Staying On Top (Whitman University)
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chatper 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Thank You!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright 2013 by Lyla Payne
Cover Art and Design by Eisley Jacobs at Complete Pixels
Copyediting: Lauren Hougen
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
To Andrea, who has been my best friend for almost thirty years. There has been laughter, hurt, understanding, exasperation, and love, which all add up to a friendship that has shaped my life.
I hope it continues to do so for years to come.
Chapter 1
Sam
“Are you Sam Bradford?”
This was getting to be too easy. I didn’t know how that made me feel.
I closed my eyes and counted to five. Ten or twenty would have been better, but that seemed like a long time to ignore someone. She sounded pretty, with a lilting, hard-to-place accent—probably Swiss. I guessed tall and blonde, maybe brown eyes, and found exactly that when I swiveled on the bar stool to face her.
“Oh, you are. Hi. I’m Chloe. This is Vera.” She jerked her head toward the shorter, less attractive brunette standing a foot behind her. “I’m a huge fan.”
They were always huge fans, just not usually of tennis. Girls were fans of things such as the shoes Nike had given me for the season, the way my hair curled in the humidity, or maybe the way my abs looked when I changed out of my sweaty shirt on court. And normally, I didn’t mind. Chloe was confident and beautiful, as Swiss girls tended to be, but I’d hoped getting to Basel a few days early would help me avoid the groupies.
Of course, bombing out of Valencia in the second round had helped my early arrival along.
I slid off the stool and dropped some euros on the bar, then grasped her hand. It was warm and soft, everything a girl’s hand should be, but I couldn’t muster the interest. For all the fun that went along with not having a commitment, lately the shine of the single life had started to wear a little thin. “It’s nice to meet you, Chloe.”
Disappointment shone in her dark eyes. “You’re leaving? I was hoping to buy you a drink.”
“If I didn’t have to go, I would buy you a drink. No way would I let such a beautiful woman pay for booze.” I winked and gave her a smile. A pretty blush crept across her pale cheeks, almost changing my mind. “Will you be attending the matches next week?”
She nodded. “Yes. My father’s company is one of the sponsors.”
“Well, then I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.” I let the double entendre sink in, enjoying the glow of hungry excitement on her face. “Have a lovely night, ladies.”
I traded the overly warm interior of the bar for the chill of October in Switzerland, barely glancing at the scenery. The thing about traveling constantly was that every place started to feel the same. Switzerland was beautiful and friendly, and was actually one of the places on my list to consider settling down one day, but tonight a soft hotel bed was all I wanted.
Only a few weeks remained before professional tennis’s paltry six-week off-season, and I needed it more than ever this year. The injury my obliques sustained in Melbourne had healed by spring, but a rough five-set semifinal at the US Open had me hurting again in a way that begged for a long rest.
I felt tired—exhausted by the travel; by the practice and play; by women; by my small but invasive circle of friends, managers, and trainers; and by my bloodsucking family. It was impossible to recall the last time I’d been alone. I don’t think it had ever happened.
The windows of my hotel, a posh five-star job that cost me thousands of dollars a night after putting up my publicist, manager, coaches, and trainers, glowed in the Swiss evening. The silence of the empty lobby loosened the tension in the back of my neck. As I reached for the elevator buttons I was thinking maybe one drink from the minibar, then bed, when a throat cleared behind me.
Not again. The tournament didn’t start for two days—who would have guessed there would be so many women lurking around already?
It wasn’t a hopeful girl, though. The desk clerk’s face shone with a light sweat, his eyes flitting from the floor, to me, to the front desk, before settling on his toes. His white-blond hair made the redness of his cheeks even more prominent, and his sweat, along with the way he licked his lips, infected me with nerves.
“Mr. Bradford?” He licked his lips again, then darted a glance at my face.
“Yes?”
“There, um … seems to be an issue with your credit card. If you would care to step over to the front desk, I’m sure we can make other arrangements.”
“What kind of issue?” The travel weariness sank deeper, burrowing into my bones.
“It’s been declined by the bank.”
“That’s not possible.” I had no idea what my limit was except that it was extremely high—maybe nonexistent, and I spent so much money on a monthly basis on training and travel that there was no way to keep track of my balance. I had an accountant and he hadn’t given me any indication of a problem. “Did you try it again?”
“Three times, sir, and we called. There are no funds available.” He stepped to the side, motioning to the front desk. The harsh lobby light glinted off his gold name tag, catching his name.
“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.
“I don’t know. The hotel clerk stopped me on the way up and said the credit card on file had been declined. They even called the bank.”
“Probably a mistake. I’ll check with them in the morning and get it cleared up.”
“That’s what I thought, but none of the bank cards would go through. They took the credit card, so we’re fine, but something is definitely going on. I’d prefer to check on it now.” It would be harder than usual to sleep, worried that I’d be humiliated trying to grab a café in the morning.
Leo opened the door wider in silent invitation. I took it, sinking into the chair next to the windows and rubbing my eyes.
