The waiter I talked to brings me a menu, and I quickly order a glass of one of the reds listed, making sure it’s expensive enough to be worth his effort. I hand him my card to keep the tab open. I have a feeling I may be here a while.
Theo already owes me big time. This is just one more thing to put on his bill. As though I’ll ever collect. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t stolen money in the first place. My heartbeat begins to race as I recall how all of this started for me. I was snatched late at night, only a block away from my luxury apartment building in downtown Manhattan. It was like something out of some cheap thriller movie, complete with a hood over my head. The terror has yet to go away fully. I close my eyes to take a few deep breaths just to get my heart back to its normal rhythm.
Focus, Sloane.
The only thing I care about at this moment is that yacht before me and what information I can gather from it.
Nothing else matters.
Not the danger that awaits both Theo and me back in New York.
Not the partnership I’d hoped to get this year.
Not the glass of wine the waiter brings to set down in front of me.
Not even the ear-splitting sound of a rumbling engine nearing me as I stare out at the docks.
Until the reason for that sound stops right in front of me in the form of a Harley Davidson. It’s enough to draw my eyes away from the Mako and down to the motorcycle’s owner. My breath catches when he pulls off his helmet, and I realize who it is.
Magnus Reinhardt.
Chapter Two
Magnus
She was staring at the Mako.
That’s what caught my attention. Now that I have a closer look, I’m glad I took the time to stop.
Even in nothing but a simple white sundress and sandals, she has a regal air about her. Both are a blinding contrast against her dark skin gleaming in the French Riviera sun. Long legs bent to the side and demurely crossed at the ankles. Back straight, forcing her chest slightly forward and elongating her elegant neck. Her hair is pulled back into a bun at the nape, allowing the eye uninhibited access to her oval-shaped face with its high cheekbones, enticingly full lips, narrow eyes, and long but slightly flared nose.
She didn’t even acknowledge the noise my bike was making until I came to a stop right in front of her. Those eyes remained focused on my yacht with laser-like intensity.
Which is both suspicious and intriguing.
What does she want?
The way she now stares down at me has me wanting to know more. I’m never one to be swayed by feminine allure. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it while I sate my curiosity.
I turn off the engine, then kick the stand for my bike and set it to rest, placing the helmet on one of the handlebars. Anyone else leaving their motorcycle sitting here on the side of the road near the marina would get a ticket and most likely have it removed.
With me, they know better.
The platform of the outdoor area she sits in is only slightly raised off the ground. Rather than waste time going all the way around to the front to take the stairs, I grab hold of the railing surrounding it and heft myself up, easily lifting one long leg, then the other over it.
I’m casually dressed in a black t-shirt, jeans, and dark shoes. My original plans for the day involved something far outside the realm of business.
But that can wait.
“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes widened in surprise.
So she’s American. Not that it matters. I have enemies on almost every continent. It just determines which language to use with her. Having been born in Luxembourg, I speak French, German, Luxembourgish, and of course, English fluently.
“I was headed to my boat, but I decided to make a detour.” As I say it, I watch her, like a predator assessing his prey as I take the seat across from her. The mention of my boat caused her to blink once. Admitting I took a detour for her has her breathing heavier.
Fear or arousal?
It’s difficult to tell.
Perhaps both.
“And you decided to sit here of all places?”
“Do you mind?” I ask in a way that tells her I have no intention of leaving.
“Well,” she says, swallowing. Something in her gaze shifts, causing those tilted eyes to narrow even more, now that she’s recovered from the intrusion. “You’re already here, aren’t you.”
“I am,” I say, still studying her.
She lifts the glass of red wine in front of her to take a sip, eyeing me over the edge. I have a feeling she’s analyzing me just as much as I am her. When she sets it down, she’s back to looking regal again—a queen secure on her throne.
But I’ve snatched crowns from the heads of far more powerful people than this woman, whoever she is.
“To what do I owe the detour?” she asks with idle amusement.
“Perhaps I just hate the idea of a woman drinking alone.”
“How gentlemanly of you.”
We both smile, not in a friendly or polite way, but in a way that assures the other that we both know what game we’re playing here.
Now I’m even more suspicious.
But hell if I’m not also more intrigued.
“Magnus Reinhardt,” I say, mostly to get it out of the way.
“Everyone knows who you are,” she replies with a coy smile, batting her eyelashes for effect.
All of which diminishes any interest I had in her. Flattery doesn’t work on me. I’m more infamous than famous. People who proclaim to know who I am fall into two camps: those who want something from me and those who want to take something from me.
The kittenish look instantly disappears, replaced by a slightly imperious air. “I suppose that’s why you felt so entitled to sit with me before bothering to ask permission.”
The tiniest spark of interest is reignited.
“Would you like me to leave?”
She gives me a long considering look. “I’m not sure yet.”
I laugh. We both know that the last thing she wants is for me to leave. That isn’t me stroking my own ego, that’s me reading her like a damn book.
“What can I do to persuade you to allow me to stay?” I ask, if only to see how she’ll respond.
