The Monte Carlo Shark: An International Legacies Romance Page 12

  It takes me a moment, and I’m ashamed to admit that it’s only Magnus’ earlier insinuation that leads me to the correct conclusion. Once again, my mouth drops open.

  “You’re a…a..?”

  She chuckles before taking a sip and swallowing. “Welcome to Monte Carlo,” she says, lifting her glass.

  “Should I just assume every woman in this city is bought and paid for?” I won’t allow myself to think about the fact that I very much fit into that description.

  “Are not we all in one way or another?” She asks, tilting her head and taking another sip. “You are an attorney, right? At some big firm in New York? How much of yourself do you sell on a daily basis?”

  I’ll just ignore that uncomfortable thought.

  “What did he pay you to do?”

  She sets the glass down and pulls at the sides of her black dress as she curtsies. “French maid. Depressingly cliché but common all the same. Especially when they hire a girl who, how did you put it? Parlez vous English with a proper French accent?” She laughs. “At least this one was a nice change of pace from the norm.”

  “I doubt he paid you just to deliver dresses and ask what I’d like for breakfast.”

  “He is still my employer,” she hints, saying nothing more.

  I wait, until I realize she’s not about to rat him out. Then I laugh.

  “Here’s the thing, Lisette—if that’s your real name—I’m also employed by him. In fact, I’m going to be meeting up with him tonight. I can tell him what a wonderful job my French maid is doing…or I can tell him that she fucked up on the job and accidentally let slip that she’s quite fluent in English and somehow knows all about me.”

  Her eyes slowly narrow, more filled with animosity. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  She sighs and finishes her drink in one gulp, setting it back down hard enough to clank loudly. “I do not know anything. I’m just supposed to report on things I overhear or see or…” she shrugs as though to finish that thought.

  I tilt my head to consider her. “How much is he paying you?”

  “Not nearly as much as he’s paying you,” she says with a cynical smirk.

  I think about the ten million dollars. “How do you know how much he’s paying me?”

  “I do not,” she says with a shrug, then flashes a devilish grin before looking around at the luxurious suite. “But I do know he is very interested in you, and that must be worth something.”

  I straighten up and cool my gaze. “I’m Magn—Monsieur Reinhardt’s attorney.”

  She laughs. “All when you could be so much more.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Something in her eyes flashes, and she seems to remember herself. “Nothing.”

  “Don’t hold back now, Lisette. By all means, spill all your worldly wisdom on me.”

  Now, the fear hits her eyes. “I should go.”

  A sudden bout of sympathy hits me. Whatever her role, she doesn’t deserve to incur the wrath of Magnus, especially considering what I know about the man after last night. Specifically, how he deals with people who cross him.

  “Never mind,” I say with a sigh of resignation. “You can go.”

  “You are not going to tell him about...?”

  “No, no, of course not,” I say, waving her off.

  She visibly relaxes. “Merci, Mademoiselle.”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Do you still want breakfast?”

  I look at the menu she placed on the bar to pour her drink and laugh at the absurdity of the request.

  “You know what? I think I do.”

  She laughs with me, no doubt feeling her own sense of the absurd and hands me the menu.

  Ten minutes later, my eggs Benedict with mimosa and coffee are ordered, and Lisette is gone. At least I have some semblance of an ally in these murky waters I find myself swimming in.

  My eyes fall to the rack of dresses, and I think back to Magnus's suggestion that his original date for tonight was a prostitute—maybe something more, considering the ridiculous fee she was (is still) getting.

  I’ve obviously chosen the wrong profession.

  I walk over to the rack and pull out the gold dress. It’s a strapless, floor-length silk number.

  Normally, I’d never choose gold. I’ve always considered it too flashy, especially contrasted against my dark skin tone. I lay it against my arm, considering the color in a new light.

  Magnus was right. Looking at it a certain way, it is flattering, especially with the dull metallic glow of this fabric. I pull it off the rack and walk over to the mirror over the credenza by the door, placing it against myself.

  It’s glamorous, certainly more than anything I’d ever consider for myself. Where would I wear it? In New York, the most formal thing I get invited to is the Douglas & Foster Christmas party.

  I think about another thing Magnus said, and for some idiotic reason frown at myself in the mirror. Why wouldn’t someone consider me a prostitute—specifically one earning twenty-thousand euros a night? It’s a shameful thought, but one I can’t shake, and I know exactly why.

  Growing up, I was never one of the more desirable girls. I’m not above knowing full well it’s because of the color of my skin. The “post-racial” world can crow all it wants, but I know exactly where on the spectrum of beauty standards I lie.

  If I was overlooked while coming of age in the Bronx, I became practically invisible at Princeton. Harvard Law, where brains counted for something, was slightly better, but by then, the emotional scarring was etched on my ego.

  “Good grief,” I say to myself, laughing.

  Whatever Magnus’ interest in me is, I know full well it has nothing to do with attraction, and everything to do with power and control.

  I’m also not stupid enough to let it interfere with what I came to Monte Carlo to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Magnus

  Sloane.

  She’s been the only thing on my mind all day.

