“Why are you so cheerful?” I asked crabbily as we emerged from the plane into the morning sun. “It’s, like, 2AM our time.”
“Well, you gotta remember that for me, the party usually doesn’t even get started until 2AM, so this is nothin’.”
“…great,” I muttered.
The five-star hotel was amazing, and the king-size bed was sooo calling my name – but stupidly, I’d cut things too close to our first meeting. We were supposed to have lunch with some local startup CEO in thirty minutes, so we basically checked in, dumped our bags, then left.
“I need a yacht,” Vic said on the limo ride over to the restaurant.
“No,” I said as I stifled a yawn.
“I’m not kidding you, it’s part of my image.”
“No.”
“I’m telling you – ”
“NO. Stop asking. That’s an order.”
Vic accepted it with surprising good grace – which irritated me even more. Of course, when you’re jetlagged and running on a couple of hours sleep, everything irritates you.
The CEO was waiting for us at the restaurant, which was modern and elegant with stunning views of the city. It also had the sort of menu prices I wouldn’t have paid even for my own 50th wedding anniversary dinner.
The CEO’s name was Ramit. He was Indian with a British accent, and he wore an expensive cardigan and stylish glasses. He looked very intelligent.
So it was a huge surprise that the first thing he did after we all introduced ourselves was to ask Vic for a selfie of the two of them. Vic, of course, happily complied.
Even more surprising was when Ramit asked, “Why haven’t you been posting on Instagram lately?”
Vic turned to me dramatically. “Yes, Monica, why haven’t I been posting on Instagram lately?”
I muttered something about being very busy.
“You still have the yacht, yes?” Ramit asked in concern.
“Yeah, sure. I wanted to sail it over here for the meetings, but – ” Vic made a slashing motion across his neck and whistled like Unh-unh. “The bean counters said no.”
I was moderately grateful that he didn’t ‘out’ me as the bean counter in question.
Ramit was not happy to hear the news.
“Dude!” he exclaimed.
Hearing an Indian internet CEO say ‘dude’ with a British accent is pretty strange.
Even weirder was what came after.
“I know,” Vic lamented.
“So you don’t have a yacht here?”
“No.”
“But that’s your thing!”
Vic looked at me pointedly, even though he was still speaking to Ramit. “I know!”
I glared at Vic. “Did you set this up?”
He just grinned. “No. I swear.”
“Set what up?” Ramit asked, confused. If he was acting, he was very, very good at it.
“Never mind,” I said with a forced smile.
“How long are you staying in Europe?” Ramit asked Vic.
“A couple weeks. Maybe longer.”
“Uh,” Ramit said in dismay. “We have to get you a yacht. I have a friend, he’ll loan you his in a heartbeat. I think he’s across the Channel in France right now, but he could get here by tomorrow. It’s not quite as big as yours, but – ”
“That’s so nice of you,” I interrupted, “but we can’t do that.”
“Sure we can!” Vic beamed. “Tell him I’ll pay him whatever he wants.”
“No, no,” Ramit said, waving his hands. “I know him – it would be his honor to loan it to you. All he would ask is that you throw one of your famous parties on his boat and that he can be there when you do.”
Vic looked at me silently and grinned from ear to ear.
I just sat there and wished I’d never left the freakin’ airplane.
“I can come too, right?” Ramit asked.
81
Vic
I got my boat.
Not through Ramit – although he was instrumental.
He got up at one point to use the bathroom. As soon as he was gone, I looked over at Monica like, SEE?
“Fine,” she grumbled. “But not his friend’s yacht. You pay for it, and I’ll see if your uncles will reimburse you. And no parties. At least, none of your type of parties.”
I actually was fine with that. I liked that she was jealous about me and other chicks – but I teased her all the same. “Even if it sours the deal with Ramit?”
“If Ramit won’t commit to a deal because we didn’t put him on a boat full of hoochies, he’s not the kind of person we want to be in business with.”
“Just so you know, you’re cutting out my number one negotiating tool.”
“You’ll have to do with number two, then.”
“Number two are strip clubs.”
She glared at me.
“Kidding, kidding,” I grinned.
Not really. Number one through four all relied on half-naked women… but I figured I could drop down to number five and still be okay.
I had to tell Ramit sorry, that we’d party next time I was in Europe. He was understandably disappointed, but I assured him if we did business, I’d come back to celebrate the deal any way he wanted.
We signed him before lunch was over.
And I got my boat.
82
Monica
Okay, I’ll admit, having a yacht in Europe is pretty awesome.
We rented it in Italy on the Amalfi Coast and spent most of the time going up and down the coastline. We visited the Isle of Capri, Lacco Ameno, Sicily, the ruins at Pompeii, the coast of Spain… it was an absolute dream vacation, punctuated only now and then by flights to European cities.
Actually, three-fourths of the business meetings actually happened on the boat. As soon as our potential clients heard Vic had a yacht in the Mediterranean, they fell all over themselves hinting at how they would love to come visit.
