Staying On Top(2)

“Listen, Pierre, can we deal with this in the morning? I’ll send my manager down first thing.”

“I’m afraid not. We’ll need a different form of payment on file.” Pierre grew bolder with each step toward the desk, as though it held some kind of recharging ability. As though he were Superman and that glossy piece of granite and wood represented his Fortress of Solitude.

If I refused, what would he do? Throw us all out on the street? It seemed unlikely. The presence of press would be enough to deter him; the Swiss were notorious for avoiding the kind of tabloid gossip that places such as England and America ate up like shit from a spoon.

Still, it would be better not to chance it. Despite rumors that I had a reputation for taking advantage of my luck with the ladies, I’d managed to stay off the confirmed gossip radar.

Pierre crossed behind the desk, the ruddiness gone from his cheeks and his expectant eyes on my wallet as I pulled it from my back pocket. On the tour and in the tennis world, my rep could be summarized as quick-to-smile and laid-back, but this whole day had made me feel anything but easygoing.

There were four cards in my wallet—three, including the one the hotel had on file, were linked to checking accounts. The fourth was a credit card I used to accrue frequent flyer miles. I had a smaller fifth account that I used for personal expenditures, but that card was upstairs in the safe.

I handed him one of the other bank cards, wondering where this mix-up originated but not too worried about it. I’d let Leo, my primary manager, know in the morning and let him figure it out. I rarely talked to my accountant, Neil Saunders. He was an American but spent tons of time abroad with his international clients, including several other tennis players.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bradford. This one is declined as well.”

“This is ridiculous. Something must be wrong with the machine.” When he didn’t reply, I handed him the last checking account–linked card, unable to stifle my glare.

The flush returned to his cheeks. “I’m very sorry, sir. I’m sure it’s some kind of mistake, but it is our policy to have a method of payment on file . . .”

“It’s fine, Pierre. Just run it, please. I’m very tired.”

Pierre and I both knew that I could cover any bill they could throw at me, in cash even, but apparently policy was policy.

When the third card was declined, the first seed of worry dropped into my gut. There could be a mistake on the part of the hotel, but there didn’t seem to be a problem with any of the other guests. The chances that three different banks on two continents had screwed up my authorizations on the same night seemed . . . slim. Slim to none.

My credit card went through on the first try.

“Well, at least I’ll get the extra miles,” I joked. It sounded strained, even to me, and I hated to show my concern.

Pierre gave me an awkward smile. “I’m sure you’ll get it straightened out, sir. Good luck in the tournament and enjoy your stay in Basel.”

It weirded me out when people twice my age called me sir, employees or not. I might be a millionaire and a third of the way through my career, but I was only twenty-two. Pierre had to be pushing fifty.

“Thank you, Pierre. I’m sorry if I was short with you.”

“It’s not a problem, sir.”

The elevator sped up to the thirtieth floor, the top of this particular establishment. My team of sixteen plus me took up all of the rooms after I paid for two extra to ensure we would be alone. I liked my privacy, and even though the Swiss did a better job regulating paparazzi than most, if I wanted to bring someone such as Chloe and/or her friend home in the next couple of days, I didn’t need it splashed on every blog between here and Hawaii.

Her bright blond hair, full breasts, and pink cheeks flashed in my mind. It would probably happen, if I had the good fortune to run into her again. I had a feeling I’d enjoy taking her for a drive, and also that she probably didn’t mind sharing the wheel. My favorite kind of girl.

It had been my plan to speak with Leo about the initial financial glitch in the morning, but after having all three bank cards declined, I knocked on his door instead of going straight to my suite. He answered in the space of a couple breaths—he barely slept, even though one of his many jobs was making sure that I did.

“Sam. Everything okay?” Leo’s longish blond hair was tousled, as though he’d at least been lounging, his white shirt unbuttoned, his tie askew.

Leo didn’t even have ten years on me, but friendship didn’t accompany our professional arrangement. He saw himself as the one who had to keep me in line, and he’d told me once that it would be harder to do if we went out drinking and picking up girls together. He worried enough for the both of us plus my parents, who didn’t give a shit, and earned big bucks for it.