  This morning was supposed to be a power play, a way of throwing her off her guard. Establish dominance early on. I should have paid heed to my own assessment of her last night.

  Venus flytrap.

  It isn’t even the image of her in that towel—which definitely wreaks havoc with my brain. It’s the audacity she had to sit there, allowing me to ogle her as she laid down the ground rules to this “professional” relationship.

  As if I’d be bound by the rules of anyone, let alone a woman I’ve, for all intents and purposes, paid ten-million dollars to have complete control over for forty days.

  She probably doesn’t even realize the effect she has on a man. And now I’m the one caught in her trap.

  “You’re sure there’s nothing more?” I say to Jaques, who has been filling me in on the details of Estelle’s latest boy toy—who is turning out to be more of a man than I originally suspected.

  “Nothing,” he assures me.

  “And Theodore Alexander?”

  “He’s being protected.”

  Although I have no idea whether or not Sloane took me up on my offer to call him, I obviously had my own resources look into whether or not he suffered the same fate as his friend. I’d like to say it was simply a matter of protecting my own interests—no need to have Sloane preoccupied with the murder of her brother while she is doing my bidding—but a part of me knows it was purely out of concern for her welfare. After all, I am using her just as much as she’s using me.

  I can sympathize, being that I have my own sibling that I care about, whether or not that sibling appreciates it.

  Just thinking about Estelle exacerbates the headache I feel coming on.

  “That will be all.”

  Jacques wisely makes his leave without comment.

  With him gone, I take a moment to clear my head. Tonight’s “small gathering” is far more than another asinine dinner party with a mot
ley mix of eccentric but very impressive names. Each attendee serves a specific purpose for my ultimate goals.

  Including Sloane Alexander.

  * * *

  I arrive at the Le Grande Suite promptly at eight o’clock. I’m in a bespoke suit and tie, appropriate for the semi-formal affair. Considering the guest list, I didn’t want to go too formal nor too casual.

  I get exactly two knocks in before Sloane answers the door.

  I’m pleased to see she’s wearing the gold dress I suggested. I’m even more pleased to see that she looks better than expected in it.

  Her hair is up in a French twist, showing off how long and elegant her neck is, especially with that tendency she has to raise her chin as though daring the world to defy her.

  The perfect queen for a king.

  I must be staring too long and too hard because she twists her lips in annoyance.

  “Do I meet with your approval, sir?” She asks with a note of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Almost…but not quite.”

  She blinks in surprise, her head snapping back with offense.

  “Give me one moment to rectify that,” I say, pulling out my phone.

  I walk into the suite and make one quick text before returning my attention to Sloane.

  “I think we’re ready now.”

  She raises one eyebrow. “I should hope so; I wouldn’t want to keep your guests waiting.”

  “My guests will be more than happy to wait.”

  The dinner doesn’t officially start until nine. Even before then, there will be plenty to keep them occupied until our meal starts. All the better for Sloane and me to take a quick detour.

  Fifteen minutes later, our car is parked in front of the jewelry store, Marchand.

  “What is this?” Sloane asks, craning her neck to look out the window as I step out of the car.

  “A special order,” I say, reaching my hand in for her.

  She stares down at it with the usual uncertainty before taking it and allowing me to help her out. The designer jewelry store is lit up, and awareness comes to her eyes.

  The manager, Denes, who was just about to close for the night, greets us with the sort of warmth reserved for a high commission.

  “Monsieur Reinhardt. Mademoiselle Alexander.”

  A small smile comes to my lips as I recall Neville’s informing me that Sloane insisted on being referred to as “mademoiselle” instead “madame.”

  “I have arranged an assortment of pieces based on your suggestion,” he continues, leading us back to one of the private showrooms.

  Sloane is silently looking around, mostly with curiosity.

  “Please,” Denes says, pulling a chair out for Sloane.

  She takes one long ambiguous look at me before slipping into the seat to stare at herself in the mirror.

  I also look at her reflection, noting the way her chin is still held high, elongating the neck that will soon be adorned with jewelry worth more than she’d make in at least a month.

  “No necklace,” I say, almost instinctively.

  Sloane’s eyes flash to mine, which are still trained on her neck. I want to stare at that neck all night without the obstruction of gemstones and precious metal. A neck like that doesn’t need adornment.

  “Just the earrings.”

  “Oui, Monsieur,” Denes says. If he’s disappointed, he has the good sense not to show it. The earrings, even if only on loan, will still earn him a nice chunk of change.

  Sloane isn’t so much disappointed as she is irritated.

  “We can start with the emeralds, which I think—”

  “The diamonds.”

  They both look at me in the mirror. My eyes are still focused on Sloane’s neck, but I raise them slightly to meet hers in the reflection.

  “Very good, Monsieur,” Denes says, reaching for the velvet box with the drop earrings. He presents them to Sloane, and she slides her eyes to me, raising her brow as though to sardonically ask my permission.

  My only answer is a subtle smirk.

  She reaches out to take the first one, a strand of diamonds leading down to one five-carat drop. She places it on her ear, tilting her head slightly to admire it in the mirror. I’m pleased to note the hint of a smile, despite whatever objections she has to this.

