The Monte Carlo Shark: An International Legacies Romance Page 6

  “I didn’t call so you could keep tabs on her, Magnus. I called because I think that you should actually call her and create some kind of peace between the two of you.”

  “Perhaps one day that will be the case,” I say, noncommittally.

  She sighs again. “I hope so, Magnus.”

  “Goodbye, Mona.”

  “Goodbye, Magnus.”

  As I hang up, my mouth curls into a wry smile. Mona was the best substitute we could ask for as far as a guardian in the wake of our parents’ death. With a notorious gambler for a father, both she and my mother overcompensated by being especially cautious in life, making sure those around them never suffered the same highs and lows that they experienced growing up. Mona wouldn’t even let me move her out of the modest apartment where she raised us into something grander. Other than the occasional gift of a spa treatment or holiday escape, she’s perfectly content with the status quo of simple comfort.

  It’s no wonder this schism between my sister and me bothers her. It troubles me, as well. Once upon a time, Estelle and I were close. Those where the days when my sister practically worshiped me, clinging to the one person in her life who hadn’t disappeared on her.

  Those days are over.

  Now, everything in my life is about protecting what’s mine…and getting back at those who took away what I once had.

  Chapter Ten

  Sloane

  The knock on the door startles me.

  I’m sitting in a chair on the balcony, overlooking the front entrance and the sea beyond as I nibble on a pink macaroon. I found them decoratively displayed on floral china during my self-guided tour of the suite.

  My head has been going round in circles, trying to devise a plan of action. Most would say don’t look a gift horse in the mouth when it comes to Magnus moving me to this suite. Having dinner with him is the perfect opportunity to pick his brain about his business dealings.

  But I’m not reckless enough to avoid checking for cavities in this gift horse of mine. Magnus isn’t stupid. He knows I’m here for something about him, and he probably figures it’s the most obvious thing: Whatever big, mysterious plans he has.

  Is it a venture into a new sector, one he hasn’t already infiltrated?

  Is he moving his headquarters to another location?

  Is he running for public office? Selling off everything to retire and play golf? Building a damn spaceship like Elon Musk?

  The knock on the door sounds again. I sigh and unfold my legs to rise out of the chair to go inside.

  “I swear to God if they’re moving me again…” I mutter to myself as I head to the door to answer it.

  “Bonjour, Madame Alexander,” The bubbly woman on the other side announces. She’s dressed as a maid, not the slutty Halloween version, but the Downton Abby version—with a healthy dose of French attention to fashion.

  Her blonde, wavy bob, huge blue eyes, and bow lips make her look like an extra from The Great Gatsby.

  “Moi c’est Lisette! Je suis votre femme de chambre personnelle,” she says in such an expectant manner I blink my eyes, a silent request for some kind of explanation. Preferably in English.

  That’s when I see the rack next to her. There are a number of garment bags hanging from it. There are also shoeboxes at the bottom.

  “What is that?” I say, pointing to it, just to transcend the apparent language barrier.

  “Ce?” She says, looking at it. “Oh, ce’ st—”

  “Wait, do you speak English?” I interrupt.

  “Anglaise?” She repeats, eyes wide as though I’ve just asked her who won the 1951 World Series.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” I say, sighing.

  I immediately perk back up as the same fear hits me that I felt back at the Papillon when someone knocked on my door. Just because the room is far more upscale doesn’t mean that danger doesn’t lurk everywhere…including from Magnus Reinhardt himself.

  “One moment. Sorry,” I say with an apologetic wince just before closing the door in her face. I quietly lock it before racing over to the phone.

  I press a button for the front desk, and no sooner has my finger left the button before it’s answered. It takes me a split second to place the voice: Neville, my handy concierge.

  “Bonjour, Madame Alexander, how can I be of service?”

  “I called the front desk,” I say, brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “I see, was there a particular matter to which I could attend, or would you prefer to be transferred directly to the front desk?”

  I pause before answering. “Do you answer the phone no matter who I call?”

  “As a personal concierge, I’m here to attend to every need of guests in La Grande Suite. I can usually streamline any issue that—”

  “There’s a woman at my door.”

  “Ah, yes, I see you’ve met Lisette, your personal maid.”

  “I don’t need a personal maid.”

  “A personal maid is standard in Le—”

  “She doesn’t speak English.”

  “Oh dear,” he says, doing a very good job at sounding apologetic. “I see, well, we can certainly have her replaced for your convenience.”

  Good grief, I feel like Ebenezer Scrooge.

  “No, I don’t need a maid, period,” I try to clarify.

  “I see…” he begins. “Well, then we can have her simply drop off the dress selection and—”

  “Why do I have a dress selection?” I ask, suddenly remembering this other issue. “Or is that included in Le Grande Suite as well?” I ask in a sarcastic tone.

  He utters an indulgent chuckle before answering. “They are courtesy of—”

  “Magnus Reinhardt,” I finish with resignation. “Is there a way to get a message to him?”

  There’s a brief pause before he answers. “Oui, Madame.”

  “Please kindly tell him that I do know how to dress myself. I’m not Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I’ll see him at eight.”

