Page 92 of The Cruiser
ChapterThirty-Two
MORGAN
“Morgan!”
A door slams, the sound tumbling me out of a deep, REM sleep. Wrapped in my arms, Vandana stirs, a sound of sleepy satisfaction humming on her lips. My morning wood throbs against her, the sublime wreckage of last night burnt permanently in my memory.
“Morgan, if you’re in there, get up.” Three crisp knocks ring out on the bedroom door. “We need to talk.”
My eyes slit open, heavy and thick with sand.
Olivier? What’s he doing here?
“Who is it?” Vandana mumbles.
“Uh … It’s nothing. The cat sitter. Go back to sleep, I’ll be right back.”
I untangle myself from her limbs, from the sheet snaked around my leg. Olivier has looked after the cats on occasion, when my housekeeper is on vacation and I’m out of town; dropping in unexpectedly, however, is not part of our arrangement. I shrug on a robe and find him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a sour expression. Bags under his eyes and fingers in a splint, he looks as rough as I feel.
“Since when do come over without notice?” I ask.
“When did you get so careless?” he demands. “I told you to keep your dick out of it. But no, you had to invent a new Olympic sport in broad fucking daylight.” His phone clatters onto the counter. “Take a look.”
The tone of his voice unnerves me. I pick up his phone, the taste in my mouth fouling beyond red wine and morning breath. I scroll. And scroll. Scroll until my stomach drops out.
Vandana and I on Liberté.
In every position.
And I do mean every.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Olivier snorts. “That’s the understatement of the year.”
“This is a total invasion of privacy. She’ll be humiliated.”
“That’s your concern?” he asks, incredulous. “When Khaled sees this, he’s going to have a heart attack.”
I swallow hard, the scope of this ballooning beyond my comprehension. “I can make this go away. I just need some time.”
“You’re out of time, friend,” he says, his usual scowl sinking into something far uglier. “I told you to keep your hands off her.”
“What’s going on?” Vandana pads barefoot into the kitchen, wearing nothing but my sweater and a look of confusion. She shields her eyes from the bright sun, sees Olivier and stops suddenly. “Hi. Again.”
I look sharply at Olivier, who stares back unblinking. “I didn’t know you had company. And I’m very sorry,” he continues, addressing Vandana. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Yes, we have,” she says, adamant but wary. “In Genoa. You were talking on your phone. On the dock. You’re a yacht broker.”
“This is Olivier,” I tell her, reluctant to inform her she’s mistaken. Not when she radiates with such certainty. “He didn’t come to Genoa, remember? He was ill.”
Vandana stills, the way people do when told improbable facts that tilt their entire world. “You’re Olivier?”
“I think there are more pressing matters to deal with,” says Olivier as he tilts his head toward the phone.
Vandana’s soft, trusting eyes find mine, searching for understanding. She gave herself to me last night in a way few women do, a passage into surreal depths I’m still spinning inside of.
“We can manage this,” I say lamely, handing her the phone.
