Page 72 of The Cruiser
“Very down-to-earth guy,” Frankie agrees. “Tough as nails in negotiations, but fair and diplomatic.”
Morgan and I share a sharp, sideways glance. I decide to go for it. Why not? “Morgan’s one of three designers in contention to build some yachts for the prince.”
“Oh, really?” Frankie’s gaze cuts to Morgan. “He talked about that a few weeks ago. His sons are positioning themselves to have the biggest and the best, just so you know. Who else is he considering for the project?”
“Renan Sadik and Christof Weimar,” Morgan replies.
“Hmm. I don’t know either, but we can put in a good word for you, if it’ll help.”
Dorothy leans in to whisper, and I can see her at some high society dinner, tipsy on French 75 cocktails, spreading gossip like butter on toast. “I’ll tell you a little secret about the prince. He adores his mother, and she weighs in on all the important decisions. I bet she’ll have a say in this.”
“Hon…” There’s the Frankie warning again. TMI.
I dive back in to seal the opportunity. “Your support would be great. Morgan’s meeting with him tomorrow. Make sure to mention his yacht just won the design award in Genoa.”
This brings the conversation back to why we’re here. Two hours later, we’re full of wine, lobster salad, and yacht details. Morgan is armed with enough information to begin a design brief for the Delmars. Dorothy ran a little wild with grandiose ideas, and I suggested letting Morgan sit with all the details before committing to anything.
After they leave, we soak in the good fortune of a multimillion-dollar commission. “I really like those two,” I say. “They’re solid.”
“You are incredible,” he says, his head shake more admiring than his words. “How you handle people. Far better than me.”
I smile shyly, caught off guard by how this warms me. “Thank you. It’s all about knowing when to push and when to pull back.”
He finishes up the last of his sparkling water with a telling smile and I understand where his mind just went. Mine’s been there most of the day.
“How did you figure they were in the market, that night at the yacht party?” he asks. “I couldn’t get past the jeans.”
“The diamonds she was wearing were real. And she had a Coomi. It’s a thirty-thousand-dollar handbag.”
He nods approvingly. “Good eye.”
“And the way she looked at all the details … I just had a hunch.”
“You’re very interested in the details. Knowledgeable, too. It makes me think you’ve done design work.”
“I have. I took a design course after Stanford. The plan was to pursue interior design and then I met Vaughn. But I designed our house and Sevruga’s offices.”
After hearing our house, his expression flattens out. A beat passes as he fiddles with his napkin, folding it, unfolding it. “I’d like to see your work. I’m sure it’s impressive. Have you ever thought about pursuing design?”
“Not as a full-time career. I’m too busy with PR.”
“And you enjoy it?”
“It has its moments,” I answer truthfully. “Although I find the creative aspect of interior design fulfilling. Having something concrete at the end to show for all the work.”
Folded into a perfect fan, he plunks the napkin in front of me and smiles. “Agreed.”
The waiter comes around and asks if we’d like anything else. The lunch crowd has thinned, enough time passing that the light outside has changed. With the bill paid and bellies full, there’s no reason to linger.
I gather up my handbag and make a motion to leave. “I should finish up the press release for your award. I’d like to get it out before four. Do you mind dropping me at the hotel?”
“Before we go…” His head swivels, taking in our immediate perimeter. I can tell from the lines around his mouth he’s got something on his mind. “You’ll probably disagree, but I’d like you to think about bringing some sort of action against Renan. He’s known for that kind of behavior and with the video, you can present a case.”
“Oh.” Wasn’t expecting this. “Well, I don’t know the first thing about Italian law.”
“Finding a lawyer isn’t a problem.”
It’s a thing for him now. Only I don’t want it to be. Yes, I’d love Renan to face the bleak walls of an Italian jail cell, but he’d probably get served Chianti and the finest cheese. And I’ve heard the rumors. On the surface, Italy is a beautiful wonder. Underneath is a chaotic, bureaucratic mess. I have no aspirations to get stuck in the mire.
