The Monte Carlo Shark: An International Legacies Romance

by Stevens, Camilla

  That rings a bell, mostly because Conniver owns almost every financial newspaper, journal, or magazine in the world, along with media in various other industries. I have heard rumors that they are planning to streamline their holdings, focusing solely on news, finance, and politics rather than fashion, travel, and food.

  “Yes, yes,” the man says, not bothering to reach his hand out for me to shake. His eyes scan me up and down in a way that is less than flattering, as though he’d be interested in taking a bite out of me. Maybe it’s simply the protective way Magnus keeps his hand on my lower back that has me sensing how dangerous the man might be.

  “I can only imagine why I was honored with an invite to your impressive yacht. Perhaps you have heard rumors about me trimming the fat on my little media company?” Ruben says, laughing as he turns his attention back to Magnus. “However, I have been told you like to create a motley little mix at these things. So maybe you are just interested in entertaining your guests with my latest hunt?”

  So he’s a hunter. That explains his predatory gaze, which is far less thrilling than Magnus’s.

  “Perhaps,” Magnus replies ambiguously.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting Sebastian De León,” Ruben says in an almost conspiratorial tone. “An Ajax fan myself, obviously, but I can always appreciate a skilled footballer from a team outside of Amsterdam. And I’ve heard he’s leaving Barcelona, seeking out a new team to join?”

  His tone hints at a question, but Magnus remains amicably tight-lipped. “Perhaps Sebastian may shed some light on that tonight. If you’ll excuse me, I should go greet our other guests.”

  Ruben seems slightly disgruntled, as though he should be treated like the man of the hour, but steps aside all the same.

  Magnus continues to guide me along, his hand still on the small of my back, rather than simply having me follow him. I watch him give a nod to a man that we pass, who greets it with a subtle smirk. It’s as though the two of them are in on some unspoken secret, all the more curious since Magnus hasn’t introduced him.

  The man is perhaps in his late-twenties, and his black-tie suit fits in in a way that isn’t quite as attentive to detail as the other two men in the room. Even his date seems like a wild doe suddenly caught in a circle of headlights as she stares around in wonder at her surroundings. And I thought I was outside of my comfort zone.

  The young Asian man we eventually meet up with has the sort of cocky but fun vibe that indicates he doesn’t take life too seriously. He isn’t even wearing a proper suit, going with a white shirt, no tie, underneath a black blazer and matching pants—all paired with Nike sneakers. Unlike the other two men, he doesn’t have a date, but he doesn’t seem ill at ease hanging around on the sidelines, observing those around him as though we’re all just animals in a zoo to him.

  For some reason, I like him despite this, maybe even because of it.

  “Magnus Reinhardt, as I live and breathe,” he greets in a standard American accent with a grin plastered on his face.

  “Zachary Kim,” Magnus says with the first seemingly genuine smile of the night. “I’m thrilled you could make it.”

  “Thrilled to be here, and it’s just Zach.” He considers Magnus with a tilt of the head. “I’m just wondering what your end game was in inviting me.”

  Magnus gives him an indulgent grin. “You’ve managed to pique my interest. I had to get you to Monte Carlo somehow. I figured an invitation to dinner would spur you along.”

  “Yes, I do prefer Vegas, but all you had to do was say the word, my man. I couldn’t very well turn down the grandson of a poker legend.”

  Magnus’s smile disappears, and he turns to me. “Sloane, Zach is one of the top poker players in the world.”

  “Well, I guess you’re in the right city for it,” I say with a chipper smile, unsure of what else I could possibly say to that. Magnus already knows I don’t play poker.

  Zach laughs and looks at me with an appreciative glance. “Poker is not all Monte Carlo is good for.”

  I give him a saucy smirk, for some reason tickled by this blatant objectification. Perhaps it’s because I sense the teasing manner underneath it.

  “Careful, my date for the night seems like the jealous type,” I retort.

