The Monte Carlo Shark: An International Legacies Romance Read online

  The waiter seems to read my mind, miraculously appearing once I’ve settled on the filet mignon. After giving our orders—Magnus gets the veal—we both return to our drinks and another staring contest.

  “Why do either of you want to kill his father?” I finally ask.

  “Why does any shark kill?”

  “Hunger?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you count cannibalism among your crimes now too?”

  A wry smile touches his lips. “A different kind of hunger.”

  I sigh with exasperation. “Perhaps you could stop talking in metaphors and euphemisms and just give me a straight answer for once.”

  “Are we finally being honest with each other now?” He asks, with a dark, intense gaze so direct I flinch in response.

  “Okay…” I say hesitantly. I can still find a way to make this work in my favor. “I’ll be honest if you are.”

  His eyes fall to the table where the single euro coin still lies. I give him a sardonic glance and slide it back toward myself.

  “Acceptance,” I say, suddenly terrified of what he might reveal.

  “Now then,” he says with a satisfied smile. It disappears almost as quickly as it came. “Let’s start with what your real interest is in me, Sloane Alexander.”

  Play it cool, girl. There’s a way to kill two birds with one stone here.

  “Initially, I had none,” I say with as much indifference as I can muster. “Then, I believe you’re the one who sat at my table at the bar this morning.”

  “And you’re the one here in my city.”

  “You’re the one who moved me to your hotel, sent up your selection of dresses for me to chose from, invited me to your table in your restaurant for dinner, and have now offered to hire me as your attorney. I think the better question is, what your real interest is in me, Magnus Reinhardt?”

  I’ve gone too far. A flash of anger brightens his eyes for a brief moment before they go a deadly shade of green again. “And what changed your mind?”

  “Changed my mind?”

  “About me. You are, after all, sitting here at my table.”

  “I suspect I had no choice.”

  A hint of a sinister smile whispers across his lips. “And if I were to openly give you one?”

  I pause before answering. “As you said, if I were to land you as a client, I’d be guaranteed partner.”

  Even though it’s a cover, the overly ambitious part of me roars with the thrill of winning that battle. For once, success isn’t thwarted for Sloane Alexander. Even that pretentious jerk, Jamie Reaves—always so eager to remind me that partnership would be mine if only I knew the “right” kind of people—would have to eat crow.

  “Fine,” Magnus says.

  I’m still so heady with the idea of victory that I almost miss it. “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ll retain your services, those of Douglas & Foster as well.”

  “What?” I blink in surprise. My eyes fall down to the coin still on the table in front of me. They rise back up to Magnus, still radiating my confusion.

  A cunning smile spreads across his mouth. “I’m aware the hourly rate is slightly higher than that. I have just one condition.”

  For some reason, my hand instinctively reaches for the snifter that still has a bit of brandy in it. I take a slow sip, finishing the last of it before responding.

  “And what is that?”

  “I get you for the full forty days you’re here in Monte Carlo.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Magnus

  I watch her throat as the brandy makes a slow, apparently painful voyage down to her stomach.

  “I can’t stay here for forty days.”

  “I recall you saying that was the extent of your stay when we first met. Forty days….and nights.”

  Her eyes go wide, then narrow with derision. “I also recall saying that I didn’t plan on using all forty days.”

  “Now, you will.”

  “And just how do I explain to my firm that I’m spending that much time here in Monte Carlo, of all places?”

  “The retainer I send them first thing in the morning will eliminate the need to explain yourself.”

  I swear I can actually see her heart leap from her chest. Ever the ambitious woman. Whether she knows it or not, Sloane is just as much a shark as I am. We just have two different flavors of prey. Let’s see if that hunger for success works in my favor.

  Before the conversation can continue, our meals arrive. I smile as I see Sloane’s eyes light up at the piece of meat so artfully plated for her. Her taste for flesh is alluringly symbolic.

  “Fine, as your newly hired attorney, I suppose I should get more background on you,” she begins once the waiter leaves. “Perhaps we can start with what future plans you have for your various enterprises?”

  So she’s going straight for the kill. But it at least confirms my suspicions, especially now that I know she’s indirectly working for Gabriel Fouché.

  “Let’s not ruin our fine meals with talk of business,” My eyes narrow in on her. “After all, we have thirty-nine more days after tonight.”

  She meets my gaze, matching the level look. “Very well, what shall we talk about?”

  “You could ask me about my hobbies,” I say in a droll tone, a subtle smile coming to my lips. “Isn’t that how you usually butter up a client?”

  One side of her mouth hitches up into a sarcastic smirk as she chews the cut of meat. When she swallows, she sighs and grabs the bottle of wine to pour a glass into her empty snifter. She leans back in her chair, holding it up as she considers me.

  “Magnus, I was fascinated to learn about your success in pentathlon races. Do tell, how did you first get involved in them?”

  “I could have had them bring a proper glass for you,” I say, my eyes falling to her wine before taking my own bite of meat.

  “No need to put someone to work for the sake of propriety. After all, we’re well past the point of being formal with one another, aren’t we?”

