"A Ting for the lovely lady over there, please?" the man paused, considering. "And one for me as well," he continued. "Thank you."
The waiter glanced in the direction of Jackson's gaze, hesitated slightly, but then walked away politely to comply with his guest's wishes.
Jackson Headman leaned back in his chair and watched the woman to whom he was referring seated demurely at one end of the long bar. She had distracted him from his own dark musings about the shabby state of his marriage back home and he wanted to reward her for that. She had nursed her second drink carefully and seemed to be more lost in thought than she was ignoring her companions. She had smiled warmly and greeted several patrons as she had glided into the crowded establishment half an hour earlier, catching many eyes; but then she had not said a word to anyone except the bartender or to the occasional man brave enough to approach her. To them she was gracious, but in the end, dismissive. She did not seem to be the aloof type; she had been friendly enough; it was just that she hadn't initiated any of the brief conversations in which she had been involved and she seemed very skilled at getting the other patrons to speak to each other rather than to her. Jackson continued to be curious about her, since she was as attractive as anyone whom he had met in life.
His eyes raked the generous curves of her body under the festive floral wrap-around skirt and fitted halter-top blouse. Jackson was impressed because it meant that her massive breasts were still quite perky since she couldn't have been wearing a bra. The slight twitching of her body that accompanied the beat of the music drew his eyes to her shapely, sandal-covered legs that tapped out the rhythm of the pulsating reggae music that floated away on the soft Caribbean breezes.
He wanted to meet her; he wanted to know why she wasn't wearing a wedding band – yes, he'd checked – he wanted to know if she had just followed the way of many of the people on the island, not to get married, but to have steady, stable, not-available-to-you-thank-you-Mr. Headman relationships nonetheless. He'd noticed the respectfully friendly way in which the barman and some of the other patrons treated her, she was obviously a regular, yet she hadn't had an alcoholic beverage that Jackson could notice.
The waiter called out Jackson's order to the barman, they both grinned briefly at each other and then the barman poured the Ting and slid it neatly along the sleek, black, granite counter top right in front of Jackson's intended conquest.
She looked startled when Jackson's gift appeared, but turned at the waiter's discreet nod to see who had bought her drink. Her smile faded slightly when she saw Jackson, but then she seemed to relent a little and raised her glass in salute. To Jackson's surprise, after a moment she spun around lazily on the stool and walked over to him. Jackson's eyes watched the hypnotic, sensual sway of her wide hips and he found himself salivating. She would have been an eyeful even if she weren't so exotic. Her chocolate-coloured skin, high cheekbones, slanting eyes and long dreadlocks spoke of the ambiguous ethnicity of most Jamaicans today, while her shapely rounded limbs, big breasts and narrow waist that flared out into wide child-bearing hips spoke of the allure and strength of the women of the island for centuries past.
"Thank you for the drink, Mr. Headman," the woman said in a sultry Jamaican accent. She had a very slight trace of amusement in her voice which caused Jackson's cock to twitch. "Actually, it is I who should be buying you a drink."
Jackson's eyes widened when she addressed him by name. He couldn't believe that he could have forgotten meeting her before.
She laughed, sexily at his obvious confusion. It was clear that this had happened to her before.
"I saw you when you checked in yesterday. Most people don't notice me, but I make it my business to notice each of my guests."
She extended her hand to shake Jackson's and cocked her eyebrow, asking for permission to sit next to him. Her grip was firm and professional.
"My name is Ayanna Maxwell, and this is my place," she explained simply.
Jackson's eyes opened wide.
This
was the person who owned the resort in which he and his crew were filming! Unbelievable! Jackson knew that he was being a little sexist and so he was ruthless in squashing the thought that she didn't look like the sort who would be able to run a multi-million dollar enterprise that was beginning to enjoy a global reputation after only ten years. It seemed that the enigmatic phantom behind the
Ambrosia
brand name was far more of a mystery than anyone had realised. Jackson searched his mind to review what he knew about her and could come up with very little although her brand's name was everywhere. That no one could understand why she hadn't taken her company public, that she was a recluse and that she was divorced were all that he could come up with. Now he speculated idly about how she had managed to thrive in the cut-throat business that was world tourism.
