Page 31 of The Cruiser
“It was popular in Europe. It’s set in the era of Julius Caesar’s reign,” I explain. “A group of villagers living in coastal France who drink a special potion for powers to avoid being conquered by Caesar.”
She laughs. “That’s a comic? It doesn’t sound funny in the slightest.”
“They are. Far cleverer than your Archie and Veronica.”
“I don’t know if that’s the greatest comparison,” she admits. “I always felt the competition between Betty and Veronica wasn’t a healthy example for women.”
“Archie was a fool for not marrying Veronica,” I say. “Betty was a bit of a doormat.”
She swivels to face me. “Ouch.”
I’m careful not to ogle at the dress hem riding up her buttery thighs. The sight of all that skin sends me spinning like a satellite kicked out of orbit. It took all my restraint not to shove her up against the door of her room and plunder her right there.
“I know what you’re thinking about,” she warns, catching me when I do in fact, ogle. She primly tugs the hem lower.
“Can you blame me?”
“Do me a favor and forget about what you saw, okay?”
“And how do you propose I do that?” I ask.
Those lush lips of hers press together in a moment of strategic thought-gathering. “I’m sure it’s within your power,” she says. “And besides, I saw you half-naked, so … we’re sort of even.”
“Have you already forgotten?”
It’s a throwaway question, one I know the answer to. In the hotel hallway, I tracked her eyes all the way down to my belt buckle. But I don’t mind a bit of cat and mouse. Especially when I’m the cat.
She gives me a long look. “In America, we have this saying—quit while you’re ahead.”
I try my best not to smile. Vandana attempting to command the situation is admirable and unnecessary. The morning has already exceeded my expectations. The boat show season is a time of high stress. To feel relaxed, buoyant even, is highly unusual. But as I veer onto Avenue de Costa and catch a glimpse of the crowd on the Casa del Caffe patio, my mood slips a notch. Every morning, Olivier pounds back espressos at an alarming rate at this neighborhood haunt. Very strange not to see him here. I texted him earlier to see if he could grab the package for me, but he never responded. Unusual, since we’re both making the trek to Genoa today.
I’m still mulling over his recent absentee behavior when I pull into my apartment roundabout.
“This is where you live?” Vandana cranes her head for a better look at the dramatic white tower that licks the sky. In a municipality where everyone jockeys to outdo each other, Le Simona apartments are a definite statement piece.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Leaving the engine running, I dash into the lobby. Ricardo, the volatile Cuban concierge, argues with one of the cleaners again. He’s a passionate fellow, one of those old-school fascists who believes revolution is romantic and dirt is unbecoming, and takes an autocratic tone with just about everyone.
“Monsieur de-Rohan Chabot,” he says, relieved to see someone who doesn’t need reprimanding. “Un moment.”
He limps back into his booth to fetch my delivery. Depending on his mood, the story behind the limp involves fighting insurgents or a nasty fall while attempting to tango. Either way, I appreciate a good storyteller. It’s a skill I don’t have. As a child, I preferred drawing or building to speaking.
Olivier is the people person of the company. Or so he claims. Waiting for Ricardo, I slide my phone out of my pocket and try him one more time.
“Hi,” he says, coughing loudly.
“Good morning. Are you on the road?”
“No. I’ve come down with a fever and hanging back. But the team has everything under control.”
“What?” I ask, more worried than before. “This is crunch time.”
“I’m doing okay, thanks for asking.”
Here we go. Always the drama queen, Olivier. “I’m not suggesting you’re lying, but—”
“I can still handle things from here,” he interrupts.
