Chapter 8 Bahrain #3
I’m the heir to Laskaris Publications and will one day be at the helm of a global enterprise of—at current count—twenty-three magazines and newspapers.
My father assumes I will perform adequately in this role owing to the possession of a Y chromosome and the family name.
My mother is more realistic and has been, for the past decade, fortifying the business with an army of people who can field the tricky bits.
She’s like the grim head of a medieval army, readying the castle for impending siege.
Both parents have asked me never to sell the business.
I wish I could promise that, but I’m realistic about how media is evolving.
If things look unprofitable when the somber day comes that I must steer Laskaris Publications, I will leap straight off like it’s a gut-shot horse, lest I be pinned beneath its fall.
Badrick has asserted—and I concede he’s not wrong—that part of the reason for me being an incompetence-feigning wastrel is to annihilate my parents’ confidence in me enough that they sell the business. I do live in fear of the eventual responsibility.
When I was at university, there was a time when my mother hoped I might marry the daughter of our company’s CFO and cement a union that would ensure a stable future for the Laskaris legacy.
And I did fancy Leyla—we dated for three months.
But the last time she directly spoke to me was when she stopped her car on the side of the road during a holiday in Cornwall and directed me to get the hell out, then threw my mobile out the window before screeching off.
At twenty, I already had a well-established pattern with women—lamentably so.
I move to one side of the bar and pull another woodsy-gingery sip of the scotch while my focus drifts across the crowd.
I’m not insensible of my duty to chat up this year’s newest attendees and make them feel welcome and all that rubbish, but it would be easier if they were more interesting.
To say this isn’t the worst party I’ve attended lately is actually an insult; the truly bad parties are far more amusing.
A slim form sidles up next to me in a floral cloud of Miss Dior. I angle my gaze to take in the dress and legs first: textured bronze silk cut well above the knees, perfect calves, and a pair of those dreadful chain-link heels that have for some bewildering reason become fashionable.
“I’ve been looking forward to cornering you,” the woman drawls, low and smoky.
Her accent is American, and for a fraction of a second my heart jolts with the thought that it could be Sage. But of course that’s impossible—the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix is tomorrow, and this voice clearly belongs to an older woman.
As I connect with her eyes, I estimate she’s midforties.
Nicely turned out. Willowy figure with a spill of cleavage disproportionate enough that it’s surely surgeon gifted.
Her face is familiar: sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, coffee-dark eyes adorned with fake lashes.
The one flaw in an otherwise lovely composition is filler-enhanced lips that have been taken too far.
Ah! The woman who dislikes Sage Sikora far more than I ever pretended to. An overcompensating sport-mum with an axe to grind and a brand-new celebrity ally in global gastronomic tyrant Gavin Yates.
She smiles and extends a hand, palm down as if I’m meant to kiss it. I slide my fingers beneath hers and hold just long enough to give some doubt as to my intentions. We watch each other for a few beats, both reading the signals.
“What a bad boy,” she tuts. “Pretending you don’t know who I am.” Her eyes narrow with mischief. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you ‘liking’ my Seychelles bikini photos, or the naked ones from the mud baths in Mu?la, Turkey.”
I give a small hum, as if only just recognizing her. “CJ Ardley, from Sports and Tortes. I hardly recognized you with so many clothes on. Well met.”
“Oh, don’t be naughty,” she says, “or I’ll have to turn you over my knee.” She smirks from behind the slender glass she lifts to those inflatable life-raft collagen lips. Touching her tongue to a bead of champagne, she surveys me. “My friends call me CeeCee.”
“Always a risk to introduce oneself that way. Setting up for an unkind dig.”
“Oh?” she returns, fully at ease. “Go ahead. I want to see that pretty mouth of yours say something a little mean.”
“As you insist: We’re not friends.”
“But we could be.” She leans in, enveloping me in a gust of sugary perfume, peppermint, and champagne.
“We have interests in common, after all. At least one.” She reaches to adjust my necktie in an obvious ploy to make contact.
“Correction: two common interests. I know your reputation. One of them we should talk about tonight, and the other…” Her crimson-glossed smile spreads.
“Well, we can negotiate that as it… comes up.”
For her invitation to be any clearer, it’d have to be accompanied by aircraft-marshalling wands, illuminating the runway to her hotel room.
I’m not drunk enough to take the bait, though I confess to being curious.
