The Monte Carlo Shark: An International Legacies Romance Read online

  “Shit!” I say, staring down at the stain on my lap.

  I set the glass down and scan the boat for something that might have water so I can wipe it clean. Finding nothing, I search below where there’s at least a tiny bathroom in the very nice but small interior. At the small sink, I splash the water onto the front of my dress, patting the stain, which is now more of a faded plum color. It won’t get completely clean, but at least I can keep it wet, so it doesn’t set.

  My eyes find my reflection in the mirror, and my mouth twists into a wry grin.

  “Wet, you say?” I laugh, despite the situation. It’s got to be the wine allowing me to make light of the situation.

  Nothing about this is a laughing matter.

  Magnus “The Shark” Reinhardt basically views me as chum.

  The clock is ticking even as I stand here. And—I take a moment to look at my watch—I now have thirty-nine and a half days to find out what the hell Magnus has been planning for the past year.

  That’s what the man demanded of me after his goons abducted me. I didn’t have the money he, or rather, his employer requested to pay off the amount Theo stole from them via his ingenious scheme. So I was offered a deal instead. Get enough information about what big plans Magnus Reinhardt has, presumably so they can time the market just right and make a fortune doing it.

  All perfectly below board and very illegal.

  Since I work tangentially in the financial industry, I’m fully aware that Magnus Reinhardt has been quietly selling off his assets, studiously avoiding any new deals, and operating in complete radio silence about it all—even more than usual.

  Most of his holdings are private, but he still manages to create waves in the financial world as an influential figure. Taking note of what he’s up to often pays off big—at least most of the time.

  I remember reading a Forbes article about him that detailed his purchase of a swath of raw land in Louisiana. It turned out to be right next door to where the next big annual music festival—à la SXSW, Coachella, and Lalapalooza—was rumored to soon have its premiere. Overnight the value of the land went up tenfold, and a hotel conglomerate and a group of commercial real estate investors clamored for a slice of the pie.

  The festival turned out to be a bust. By then, Magnus had rid himself of any holdings, leaving all the buyers with worthless swampland. The only one who made a killing on that deal was one Magnus Reinhardt, who seems to have a knack for knowing when deals are going to go south.

  Not even the top analysts of Wall Street have a clue why he’s suddenly selling off so many of his holdings. The only conclusion everyone is coming to is that whatever his next purchase is, it must be huge. Bigger than any deal he’s ever made, and he’s made quite a few of them in his career.

  “So let’s find out what he’s up to, shall we Sloane?” I say to my reflection.

  On the way back up, I see the basket of food. Immediately, my stomach begins to growl. It’s a reminder that the only contents are a full glass of decent wine and more than half a bottle of really good wine. I grab the basket and bring it up to the top, setting it down on the long bench that has a perfect view of both the small beach and Magnus’s upper body cutting through the water.

  As fast as a shark.

  I take a breath and focus my attention on the basket. Inside are multiple little containers of food and several bottles of Evian. I grab one of the bottles and open it to take a good long sip. It’s still ice cold from wherever it was stored before this little jaunt. Against the late August sun, it tastes like heaven.

  I thought the food would be something simple like fruit or nuts, maybe some sandwiches. I should have remembered who I was dealing with. One of the containers is filled with sashimi and sushi rolls. I grab a crab roll and pop it into my mouth, savoring how utterly fresh it tastes. It was probably prepared right before it was brought down to us on the boat.

  Another container has antipasto of tiny cubes of ham, salami, olives, and cheese. There is also fruit, sliced into perfect pieces. Everything from crisp, warm pita and hummus to thin, toasted slices of bread with charcuterie meats and cheese I can’t pronounce the names of, fills the rest of the space.

  It’s far too much for just two people.

  My eyes cut to the water, where Magnus shows no sign of slowing down as he does another lap. I feel like some gluttonous sloth as I watch him, stuffing my face with a tuna roll. He could probably eat the entire contents of the basket and not gain an ounce the way he’s going.

  But I’m still hungry. I decide on some of the fruit and a heaping serving of antipasto, mostly to go with the wine. I pack the rest away to dip into later if I’m still peckish.

  I’ve just taken one heavenly bite of antipasto, the tangy salami and cheese melding together in my mouth, when I hear Magnus’s phone ding in his discarded jeans. I stare at the back pocket, just now noticing the phone-shaped bulge. I’m sure it has all kinds of protections and safeguards, but I’m still surprised he so haphazardly left it here with me on the boat.

  But I’m not stupid.

  I quickly set aside the food and wine and scramble for his jeans, gingerly releasing the phone from the back pocket, hoping the message notification is still visible.

  My heart nearly leaps out of my chest when I see that it is. Until I read what’s written:

  Fabian est mort.

  My French may be limited, but I’m familiar enough with a few of the Romance languages to understand several variations of the word “dead.”

  Fabian is dead.

  I drop the phone, which fades to black before me like some bad omen.

  Fabian is dead? What the hell does that mean? Surely, Magnus didn’t have someone killed? And if he didn’t, why does the death of this Fabian, whoever he is, warrant a text message informing him of the fact?

