Page 1 of The Activist and Her Billionaire

Chapter 1

Jack

Ibuy and redevelop so many properties that I don’t pay any attention to the structures that may be on them. It’s only the land I am after – meaning any existing buildings will be dismantled and demolished to make room for the new improvements.

That is if I don’t have a tree hugger throwing a wrench in the works as I do now. I hear my general contractor, Rory Ricks, cursing over my handheld radio as he tells me all about it.

I had not physically seen the monstrosity known as the Calypso Inn up close and personal before we bought it – nor have I seen it since. Until now, it has just been the subject of unflattering pictures in slide decks for potential investors.

“God damn,” he sputters. I can see his face now. Dollars to donuts, it is red like it always is when he gets flustered.

“We’re going to be a minute,” he says. “We ran into a little roadblock, you might say.”

“We can do a workaround,” I say, not bothering to ask for details. The Calypso Inn isn’t the first property we’veredeveloped; I have seen and heard it all before. This business is not for sissies.

“I will tell the camera crew to shoot some other stuff for the promo.”

“You don’t understand,” Rory replies. “There’s a woman chained to the porch. Says she’s an activist and that she won’t get out of the way.”

“What’s she activist-ing about?” I smile because I think they’re all ridiculous. I am so tired of these types. It’s so easy to waste other people’s money for their cause.

I’ve pretty much bought up or bought out most of the properties in Dove Point. I have lost all compassion for jobless, directionless whiners who need to actualize their self-worth by saving things that don’t belong to them. Trees, buildings, shorelines.

“Remove her yourself,” I order sternly. “What do we care?”

“I’m not touching her,” says Rory. “I’m not sure I am even allowed to look at her.”

“Why not?” I growl.

“She’s naked!” he hollers.

Maybe I don’t want to look at her.

It wouldn’t be the first time activists/protesters stripped for the shock effect on one of my projects. Even though this is southern California, just shy of Malibu no less, where it is a misdemeanor to be unfit, these types take being natural to the extreme. They often have more sags and bags than a lowered sail. I envision a sixties throwback, wiry, uncombed hair, a body wrecked by alcohol and gravity, and sun and salt-cured skin.

I approach the Calypso’s front elevation to talk with this tree hugger myself. For good reason, the building faces the ocean, so from its driveway, I can only see the back of it. I walk around, and I am stunned by the view. And I am not talking about thePacific. That is a view I drive by daily. No, I am talking about the tree hugger.

‘Well, isn’t this shaping up to be a great day? Just what I need to deal with – the press will love this,” I mutter as my eyes fix on a nubile twenty-something body.

The young woman has brilliantly situated herself so that, while indeed naked, she has managed to conceal herself with her long hair and the wall of the porch.

She brings to mind a siren chained to the ancient inn, hijacking my brain. And other parts of my body. She’s likely half my age, but I am neither dead nor married, so I can still look.

“Ho there,” I call out to her.

I don’t know why I am suddenly talking like a 19th-century sailor. But my beautiful fly in the ointment doesn’t take it that way – driving that wedge a little deeper between our generations.

“Who you calling ho?” she snips back.

That tickled even Rory’s funny bone. We both drop our heads and silently laugh.

“I am glad you guys think this is funny,” she remarks, her beautiful face somber with the seriousness of her cause.

I give her one more chance to remove herself because otherwise, I intend to physically remove her from the wraparound porch that had clearly seen better days. For years, the who’s who of Hollywood and the wealthy elite from all over the world walked across to check in – making it one of the first places to see and be seen. Call it pre-social media. The paparazzi camped out daily near the entrance and made their money selling the photos to celebrity magazines.

This self-proclaimed activist looks strangely in place among the elements of nature. The weathered wooden inn, with its curving architecture and blue-trimmed windows, looks like driftwood. Smooth round pebbles and strands of kelp broughtin with the waves litter the front. The overgrown shrubbery contributes to the sense of a bygone glory.

She suggests the image of a sea nymph. Her beach hair looks like sun-warmed seagrass. Her well-toned physical body, which I later learn is earned honestly by her physical labor as a landscaper, is a lightly bronzed work of art. Her eyes are mesmerizing, drawing me as she tries to stare me down. It is an image I won’t be able to unsee – not that I particularly want to.

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