The Monte Carlo Shark: An International Legacies Romance

by Stevens, Camilla

  A knock on my door startles me out of my thoughts. I frown, wondering who it could be. I haven’t ordered room service. In fact, I haven’t even bothered to unpack beyond pulling out a new dress to wear, being that the other was still stained.

  I’m halfway to the door when I remember my reason for being here. There are very few people who know I’m in Monte Carlo, and half of them are certainly not people I want to run into just now.

  Especially that man from New York.

  A shudder of revulsion and fear runs through me, and I stop in my tracks. I still remember the cold, dead, light blue eyes that stared through me, not at me as he told me my options in that monotone South African accent of his. Get him what he wanted or else. He didn’t need to explain what “else” meant.

  “Who is it?” I call out a safe distance away from the door.

  “Madame Alexander? I am Andrés Brodeur, the manager of the hotel. May I please speak with you for a moment?”

  I frown. Why would the manager of the hotel want to speak with me?

  “What is this about?”

  “S’il vous plaît, it would perhaps be easier if I spoke with you face to face. I regret to inform you that there may be a problem with your room.”

  “What sort of problem?” I ask, getting annoyed as I realize this may be nothing more than some simple administrative screw-up. I really don’t have time for it.

  There’s a pause on the other end before he speaks again. “Madame, I understand you may have hesitations. Please, call the front desk, and they will confirm this visit.”

  It’s a wise move, one I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t think of myself.

  “One moment,” I say, as authoritatively as I can.

  I call the front desk, then the concierge just for good measure. Both assure me that this is a legit visit from the hotel manager.

  I open the door. The man that greets me has the perfect, regular blend of looks that demands respect from staff while earning the approval of guests of the hotel. The Papillon is not cheap—I’m not sure there’s a hotel in this city that is—but it doesn’t have the bank-breaking room rate that some of the places here seem to have.

  “Bonjour, madame,” he says, actually bowing slightly as he presents an apologetic smile.

  “What is this about my room?”

  “Oui, oui,” he says, nodding as though just remembering why he’s here. “It seems that there is a slight problem.”

  “Bed bugs?” I ask in alarm. Living in New York has placed that very fear high on my list of concerns.

  His eyes widen, expressing even more panic than I’m feeling. “Bed bugs? Oh no, Madame. It is just that…as it turns out, this room is not available.”

  “Even though I’m already here?” I say in a dry tone, feeling my irritation set back in.

  “Not to worry, we have you in a much, much nicer suite…in another hotel.”

  “What?”

  He winces ever so slightly. “I am truly sorry, Madame. It was an unfortunate oversight on our part, but the room, I am afraid it is no longer available.”

  “Why?”

  He gives one quick nod as if this is the exact question he expected. “We have a large group who originally booked this entire floor. At the reception desk, when you checked in this morning—I apologize, but the young woman is new and seems to have given you this room by mistake.”

  “And now you want me to move to another hotel?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid we have no more rooms available. However, this new hotel is much nicer and your room will be a suite, at no additional cost of course,” he adds. “In fact, the first two nights will be on us to compensate for this unfortunate—”

  “What hotel am I being moved to?” I ask in a curt tone.

  “La Mer.”

  The name means nothing to me, as lah-dee-dah as it sounds. It’s probably a sister hotel to this one, and probably not as nice as he’s making it out to be, suite or no suite. Still, two nights free is nothing to scoff at. I may need all forty days here in Monte Carlo.

  “We have a car, also at no cost, waiting to drive you to La Mer. Again, Madame, I apologize for this unfortunate inconvenience.”

  “It’s fine,” I say dismissively. “Can you give me a moment to gather my belongings?”

  “Oui, of course, Madame,” he says with palpable relief, smoothing his brow, which looked like it was on the verge of creating a permanent crease of worry.

  Once he’s gone, I use the time to think instead. Is this a coincidence? Maybe it is just a simple misunderstanding. Hotels fill up quickly, and summer in Monte Carlo has to be a popular time to visit.

  I can’t imagine Magnus Reinhardt having anything to do with this, not after one boat ride. How would he know where I was staying? Even if he did suspect me of anything, why would he have the hotel put me someplace better rather than just send me packing to fend for myself?

  I feel a headache coming on, probably from all the sun and alcohol I was exposed to earlier. If not for this little interruption, I’d probably be thinking about a nice warm bath or just falling onto the bed to sleep it off.

  But I have to change hotels.

  I sigh and grab the suitcase. When I open the door, I’m surprised to see the manager still standing there. He must really want me gone, especially if the sudden smile on his face is any indication.

  I dismiss his offer to wheel my luggage down for me. The car idling out front is a black Cadillac Escalade, which seems a bit…much. Especially, when I discover that the ride is only about ten minutes.

  But oh what a difference those ten minutes make.

  The huge circular driveway in front of the hotel surrounds a fountain that at least a few wannabe Instagram influencers are posing in front of. Considering the spectacular view of the Mediterranean beyond it, I’m not surprised.

  The hotel itself looks like Atlantis risen from the ocean and is probably as large. A whitewashed stone facade greets me as I exit the door the driver has just opened for me. My eyes are drawn to the columned balconies above, wondering what opulence lies beyond those French doors.

