Page 83 of The Cruiser
“How is she?” Khaled’s voice tightens.
“Stable,” he says. “We have her on oxygen, and her heart’s weak but strengthening. She made it here in the nick of time.”
Khaled lifts both hands to his mouth and asks quietly, “Can I see her?”
“Yes, but only you.” The doctor gives me and Morgan a sideways glance. “And from the viewing room.”
Khaled shakes Morgan’s hand one more time and insists we use his driver to take us home. He thanks me again with a solemn nod and I get the sense this isn’t a total departure for him, females orchestrating the night’s biggest pieces. I guess Dorothy’s bit of intel about his mother proves right after all. Given what I’ve heard about Saudi men and their controlling tendencies over women, no wonder Frankie wanted Dorothy to keep that tidbit on the down low.
Image is everything.
After Khaled and the doctor disappear into the bowels of the hospital, Morgan rakes both hands over his hair and exhales loudly. “What a crazy night. I can only imagine what it’s been like for you.”
“I haven’t even told you about the ridiculousness with the hotel staff.”
“You should see her in hotel,” Perla chimes in. She’s filing her nails, watching the drama unfold. “Tough girl. Not taking no for an answer. Directing everyone, including me.”
Morgan gazes at me, full of warm respect. “I want to hear the whole story over drinks. Or have you even eaten yet?”
On cue, my stomach rumbles, loud enough he hears it. “I haven’t and I’m starving. I’ve been waiting all night on pins and needles.”
“It went well tonight, really well,” he says, and reveals that Frankie Delmar shared some last-minute insider info that he spun to his advantage.
“And all this?” I ask. “It won’t set things back?”
He kisses me softly on the lips. “If anything, you might be the winning card.”
Across the room, Perla smirks at me. Cat’s out of the bag. Let the gossip commence. Morgan, noticing my smile, cranks a look in her direction. She sticks her tongue out and makes a funny face.
It’s a night of truces, for old battles and new.
“She’s not so bad after all,” I say.
Maybe they won’t be full friends, but halfway there is better than being enemies. Finding my hand, Morgan squeezes it tight. “Let’s say goodbye.”
* * *
Khaled’s driver drops us off at The Bay. Morgan had plans for us to paint the town, but we're content to chill and regroup. I'd prefer not to show my face again in L'Orange Verte, but as luck would have it, its the only restaurant that can seat us. After bringing me up to speed on tonight’s meeting with Khaled, Morgan watches my demolition of a rib eye and pommes fritesin quiet astonishment.
“I thought you were just being polite eating two bowls of Maman’s bourguignon,” he says.
I swirl a last fry through the remaining steak juice on my plate. “Are you kidding me? That was delicious. I almost asked for thirds.”
By now it’s late, and the restaurant is cleared out except for a few stragglers. Two pimply-faced busboys start clearing nearby tables. They’re having a good old time talking about something.
When a laugh bubbles on Morgan’s lips, I nudge him. “What? What are they saying?”
He brings a finger to his mouth, a silver cufflink refracting light into my eyes. “Shh.”
The busboy with bad posture yanks out my Agent Provocateur thong from his pocket, dangles it from his finger like it’s a stinky fish, and then chucks it across the table. His co-worker picks it up, sniffs it, and laughs uproariously.
“Oh shit!” Horrified, I burrow my face in Morgan’s shoulder. His chest ripples from the effort of trying not to laugh. “Don’t you dare say anything,” I threaten.
Their crude laughter and discussion continue, and I don’t ask for any translation. Not based on Morgan’s endless chuckling.
“You’re certainly leaving your mark everywhere in Monaco,” he teases.
“Hey!” I slug his arm, with juice.