One side of her mouth hitches into a smirk. “Let’s see.”
She picks up the wine menu, turning it to the back where they are listed as full bottles instead of by-the-glass. Her eyes scan the page until they pause at something that’s piqued her interest.
She turns to catch the waiter’s attention.
I’m disappointed. If she’s hoping to win me over by indulging in some expensive bottle of wine on my dime, she’s sorely mistaken.
“I’d like a bottle of the Château Haut-Brodeur,” she says, pointing at the menu.
Her French is appalling, but her taste in wine is exquisite. The bottle is undoubtedly worth whatever ridiculous mark-up the bar most likely added to the original multi-hundred dollar price tag.
“A fine selection,” I say, making no move to get my wallet.
She gives me an indulgent smile before returning her attention back to the waiter. “Please put it on my tab.”
“Oui, madame.”
Now, my interest is more than a spark.
A nice power move on her part.
“I have to wonder, to what do I owe the generosity?”
“You rescued me from being a woman drinking alone,” she says matter-of-factly.
I laugh, genuinely amused at this point. “Perhaps with the wine, I can get a name?”
She takes a long sip from the glass still in front of her. After setting it down and swallowing, she gives me a cool smile.
“Sloane Alexander.”
Chapter Three
Sloane
Good grief, five-hundred and eighty-nine euros?
Still, with a man like Magnus Reinhardt, you go big or go home. And home is looking pretty precarious for me right now.
I recognized the label from m
y days as a summer intern at Douglas & Foster, back when they were trying to woo us with expensive meals and over-the-top perks.
One of the senior partners, Jamie Reaves, ordered a bottle “paid for by the firm” (wink, wink) when he took me and two others out to dinner one night toward the end of that summer. Considering what a pompous ass he is, it’s no surprise that the bottle is obscenely expensive. But it’s also damn good wine.
More importantly, it seems to have done the trick.
I should have known that stupid coquettish act wouldn’t work with a man like Magnus. Based on the women I’ve seen in this city since I arrived this morning, flirtation and sex-appeal seem to be the most inflated forms of currency here.
I’m almost ashamed to admit that it came purely by instinct. Fortunately, I quickly came to my senses—which wasn’t easy. The man practically permeates the air with an overabundance of testosterone, activating every feminine urge in me, even those I didn’t realize I possessed. Everything about Magnus Reinhardt screams masculinity, from the hard, rugged lines of his face, covered in day-old stubble that only enhances the handsome features, down to the long, muscular legs now bent with one ankle over the knee of the other as he leans back to assess me.
His eyes are his most intriguing trait, a rich green that both hides and reveals so much. He’s cautious with those dark jade irises, giving away nothing of his true intentions. But he’s also quick to convey exactly what he wants me to know with them. The flash of disappointment when I tried playing the vixen. The intense curiosity when I paid for the wine instead of assuming he would.
It’s those eyes I’ll have to pay the closest attention to.
“I saw you admiring the marina. Do you have a particular interest in boats?”
He’s being sly, even as he gets straight to the point. We both know he only joined me because I was stupid enough to be caught showing too much interest in his yacht.
“I was admiring yours in particular. The Mako?” I can be just as confrontational as he is.
He studies me hard for a good long moment. Before he can respond, the waiter comes back with the bottle of wine.
“Madame,” he says, formally presenting it to me after setting two empty glasses down on the table before us. I’m annoyed to see him swivel it toward Magnus as well. “Monsieur.”
The waiter quickly uncorks it and then hesitates, swallowing hard as his eyes dart back and forth between the two of us as though wondering who should do the honor of tasting it first.
My irritation is tempered when I realize that it’s only because he’s well aware of who the man is sitting next to me. At least now I know what kind of reputation Magnus has in this city. It’s the same one he has in the world of business: fearsome.
Magnus gives him a hard look, waving his hand in my direction.
“Oui,” the man mutters so softly I barely hear it as he quickly nods and pours a sample for me, making sure to plant an ingratiating and apologetic smile on his lips as he does.
I go through the motions, swirling and sniffing it before taking a sip. God, but it’s good. I nod, setting the glass down.
“Oui, madame,” he says, pouring us both a glass.
I watch him leave then turn my attention back to Magnus, who is eyeing me with a subtle smile.
“So is it madame, or mademoiselle?”
I hold my left hand up and wriggle my fingers to show the lack of a ring.
Magnus laughs. It’s a strong, rich, impressive sound, much like the man himself. “In my experience, a lack of a wedding ring means nothing. You wouldn’t be the first lioness to hunt for bigger game than the one she’s currently settled on.”
“Who in this situation is really the hunter?” I ask, giving him a direct look as I take a sip.
“You tell me.” His gaze is just as direct. “Why the interest in the Mako?”
I swallow my sip and turn to look at it. “It has an interesting aesthetic, different from the others.”
“That’s the way I had it made.”
There’s something in his voice that draws my attention back to him. He’s staring at the yacht as though it’s his personal nemesis rather than a prized possession, one he respects and admires…but also resents.
When he feels my gaze on him, he turns back to me.
