Page 26 of The Cruiser
Morgan, mouth in a joyless line, grumbles, “Let’s get our lunch.”
We wander through the buffet and, once our plates are filled, seat ourselves. The waiter materializes at the right time with San Pellegrino, a bottle of Sancerre, and two wineglasses. We silently watch him serve our water and wine and when he moves on, Morgan focuses on his food, stabbing at some asparagus. I chalk it up to Perla. She’s a couple tables away, deep in a one-way conversation with Gregoire. But she can’t resist scoping us out and has clearly gotten under Morgan’s skin.
“Can you tell me more about the Khaled commission?” I ask, breaking the silence. “From what you’ve mentioned, it’s a big deal and something I should focus on.”
Morgan finishes his mouthful and wipes a napkin across his lips. “Prince Khaled is a Saudi prince. He’s commissioning three boats. One for himself and one for each of his two sons. It’s a spare-no-expense project. A designer’s dream.”
“Are you the recommend?”
“More or less.”
“Which is it?” I press. “More or less?”
He clears his throat, takes a long sip of wine. “That’s one of the reasons why I wanted you here. To help put me in the best position. To win the game.”
“I’m not clear on how the process works. Wouldn’t he make a decision based on your design ideas and cost, things like that?”
“Those are definitely factors,” he answers cagily.
I set down my cutlery. I’ve done the dance with enough clients to know when someone’s sidestepping. “I can’t help you if you’re not upfront with me, Morgan. This is a team effort. I’m only as good as the information I have.”
Under the full weight of my gaze, he shifts in his chair. “I can design circles around anyone. On that basis alone, I should land the commission. The prince, however, is a private and conservative man. He isn’t a fan of … excess.”
Unconsciously, or maybe not, his eyes dart over to Perla.
“I see.” I digest that and all its ramifications. “If I’m understanding you correctly, your personal life might be called into question?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “More or less.”
Like monkeys on a tree.
“It’s not like I’ve killed anyone,” he adds, quick to run defense. “If anything, I’m being judged by jealousy.”
I take in the surrounding tables again, this time with a different understanding. The cool stares. No one coming to say hello. As a hotshot designer, Morgan should be the talk of the town. Instead, he’s a pariah who slayed the wrong conquests and is now paying the price.
“There’s no judgment here,” I assure him. “What you do with your personal life isn’t my business. But when it comes to managing your story, in the public’s eye, it’s impossible to separate the man from the business. Keep that in mind.”
“Right,” he says, flatly. “The public.”
We reach for our wineglasses at the same time. I sip mine, let the air settle without looking at him. But the longer we say nothing, the harder it is to know what to say.
Out of the blue he leans across the table. “Perla,” he says, in a quiet voice. “It was nothing.”
“Like I said, it’s—”
“I know it’s none of your business.” He drains his wine, and the glass lands hard back on the table. “I just wanted you to know.”
“Okay.”
What else can I say to a man explaining away his sexual history? Although it makes me wonder.One hundred percent he’s a player, but he doesn’t wear it like one might expect. Sure, the clothes, the car. I know all about how to look successful. It’s easy to present a facade if no one ever sees behind it. There’s something else with him, though. It all goes back to his eyes. That restlessness.
Unfulfilled.
Seeking.
All that swirling burnt caramel, staring right into my soul.
“Our focus should be on what we can spin into an advantage,” I say diplomatically. “Fill me in on your expansion plans, the award, Khaled.” I reach into my handbag for my iPad. “Tell me what to expect. All of it.”