  And just where did that notion come from?

  Zachary laughs good-naturedly, and Magnus allows one side of his mouth to hitch up into a smile.

  “I don’t know, I’m feeling pretty lucky these days,” Zach says, for some reason looking at Magnus with a cunning gleam in his eye rather than me, which makes me think his “getting lucky” may be related to poker.

  “Oh sí, sí, sí!. This is the place!”

  We all turn at that loud announcement to find a young, brash, but strikingly handsome man walk in with two women on either side of him.

  All three of the new guests have given the term “evening wear” their own interpretation. He’s wearing a brocade tuxedo jacket with a paisley red bow tie. For some reason, it works on him. His dates look like they’ve taken a pair of shears to perfectly acceptable evening gowns to show as much leg as possible. To be fair, if I had legs (and ass!) like theirs, I’d be inclined to show them off as well.

  This must be the infamous Sebastian De León and his plus-two.

  I turn to see Magnus’s reaction and find his face perfectly unreadable. He might as well be the concierge at a high-end restaurant, greeting this guest in the same professionally polite manner that he would any other.

  Sebastian unwraps an arm from around the waist of one woman and points at Magnus with a grin. “El Rey!”

  If Magnus is at all flattered by the royal label, he doesn’t show it. But he does walk over to greet the man warmly, allowing himself to be pulled into some version of a bro-hug that I’m sure he loathes. I stand back to enjoy the show.

  “And the night gets even more interesting,” Zach says behind me. I turn to find him scrutinizing Magnus and Sebastian with a keen look in his eye.

  When I turn back around, I scan the room. He has a point.

  The Spanish “footballer” (which I’m worldly enough to know is a soccer player in American terminology).

  The Dutch founder of Conniver Media, who would rather talk about hunting.

  The American professional poker player.

  The mysterious, but inconspicuous man who has yet to be introduced.

  And of course, the women who came with them.

  It’s like the opening to a walks-into-a-bar joke.

  The only question is, what the hell is Magnus’s punchline?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Magnus

  As though on cue, an announcement is made that dinner is ready to be served.

  I knew Sebastian would be arriving late. As though I would have invited anyone to this party without first doing my homework. He’s a notorious prima donna who likes to make an entrance.

  I instructed my staff that dinner would not be served before the final guest arrived, nor would it be one minute later than after they made their appearance.

  The guests are all guided upstairs to the upper deck, where the table is laid out. It’s a stunning setting, not that I give a damn beyond impressing those who feel the need to be impressed.

  What’s far more important to me is the seating arrangement. It isn’t just a concern about the inflated egos in the room and who should and shouldn’t sit at the head of the table. It’s keeping certain people well away from others.

  I watch Ruben. Thanks to his date, he’s already fully lubricated on Fernet-Branca, his beverage of choice. It’s true what they say about liquor magnifying one’s personality. Hopefully, his disgustingly lascivious nature will be enough of a turn-off to keep Sloane from showing him too much attention. Just to make sure, I’ve placed her at the other end of the table.

  When we’re all seated, I’m at the head, with Ruben on my right to soothe his ego at not taking the other end, where Sebastian sits like a peacock, feathers on full display. I
’ve seated him in between Sloane and Ruben’s “date” to give him a chance to fluff those feathers even more. Fortunately, Sloane seems at least amused by his machismo rather than turned off by it.

  Ruben should be satisfied by the fact that Sebastian’s own dates are sitting directly across from him on my left and in the seat next to him. He’s as much a sucker for young, attractive female attention as he is for big game hunting. Fitting, since he treats them almost the same way.

  I’ve deliberately kept Zach closer to me. He sits on the other side of Sebastian’s date on my left. As I assumed, his intelligence, specifically emotional intelligence, which allows him to read people too well, extends outside the world of poker. He has to know that this specific selection of dinner guests is not as random as it appears, even if he hasn’t figured out “what the end game is.”

