Page 46 of The Cruiser
ChapterSeventeen
With a San Pellegrino in hand,I take a break as Morgan suggested. In a minor funk after Derek’s call, I wander aimlessly along the docks. I don’t know where or when or how the spark between us fizzled. It just did. The sound of a marriage falling apart is a lot quieter than people think and why I stuck around is the same reason everyone sticks around. Uncoupling, as Gwyneth Paltrow famously coined it, is hard.
I’ll get through it. I have to.
Getting through this trip without kissing Morgan again feels like the more impossible task. I’m still buzzing from his hand love, and what is he doing throwing it all back in my face? Things might get messy. The push/pull with him drives me crazy. Finding a quiet section of dock far away from Catch Me, I lean against a pillar to mull things over.
But so much for solace.
Minutes later, a man stomps into my space, talking aggressively into earbuds. Large and sweaty, with intense piggy eyes and owlish glasses, he could be an extra in a Scorsese movie. I’m partially hidden by the pillar so he doesn’t see me at first.
“Why did you engage with her? That’s not the plan. Be a fly on the wall. Right now, the buzz is he defended a woman’s honor. That won’t help, and the asshole also has no idea what honor means. He threatened to fire me.” He pauses, takes a drag of his cigarette. Stomps around some more. “Yes, I know. The hot ones are always the biggest bitches. But remember, she’s the bait. Not the final catch.”
What is up with this guy’s suit? Plaid doesn’t flatter most people, and even TJ Maxx wouldn’t be caught dead selling that highland check.
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” he continues. “I’m working some other side deals for us. Preparing. Uh-huh. Don’t worry, I’ve got a few things planned. This is…” He turns suddenly and startles at the sight of me. “I’ve got to run,” he says to whomever he’s speaking to. “Ciao.” Flicking his butt into the ocean, he eyes me suspiciously. “Buongiorno.”
“Buongiorno.”
Hearing my accent, he clears his throat and continues in English. “I didn’t realize you were standing there.”
He said you with an air of familiarity. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t believe so.”
If he’s twitchy from me overhearing his tirade or it’s his general nature, I can’t say. Whatever the case, he’s itching to get the hell out of here. But something tells me to engage him.
“My name’s Vandana,” I say, offering my hand.
“Hi.” He’s quick to end our handshake and I wipe my hand surreptitiously along my skirt, glad to be wearing black. Sweaty hands gross me out. “Having a good show?” he asks.
“Yes, this is my first time here, actually. I’ve been hired by a Monaco designer to help with public relations. Have you heard of Royal Morgan Yachts?”
“Mmm … no, doesn’t sound familiar.”
“What about Renan Sadik? Do you know him? He’s a designer as well.”
In the slight pause, his eyes narrow. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m wrapping my head around all the players, the names I’ve heard. What do you do in the industry?”
“Uh…” Cuffing sweat off his brow, he says, “I’m a yacht broker.”
“Oh. If you don’t me asking, I understand yacht brokers often work as intermediaries with designers and clients, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“In your estimation, if a client has a choice between one designer or another, and money isn’t a factor, what’s the tipping point?”
His face twitches, a mouse in the throes of cornered, doomed paralysis. I get the impression he’d rather take a bullet than answer. With a tight, unfriendly smile he says, “Pardon me. I have to run.”
And he trudges away, his unathletic stride and weight rocking the dock.
Well, that was something. What an odd man. Morgan said yacht brokers are the ultimate schmoozers, but that guy wouldn’t last ten minutes at a mixer. I wonder who it was on the other end of that phone call. Not the first tetchy conversation of the day, that’s for sure. But if today has taught me anything, it's that the yacht business is fraught with billionaire drama. No shortage of egos or zeros in bank accounts. Budgets higher than most countries’ economies. All day I watched Morgan navigate, and own, the high-intensity meetings. He refuses to fluff up clients. Unless there’s a handshake—a gentleman’s agreement—the deal isn’t his.
Everyone’s hustling.
Behind the gilded curtain of the glamorous yacht industry, it’s a dog-eat-dog world.
