Beverly Hills Maasai by Eric Walters Page B

on Koyati’s arm, the one pinning the man—who was now starting to turn a little blue. Hopefully all that running had given him extra lung capacity.
    “I’m okay … Please let him down.”
    Nebala barked out a few words in Swahili. Koyati let out a big sigh, like he was disappointed, and then released him.
    The man slumped against the wall. He rubbed his throat and then took in a very, very loud and deep breath.
    “Are you all right?” I asked.
    “He … he … choked me!”
    “He was just protecting me,” I said. “But let’s not fight about that. We need to talk … well, not me and you. I need to speak to whoever is in charge. Right now.”
    He nodded in agreement. That was smart. At least he was finally scared.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    I settled into the seat. Soft leather. Imported. Expensive. Probably Italian. I looked around the room. The furniture was simple but elegant, expensive, well chosen. One wall was lined with books—probably just for show, more leather. The walls were decorated with artwork, tasteful, understated, the colours working beautifully with both the furniture and the walls. Whoever this office belonged to had taste. And money.
    The door opened and a man walked in. He was in his middle to late twenties. Perfect hair, perfect complexion, perfectly put together designer clothes, matching and coordinated down to his leather Gucci loafers—I recognized them as this year’s most up-to-date style and worth serious coin. I didn’t know who he was, but he certainly wasn’t one of the runners—not with those clothes and those shoes and that sense of style.
    He walked with a sense of confidence. Not a strut, but understated. His walk said, “I’m well respected, well connected, and … well, just plain rich.” I knew that walk. I
had
that walk. Olivia and I exchanged a knowing look—we were getting a good idea now of who we were up against, and we’d met his type before.
    He did a comical sort of double-take when he saw the Maasai standing behind my chair, but he covered it well. Then he flashed a smile—perfect teeth with white veneers. Probably twenty thousand dollars’ worth of dental. He extended his hand to me.
    “Good afternoon,” he sang out. “My name is Dakota … Dakota Rivers. And you are?”
    “Alexandria Hyatt,” I said as we shook.
    “Hyatt?” he questioned. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, be related to the Hyatts of Newport?”
    “My father has cousins. Evan and Eleanor.”
    “Yes, of course. They have a place on the water.”
    “I think I remember my father telling me something about them having a little beach house.”
    “Little? It is
quite
the home.”
    “I guess we all have different definitions of little,” I said, trying to let him know that I was a few rungs up the social ladder from his friends, our cousins.
    “Have you never been there?” he asked.
    I shook my head.
    “I’ve been to a number of summer soirees at their home. Wonderful hosts. I’ll pass on my regards the next time I see them.”
    “Thank you.”
    “It is such a small world,” he said.
    “Yes. Definitely.”
    I inhaled. He even smelled expensive. I thought that I recognized the scent. “You wouldn’t, by chance, be wearing Lalique Pour Homme ‘Le Faune,’ would you?”
    He flashed me another perfect smile. “That is truly impressive. Obviously you are a woman not only of discerning taste, but of fine olfactory talents.”
    “It’s one of my favourites,” I said. “Now my turn.”
    He leaned forward until he was almost touching me. He was so close that I could feel the warmth of his body. He inhaled.
    “Yes, that does smell familiar … very feminine … a certain elegance.”
    I felt myself get a little flushed.
    “I believe it’s Dolce and Gabbana.”
    “Yes, it is!”
    “Our turn to be impressed,” Olivia said.
    He turned to Olivia now, all charm. “My apologies for not introducing myself to you as well!” Dakota said.
    “This is my friend Olivia.”
    They shook