“Why call it the Mako?” I ask.
Something fierce and dark colors his eyes, turning them into dark-green forests of pure malevolence. I have no idea what’s hidden behind that look, but I pity whoever has evoked this reaction in him.
“Sharks have always fascinated me, the mako in particular. It’s one of the fastest, most relentless, deadliest fish in the sea. He has a specific way of hunting, swimming underneath his prey, completely unobserved until it’s too late. When the attack comes, it’s by surprise—sudden, before the prey even realizes it was being hunted. But the mako takes his time feeding, tearing away at the flesh until the target is immobilized, often dying a slow, painful death.”
The swallow of wine I’ve just taken makes a painful trek down my throat. It plunges into the turmoil that’s beginning to stir in my stomach, warning me that I’m swimming in treacherous waters.
I knew Magnus had a dangerous reputation, but I hadn’t realized it might verge on the psychopathic. I assumed the mako was just a metaphor for his business dealings, but this intensity in him is…something else.
I’m appalled to find that it doesn’t turn me off to the man as much as it should. In fact, it stirs something in me that has a hint of sizzling electricity and excitement, even admiration. I wish I could be as ruthlessly ambitious with certain people in my life. Maybe I’d be a partner by now.
Focus, Sloane.
I think of my brother back in New York, still with a pendulum of death hanging over his head. Each moment I linger here in Monte Carlo without getting information is another inch closer to both of us ending up in a ditch somewhere.
Damn you, Theo!
I tear my gaze away from Magnus’s eyes, which still contain the lingering traces of venom. I settle them back on the Mako, watching a man in a crisp white shirt and shorts scurry along the deck to disappear inside.
“I noticed there is a lot of activity on board. Are you planning on taking it out soon?” I inquire, bringing my attention back to him and taking a sip of wine.
Magnus stares at me for a moment, using the time to take a sip as well.
“Again, admirable choice in wine,” he says after swallowing.
Rather than acknowledge the compliment—I don’t need to be told it’s damn good wine—I wait for him to answer my question.
A tiny whisper of a smile touches his lips. “I’m having a small gathering tomorrow night.”
I wait, knowing from experience in my job that silence is the best motivator to keep people talking.
Magnus doesn’t bite. Instead, he continues to sip his wine in silence.
So that’s it then. I should have known he wouldn’t be an easy nut to crack. I’ll have to think of an alternate avenue to get inside that head of his while I still have him. I sigh to myself and try to at least savor the five-hundred euros swirling around in my glass.
“Actually, I was planning on going out on the water today.” My eyes pop back up to him. “Since you’ve been so generous with your wine, perhaps you’d be willing to accompany me? Unless, of course, you have alternate plans?”
I still the beating of my heart, hoping he can’t see it reflected in the pulse along my neck. “No plans. I’d love to join you.”
“Bien,” he says with a smile that just barely reaches his eyes.
I’m reminded of the words he spoke just a few minutes ago, describing the hunting method of the mako shark.
And I’ve just agreed to go on to the water with him.
Chapter Four
Sloane
Magnus finishes the last of what’s left in his glass and then sets it down. When he rises, I stare at him in disbelief.
“There’s still half a bott
le left,” I say, not even embarrassed at how indignant my voice sounds.
Maybe he can afford to walk away from a half-finished, five-hundred-euro bottle of wine as though it’s soda that’s gone flat; for the rest of us, the sting is significant.
“We’ll bring it with us.”
Before I can even ask if that’s permitted, he has the waiter’s attention. The ambivalence the man greeted yours truly with when I arrived is now simpering submissiveness in the presence of Monsieur Reinhardt.
Magnus says something to him in French, pointing down to the bottle on the table. I watch over my glass as I finish the contents, waiting to see what will come of this.
There’s no way it would be legal to take an open bottle off the premises, would it? Based on the conflict in the waiter’s eyes, my hunch is correct.
But that’s nothing compared to the sheer will of Magnus getting his way—no matter what.
A few forceful words in French and a colorful bill—a two-hundred euro based on the hue—folded into his palm, and he’s more than happy to look the other way. I can’t help but note that for that amount, we could have almost bought another damn bottle; true, not as good as this one, but not pure vinegar either.
On the other hand, the two glasses I’ve had are already beginning to affect me. The last thing I need is to lose my wits, especially in Magnus’s territory.
He looks over the railing, the same one he used to access the bar, then back at me with a subtle smirk. His eyes wander across my dress as though already picturing what it would look like hitched halfway up my thighs as I scaled it then jumped down to the street below.
Once again, I give him an incredulous look.
There’s a soft rumble of laughter in his throat before he grabs the bottle by the neck with one hand and reaches out his other to me.
I pause only a moment, staring down at the massive palm, long fingers with thick pads. Then I take it.
We must look like two reckless lovers enjoying an early afternoon of uninhibited fun, what with our casual clothes and half a bottle of very expensive wine carelessly held by Magnus. I wonder how common this is here in Monte Carlo.
The Monte Carlo Shark: An International Legacies Romance Page 2