Page 50 of The Cruiser
C’est ton moment.
I can do this.
And I do.
* * *
My head’s a mess from the red wine and flowing champagne. Every time I turn around, another glass of something is thrust into my hand. People want a selfie with me. Someone asks who my girlfriend is.
Fuck.
Was it wrong to kiss her?
Olivier’s got me so wound up over Khaled, over keeping my nose clean, the battle to control my brute instincts feels like a thousand tiny cuts on my psyche. There’s only so much restraint in my reserves. At the yacht party, Vandana tapped the well dry. Fucking hell. Her hot mouth plundering my thumb detonated the last of my civility. I’m wobbling on a dangerous razor’s edge of primal need and the consequences are haunting me. And I can’t tell her any of it. Not when she’s going around the room, telling everyone how great I am.
Or at least she was.
I excuse myself from a conversation with a dull Dutch couple and scan every corner of the ballroom. She’s not here. I slip my phone out and text her. Wait. And wait. Nothing. I try calling, but it goes to her voicemail.
Strange.
I shoulder my way through the crowd that spills out in the foyer, the light so much brighter it stings my eyes. The bathrooms are down the hall and I wait outside the ladies’ room for several minutes, finally asking a woman to report back if Vandana is inside.
Upon her return, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. All the stalls are empty.”
I check my phone again, still nothing.
An irrational knot of fear grips my chest just as Marco, the hotel manager, comes over to say hello. He’s been running the show here for years and is a valued friend. In the middle of our pleasantries, Vandana streaks into the foyer from an outside balcony, running down the stairs to the lobby.
What the fuck?
“Vandana!”
She looks over her shoulder, and I never want to see her beautiful face so fraught with concern again. Frozen in that one moment, uncertainty and dread coalesce in one tight ball in my throat.
And she keeps running.
“Excuse me.” I dash past a startled Marco to the top of the stairs, calling her name again. She doesn’t stop.
“Anything I can do to help?” Marco asks, coming up beside me.
The sweeping view of the city is likely why she was out on the balcony, but that can’t be the cause of her distress. Torn between heading there to check it out and following her to the lobby, I offload the trophy into Marco’s arms.
“Can you hold on to this? I’ll be right back.”
I fly down the stairs and through the lobby, my head swiveling in hopes of catching any sign of her. The revolving door spits me outside into the warm, humid night. There she is. At the taxi stand. The relief surging through me leaves me lightheaded.
“Vandana. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she says, on edge, not herself. “I, uh, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head back.”
She’s lying. Like her story about the maid and the vacuum. But why? “Just tell me this is the case instead of running off. I’ll go back with you.”
“No, no,” she insists. “This is your night. You need to celebrate. I’ll be fine.”
Devoid of their usual sparkle, her eyes fill with dark caution and beg me to leave it alone.
But I can’t.