Ugh. Men.
The only people who didn’t froth at the mouth were – naturally – female CEOs. Plus the occasional guy who was just too snowed under with work to leave town for longer than six hours. Those guys were almost crying in despair when they ended the phone calls with us.
All in all, the whole yacht thing worked out amazingly well. It was Vic’s idea to tell the CEOs we would send a private jet for them – which really sold the idea that Cortelian Capital was doing incredibly well and increased the allure of doing business with us. We had to fly down three or four CEOs at a time to make it economical, but the CEOs didn’t mind, and it sort of turned into a huge networking event for them, too. Everybody was delighted.
Well, not everybody.
Vic’s uncles adamantly refused to pay for the yacht, then complained about how much money we were spending ferrying people all around Europe.
After we sealed three of the first five clients, though, they stopped complaining.
The only reason we didn’t go five for five was the first couple of visitors were dismayed that there wasn’t a party going on with half-naked women.
Seriously.
So after some more badgering by Vic, I relented. He could bring classy models onto the boat – fully dressed, no bathing suits, no nudity, no boozing, no music – just while the CEOs were present. After that, the women had to leave.
He agreed, and put the call out on his Instagram account with all the stipulations about no alcohol or partying, and they had to be classy the entire time.
I have to say, I was a little dubious that he would get anybody. I mean, we were in Europe, and he had all these rules –
A hundred women showed up at the docks the next morning. Some had flown in from as far away as Iceland.
Yeah.
He picked fifty and sent the rest packing.
And the crazy thing was, he didn’t even pay the ones we used. Not with money, anyway. He took group pictures and tagged them all in his Instagram posts, and they were deliriously happy.
“Why?” I asked, dumbf
ounded.
“Because they’ll all pick up an extra ten to twenty thousand followers now,” Vic explained. “That’s why they’re doing this – to get more famous. Well, internet famous, anyway.”
Ah.
Not to mention they got to mingle with millionaires and billionaires, who were exceedingly happy to conduct meetings with supermodels sitting on either side of them.
Ugh. Men.
As far as Vic was concerned, though, I was surprised how much of a gentleman he was the entire time. Women threw themselves at him continuously and shamelessly – which drove me nearly insane with jealousy – but he always rebuffed them politely.
When pressed by both CEOs and models, he would explain he had a serious girlfriend now, although he never said it was me.
The ‘girlfriend’ shtick stirred up all sorts of mixed emotions I didn’t expect.
Amusement that anybody would believe a womanizer like Vic would ever have a girlfriend.
Wistfulness that I wasn’t actually his girlfriend.
Disgust with myself for entertaining the thought of wanting to be his girlfriend.
A certain amount of fear that the idea was even remotely appealing to me.
There was one more thing, something I’m not proud to admit.
Having all those women beautiful women there hitting on him stirred up a lot of jealousy inside me.
A lot.
He knew what he was doing, though – I’ll give him that. I hate to say it, but… jealousy gets me hot and bothered. And I think he knew it.
I would see these little model things hit on him all day, which made him look even more desirable to me – but also make me angry and agitated. When he would say ‘no’ to them, I would immediately think, That’s right, bitch – he’s MINE.
Yes, I’m embarrassed I thought it… but it’s true.
And every evening after I booted the models off the boat, I would drag him into the bedroom and vigorously reassert my territory.
The sex was super-hot – and not just because it was always great with him. There was also some extra sort of psychological thing going on. I was irrationally, emotionally over the top, and I didn’t know why.
Yeah, I was into Vic – but it was like I wanted him more because everybody else wanted him, too.
After years of womanizing, he knew female psychology like the back of his hand. And he was probably using his superpowers on me.
That pissed me off… but damn if it didn’t work. Sometimes I wondered if he hired the models just to get me worked up in bed so we would fuck all night long.
Bastard.
…but I’d usually forgive him by the third orgasm of the night.
83
There was one night I didn’t, though.
We had docked off of Ibiza. Vic had over a dozen prior visits under his belt, so he was my tour guide. Sightseeing during the day, followed by dinner and drinks (lots of drinks) at one of the best restaurants on the island. Then we hit one of Ibiza’s most exclusive nightclubs.
It was fun for an hour or two – laser lights and millions of soap bubbles are pretty awesome when you’re tipsy – but the crowds were overwhelming, and I was basically done by midnight.
It didn’t help that he was getting approached for selfies by every other person at the clubs. Especially barely clothed women.
“Can we go back to the boat?” I asked.
“Whaaaa? It’s early! The party’s just getting started.”
I raised one eyebrow. “I’d rather have a private party.”
“Ohhhhhhh,” he said with a delighted grin. “Well, in THAT case…”
By 1AM we were sitting on the deck of the yacht, our legs hanging off the side, looking out at the lights on the shoreline and listening to the muffled music in the distance.
“What about that private party?” he asked.
“This is it.”
“I was kind of expecting there to be fewer clothes involved.”