  The dark horse in attendance is nothing more than Simon McCune. He’s a freelance financial journalist, one of the few not under the Conniver Media umbrella. Too ethical to be bought, but smart enough to pick up the scent of a big story. He’s already written a few insightful pieces about my past year of selling off assets and hoarding money. He’s written even more about who I’ve been meeting with, speculating with the rest of the world as to what I’m up to. I’ve strategically placed him on the other side of Sloane. Whatever tidbits she gets from Sebastian’s inadvertent crowing—and the man is notorious for speaking before thinking—Simon will get as well, and hopefully, put two and two together. Although his wife sits across from him, I’m hoping that being placed between Zach and Ruben’s hired plus-one for the evening will keep her occupied. She looks like a rabbit who is about to bolt.

  I spend most of the first two appetizers testing Ruben Bakker out to see if he would be willing to sell his majority holding in Conniver Media. He’s met it with ambiguous delight at having most of my attention, without giving me a straight answer.

  With that bit of due diligence out of the way, I move on to my main reason for inviting him—in the most off-handed way possible.

  “So Ruben, I’ve heard you’ve been more hands-off in running Conniver? What have you been up to these days?”

  I already know his favorite topic of conversation is coming, since his lips spread into a smile that is almost orgasmic. “Hunting as usual. I actually have a little hunting trip planned in a few weeks.”

  “That sounds interesting. I’ve never been much of a hunter myself.”

  “You are missing out, my friend! One day I will have to entice you to join me. This next one I have planned is particularly thrilling.”

  “Oh?” I urge.

  “Africa, the only place worth venturing anymore.”

  “Hmm, I have heard that Botswana was the place to go if you really want to experience it authentically.” Hopefully, this bit of esoteric knowledge won’t belie the disinterest in hunting I just proclaimed to have.

  Fortunately, Ruben is already too drunk to notice. He waves a hand away with a sloppy smirk.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, my friend, too many rules and regulations. Of course, there are always ways around it if you know the right people. We men with money often don’t have to worry.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “I myself landed one of the five Black Rhino hunting licenses allowed in South Africa,” he says proudly.

  “Really?”

  “You mean like a rhinoceros?” Sebastian’s’ date, sitting across from him, asks as she gives him a wide-eyed stare.

  “Indeed,” he says, gazing at her with hungry eyes. “There’s a certain skill in hunting big game. One has never truly lived until you’ve seen a Cape buffalo turn on you, charging with all the mighty force of a beast that weighs five times as much as you—perhaps in your case, ten times as much.”

  The woman slowly stretches her neck back, grabbing her throat as though Ruben is a lion ready to strike that spot first.

  “The key is to aim for the eyes. That’s the only sure way to down such an animal. It takes a steady pulse to stare your enemy in the eye only to put a bullet in it a second later.”

  “That’s twisted,” she says, her mouth turned down with distaste.

  It only seems to thrill him even more. Knowing what I do about the man, that’s no surprise. The man is a sadist.

  “So, South Africa. I’ve heard Cape Town is nice. You have one of your satellite offices there, no?”

  Ruben leans back to address me, having sated his thirst for terrorizing the weak. “Hmm, not my favorite place to visit, considering they let the animals out of the cage to run things down there. But, alas, one must go where the wildlife is.”

  “So are you going hunting on your own?” I probe.

  “No, I have a man down there who I trust. He’s helped me get around a few pesky rules and regulations in the past. Imagine, an entire continent perfect for a sportsman such as myself, and we have to abide by the laws set up by a bunch of people who just happen to be living there. Granted, some of our own kind are no better, practically swaddling the world in nappies for our own good or the environment or some such nonsense.”

  By now, both of Sebastian’s dates have decided to wisely turn their attention to other people at the table. I can’t blame them.

  “Now, my man that I work with down there, he knows how to handle such people,” Ruben continues with a knowing smile. “I can put you in touch with him if you’re interested.”