  A bellboy who seems to be specifically assigned to me is already waiting, greeting me with a smile as he insists on handling my lone piece of luggage.

  The massive entrance, which is too grand to simply be called a foyer or even a lobby, looks like something out of the Palace of Versailles. Marble flooring beneath me and gold-leaf trim lining the ceiling.

  In the center of the subdued hustle and bustle of the wealthy clientele stands a large round table with an impossibly grand floral display. A swirl of white orchids loop around the base of a vase, which holds a floral figure of a mermaid seeming to rise out of a swell of flowers. Whoever created it, turned what would probably look tacky under normal circumstances into something mesmerizing.

  I’m still staring at it in awe when a man in a suit approaches me. “Madame Alexander?”

  I blink and slowly turn to him. “Yes?”

  A gracious smile spreads on his face. “I am Neville, a personal concierge here at La Mer. We are so pleased to have you at our hotel. I was sorry to hear about the circumstances, but we do have your suite ready if you would please follow me?”

  I just nod, slightly surprised at how obliging everyone is being. It must have been an inconvenience on their part to so quickly accommodate me. If the Papillon is completely booked, surely this place must be just as full? I look around at the ambiance, which practically screams “unaffordable” and realize that they cater to two completely different types of clientele.

  I follow Neville, and the bellboy follows me toward the bank of elevators. It only occurs to me once we’re in the elevator that I haven’t even officially checked in at the front desk. Did the people at the Papillon just send them my information?

  “Is La Mer part of the same hotel family as the Papillon?” I ask, mostly to try and fit all this together.

  Neville stares for a moment, then gives me a gracious, but slightly patron
izing smile. “Non, madame.”

  I wrinkle my brow in confusion. Before I can ask any more questions, we’ve reached the floor I’m staying on. I briefly glance at the row of buttons to find we’re exiting on the penthouse level. That’s enough to keep me frozen in place, even as Neville and the bellboy exit.

  They look back at me expectantly, Neville holding the elevator doors as they begin to close on me.

  “Madame?”

  “Are you sure this is the floor I’m on?”

  “Of course,” he says with a smile.

  I slowly walk out and follow them to the end of the hall, where a set of double doors awaits. Neville uses the key card and opens both doors with a flourish.

  I gasp in surprise.

  “Welcome to Le Grande Suite,” he says proudly.

  The ten-euro bill I had prepared for the bellboy seems wildly inadequate considering what greets me, and I search my purse for more to add to it. He seems pleased either way, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the tip or because it’s been drilled in him to show satisfaction no matter what.

  “As you can see, there are two levels,” Neville continues as the bellboy leaves, having taken my suitcase to the second level. “The master bedroom is located upstairs, along with the master bath.”

  He walks to the French doors, probably one of the very ones I looked up at when I exited the car earlier.

  “There is a lovely view of the Mediterranean Sea, complete with a dining and lounge area here on the balcony.”

  I interrupt before he can continue.

  “Did they make it clear that I was coming from a standard room at the Papillon? The manager there said that there would be no extra charge and that the first two nights—”

  “Not to worry, madame,” Neville says graciously, ignoring how perfectly tacky I’m being.

  But really, there is no way this was the suite selected to make up for the very nice, but very basic hotel room that I had to give up at the Papillon.

  “The thing is,” I continue, not fully convinced. “This is …it’s too much. Surely you have something less…” I wave my hand around as if Le Grande Suite speaks for itself.

  His smile remains firmly in place. “Rest assured, madame, this is the correct suite.”

  “Yes, but…” Again, I’m not sure how to finish.

  “The room will be fully compensated during your entire stay, madame.”

  “Fully compensated?” I repeat. “No, I just wanted to make sure that it wouldn’t be more than what I was paying at the Papillon. And the manager there said only two nights would be compensated.”

  “Perhaps…” Neville says, leading the way back in. He picks up an envelope, sitting on the large table in the foyer which I missed as we walked in. “This might clarify?”

  Madame Sloane Alexander.

  It’s written in elegant calligraphy on the front of the envelope. I stare down at it, my mouth completely agape. I look up at Neville.

  “Who is it from?”

  He just raises his brow slightly, as though to tell me he has no idea.

  I open it, loathe to rip into the thick paper that is as smooth as satin against my fingertips. Inside is a single flat card. I see the same handwritten script. I pull it out, feeling my brow crease.

  Magnus Reinhardt requests the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight at…

  I look up from the written words to stare at Neville in surprise. “Magnus Reinhardt?”

  He just stares back, still with that infernal smile on his lips. Now, I just want to smack it from his face.

  I look around at the suite, seeing it with new eyes. Then, I think back to everything that happened at the Papillon.

  That’s when it hits me—the name of this hotel.

  La Mer.

  The Sea.

  A shark’s natural habitat.

  Chapter Nine

  Magnus

  “What was her reaction?”

  “She seemed very surprised.”

  Neville Caron, the head concierge at La Mer, was no doubt equally as surprised by the demand I made of him only about two hours ago to put Sloane in that suite. He has the professional tact not to show it.

