“Will do.”
“And find out at what point those ratings dropped. Which show tanked? Call me back.”
“Will do.”
He clicked off the call and tilted his head back, letting the sun beat down through his Bugatti sunglasses. Fucking hell. With ratings down, he was going to have a hell of a time convincing Logan Hawkings that starting up a new cable channel aimed at white-collar businessmen and executives was going to be worth his while.
Not that Rob couldn’t bankroll it himself. The billions in his bank account said differently. But he wanted Hawkings’s stamp on it, because Hawkings knew everyone in New York City and had a lot of cachet that Rob didn’t. People respected him and his business.
They didn’t respect Rob’s, no matter how much money it made him.
Most of the time he didn’t give a shit. Notoriety had made him as much money as anything else. And if he’d made his fortune capitalizing on cable channels and radio networks designed for the average joe, so much the better. So some of his shows weren’t exactly aboveboard. So what. Tits or GTFO was still popular. As long as there were girls with low self-esteem wanting to get on camera, they’d make money.
And he wouldn’t feel bad about it.
It wrecked his social life, but he’d just cry into his piles of money. Every woman that was even halfway interested in him wanted his wallet, or to be on one of his shows. The only girls he seemed to attract anymore were vapid idiots like the two currently making out and cavorting in the water in front of him just to get his attention. Didn’t care, really.
Rob took the drink that Blonde Number One offered him and tasted it. Strong, just the way he liked it. “Thanks, sugar.”
“So,” she said, giving her body a little wiggle to get his attention. “Think I’ve got what it takes to be on one of your shows?”
“Maybe,” he said absently, taking a bigger swig of his drink. Christ, that was really strong. He took another swig, because why not? He needed to get good and drunk. Two fucking ratings points. Jesus.
The other girl swam up next to him. “I heard you did lines off of Tiffany West’s stomach in Cannes,” she said with a sultry smile.
“Did you? How nice,” he said flatly. He didn’t even know who Tiffany West was, and he sure as shit didn’t do drugs. Alcohol was easy. Drugs just made you end up as someone’s prison bitch. He gulped the drink again, pleased that an alcoholic buzz was kicking in. He’d had three of these babies already, and number four was going to get him good and toasted. Which was a good thing, if ratings were down.
The busty blondes weren’t leaving. One swam up to the side of his raft, nudging it further out into the water. She smiled up at him. “Wanna do lines off of my stomach?”
“I’m busy.” Another call was due to come in any minute now.
“I can save the good stuff for later, if you want to party.”
Fuck that. Party of one in his raft, right here. He tossed down the rest of his drink, enjoying the burn it left in his mouth, and handed it off to one of the girls who watched him expectantly. When they didn’t go away, he looked back over at them. “How about you and you,” he said, pointing at both of them, “go do lines together and leave me the fuck alone?”
One of the blondes gave him a furious look and stormed away. The other wasn’t quite so nice. She huffed up, her fake breasts rising, and then gave his raft a vicious shove.
Rob flipped over and landed in the water, head going under.
Fucking perfect. His head spun and he resurfaced long enough to glare at the women who left. One of those two was going to buy him a new Bluetooth headset, so help him—
One of his legs cramped up, shooting pain through his muscles. Rob bobbed back under the water, thrashing. It was like his leg had locked up. Combine that with his spinning head, and he couldn’t quite get his bearings. He dragged his hands at the water, but only succeeded in getting a mouthful of brine and even more turned around. The current ripped at him, stronger than he’d ever thought. He pushed against it, but he still couldn’t find the surface, and now the water was dragging him farther away from the shore. Huh. Riptide. He thought you had to be farther out for those sorts of things. His lungs were aching, and he tried to push his head back above the water, but it seemed farther and farther out of reach.
Goddamn it, was he going to drown on the beach of someplace named Seaturtle Cay? Really?
But he couldn’t find air. Reflexively, his throat worked and salt water filled his lungs, his mouth, his nose. He choked, and the world started to go black. He was really, truly dying. His last thought was that he’d be in the tabloids for forever now—legendary for drowning in a few feet of water at the beach.
More blackness filled his vision, then red . . . and white polka-dots.
Polka-dots?
A strong arm grabbed him, and suddenly Rob’s face was hauled against a pair of breasts. Real breasts. He barely had time to process this before more darkness swam through his mind, and he followed it under.
“Breathe,” a voice shouted in his ear, and then lips pressed against his mouth. Air pushed into his lungs—and fuck, that hurt like hell—and suddenly water was coming up out of his throat and his nose and he turned his head to the side, vomiting salt water. His head ached in the most blisteringly awful fashion, and those white polka-dots were swimming in his vision again. But there was sand under his back, and slowly, blearily, he focused his eyes.
An angel bent over him on the beach. An angel with a faint peppering of freckles across her nose, a strong jaw and messy, wet, blonde hair, and dressed in the ugliest polka-dotted swimsuit he’d ever seen. And she was smiling down at him.