Rich People Problems

Bettina Ortiz y Meña was not accustomed to waiting. A former Miss
Venezuela (and Miss Universe runner-up, of course), the exceedingly
bronzed strawberry blonde was these days the wife of the Miami autoparts tycoon Herman Ortiz y Meña, and at every restaurant she chose
to grace with her presence, she was always greeted with reverence and
whisked to the exact table she desired.

Today she wanted the corner
table on the terrace at Sip Sip, her favorite lunch spot on Harbour
Island. She wanted to sit on one of the comfy orange canvas director’s
chairs and stare out at the gently lapping turquoise waters while eating
her kale Caesar salad, but there was a large, noisy group taking up the
entire terrace and they didn’t seem in much hurry to leave.

Bettina fumed as she glared at the tourists happily savoring their
lunch in the sun. Look how tacky they were…the women overly tanned,
wrinkled, and saggy, none of them properly lifted or Botoxed. She felt
like walking up to their table and handing out her dermatologist’s
business cards. And the men were even worse! All dressed in old
rumpled shirts and shorts, wearing those cheap straw hats sold at the
trinket shop on Dunmore Street. Why did such people have to come
here?
This three-and-a-half-mile-long paradise with its pristine pink-sand
beaches was one of the best-kept secrets in the Caribbean, a haven for
the very very rich filled with quaint little wood houses painted in
shades of sherbet, charming boutiques, chic oceanfront mansions
turned into inns, and five-star restaurants to rival St. Barths. Tourists
should have to take a style exam before being allowed to set foot on the
island! Feeling like she had been patient long enough, Bettina stormed
into the kitchen, the fringe on her crocheted Pucci caftan top shaking
furiously as she made a beeline for the woman with a shock of pixie-cut
blond hair manning the main stove.

It was only then that Bettina noticed three tan, well-built men in
fitted white T-shirts and black Kevlar pants sitting at the adjacent
table. The guys weren’t eating but sat watchfully, sipping glasses of
seltzer water. “I assume that’s the duke’s security detail? They couldn’t
be more obvious! Don’t they know that we’re all billionaires here on
Briland, and this isn’t how we roll?”
*1 Bettina tut-tutted.
“Actually, those bodyguards belong to the duke’s special guest. They
did a whole sweep of the restaurant before the party arrived. They even
searched my walk-in freezer. See that Chinese fellow seated at the end
of the table?”

“Julie, honey, what’s the dealio? I’ve waited more than fifteen minutes for my table!” Bettina sighed to the owner of the restaurant.
“Sorry, Bettina, it’s been one of those days. The party of twelve on
the terrace showed up just before you did,” Julie replied as she handed
off a bowl of spicy conch chili to a waiting server.
“But the terrace is your prime spot! Why on earth did you let those
tourists take up all that space?”
“Well, that tourist in the red fishing cap is the Duke of Glencora. His
party just boated over from Windermere—that’s his Royal Huisman
you see moored off the coast. Isn’t it the most handsome sailboat
you’ve ever seen?”

“I’m not impressed by big boats,” Bettina huffed, although secretly
she was rather impressed by people with big titles. From the kitchen
window, she surveyed the party assembled on the terrace with new
eyes. These aristo British types were such a strange breed. Sure, they
had their Savile Row suits and their heirloom tiaras, but when they
traveled, they looked so painfully frumpy.

It was only then that Bettina noticed three tan, well-built men in
fitted white T-shirts and black Kevlar pants sitting at the adjacent
table. The guys weren’t eating but sat watchfully, sipping glasses of
seltzer water. “I assume that’s the duke’s security detail? They couldn’t
be more obvious! Don’t they know that we’re all billionaires here on
Briland, and this isn’t how we roll?”
*1 Bettina tut-tutted.
“Actually, those bodyguards belong to the duke’s special guest. They
did a whole sweep of the restaurant before the party arrived. They even
searched my walk-in freezer. See that Chinese fellow seated at the end
of the table?”

Bettina squinted through her Dior Extase sunglasses at the portly,
balding, seventy-something Asian man dressed in a nondescript white
short-sleeved golf shirt and gray trousers. “Oh, I didn’t even notice
him! Am I supposed to know who he is?”
“That’s Alfred Shang,” Julie said in a hushed tone.
Bettina giggled. “He looks like their chauffeur. Doesn’t he look like
that guy that used to drive Jane Wyman around in Falcon Crest?”
Julie, who was trying to focus on searing a cut of tuna to perfection,
shook her head with a tight-lipped smile. “From what I hear, that
chauffeur is the most powerful man in Asia.” “What’s his name again?”

CREDIT TO THE RIGHTFUL OWNER OF THE IMAGES USED IN THIS BOOK,