But I have a vexing case of Salvia officinalis “love indigestion,” if not outright lovesickness, endlessly replaying every moment Sage and I spent together making those silly videos.
I’m not typically one to dream of specific women, but I do dream of her.
My longing to see her in Melbourne is adolescent in its degree of melancholy.
CJ plucks the glass of scotch from my hand and sashays toward an empty table.
“Shake a leg, handsome. Come sit for a spell.” She toys with the pendant of her necklace, sliding it side to side along the chain as we settle across from each other.
Leaning in with a conspiratorial wink, she begins, “Sooooo, a little bird told me that you got your fangs pulled by Emerald and are workin’ for them to avoid a libel lawsuit. ”
I rotate my highball glass on the linen tablecloth. “And who might I thank for gifting you with this morsel of gossip?”
“Oh, hon… you know I won’t tell you that.
But if you think I’m here to gloat, you can stuff that egg right back up the chicken.
I ask because you’re in a unique position to gather intel from the Emerald camp, and I’m offering to be your gal on the outside.
Pass me fertile dirt over the wall and I’ll plant something that takes root and grows.
” She tips back the rest of her champagne, watching me.
“You’ve probably noticed that my following has taken off like gangbusters since Gav Yates invited me into his circle.
I’m a big ol’ damned deal. A new fork in the road has opened to me.
” She winks again. “Might be fun to have some company on it.”
I tip my head as if I’m bored. “You have an inaccurate view of my situation.”
“Do I?” When she folds her arms on the table, a bulge of tanned cleavage rises.
“So, you’re not working closely with the team’s newest acquisition, the little smart aleck you’ve called a dozen insulting names on your blog?
Well, then.” She sits back. “Silly me. I thought you were champing at the bit to take down Sage Sikora. I don’t like her either, and I think you and I’d make a great team, Al. ”
Indignation and protectiveness spread within me, fast and dark as a summer storm, until I’m hit by the lightning-strike realization that CJ’s assumption isn’t unwarranted. I was horrible to Sage. People’s belief that I want to “take her down” is, in fact, my fault.
Perhaps now I’m also the one best positioned to shield her from harm.
I need to put CJ Ardley at ease so she’ll tell me more about her plan…
“I’ve been critical of Emerald’s pocket-rocket driver, yes.
” I flirt my eyes up, searing into my companion’s with careful intensity.
“And you’re not mistaken: I do have liberal access to the lady in question.
But I’d be a fool not to have reservations about you—a woman with such an obvious personal motive.
You blame Sage for your daughter Maya’s unsuccessful move from F3 to F1.
Perhaps you believe that when Maya lost out on the seat with Harrier, it was the ‘final straw’ that made her quit racing. ”
“That’s a fact, not what I ‘believe.’ Game over, thanks to that tattooed brat.”
In the interest of keeping her on the line, I hold back the mention of what has long been common knowledge in sporting circles: Maya Ardley did not love racing. Her mother bullied her into sticking with it long after her passion had waned.
Seeing the simmering vengefulness on CJ’s face now, it becomes clear to me: Sage’s fiercest opponent isn’t anyone on track.
It’s this fashionable and connected “wronged” mum.
Suddenly, CJ Ardley looks less like a petty gossip and more like a cast member of The Real Housewives of Dante’s Ninth Circle.
She’ll go after Sage whether I’m along for the ride or not.
I can’t let that happen.
I drop a hand over hers. “She is a brat, isn’t she?” I offer conspiratorially. “But you”—I move my thumb in a seductive sweep—“are a very… wicked… girl.”
She freezes, and the anti-Sage fury melts from her expression, softening the lines of her angry mouth into a silky pout. “I’ve been described that way.”
CJ Ardley is exactly the kind of woman for whom it’s foreplay to label her a girl.
Everything in her is perpetually straining toward a youthful recklessness she’s afraid she’s left behind.
If I play this right, she’ll spill her secrets.
I have to know what she’s planning for Sage so I can influence the trajectory.
“If you really think you could do something clever with information I give you, I’m sold. But? You’ll need to trust me and be willing to… take direction.”
Her smile is slow. “I don’t mind having you on top, honey, as long as you know what to do once you get there.”
“Good.” I take my mobile from my jacket and swipe it open to Contacts, then slide it toward her. “Your number, pet.”