I think we should go around the table and introduce ourselves, tell us a little about you . . . starting with you, Drake.”
“Hi, I’m Drake Whittemore. I’m Ian’s property manager. I was born and raised in Darien, Connecticut. I’m thirty-five. I graduated from Yale. I’m a world-class technical mountain climber, up to 5.10c. I’ve climbed Mount McKinley in Alaska; I placed in the Olympics rowing trials; I’ve placed in the top final heat scores at the ASP World Surfing Tour, the Billabong Pipeline Masters in Oahu and Tahiti, the Quiksilver Big Wave Competition, and the O’Neill Surfing World Cup; I work out five days a week at the gym; and volunteer time helping autistic children. I guess that’s all.”
Drake had effectively let the air out of the men in the room. A pair of Dries Van Noten pants and Gucci-clad feet weren’t going to score a lot of points right now. Drake was everything the other men were not: masculine, honest, and smart. He didn’t have the Euro-sleek look of the other men; but make no mistake, he was strikingly handsome in a wholesome, all-American way. His predatory looks, dark hair, eyebrows that sat overshadowing deep-set eyes and slanted downward in a straight line toward the nose, and prominent, chiseled jaw gave him both a smoldering and somewhat dangerous—shall I say, almost sinister in a sexy way—look. He could have walked right out of an early Ralph Lauren Polo ad.
All eyes went to the next man at the table, Mr. Frenchy.
“I ham Gilles Moreau, I ham six feet tall . . . and eleven inches,” he said with a not-so-subtle wink.
Since we were seated, it was difficult to ascertain how tall anyone was, but it was clear what Gilles was hinting at. Plain and simple, Gilles was cute Eurotrash with a big dick, and apparently a desire to get his hands on a lot of money. He had longish black hair as thick as the bristles of a shoe brush, swept back and up from his face, as if he lived life in a wind tunnel filled with hair spray. His two lips were permanently pursed into a perfect heart shape at the middle, revealing two beaver-like incisors that forced his lips to part in a tempting look of come hither. He had no brutish jaw like Drake. It simply eased back to disappear into his swan-like neck as if it wanted to slip away gracefully, unnoticed. Even though he was male, he had this light, gossamer overlay of femininity.
Gilles continued, “And I am so qualified to be the boyfriend of Ian, I sink zere is no reason for the others to stay! I win!” Gilles laughed . . . all by himself. What might have been a knee-slapper in Paris landed like the carcass of a deer on the table. You could smell the contempt in the room.
Jeremy spoke up, “Anything else, Gilles?”
“No, ze contest is over. I am ze best.”
A very satisfied smile rose in the corners of Jeremy’s face. Gilles was just the match to throw into the ammunition pile. Arrogant. Narcissistic. Sociopathic. “Very well, then, Gilles. Next?”
“I am Aleksei Kikorov. Big surprise: I am a fashion model. I’m currently taking a break from a busy career here in Ian’s house,” he reported dryly without a hint of an accent of any kind—despite the exotic name.
Gilles was not done talking. “You forgot to zay zat you are a kree-stal meth head in rehab here.”
“I have nothing to hide. I have been clean for six months now.”
“Seeex months! They always go back to ze drugs,” Gilles added.
“Gilles, could you just shut that sewer that you call a mouth for one goddamned minute?” Keith MacGregor (name card again) said as he was texting from his BlackBerry phone, not bothering to look up. “Unlike others, I will wait my turn to talk,” he added, raising his eyebrows in unison and nodding his head slightly in the direction of Mr. Eurotrash. “Continue, Aleksei.”
Aleksei continued, “Gilles, I’ve spent sixty days in rehab,” he retorted snottily while taking a rather large gulp of wine. “I’m clean.”
What wine was doing at a breakfast table was a mystery to me, but I did notice that Aleksei was the only one with it in front of him. To be fair to Aleksei, the others merely had Bloody Marys. Alcohol was apparently the one acceptable carb.
“So you drink ze wine now?”
Raised eyebrows from a few guys and some dagger eyes from Keith.
“I was at Beginnings in