  I swallow, raise one eyebrow, then take my own sip of wine.

  “Alright, to answer your question, I’ve always been a swimmer. I’ve also always been competitive. Most races that incorporate swimming also incorporate running, so I set my sights on excelling in that area as well. I had very little interest in bicycles so I skipped past triathlons directly to pentathlons. It helped that it incorporated certain skills that I thought would be useful in my future endeavors.”

  “Is that so?” She sets her glass down to return to her meal.

  “Yes. Learning to ride a horse was the most challenging, but there’s something appealing about mastering another animal, gripping her by the reins to lead her in an exercise of intense focus, athleticism, and, of course, submission.”

  Sloane tries but fails to maintain eye-contact during that bit of elucidation.

  I smile and continue. “As for fencing and shooting? Well, there are never too many ways to learn how to, let’s say, defend one’s self.”

  “Or commit murder.”

  “If one were so inclined.”

  She continues to eat her filet mignon, eyeing me across the table like a lioness used to being comfortably secure in her place near the top of the food chain, but now faced with an enemy that might just force her out of her natural habitat to sink or swim.

  “And you? What are your hobbies, Sloane?”

  “I don’t have hobbies. I work, I eat, I occasionally sleep. Rinse and repeat.”

  “That’s no way to live.”

  “It is when you want to succeed,” she says, aggressively cutting her meat.

  “And are you succeeding?”

  Her eyes roll up to me, filled with resentment as she continues to cut. “Apparently, by tomorrow morning, I will be.”

  “That’s what comes from taking risks. Something I suspect you’ve been lacking in life. It’s no wonder you have yet to make partner.”

  She drops the knife and fork
to glare at me. “Excuse me?”

  I resume eating before answering, assessing her as I chew my piece of veal.

  “Taking risks, cheating the system, even committing the occasional crime. That’s what pays off, Sloane. It’s something I learned early on in life. In many ways, I’m grateful for having had such a rude introduction to that fact. It provided me with a better education than any university could.”

  “Well,” she says, eyes narrowed as she picks up her fork and knife again. “Maybe I should resort to murder then.”

  “Perhaps you should,” I offer, lifting my wine glass toward her.

  She only glowers with contempt before shoving a piece of meat into her mouth. Oh, so apt.

  “Do you play poker?” I ask, sitting back to watch her.

  “I don’t gamble, period,” she says after swallowing.

  “There’s a difference between playing poker and gambling.”

  “In my case, the two are one and the same.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “All the same, I don’t play poker or gamble.”

  “Why is that?”

  She sits up straighter to stare at me, wry amusement playing around the edges of her eyes and mouth. “The trick to gambling is to go into it knowing you’re going to lose. The house always wins, isn’t that the saying?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Indeed,” she repeats, her gaze intensifying. “I never go into anything assuming I’m going to lose. But now that you bring it up, perhaps I should consider gambling. It will make it all the more exciting when I actually win against the house.”

  With her eyes still on me, she cuts a piece of meat and slowly brings it to her mouth, lips puckering around the fork as she slowly slides it out.

  Game on.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sloane

  Maybe it’s the brandy, or wine, or the delicious cut of steak, but I’m feeling emboldened for once.

  Taking risks. Oh, the irony.

  He still doesn’t know the real reason I’m in Monte Carlo. I suspect I wouldn’t still be sitting here eating at his table if he did know.

  Then again…

  “The mako shark has a particular way of hunting, swimming underneath his prey, completely unobserved until it’s too late.”

  The piece of food in my mouth feels painfully large going down my throat, landing in my stomach like a lead ball. I reach for my glass of wine to wash away both the feeling of it and the sudden dread that hits me.

  I cautiously observe Magnus as he studiously enjoys his own piece of meat. I can’t help but make the obvious connections between his carnivorous meal and his nickname.

  “So, what exactly will I be doing for the next forty days?”

  His humorless eyes slide up to me, then back down to his plate. “Whatever I demand of you.”

  I bristle at his choice of word. Demand? Not “ask” or “request” or even “desire.”

  Demand.

  “Whatever I can do to be of service—within my professional capabilities of course.”

  I watch a cynical smile grow on his lips as he continues to focus on his meal. “I have a feeling your capabilities are far more broad than you give yourself credit for, Sloane.”

  “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  There, I’ve said it. None of this wordplay or games or suggestive remarks that don’t quite tell me what he’s really thinking.

  His eyes come up to rest on me, giving absolutely nothing way. Nor do his lips so much as twitch with a hint of a response. His dark gaze lingers so long that I begin to wonder if I need to actually expound on that very frank and very literal statement I just made.

  “Your sleep will be all yours.”

  I suppress the inhaled breath of frustration. He might as well have openly stated that having sex with him will be part of the deal. Before my rational, indignant brain can respond, other parts of me do:

  My eyes, which scan the muscles outlined in his bespoke suit.

  My stomach, which twists, remembering how he looked in nothing but a black speedo.

