Yahrah St. John - His San Diego Sweetheart

“Sounds like a mighty fine idea,” Vaughn chimed in. “It would be great press for the organization and chapter. Don’tcha think?” He glanced around the table at the other members.

“My skills at handling the press are fully at your disposal,” Joshua DeLong said.

“Skills?” Another member laughed. “Infamy is more like it.” Several other members expressed their amusement.

Vaughn stepped in. “It’s those very same tweets, Instagram posts and Snapchats that have helped connect us with new members.”

“You mean the young whippersnappers who can’t be bothered to be here?” The older man glanced around the room.

“They aren’t on the board,” Christopher responded tightly and Vaughn noticed the firm line across his mouth. “That’s why they have mentors to groom them into becoming leaders. It doesn’t happen overnight.”

“I’d love to hear more about this mentorship program,” Daniel responded. “Do you both have time to discuss after the meeting?” He directed his question to Christopher and Vaughn.

“Absolutely,” they both said in unison.

The chapter meeting concluded soon after and Vaughn watched the other members shuffle out of the room. Once the room had cleared, Joshua spoke first. “Looks like you face the same resistance to change that we’ve encountered in Miami.”

“We do.” Christopher nodded.

“How do you combat it?” Daniel inquired.

Vaughn chuckled, but Christopher responded. “Clearly, we haven’t squashed it entirely. We’ve just had to push forward with our agenda.”

“Attracting younger members?” Joshua offered. “Talk to me about this mentorship program.”

“Let’s retire to the lounge for cigars.” Christopher gestured for the men to walk ahead of him.

The lounge housed several large chocolate leather sofas surrounded by modern and edgy furnishings. The men sat in a semicircle and discussed the future of Prescott George. Christopher offered their guests expensive cigars which another member had brought back from Cuba. Eventually, conversation returned to San Diego’s progress with millennials.

“We’ve had some great events like beachside barbecues, art gallery openings and wine tastings, specifically geared to a select group of young millionaires,” Christopher said. “We have a great artist in our midst, Jordan Jace. You may have heard of him?”

Joshua nodded. “I have his work. It’s cutting-edge.”

“Jace is like a lot of our younger members. They like being part of an organization in a limited capacity,” Christopher responded. “Of course, I know our small-time events are a far cry from the charity galas you have in Miami.”

“Hey, that’s how you have to roll in South Beach,” Joshua replied with a chuckle as he leaned back and puffed on a cigar. “Go big or go home.”

“Our chapter does plenty of good work. We just do it in a less traditional format,” Christopher intervened and Vaughn couldn’t help but notice how uptight the man always was. But that was Christopher; he certainly wasn’t Vaughn’s favorite person after he’d dumped his baby sister Eliza all those years ago. Vaughn didn’t think she’d ever truly recovered. He suspected it was why she’d moved to New York, to have a fresh start and get over Christopher. She was back now and keeping a low profile.

Hours later, after they’d shaken hands with their Miami brethren and given them their best advice, Christopher returned to his office to work on an architectural project, but Vaughn was restless. He hadn’t had nearly enough time at the beach today. He’d gone into Elite’s office early that morning and taken care of some pressing business and hadn’t been able to get out to the beach until the late morning. Then, he’d had to cut his surfing time in half because of the Prescott George meeting. He needed to breathe in some fresh, salty ocean air. Hopping into his Ferrari, Vaughn headed back to his second home, the beach.

* * *

Miranda Jensen sucked in several deep breaths. She was glad the surf god who had majestically surfaced from the Pacific Ocean wearing a snug-fitting wet suit was gone. She colored when she thought about how she’d stared so openly at the magnificent specimen of a man. Unabashedly, she’d watched him glide the zipper of his wet suit down as he’d shaken off the excess water. He had a sculpted torso which had revealed hard, defining muscles underneath and eight, yes, eight-pack abs that were impossible to ignore.

The man was ripped!

His chest had been surprisingly smooth and hair-free and Miranda would have loved to flick her tongue across the brown discs of his nipples.

Sweet Jesus!

What was wrong with her?

She’d struggled to gulp in air as he’d walked straight toward her, never taking his eyes off her. At first, she’d thought he was going to make a pass at her. There was obvious interest lurking in those penetrating dark depths. He’d seen her giving him the eye, but instead of talking to her, he’d kept moving, leaving Miranda to wonder if it was because of her man curse. She was still hypersensitive when it came to men these days. How could she not be? She had a bad track record when it came to the opposite sex and the broken heart to prove it.

Since her breakup with Jake, whom she’d thought was the love of her life, Miranda had had a series of unsuccessful relationships. Jake had unceremoniously kicked her to the curb in a favor of a promising career in Japan with a pretty something coworker he’d met abroad. Her rebound guy, Anthony, was a womanizer and notorious cheat. She’d caught him in bed with one of her supposed friends. The last joker, Chris, she’d dated had only been after her money, ingratiating himself into her family in the hopes he’d hit the jackpot. Thankfully, she’d gotten hip to his real agenda before she’d married him; otherwise it would have been a disaster of epic proportions.

And now all Miranda could hear was the sound of a clock ticking in her head.

No, it wasn’t her biological clock.

It was the timer on her fortune, which was about to slip through her fingers if she couldn’t find a groom. She had her grandfather to thank for putting her in the predicament she was in. He’d passed away a couple of months ago and as a condition of his will, he required that his only grandchild, Miranda, marry by the age of thirty or forfeit her inheritance altogether. If she didn’t marry, the huge sum of money that was rightfully hers would go to one of her grandfather’s charities and forever vanquish Miranda’s dream of opening her own upscale bed-and-breakfast by the ocean. Or at least postpone it.

Fury boiled inside Miranda’s veins.

She valued her independence, but perversely she needed to be tied to a man in order to achieve her personal goals.

But this time love would have nothing to do with it.

Miranda didn’t know if she’d been trying too hard to find Mr. Right. Or whether she was just one of those people who were destined to be alone. Nevertheless, the rejections and lies of her former lovers had hardened her heart. She’d vowed that no man would ever hurt her again. If they were after her money, so be it.

But it would be on her terms.

She’d taken a leave of absence from her job as a hotel administrator in Chicago to go husband shopping. She was hoping to find a man and make him an offer he couldn’t refuse: a marriage of convenience with a huge cash payday.

After her Adonis had come out of the sea, Miranda had left the beach and gone to a nearby café for a cool beverage. It was casually chic and she hoped offered a good drink. It wasn’t like she’d been dressed for the beach anyway. Her lace sheath dress was definitely not beach attire and as for her pumps, she was still trying to get the sand out of them.