Page 16 of The Cruiser
Gabby is at the front of the cabin, laughing too hard at one of the captain’s jokes. Making a big production of forced gaiety. Poor thing. I’m nowhere near jealous.
“Remind me again who told you that?” I ask.
“It doesn’t—"
“Answer the question.”
He sucks hard on his cigarette. Smoking’s a filthy habit he refuses to curtail, although his greater crime is wearing turtlenecks with plaid suits. “Her business partner,” he says. “I initially suggested Vandana’s husband join her on the trip. You know, sweeten the pot. Apparently, he travels for work all the time and Vaughn said he’d likely not come along. Which means that unless she’s miraculously divorced him in the past week, hands off.”
“I said all went fine.” Olivier’s getting under my skin too easily these days. “She’s sending me the contract Sunday night. I’ll forward it, and you need to wire funds first thing Monday morning.”
“How much?” Olivier the bean counter asks.
“Who cares? Have the jet pick her up on Wednesday afternoon. Call Mirielle at The Bay and book the best suite for a week. And call Marco at the Meliá in Genoa. She needs a room there Friday through Sunday.”
“The Bay? Why not the Hotel de Paris?”
“Because it’ll be crawling with Russians, and The Bay has a more American feel. Just do as I say.”
“Fine,” he mutters, none too pleased with my dress-down. “On it.”
I tip back my drink, draining half of it. “What’s the latest on Prince Khaled?”
Olivier clears his throat. “I’m arranging a dinner for the two of you during the Monaco show. You’re still one of three contenders.”
“Along with Renan?”
Renan Sadik is another childhood friend. Or, should I say, was a friend before familial differences got in the way. Archenemy sounds a bit dramatic, but let’s just say things aren’t gentlemanly between us. He’ll stop at nothing to snag what should be mine.
“If you keep it together,” Olivier cautions, “you have a fighting chance.”
“A chance?” I lash out. “Why the hell am I even doing the dance with the likes of Renan? My work is superior. The prince must see that.”
“Maybe you can try not fucking everything that moves,” Olivier flips back. “Bear some responsibility for your reputation. Your work still has you in the mix, but you’ve made plenty of enemies with your shenanigans. Khaled is ultra conservative. You know that. The rumors after the Cannes show didn’t help.”
“That woman was relentless,” I argue, which isn’t a great excuse but it’s the only one I have. “If I didn’t know any better, I might think someone paid her to chase me.”
Olivier slurps his coffee—always dark roast, black, and cold. “That’s your excuse?”
“Can I help it if they throw themselves at me?”
“Yes, well, I feel your pain, friend. Ladies clinging to your ankles, begging to be fucked. However do you cope?”
He stubs out his cigarette with aggressive, staccato taps. Olivier’s never been thrilled to live in my shadow, and more often than not our communication resembles two stubborn teenagers squaring off against each other at boarding school. Once a decent yacht broker—his connections are why I hired him—I believe his loyalty to me is greater than his hatred, although lately the percentages seem to be skewing in favor of the latter. If anything, he needs to get laid. Except there isn’t much demand on the Riviera for a squat, balding Harry Potter.
“Must you be so vulgar?” I ask.
“For once,” he pleads, “can you not let your dick get in the way of things? Khaled doesn’t want to be associated with any scandals or bad behavior. I told his people we’re hiring the best PR money can buy, and that he’ll be in good hands moving forward. Promise me you will not screw this up.”
The Falcon’s engines begin to whine and I quietly seethe. If he had sewed up this deal ahead of the Cannes show, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.
“From someone who has failed to keep their own promises,” I remind him, “asking me for one is absurd.”
I hang up without saying goodbye. The plane pivots, heading for the runway. Gabby signals me that we’re ready to take off with a smug smile, pleased to see me agitated.
Like she’s not part of the problem.
While we taxi, I stare gloomily out the window. Heat floats up from the tarmac, turning the horizon into rippling abstraction. Soon we’re soaring over the crystal-blue Pacific, banking right for the long journey east. As the jet crosses back over the spaghetti network of Los Angeles freeways, I think of Vandana and my frustration seeps away.
The married thing is a definite question mark in my mind. In my experience, married women don’t take off wedding rings with the same intentions as men, so why was hers off last night? And she didn’t play the married card when I invited her to my room. (Admittedly, that whole scene played out to perfection. Signing the contract was the last thing on my mind, and I deliberately constructed the inquiry to be misleading, giving myself an out, just in case. Far better for her to think she went there.)
I nestle into my seat, drag a blanket over me and dare to dream. Nothing is ever simple when it comes to women and me, and the next two weeks will be very, very interesting.
I’m so sorry, Olivier, but I can’t promise you shit.