  My hands which suddenly tremble too much to hold onto my fork and knife.

  The spot between my thighs, which spasms with glee, imagining the ways this man sitting across from me could put it to work.

  Sometimes I manage to disgust myself. The shame and self-reproach crash in like a tsunami, washing away those prurient thoughts. At least it has the added effect of cleansing my mind, keeping me focused.

  “I meant sex,” I clarify.

  “Yes, Sloane, I know exactly what you meant,” he says in a patronizing tone.

  Which still isn’t a response.

  I stare at him, waiting for him to give me a firm agreement.

  Magnus’s only response is to bite into another piece of meat, his eyes devouring me as hungrily as his mouth does with his veal.

  That’s when it hits me. The deal I made with the devil back in New York, is nothing compared to the one I’m making with the shark sitting across from me.

  * * *

  The rest of the dinner is mostly quiet, at least in verbal terms. But anyone looking at us from across the room could take note of our body language, which speaks volumes.

  The calm, self-assured man, enjoying his meal, no doubt expecting a very special dessert afterward.

  The stiff, silently seething woman across from him, who has no intention of satisfying his sweet tooth.

  By the time the waiter blessedly comes back to take our plates, the wine is gone.

  “May I interest you in—”

  “No dessert, thank you,” I say before Magnus gets any ideas about extending this torture.

  The waiter turns to him to confirm, which I should be used to by now, but I still find irritating. Magnus just nods imperceptibly, and the waiter silently slips away with a slight bow.

  “I’m going to assume we don’t have to wait for the check?”

  Magnus’ lips play around with a hint of a smile. “I will walk you back to your room.”

  “I think I can—”

  “I insist.”

  His words are so soft and mellow that the undercurrent of demand would be missed by someone less seasoned to his dominant personality.

  I swallow hard, then inhale before standing up. I toss my napkin on the table and leave, not bothering to wait for him.

  Magnus is as silent as a predator as he follows me. In fact, the only reason I know he’s less than two steps behind me is the surreptitiously guarded glances of the other patrons in the restaurant who quickly dart their eyes away after taking note of the man, the shark, tailing me as I exit.

  By the time I reach the entrance, he’s caught up to me. With his longer stride, it’s pointless to try and out-walk him, so I simply face forward, chin held high, completely closed off expression as I continue on.

  He doesn’t try to engage, even when we’re alone on the elevator, me still avoiding eye-contact. When the doors open, I make sure to continue the facade of confident disinterest.

  If he so much as crosses the threshold of my suite, I’m packing my bags and flying home to New York. With Theo’s brain and my knowledge and experience, I’m sure we can find a way to either raise the money the man in New York demanded or convince him of some alternate way to pay it off.

  I stumble a bit on my heels as a sudden wave of dizziness hits me, causing my body to go weak. It stiffens like a board when Magnus gently takes my elbow and places a hand on the small of my back to steady me and escort me down the rest of the hallway.

  When I try to shake him loose, his grip just hardens.

  “I can manage,” I say.

  “I’m sure,” he says in that enigmatic way of his. His hands remain on me.

  When we reach the door, I once again try to twist out from underneath his touch, and he finally allows it.

  “Thank you for walking me back to my suite, Mr. Reinhardt.”

  Hopefully, the formal address will remind him to keep things st
rictly professional.

  “Magnus. I insist.”

  “Magnus.” Pick your battles, as they say.

  His eyes roam down the front of my dress, and I can practically feel them penetrating the fine fabric, no doubt wondering what lingers just beneath. I feel my body react, but don’t dare do anything to try and cover myself. That would give too much away.

  I’m also not stupid enough to open the door while he’s still standing so close to me. It would only be an invitation for him to take what he probably thinks is his. His hotel. His room. And now, his attorney.

  “You’re worried I’m going to try to fuck you.”

  My eyes go wide and my mouth parts slightly at his blunt statement.

  “Are you?”

  The smirk that curls his lips is dangerously playful. He comes in closer. I step back, meeting the wall.

  “Would you deny me?”

  “Deny you?” I say, trying to maintain a confident front. “You say that as though it’s owed.”

  “I have a habit of getting what I want.”

  “So, you’d just take me then?”

  “I said get, not take.” He leans in close enough for me to drown in those green eyes.

  I should be saying something—anything. Instead, I might as well be a deer frozen in the headlights, not even aware of the car racing toward me at breakneck speed.

  Then it happens.

  Magnus’s lips meet with mine. He lied when he said he didn’t take. Although…I’m not sure if my lips aren’t just giving it to him like he damn well suggested. His are like some intoxicating elixir of danger and lust.

  I’ve had too much wine, too much brandy. I’ve already had my morality turned on its head once tonight. But what is murder compared to what Magnus is doing to my mouth—to my body?

  I moan as his lips force mine open. The first touch of his tongue has me trembling.

  Somewhere below, his large hand slides across the silky fabric of my dress. I barely register it coming between us to find the tie holding the wrap dress together. With one slow, elongated pull, he undoes it. I feel the fabric go slack, falling to my sides.