  “I see,” he says in such a way that I feel a “but” coming on.

  “What is it?”

  “I would just like to point out that there is a rather strict dress code for this particular hotel restaurant.”

  “How strict could it be?” I ask.

  “Perhaps the selection of dresses he has sent might give you an idea,” he offers, sounding slightly proud of himself at the idea.

  “Yes, of course.” The sarcasm is back. “You’ve been very helpful, Neville.”

  “Merci, Madame Alexander. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Not at all,” I say, then hang up.

  I turn to stare at the door, before deciding I should at least let the poor girl bring in the dresses before dismissing her.

  She perks up when I open it again, swinging it wide to accommodate the rack.

  “Please,” I say, waving an arm in to indicate she can enter.

  “Oui, Madame,” she says, sounding suspiciously relieved.

  I watch her roll the rack in, counting about ten dresses total, all hidden inside white garment bags.

  “Bien,” Lisette says, before unzipping the first. “Alors—”

  “No, no, no,” I say, holding up a hand that should be a universal enough signal to her. “I’m fine doing it myself.”

  She stares at me, not comprehending. She says something to me in French that has enough intonation for me to realize it’s a question.

  “I,” I say, pointing to myself. “Can do this,” I continue, waving a hand at the row of garment bags, then bring the hand back to me, “myself.”

  She just gives me a wide eye-stare as though she doesn’t understand.

  Good grief, what sort of psychological warfare is Magnus playing with this?

  I reach for my purse and pull out a twenty euro bill, then think better of it and make it a fifty. Money, the real universal language.

  “Here,” I say, handing it to her with one hand as I use the other to place on her back, gu
iding her out of the room.

  “Merci, madame,” She says eagerly. When she sees where I’m directing her, she begins to protest again. “Mais—”

  “Thank you, Lisette. I’ll be fine from here,” I say, leading her out and closing the door once again.

  With that out of the way, I turn to stare at the rack of dresses. A part of me knows I should ignore them, pretend they aren’t here. Another part of me is curious. After all, Neville did mention something about a dress code.

  I walk over to the first bag and unzip it, surprised to find myself holding my breath.

  Then I gasp.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sloane

  No doubt, Magnus noticed my YSL bag this morning since it’s the same label attached to the first dress on the rack.

  While I give myself permission to splurge on handbags and the occasional pair of shoes—the excuse being that I can repeatedly use both on a continuous basis without raising eyebrows—I have a firm limit when it comes to clothing.

  I make decent bank at Douglas & Foster, but certainly not enough to blithely buy a dress that costs at least twice as much as my purse only to wear it once in a blue moon.

  Magnus likes color, that much is evident by his choices. His very nice, very expensive choices. Gucci. Dior. Armani…

  I’m not sure whether to be insulted or pleased. Does the man think that I can’t dress myself? That I can’t afford it? Or maybe his power-tripping is just this extreme.

  Either way, I’m no one’s Barbie doll.

  Perhaps it’s time I did start treating myself to something beyond a handbag or pair of sunglasses. And Monte Carlo is the perfect place to do it.

  That idiotic acronym that was popular a while back flits through my head: YOLO! You only live once. When the next forty days may be your last, it puts things in perspective. What’s a grand dropped on a dress that I have no more use for other than dinner and showing up Magnus Reinhardt?

  Establish dominance right away, lest he get the wrong idea about just how accommodating I’m willing to be. After all, buying the wine this morning helped me this far along. Magnus obviously appreciates having his expectations turned on their head.

  I grab my purse and quickly make my way out of the hotel. The weather is gorgeous, the perfect complement to the stunning scenery. I forego the offer of a taxi and decide to walk, mostly since I’m feeling myself. I’d be lying if there wasn’t a tiny part of me that is also still counting pennies in my head.

  It doesn’t take me long to find a high-end dress shop, since this city seems to be rife with them, especially in the touristy spots. One dress, in particular, catches my eye. It’s a peacock blue, sleeveless, knee-length dress with a silver belt that would perfectly accentuate my hourglass shape.

  The inside of the shop is refined and quiet, the kind of place where each dress has real estate dedicated to only that particular style with so much space in between that you know each piece comes with a hefty price tag.

  No matter. Splurging is what I’m here to do.

  I see the dress further back in the store, but before I can even reach the section, I find an obstacle in the form of a sales associate, blocking my path.

  “Bonjour, madame,” she says with a gracious smile that doesn’t even attempt to reach her eyes—eyes that are now scrolling up and down the length of me. The tiny pinprick of disdain creates enough of a hole in my ego for the air to slowly begin to seep out.

  “Bonjour,” I say brightly, then try to walk around her.

  She begins speaking French, walking to catch up with me.

  “Oh, I don’t speak French,” I say, giving her a darling smile as I kept walking.

  “Ah…how is it I can help you today?”

  “This dress,” I say, pointing to the one that caught my eye.

  “Madame, do you have an appointment?”

  That’s enough to stop me. I turn to her in surprise. Maybe I was mistaken in assuming the worst about her.

  “An appointment?”