  “No, I prefer hunting businesses to hunting animals, ” I say with an enigmatic smile. “However, I do know several people who might be interested in the future, so perhaps I can get his name all the same.”

  “Yes, yes—Jan Vorster.”

  I smile. “Well, I’ll certainly be keeping that name in mind if I ever consider hunting.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sloane

  “…and why not get more dinero? After all, I’m the best footballer in Europe!”

  I give Sebastian an accommodating smile. The smile on the woman across from me is more amused. She is the one here with Ruben Bakker and, considering everything I’ve seen of him so far, I can only assume it’s due to his money. Even then, she seems far too sophisticated and intelligent to settle for a man like that, no matter how much he has. There are plenty of far more pleasant men in the world who are filthy stinking rich.

  “Yo soy el león!” Sebastian continues, well into his third glass of wine.

  I slice into the tenderest piece of meat I’ve ever tasted as he literally pounds his chest.

  “Mira!” He says, and I nearly choke on my bite as he begins unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Sebastian,” the woman across from me protests in a mild but teasing voice.

  “No, no…” he says, tearing open the sides to reveal the massive face of a lion tattooed over his entire chest.

  The man next to me chuckles. His wife sitting across the table just stares open-mouthed. I’ve talked to him enough to know that his name is Simon and he’s a journalist specializing in financial news. Which I suppose makes sense for a dinner with Magnus Reinhardt of all people, even if he is two seats away from the man.

  “It’s very impressive,” Reuben’s date says in a surprisingly diplomatic voice. “Speaking of more money, I noted that you put your apartment in Barcelona on the market. Obviously, you’ll be moving up to a bigger residence in the city. A football superstar such as yourself deserves more fitting accommodation, something that lets the world know who you are.”

  An odd segue, and so sycophantic, I’m surprised Sebastian isn’t offended at how obvious it is. I wouldn’t have pegged her as the type to be so overly flattering.

  But sure enough, the best footballer in the world eats it up, practically right out of her hand.

  “Sí, To hell with Barcelona,” he spits as he re-buttons his shirt. “I have bigger plans.”

  “You know,” she poses, “when you finally buy your new place, I know one of the top interior designers in the world.”

  Sebastian cre
ases his brow, frowning at her as though she’s offered to paint his nails or play with Barbies together.

  “She designed one of Lionel Messi’s residences.”

  The name rings a bell for me but just seems to make Sebastian angry.

  She continues on, “and Javier Bardem, not to mention Jay-Z and Beyonce’s home in…oh, I forget which city, but they vacation there often.”

  This bit of name dropping, which I now realize is bullshit, plays perfectly for Sebastian.

  “Really?” He asks, suddenly interested.

  “Oh yes. But…” the woman pouts thoughtfully, “she only works in certain cities and countries, and the waitlist…” she shrugs as if to indicate it may be a while. “I could call and ask if she’d be interested. Barcelona is a bit out of the way for her, though.”

  “Not Barcelona,” he leans in closer to her. “Brussels.”

  “Son of a bitch,” the man next to me whispers under his breath, so low I barely hear it. I turn to see an impressed smile on his face, as though he’s just been made privy to some exciting revelation.

  “Really?” The woman responds, eyes widening innocently. “I’m certain she could manage that city quite easily.”

  Sebastian seems to suddenly regret revealing so much, his mouth turning down in a frown and an angry crease coming to his brow.

  “But only you know that,” he says, pointing one warning finger her way.

  As though everyone on this half of the table didn’t hear it all.

  “My lips are sealed,” she says with a wink, pretending to turn a key in her mouth.

  Sebastian sits back in his chair, seemingly placated. I don’t miss the knowing smirk she gives to Simon sitting next to me.

  What the hell was that about?

  * * *

  “For those of you interested, there will be post-dinner brandy and cigars in the sitting room downstairs,” Magnus announces.