  “And the dinner invitation? What was her reaction?” I study him carefully as he answers. I conduct all such interrogations in person. I know that there is just as much if not more information to be gleaned from one’s body language and facial expression than there is from their words alone.

  He shows the first signs of discomfort. “She was…surprised.”

  The hesitation. The blink before finishing the answer. The swallow that accompanied it.

  He’s lying.

  “And now the truth,” I demand.

  Again he swallows, but the way his eyes fall to the floor tells me the real answer is forthcoming.

  “Angry. Almost as though pieces of a puzzle were falling into place and…she wasn’t pleased with the result.”

  A grin comes to my face, imagining the look on Sloane Alexander’s once she realized what was happening. Or at least part of it.

  I know better than to show too many of my cards.

  The key is to reveal just enough to confuse one’s opponent. It was one of the first things my grandpa, Aloin LaCour, taught me when he first introduced me to the world of poker. Give your opponent something to latch onto, then, just when they think they have you figured out, strike.

  I’m not surprised at how quickly Sloane put it together. Frankly, I would have been disappointed if she hadn’t discovered that I was the one behind her being summarily ousted from the Papillon and housed at La Mer.

  Right where I want her.

  Now, more than ever, my decision to purchase La Mer has paid off. Everything, even a hotel, can be a weapon if you wield it the proper way.

  “Thank you, Neville.”

  He reads that as the dismissal it is and rises to take his leave.

  I stop him with a few parting words before he reaches the door. “Make sure that Sloane is at dinner promptly at eight o’clock. I don’t care if you have to force your way into the suite and drag her down, kicking and screaming.”

  “Yes, sir,” he says, his poker face still intact as he quietly exits.

  I’m just about to reward myself for this little victory with a cigar when my personal cell phone rings. Only a select few people have access to this number, and it usually only rings when the news is bad. I pull it out and read the ID

  Mona.

  My Aunt. My mother’s sister who took in Estelle and me when we were left orphaned.

  It can only mean one thing.

  “Mona,” I answer, trying to hide the irritation in my voice.

  The sigh that precedes whatever it is she’s about to tell me gives me more information than what comes next.

  “It’s Estelle. She called me, Magnus.”

  “Which is no surprise. You are her favorite advocate.”

  “Stifling her will only make her more reckless.”

  “I didn’t realize that cutting her off from the exorbitant allowance I gave her was so suffocating. If I recall, her constant complaint was that there were too many strings attached. Now, she’s free to do as she wishes—including make her own money.”

  There’s another sigh, and I feel my irritation grow. Estelle is an expert at tugging heartstrings. Growing up, even I fell victim to it, wanting nothing more than to protect my younger sister from the evils I knew existed in the world. Perhaps that’s what has made her so spoiled and flighty.

  “Perhaps I can talk to her, convince her to return to Paris—”

  “Return to Paris?” I interrupt, sitting up straighter. Estelle should currently be in Paris, where she’s been studying art history—her latest whim. “Where is she now?”

  There’s a silence on the other end as my aunt, no doubt, realizes her mistake.

  “Mona.”

  “She’s in Italy. She met a man from Rome, and they are on holiday.”

  “So this is where
the money I’m paying goes? For her to fly off to Portofino or Capri with some man? Dare I ask who he is and what he does for a living?”

  “She’s entitled to have a love life, Magnus. It’s summer, and her studies don’t start up again until fall.”

  As if Estelle didn’t spend the last year dropping every class she’s taken. Now, she’s latched onto someone who will no doubt be happy to pay the bills in return for God knows what. Or, more likely, using her for the money I give her. The thought of my sister debasing herself this way has my fists curling.

  “Do I at least get a name for this new man in her life?”

  Mona pauses, no doubt reading my mind. Naturally, I’ll be learning everything I can about this man using my vast resources. All the better to end the relationship and send my sister back to Paris, where she’ll hopefully behave herself.

  “Giorgio Conti,” she says, realizing that I’ll find out one way or another. “Please don’t do anything…rash, Magnus.”

  Giorgio Conti. The name alone practically oozes the word sleazy. Or maybe I’m just biased. Once he finds out she’s penniless, he’ll be gone soon enough. Not that I’ll be leaving it up to fate.

  “I’m going to do what’s best for Estelle.”

  “Magnus.”

  “Mona,” I say, mimicking her tone of warning.

  “This isn’t the way to go about it. Meddling in her life will only push her away.”

  A part of me knows this is true. Once upon a time, Estelle had a much longer leash, free to indulge in the usual frivolities that the young, rich, and rudderless passed the time with.

  As my own wealth grew along with my ability to carry out the vengeance I swore on my parents’ graves, I became more and more controlling, limiting what I allowed her to do with the money I gave her. No more Instagram, where any potential kidnapper could find out her exact location at any given time. No more running off to Nice with her friends, most of whom spent their nights club-hopping in between hits of cocaine, pot, or ecstasy. No more shacking up with some boy who was only using her for her money.

  It’s all for her protection.

  “I have to go, Mona. Thank you for keeping me updated.”