  I’m suddenly reminded of all the darker rumors surrounding the man I stupidly allowed to take me out on a boat. Most of them were akin to urban myths: certain people disappearing out of the blue, others deciding they no longer had the will to live.

  Yes, the man has been ruthless enough in business to commit the equivalent of financial murder, or just cause many a man to commit financial suicide, but it’s still a far leap to literal homicide.

  I stuff the phone back into his pocket and quickly return to my seat. I stare down at the mix of meat, olives, and cheese, and my stomach turns. I grab the glass of wine instead, drinking a long sip in hopes that it will settle my nerves.

  After swallowing, I turn to the water in search of Magnus. His body is no longer visible, and I quickly scan the wide stretch of the Mediterranean, wondering if he’s ventured out farther than before.

  “I see you chose the antipasto.”

  I nearly drop my wine in surprise. My head snaps back around, and I see Magnus standing on the steps along the rear of the boat, dripping wet as he stares at me. He looks like a model in a fashion ad going for an edgy theme of sexy danger.

  “How do you like it?” he asks.

  “I—” The rest of the words are stuck in my throat.

  I jump when his phone dings again to announce a text message. His attention diverts from me, and he takes two long steps to close the distance to his pants.

  I stare at him, trying to gauge his reaction as he reads the message. I’m surprised to see his green eyes briefly waiver with something that looks like regret. Almost instantly, they shift back into predator mode, more dark and dangerous than ever. He takes a minute to type something into his phone, then looks up to face me.

  “We have to go back.” It’s said with such firm bluntness that I don’t even bother with a response.

  Without even drying off, Magnus pulls his pants back on and goes to release the rope from the buoy. I’m patently ignored as he walks past me to start the engine and takes off.

  We bounce across the waves much faster than before. At one point, I yelp in terror as the wake from a much larger vessel nearby has us flying into the air.

&nbs
p; Magnus doesn’t so much as flinch. In fact, everything about him is even more like a shark than before. The hunger in his eyes. The fierce focus driving him onward. The predatory set to his face.

  When he finally slows down to enter the marina, my heartbeat returns to normal. He returns the boat to the dock we left.

  Still in nothing but his jeans, he cuts the engine and finally turns to face me.

  “I have a matter that needs to be dealt with,” he says with a hard edge to his voice. It softens only slightly as he continues. “It’s unfortunate we had to cut our day short, but I have no doubt we’ll see each other again.”

  The way he says it, I’m sure we will. I have no idea how, when, or where, but for now, I’m glad to be carefully helped off his boat and this aura of danger surrounding him.

  “Thank you for the boat ride. It was…interesting.”

  “Tout le plaisir était pour moi,” he says, his attention momentarily finding focus only on me again as a smile comes to his lips. “The pleasure was all mine.”

  It most certainly was, even if the embers burning inside me begin to glow in a way that says otherwise.

  “I’m sure you will enjoy your stay in Monte Carlo. It can be quite the adventure,” he says.

  Once again, I’m left wondering if there’s some meaning behind that statement. Until it hits me.

  Of course there is.

  Chapter Seven

  Magnus

  I watch her walk off, her legs like those of a newborn fawn, uncertain and slightly clumsy. Whether it’s the affliction that hits many a novice who hasn’t found their sea legs, the wine, or the recklessly dangerous way I sped us back to port, I can’t say.

  For the moment, I don’t care.

  Sloane Alexander is definitely someone I plan to return to. Right now, I have more important business on hand.

  I pull out my phone and re-read the message from Anonymous (the name I’ve programmed into my phone for Jacques, the man I hired to handle this):

  Fabian est Mort.

  Fabian is dead. After this long with no contact, I assumed as much. Now that it’s been confirmed, I almost feel a certain sense of relief, as gut-wrenchingly traitorous as the thought is.

  I make a call.

  “Jacques,” I say in French as soon as it’s answered. “Meet me at the house. I’m on my way now.”

  I don’t wait for a response.

  On the same street where I left my bike, a car is parked, the driver standing by the passenger door. In one swift, coordinated move, he opens it as I stride toward him, I slide in, and he quietly closes it behind me.

  Usually, I make the winding trek from the marina to my home, driving one of my various cars or on the motorcycle. Navigating the twists and turns of Monte Carlo streets requires the kind of finely honed concentration that I cannot dedicate to it right now.

  My head is filled with too many questions.

  Questions I plan on getting the answers to very soon.

  * * *

  “Tell me,” I say to Jacques.

  He was already waiting outside my study when I arrived. Now, it’s just the two of us alone inside, and he knows to be perfectly honest with me, holding nothing back.

  “As you suspected, he was killed.”

  “How?” I ask, looking down on the city below me through the window.

  “Gunshot to the head. Dumped in the Hudson River sometime last week.”

  “When exactly?”

  “My sources inside the NYPD said they don’t have a definite date. The body was…” He pauses.

  “Tell me,” I demand, still looking out the window.

  “The body had been in the river sometime, so it was partially decomposed. However, there were definite signs of torture. Burn marks. Missing digits. Severe bruising.”

