
“I think this conversation calls for some champagne.” Thompson waves over a waiter and we each take a flute. Once she has a drink in her hand, Ellie looks pleased for the first time all night.
As Thompson and Ellie take a sip, Asher leans into me, his voice low, “Be careful with this one.” He steps back and eyes Thompson. I roll my eyes at him and sling back my glass of champagne. “I can handle it.”
The four of us toast and Asher steps away as Thompson and I spend the next thirty minutes or so sharing sports stories. He asks me what it was like growing up as a kid on the road, and I ask him about his minor league career and thereafter.
The evening is going beautifully until Asher returns, letting me know there is someone he’d like me to meet. His voice is commanding, as if he thinks I’m going to say something wrong to Thompson and he wants me away from him.
“I’ve been enjoying the company of your date, Asher. Where did you find such a woman?” Thompson says.
His lips in a tight smile, Asher replies, “Not my date. Mrs. Monroe here is already spoken for.”
Thompson looks from Asher to myself and then winks at Asher. Their exchange is halted when someone taps Asher on the back. Both Asher and Thompson can’t take their eyes off the busty brunette that enters our circle, and my mouth falls to the floor to see it’s Simone, the woman I saw many weeks ago exiting Asher’s office.
She’s dressed in a skintight fuchsia cocktail dress that leaves little to the imagination. Her long, dark hair cascades down her back, with one side tucked behind her ear. Her hazel eyes look up at Asher and from under her lashes, I can see her giving him “the look.” The one that’s says, “I’m not wearing anything underneath this dress.”
“Sorry to crash your party, but I was hoping for a dance,” Simone says.
Asher looks over from Simone to me to Thompson, his eyes landing back on Simone in agreement. “When a beautiful woman calls…” He smiles and slowly backs away. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Thompson’s eyes are fixated on Simone’s backside. Ellie doesn’t seem to care.