  “Oui, madame,” she says, giving me an apologetic look…with the faintest hints of patronizing smugness.

  “I didn’t realize I needed one,” I say, looking around the perfectly empty store as though to point out the obvious.

  She ignores it, her eyes turning to icicles. “Oui, an appointment is necessary.”

  “Well, then,” I say, giving her a pat look. “How do I make an appointment?”

  Once again, her eyes trail down my body and back up to my face. “I’m afraid there is a long wait.”

  “Yes, I can see,” I say in a sarcastic voice, looking around once again. “Since your first client of the day seems to be running late, and seeing as I’m the only one in the store, perhaps you’ll indulge me the ten minutes it would take to try on this dress?”

  Any hint of graciousness is gone. “The dress is very expensive.”

  And there it is. It isn’t even as though this is the first time it’s happened. I could play Russian roulette walking into any store, no matter whether it’s high end or budget-friendly.

  The Brooks Brothers (of all places) in midtown? I was patently ignored for a full half-hour, even while standing right at the damn cash register to buy a tie for Theo.

  The Kate Spade in the Financial District? The sales rep couldn’t have been more accommodating.

  Most of the time, I take it on the chin and suck it up.

  Today is not one of those days.

  I’m tempted to forget my home training, but I take an alternate route instead.

  “Expensive?” I ask in surprise, placing a hand against my chest as though shocked. “I would have never guessed!”

  She sniffs and lifts her chin up to give me a haughty look.

  “Well then, it’s a good thing that I...” I pause for effect, letting my eyes do the talking for me as they casually wander up and down her length the way she’s so freely done to mine. “Actually, have a well-paying job so that I…can afford it.”

  It’s petty and mean and so beneath me. For all I know, she makes more than me. Mostly, I’m just pissed off that the brief burst of empowerment I felt walking out the front entrance of La Mer has been so thoroughly obliterated by a few simple words and imperious looks from this woman.

  Her cheeks color with outrage. “I’m afraid without an appointment, we can not accommodate you.”

  It occurs to me that all I would have to do is say the name Magnus Reinhardt and this little attitude of hers would do a complete one-eighty.

  Which somehow makes it so much more insulting.

  “You know what? There’s a reason why you have no clients in your store. Even if you do only work by appointment, what few you do have don’t respect you enough to show up. I hope you work on commission because watching it fly out the door along with me is the only satisfaction you’ve managed to give a customer today—or what could have been a customer. The dress isn’t even all that.”

  I walk out before she can even react beyond blinking her eyes in surprise. I make sure I’m well away from the shop before coming to a stop to calm myself down. I take several deep breaths reminding myself of who I am and what my worth is, not in monetary terms but just for a little damn respect.

  I think of my parents, who always lifted me up, reminding me that even a girl from the Bronx can be anything she wants, because she, like all other little girls, is a queen.

  “A queen.”

  I smile as I think about her one constant admonition: “Sit up, head up, and the rest of the world will lift you up.”

  Even today, when I feel myself slouching, some involuntary reflex kicks in to force my back straight and my chin up.

  “Fuck her,” I say. Sometimes simple vulgarity is the only thing to make you feel better.

  I decide to stop for a drink before soldiering on—as though this is some quest I must accomplish lest all is doomed.

  In reality, there may be some truth to it.

  I have Magnus’ attention. The first hurdle is ov
ercome. The only way to get him to confide in me is to earn his respect.

  Either that or…

  I shudder as I think about the alternative that the man in New York so crudely suggested. Sleeping with the man is a last—as in final, eleventh hour, no other options, Hail Mary, plan Z—resort.

  That doesn’t mean I can’t look fly while I make my way through plans A to Y.

  With a smirk on my face, I champion on to the next dress store. They can’t all be snobs.

  Chapter Twelve

  Magnus

  “I want you to find out everything you can on this Giorgio Conti,” I instruct Jaques. “It’s your number one priority from this point on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’ll be all.”

  Once again, I wait for him to leave before I relax and turn my attention back to more pleasurable fare. No doubt, Jaques will find something unsavory about the man to dangle in front of Estelle as a way to lure her back to Paris. She’s notorious for attracting the wrong sort of men.

  My mind rewinds back to the phone call from Neville regarding Sloane’s phone call to him. Then, I fast forward to the call from Lisette. Hearing about Sloane’s reaction secondhand wasn’t quite as amusing as it would have been in person, but it was enough. I can only imagine what Sloane is thinking right now.

  I wonder which dress she’ll pick for tonight.

  I wonder if she’ll pick any of them at all.

  That thought is more upsetting than I’d like to admit, not because of my own ego. I’m fully aware that she’s adept enough at this game of cat and mouse to decide to completely ignore my gracious offer just to make a point.

  It’s that I chose each dress because I’d actually like to see her in them. Granted, I didn’t obsess over the selection. One quick phone call to someone who specializes in such things—Monte Carlo is perfect for services of this sort—and I had a selected catalogue of various designers from which to choose ten.

  Before I can let my mind slip into imagining what Sloane would look like in each, I get a phone call. Not my personal cell, but the specialized ringtone indicates it’s a personal matter all the same.