  With the second one on to join the first, the three of us stare at her in the mirror.

  “Do you approve?” I ask with a cynical smile.

  “They’re gorgeous.”

  “Don’t get too excited. They’re on loan.”

  Her jaw hardens, and she pierces me with her gaze in the reflection. “Well, then, I’d better make sure they don’t get stolen.”

  “I pity anyone else who lays a hand on you,” I say with an intense stare back at her in the mirror.

  Her gorgeous throat pulsates with the hard swallow she takes—no doubt understanding the insinuation behind “anyone else”—before averting her gaze. “We should probably get going.”

  “Yes, before our carriage turns back into a pumpkin.”

  She twists her lips into a smirk as she rises.

  “Thank you, Denes,” I say as I place a hand on the small of her back to lead her toward the exit.

  “Of course, Monsieur Reinhardt,” he says. For such a paltry take-away, he should be seething inside. But he knows that I have the ability to make or break this store, and a favor owed to Magnus Reinhardt is…worth its weight in diamond earrings.

  Once in the backseat of the car, Sloane finally deigns to open her mouth. “I hadn’t figured you for the type who likes to play dress-up.”

  “I hadn’t figured you for the type to be so ungrateful. If you knew the effect those earrings had on enhancing the qualities you already possess, you might sing a different tune.”

  “And what qualities would those be?”

  I turn to look at Sloane, who has been staring ahead during this little back and forth. She finally turns to me with a cool, sardonic gaze.

  “It’s a shame that you have to even ask.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sloane

  I twist to face forward again.

  The earrings are stunning, more than I’d ever dare to wear if left to my own devices—certainly more than I could ever afford. But suddenly they feel like fifteen-pound weights on my lobes. I want to rip them off if only to rid myself of the equally heavy weight of Magnus’ gaze.

  Instead, I focus my gaze on the city laid out before me as the car winds down the sinuous streets of Monte Carlo. From what little I can see, it looks stunning at night. The pristine, pastel colors of daytime have transitioned to vibrant bursts of color at night.

  When we finally arrive at the same marina where I first met Magnus, I take a better look around at the city above us once he leads me out of the car.

  There are cities that “come alive at night,” as the clichéd saying goes. New York comes alive at night. But Monte Carlo doesn’t just come alive, it becomes a living, breathing entity, heart beating with the pulse of excitement and vice that drives its existence. Even the static lights I see populating the landscape in the distance seem to dance like multicolored fireflies decorating the darkness.

  “Stunning, isn’t it?”

  I jump at the sound of Magnus’ voice a whisper’s breath away from my ear. The majesty and thrill of the city seem less stimulating and more ominous once I turn to him. Perhaps because his predatory yacht lies just beyond him, looming above us like an oversized avatar of its moniker.

  The Mako.

  “After you,” he says, waving a hand ahead of him.

  I make my way up the walkway, feeling his eyes on me with every step.

  What did he mean by the qualities I possess? His eyes were on my neck during the entire sitting at the jewelry store, and yet, it remains free of any jewelry. Perhaps he likes it that way. I read somewhere that most predators attack the throat first—something about it being the most vulnerable yet deadly place to strike.

  One
hand instinctively comes up to my throat, and I feel the pulse of my rapidly beating heart underneath my fingertips.

  Once on board, I allow Magnus to take the lead. From this point on, I’m in his element—or rather his natural habitat. “Small gatherings” on luxury yachts are a little beyond even my substantial pay grade.

  I hear the hubbub of chatter before we even make our way to the open area in the bow of the boat. It’s a massive seating area that opens out onto the front deck, providing a panoramic view of the city that continues to entrance me.

  I see only a handful of people, which lends credence to Magnus’ description of a “small gathering.” There are three men and two women.

  A waiter immediately approaches with a tray of champagne flutes, and I grab one if only to give my hands and mouth something to do besides fidget and twist.

  Magnus refrains, and I watch his eyes scan the room of people, all of whom suddenly take note of the host’s arrival.

  “Ah! I was wondering when I would be getting a look at the infamous Magnus Reinhardt,” one of the men says with the sort of clipped, formal tone that hints at being a foreigner, even though his English is almost flawlessly accent-free.

  He’s large in every sense of the word; over six feet, but filled out in such a way his body looks like a man-shaped balloon that’s been slightly over-inflated. Not necessarily fat, but definitely showing signs of someone who enjoys the luxuries of life a little too much. As the unfortunate woman juxtaposed next to him could probably attest to. She seems to be the epitome of grace and elegance.

  Magnus plants a smile on his face and walks over to greet the man.

  “Ruben, thank you for accepting my invitation,” he says, shaking the man’s outreached hand.

  Ruben’s eyes slide to me with a gleam that seems almost sinister, yet taunting. “And who might this delicacy be then?”

  Interesting choice of words.

  I hate the man already.

  “Ruben Bakker, this is Sloane Alexander, my date for the evening. Sloane, Ruben is the founder and significant shareholder of Conniver Media in the Netherlands.”