“You look tired. Grab a beer from the bar if you want. You need to use these couple of days to rest up.” He grabbed his phone and scrolled through numbers. “I’ll give the banks a call.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“I have contacts, Sam. That’s what you pay people like Neil and me for, remember?”
I shrugged, knocking the cap off a Heineken from the bar and taking a pull. “Thanks. I’m sure you were probably getting ready for bed, too.”
“It’s fine.” He held up a hand, then switched seamlessly to French as he spoke into his phone. “Hello? Yes, may I speak with Herbert, sil vous plaît? Merci.”
Someone, I assumed Herbert, came on the line a moment later and I tried halfheartedly to follow the conversation as they continued in French. I spoke some and understood more, same with German, but my Spanish and Russian were flawless. Most of my close friends on the tour were Spaniards, and my last two girlfriends had been Serbian. Aside from that, it was hard to spend as much time in foreign countries as I did and not feel at least a little obligated to learn.
Leo frowned and lowered his voice. I gave up trying to follow the conversation, more tired than ever. When he hung up a moment later, he immediately dialed another number.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Let me just make sure we have the facts straight first.”
The next conversation took place in German, and then a third in English. That one was the shortest—apparently midnight customer service was harder to come by in the United States than abroad. It didn’t surprise me. Leo left a message for the district manager at Chase and then hung up.
His face looked paler than when he’d opened the door. It worried me, especially because Leo took care to maintain a little too much of a tan, in my opinion.
“What’s going on, Leo?”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, running hands through his hair before looking me in the eye. “I don’t know for sure. We’ll have to get in contact with Neil first thing in the morning. I’ll leave a message with his office in a minute.”
“Okay, well what do you think is going on?”
“The accounts at BNP and UBS are empty. The funds were withdrawn by wire transfer at ten p.m. Eastern Standard Time and sent to an account in the Caymans. Untraceable. I assume we’re going to find the same at Chase.”
About halfway through his speech, the words started to sound far away, as though Leo shouted them through water. My brain and lips felt numb. “How much?” I managed.
“Thirty million, give or take.”
Leo sounded as though he were going to throw up. My stomach didn’t disagree. Thirty million dollars. Gone.
“There shouldn’t have been so much in those accounts. It’s supposed to be invested—I thought they maxed out at a million each.”
“Your investment accounts must have been moved back into your checking and then withdrawn from there. It would have been easier that way—the investment firms would require fewer authorizations since it was going to another account, not being liquidated.” Leo ran a hand through his hair. “Sam, you’re fine. You need to focus on tennis; let me worry about this. We’ll get ahold of Neil in the morning and I’m sure we’ll get all of this straightened out.”
I nodded, still feeling like this must be happening to someone else. I was far from broke, but losing thirty million would be a huge blow. As I lay in bed, trying to force my eyes closed, I told myself there were years left in my career. If my goddamn abs would heal up, I could make it back.
Depending on what we found out from Neil, that could end up being my only choice.
Chapter 2
Blair
“I am so freaking ready for winter break.” Audra tossed her cherry red hair into a bun, then fell backward onto the bed in a dramatic pose that would be more at home on her brother’s girlfriend, Ruby, than the levelheaded, even-keeled girl I’d met when we both pledged Kappa Chi.
It made me smile, even though my mind struggled to bounce back from the phone conversatio
n I’d wrapped up with my dad a few minutes ago. “Why? Missing the motherland?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not Russian, Blair.”
“I know. I just like saying it.” I grabbed my Ethical Theory textbook out of my backpack and went back for my notes. “Are you going home?”
“I think so, yeah.” She didn’t look terribly excited about the prospect.
“Logan staying stateside?” I guessed.
Audra’s cheeks turned pink and her hand curled around her phone. “Yes. He’s going home to Connecticut.”
Something about Audra’s boyfriend rubbed me the wrong way. Not having an actual reason to dislike him, however, I kept my negative thoughts to myself. She seemed happy enough. We were only nineteen, and she was my sorority sister, not my actual sister.
“Well, I’m sure you guys will talk as much as always. So, like, a hundred texts a day, average.”
Her cheeks reddened further. “Shut up. I can’t wait until you meet someone you actually like so I can dish all of this shit back your direction.”
“Fat chance. The guys on this campus are a dime a dozen.”
“True. If Zachary Flynn couldn’t hold your attention, who could?” she mumbled, looking down at her phone when it buzzed.
I didn’t bother to answer. She wasn’t listening anyway, and I didn’t want to talk about Flynn. I had liked him. He hadn’t been bad in bed, either, but his notoriety had made me uncomfortable. It had been easy to convince myself it was no big deal, but the first time camera flashes had blinded me coming out of a restaurant, the lies had blown up in my face. Maybe it was because of my dad, or how he’d brought me up, but being noticed—or worse, remembered—gave my hives. Literal ones.
“I’m going to the library,” I said, grabbing my textbook and iPad, then shrugging into a jacket. Seventy degrees meant a slight chill in Florida, and even though I’d grown up in Manhattan, it hadn’t taken long for my body to adjust to the balmy Southern weather.