I laughed, then quoted his own words back at him: “It’s early. The party’s just getting started.”
“Why’d you want to come back so early?”
“Isn’t this better?”
“It is, but we could do this any night. You’ve never been to Ibiza, right? I thought you’d want to see what it’s all about.”
“I saw enough.”
“Enough what?”
Maybe it was the alcohol that made me be honest. “Enough women hitting on you.”
“I thought that was it,” he said with a touch of smugness.
I smacked his shoulder. “You’re an insufferably cocky bastard, you know that?”
“And that’s what you love about me,” he said with a grin.
“No, I hate you,” I said playfully.
“Yeah?” he asked, his voice low, as he moved his head closer to mine.
“…yeah,” I said, my body tensing with anticipation as his lips drew within an inch of mine.
“Yeah, well… I hate you, too,” he whispered, then kissed me.
That was a good day.
And the night was even better, once the party got started.
84
Then there was the day I got the call from Spence.
Vic and I were lounging off the crystal blue waters of Amalfi when my cell phone rang. I saw who it was from and excused myself to take the call.
Dad had had another attack turning the night. Nothing serious – he was fine now. But Spence had decided it was a good pretext to harangue me about money some more. We fought for about five minutes until I literally hung up on him.
When I returned to the lounge chairs, Vic lowered his sunglasses and looked at me. “You okay?”
“…yeah. I’m fine.”
“That Sal?”
“No.”
“So…?”
“It’s personal,” I said, a little too abruptly.
“Hey – if I don’t get to sleep with anybody else, neither do you.”
“I’m not sleeping with anybody else.”
“I know – it was a joke.” When I didn’t answer, he smiled kindly. “You just seem down, that’s all.”
Then he replaced his sunglasses and went back to soaking up the sun.
I looked at him.
Could I trust him?
Would it bring him down if he knew?
Would it ruin whatever this thing was that we had going?
All I knew is that I was feeling a tremendous amount of unhappiness and stress, and I wanted to talk about it to someone… but there wasn’t anyone.
No one but Vic.
Before I knew what was happening, I’d opened my mouth. “It was my brother. About my dad.”
He looked over in concern. “Everything okay?”
I hesitated… and then it all came rushing out.
“No. No, it’s not okay. He’s really sick.”
“Cancer?”
“No, it’s this medical condition called ankylosing spondylitis. It’s a genetic disease where your spine creates too much bone tissue and all the vertebra start fusing – but his is worse. He has an incredibly rare version where all of the bones in his ribcage are fusing. It’s hard for him to breathe and it’s really painful for him to move. He lives in a hospice because he has to have 24/7 medical care.”
“Shit,” Vic murmured. “Sounds awful.”
“It is.”
“You said… it’s genetic?”
I knew exactly what he was getting at. It was a question almost everybody asked when they found out.
“Yes, but I don’t have it, and neither do my brothers. We’ve all been tested. My mom apparently had a dominant gene that stopped it from happening to us.”
“Wow. It must be tough on your mom, seeing that happen.”
“She died when I was a teenager.”
“I’m sorry.”
I just nodded mutely. I felt so sad, I didn’t know what else to say.
“Is he okay?” Vic asked.
I frowned at him.
“No. It was about what it’s always about. Money,” I said glumly.
“Ah… that’s why you need this job so bad, huh?”
“Yes. Round-the-clock hospice care is expensive.”
“I’ll bet. Is there a cure?”
“No. There’s some research, but… it’s so rare that nobody does a whole lot about it.”
“You know, I’ve got some contacts in the medical world. I could check it out for you, see if they know anybody.”
I looked over at him in surprise.
“Hey, doctors like to party, too,” Vic said.
That wasn’t what had surprised me.
It was how sweet and considerate his offer was.
But I don’t think he realized that, because he kept prattling on. “Rich ones, especially. I know some of the best surgeons in the world – I’m sure they could hook you up with experts on… ankle…?”
“Ankylosing spondylitis.”
“Yeah, that.”
“We couldn’t afford them anyway.”
“Don’t worry about it. They’ll do it for free.”
I looked at him again in surprise.
“Doctors like to party,” he said by way of explanation. “Hey, you know, you should talk to my uncles. They could probably help out with the insurance or payments or something. I could talk to them for you, if you want – ”
“No. That’s really sweet of you, but… no. I can handle it.”
He was silent for a second, then he added, “And… you know… I mean, I’ve got some extra cash lying around. I could loan you some if you need it – ”
“NO. That is incredibly generous, but no. The job will pay for everything… but thank you.”
“Okay. Well, if you change your mind, just let me know.”
“Okay.”
I couldn’t tell Vic that his uncles already knew about my father, and that they were using the entire situation as a gun to my head to get their way. I knew if I did, he would confront Sal and Frank and potentially blow the whole thing up. I needed the money, so I had to play his uncles’ game, no matter how distasteful it was.
Strip Poker: Bad Boys Club Romance #2 Page 22