Jackson had heard that A.J. Maxwell's reclusive persona was carefully cultivated, and now he could guess why. It was more than a marketing strategy. The balls-of-steel CEO of
Ambrosia
looked like one of the exotic dancers whom she hired to do the nightly cabaret shows. It would have been difficult to take her considerable business acumen seriously, or even imagine that she had any at all, if he had seen her before he knew of her growing reputation. Her looks were very likely her best asset in the boardroom, not because she would sleep her way to the top, though she probably could, but because, on the contrary, they probably distracted her competition long enough for her to sign the many advantageous deals that she must have made for her fast-growing company.
Suddenly, the relatively easy receipt of the permission to film at the resort, the fact that she had come over to thank him personally for the drink, and even more so that she had told him who she was, all seemed more sinister than they had moments before. Jackson made a mental note to call his accountant in New York and ask her to look further into the vague rumours that he had heard about the planned expansion of the Maxwell Empire.
He had been cautioned that A.J. Maxwell wanted to go into movie-making when he had first announced that he wanted to film on location in Jamaica. He had been told that his was the kind of sole proprietor operation that the company went for and that they weren't kind to those whom they had decimated. He had laughed at the suggestion that a small island company could make a move on 15 years of his hard work. Wasn't the Jamaican dollar weak? Who was she trying to be, Disney? Yet somehow, having met her, his instinct told him that it was true, she had decided to make a move to acquire his company.
It was in her eyes; they didn't smile at him as brightly as her mouth did. It was always a give-away. Jackson decided to play along. Never let your adversary know that you had joined the game. It was how he had succeeded in life himself. Ayanna Maxwell excited him terribly already. He almost laughed aloud.
"Ambrosia is beautiful, Ms. Maxwell," he began graciously, leaning in to be heard over the din of the I-Threes' stage show. "Your staff has been excellent! I am very happy that we chose to come here! Filming went very well today and the set up for tomorrow is already done. That's why the team and I have come to enjoy the ambiance of the rest of the place tonight."
Regardless of who she was, and what she likely had in mind for his company, Jackson knew already that he wanted to sample her delights. Somehow he knew that the way to this woman's bed would be through her head. Her ultimate strength would be her Achilles heel he knew. Ayanna Maxwell would pride herself on the excellence of her company and so flattery of that, rather than of her, would have a better chance of achieving the desired effect. He spoke the truth though. The dense tropical jungle with roaming, wild animals and carefully non-Western theme of the place was just what he needed during the day; but the blend of that with exotic, scantily-clad women, world music: reggae, afrobeat, samba, high-life, flamenco, son and merengue during the night took him far beyond his fantasy into other places that he did not dare dream of when with his wife and friends.
"I should like to thank you for the warm welcome that we received yesterday. It was far beyond anything that we could have anticipated. So, would you allow me to take you to dinner?"
The woman said nothing, but seemed to consider her words carefully. Her features hadn't changed very much, but Jackson knew that she was annoyed.
Jackson continued, forestalling her refusal. He knew that she would want to be firm but kind with him. He stifled a smile ruthlessly when the image of himself as a naughty schoolboy awaiting an over the knee spanking from a scantily-clad and bespectacled Ayanna-Maxwell-look-alike teacher, popped into his head.
"It wouldn't be a date," he said quickly, just so he would not break into a smug grin at his private thought. "It would just be the meeting for dinner of two CEOs doing business together."
Her eyebrows lifted a little at that; and even Jackson cringed at how that must sound to someone like her who was probably hyper-sensitive about her sexuality. He could guess that she was itching to ask if he would have invited her to dinner if she were a man – he wouldn't have – but that would have sounded petulant and defensive and so she had to bite her tongue and take another route to extricating herself. The die was cast however, his invitation on the table, so he had to wait. Would she back off from the impending take over? Would she withdraw her attentions from him? Would she punish him for daring to notice that she was pretty? Jackson loved playing chess and these live matches were his favourite.
The woman regarded him suspiciously for a moment, but then seemed to take him at face value. Jackson wasn't sure if he should be annoyed in turn by that. He waited, calmness personified.
"That's very flattering, but I'm sure you realise that I cannot afford to, shall we say, fraternise with my guests, Mr. Headman. That would be bad for business!"
