Page 32 of The Cruiser
This is not the plan, but I know better than to argue with him when he’s in a mood. Ricardo hands me a FedEx envelope from across the concierge desk. I mouth merci in return. “Any updates?” I ask Olivier.
“Not yet. How’s it going with her?” he deflects. “Does she have a handle on things?”
From the lobby, I can see Vandana and admittedly, no one has ever looked so good in my Bentley. Leave it to her to add a ray of splendor to a pile of sheet metal. “It’s going great. She knows what she’s doing.”
He sucks hard on a cigarette. “And you’re behaving?”
“Yes,” I say, annoyed he’s asking. Annoyed he knows me well enough that he needs to ask. That scene in Cannes was absolutely ghastly. I shouldn’t have fucked that woman, at least not in the coat room. But everywhere I went, there she was—breasts bulging, leering smile. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do to get rid of them. Then I find out she’s the wife of some distant business associate of Khaled. In hindsight, it all feels rather suspect. My capabilities are well honed, but she moaned far too loud, as if she wanted someone to find us.
“Speaking of behaving,” I say. “You not coming to Genoa. Does that have anything to do with your debts?”
After a long silence Olivier asks, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“What, are you spying on me now?”
“Don’t be a child,” I grumble. “I suspected. Will your piece of the Khaled deal, if we land it, cover you this time?”
Part of me wants to cover Olivier like I have in the past. The trouble is, he hasn’t learned. Last month I intercepted a phone call meant for him and I recognized the ominous Russian accent. Had to deal with it a few times myself. I offered Olivier a piece of the Khaled commission for this very reason. He’s close with one of the prince’s handlers (also a secret gambling addict) and paved the way for me to be a frontrunner for the commission. But the process seems to have stalled out somewhere. While my extracurricular activities may be partially to blame, my instinct tells me something’s up.
“And if it doesn’t?” Olivier asks harshly. “Am I fired? Is that what this is all about?”
A rush of indignation flares through me. If he was in front of me, I’d slap the glasses right off his curdled nose. “It’s my company. I’ll hire or fire whoever I want. You included.”
“I’ve never done you wrong. Not once,” he snaps back. “I’ve cleaned up countless messes of yours, and as far as my messes go, I’ve paid you back. Every cent.” He bleats a grim laugh. “Your newly hired set of tits has no idea what loyalty means. Remember that.”
He hangs up abruptly, leaving guilt bubbling under my skin. Threatening to fire Olivier was a bullying gesture. He’s as devoted as they come. But the stress of debt can eat away at one’s soul and spur bad decisions.
One can never trust a gambler.
This black cloud hangs over me when I join Vandana back in the car.
“Everything all right?” she asks, immediately sensing it’s not.
I place the FedEx envelope on the back seat. “Just work and such,” I say. “Never a dull moment.”
“I love your building,” she says as I ease back into traffic. “It reminds me of Gaudí.”
Her insight softens the irritation sailing through me. Most women wouldn’t know Gaudí from Gucci. Every passing minute she becomes more intriguing. “If Gaudí were purely a modernist,” I say, with the slightest correction. “In my opinion, he transcends categorization. A true design nihilist.”
“Meaning he rejected all design principles or deemed them meaningless?”
I glance at her with frank admiration. “Precisely.”
“Do you consider yourself a design nihilist, nautically speaking?” she asks.
“In spirit,” I reply. “In practice, there’s only so much latitude you can take in yacht design. A ship is ruled by the laws of water, and the laws are stringent. But I do my best to push the limitations.”
“It sounds like that’s part of the challenge for you. Testing the rules.”
Oh, how right she is. Rules are meant to be tested, just like boats and people. And the breaking points of all three can tell you a lot. I’m so curious what hers are. The pearls, I suspect, are a puritanical front. Run-of-the-mill missionary is a waste with that body. A genuine travesty.
“I’m all about pushing the envelope, no?” I say, and perhaps I reveal too much of my true inner self because she lapses into silence. We wind up the mountainside and out of the principality, toward the A8 motorway. In a few minutes we’ll cross into Italy. The sky is brilliant today, not a single cloud. More yachts than usual dot the Mediterranean, many of them here for the upcoming show. Vandana takes in the view, and I sneak a look at her creamy thighs pressed tightly together.
It’s like a baby’s ass, that skin.
How to win her over?