  “Do they have a suspect?” I say, trying to control my anger. There’s no place for emotion while I gather information.

  I ease my guilt with the certainty that Fabian’s death will be avenged. He was a trusted assistant. Even though he knew the danger involved in his particular duties for me, that doesn’t mean I’m immune to his suffering.

  “No suspect yet, but it could only be—”

  “Good,” I say, interrupting him before he can tell me what I already fucking know.

  Gabriel Fouché. Or rather, Jan Vorster, Gabriel’s latest attack dog. His prior pet is dead; the body still yet to be found. I know first hand it will be some time before it is, if ever.

  “Sloane Alexander,” I say, moving on to the next matter I ordered Jacques to look into.

  “I didn’t have much time to—”

  I turn to face him, silencing that excuse with just one look. I already know that in the period between my calling him before the boat ride and my arrival here, he didn’t have much time to investigate her. It was the second call I made while she was still chatting with her brother.

  “She’s a senior associate at Douglas & Foster, a law firm in New York City,” he says, wisely getting to the point. “She specializes in mergers and acquisitions. She’s worked there four years now, on the partner track but no success yet. Princeton for undergrad, Harvard for law school. Graduated magna cum laude for the first, top ten percent of the class for the latter.”

  I ponder that information, looking back out the window. I knew she was an extraordinary woman, so this impressive curriculum vitae only fills in the blanks.

  “How long has she been in Monte Carlo?”

  “She arrived just this morning. That’s the interesting thing.”

  I turn to face him, waiting for him to expound on that. He knows how much I hate preambles. Time is money. I don’t like wasting either of those for dramatics.

  “She purchased the ticket to Nice only yesterday—and it’s a one-way ticket. From there, she immediately caught a train to Monte Carlo.”

  “No return flight?” I confirm. She mentioned staying here for forty days but planning to not use the full time.

  “No, sir.”

  Interesting.

  “Where is she staying?”

  “The Papillon.”

  I’m impressed Jaques has learned this much about her in so little time. Then again, I did hire him for his ability to get such information as quickly and quietly as possible.

  “Anything else?”

  “Just biographical. Born and raised in New York City. Both parents alive, still married. One younger brother who has bounced around in various IT jobs. One grandfather still alive. Aunts, uncles, cousins scattered across the country. No suspicious ties among any of them, at least at surface level. Obviously, I’ll keep digging.”

  “Do that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “While you’re at it, find out more about her on a personal level. What she likes, dislikes. Her favorites.”

  If he has any curiosity about this request, he’s wise enough to keep it to himself. “Yes, sir.”

  “That will be all for now.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  I continue to stare out the window, waiting for the sound of the door to close behind him as he leaves. I reach out to grab a cigar from the case on my desk. After cutting and lighting it, I return to looking out at Monte Carlo beneath me.

  A lot of men in my position might gaze down at this view with a God complex, or the feeling of a king surveying his kingdom. To me, everything below is simply a means to an end. Monte Carlo is where I began my quest years ago—decades ago if I’m honest.

  I think about the promise I made to myself at my mother’s funeral. By then, I knew the truth about it all, and I vowed to avenge both my parents’ deaths.

  I wander over to the bookcase, pulling out one large but thin volume. It’s a children’s book, filled with vivid photographs of the deadliest predator of the ocean: the shark. My father bought it for me when I’d expressed a paralyzing fear of the creature after watching some film; one of the awful Jaws sequels, laughable in retrospect. After giving me a good talking to about watching m
ovies I wasn’t old enough to appreciate, he bought me this book to help ease my phobia.

  “Knowledge is power, Magnus.”

  David Reinhardt was a man of action, but he knew the most powerful ammunition was information. Both are what eventually got him killed.

  Little did he know when he bought that eight-year-old boy this book, I would eventually use it as an instruction manual, not a lesson on overcoming that which I feared. I became obsessed with the creatures from the moment I opened the pages and learned more about them, admiring their uncomplicated focus on survival at all costs.

  And when the time came to use what I’d learned from them, I was ready.

  I turn to the section on the shortfin mako shark. Even now, just looking at the picture sends a chill through me. Dead, black eyes. Long, streamlined body. Jagged teeth, continuously on display. I set the open book on my desk and stare down at it, breathing out the smoke I just inhaled from my cigar.

  Fabian is dead.

  Sloane Alexander is here in Monte Carlo.

  Coincidence?

  Perhaps. Perhaps not.

  Either way, I’m not taking any chances.

  I pick up my phone to make a call. When I’m done, I smile down at the picture of the mako again.

  By tonight, I’ll have Sloane Alexander right where I want her. And I’ll be there, swimming just below her, waiting to strike in one of two ways.

  Will it be business…or pleasure?

  I take a puff of my cigar as I consider that question, wondering which I’d prefer.

  Chapter Eight

  Sloane

  Nothing.

  There is no connection between Magnus Reinhardt and anyone by the name of Fabian. At least according to Google.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s well known he’s a private man, hardly ever giving interviews unless he can somehow use it to his business advantage.

  I fall back in my chair and stare at my laptop, feeling just as clueless now as I did when I first saw the message from his phone.