The Monte Carlo Shark: An International Legacies Romance

by Stevens, Camilla

  It wasn’t long after that particular game that a theft occurred at one of the four hotels in Monte Carlo that housed casinos. No one was stupid enough to target the casino itself, which would have been nearly impossible. But one of the shops had been taken for both merchandise and money, both of which somehow found their way to the LaCour residence. A tearful shop girl, no doubt paid for her effort, pointed the finger at my grandfather. The coincidence was too much, even for me at the time. I was one of the only people to believe my grandfather when he laid the blame on Edwan Holt, the man who never got over almost losing everything at Aloin’s hands.

  After a few years in the very prison I pointed out to Sloane during our boat ride, my grandfather was banned from all hotels owned by the Société des Bains de Mer. For a professional poker player who lived in Monaco, it might as well have been the kiss of death.

  Gamblers are a superstitious bunch, and his bad luck radiated throughout the professional playing community. After a while, even those meager tables wouldn’t have him.

  I was eleven years old when my grandfather had a lethal stroke, only nine months after his release. The man who had always seemed larger than life had finally given up on it.

  And I blamed one man. Edwan Holt.

  “So no dessert, I presume,” Sloane says.

  “After tonight, I’ll buy you a whole damn bakery.”

  Chapter Forty

  Sloane

  I wasn’t lying when I told Magnus I don’t gamble. I’ve been to Atlantic City a few times, once on a girl trip where we took over the spa at a resort and another for some show my mother got tickets to. On both occasions, I’ve only visited the casino as I passed through to other destinations.

  But neither was as grand as the one in La Mer.

  It has the same over-stimulation that draws the eye and excites the senses, but here it’s somehow more elegant.

  This time of night, everyone is as dressed to the nines as I am. I’m glad Magnus specified formal because even as spectacular as this dress is—specifically with me in it, if I do toot my own horn—I’m still not as glamorous as many of the women here, some playing the tables with the same intensity as their male counterparts. In the movies, they’re always some arm trinket, playing eye candy in the background as the men play high-risk games with one another.

  “I don’t see Zach,” I say, looking around.

  “He’s in the high-stakes games section,” Magnus says, taking my hand and leading me toward a stairway.

  The area he takes me to—after passing by two men who look like the personification of Do Not Fuck With Me—is far more subdued, and even more sophisticated than what I saw downstairs. The tables are more widely spaced, and most of the action seems to be happening at one in particular, or at least as much action as there can be in this exclusive space.

  I feel like Moneypenny—hell, maybe even a damn Bond girl—to Magnus’s 007. All the more so because I’m absolutely certain we aren’t just here to watch Zach play a game of poker. I have no idea what dastardly deed Magnus has planned, but at the very least, it couldn’t be murder.

  I hope.

  I’ve resigned myself to the fact that he is indeed a criminal, even if it is for a reason—one which I can’t say I’m entirely judgmental about. I think about what I’d do if someone strangled my mother. I certainly wouldn’t mourn the son of a bitch.

  It occurs to me that he’s rubbing off on me.

  It also occurs to me that I kind of like it.

  As we near the table, I see five players sitting around it. There are a few other spectators sitting further back, far enough away to avoid seeing anyone’s cards.

  Two more seats miraculously appear, as close to the action as possible, and Magnus leads me to them.

  That’s when one of the players looks up and sees him. He looks like he could be in his mid-fifties, but the doughy face and tell-tale signs of too much drink have aged him. The look of panic on his face is unmistakable.

  “Who is that?” I whisper in the hushed atmosphere.

  “Edwan Holt. An old friend,” Magnus says, staring right back at him.

  I leave that one alone, knowing he won’t expand on that. Instead, I try my best to figure out what’s going on just by looking at the table.

  Zach has a sizable number of chips in front of him, more than anyone else. The others seem to have enough to stay in the game. The man who is still casting surreptitious glances toward Magnus, ranging from the worried to the angry, has a pile that is so perfectly neat it looks like he hasn’t even touched it yet.

  A man in a suit comes over to lean down toward Magnus. I catch part of what he says in a subdued voice.

  “He’s at two-hundred-thousand euros now.”

  A smile curls Magnus’s lips, hinting at pleasure of only the most deviant kind. “No limit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I’m not quite sure what that means, but I can suss out the fact that it’s related to the man who is still giving Magnus and me glances, seemingly more and more agitated. Is he up by that mount? Down?

  I watch the game, trying to figure out the answer. The only thing I see is the man continuing to lose his cool. In fact, he’s the only exciting thing about it so far. I’m sure it’s far more fun to play than watch since most of the other cardholders are about as animated as paint drying.

  This man, however, is sweating and seems to be making bets that cause the small crowd of onlookers to whisper in surprised tones. At one point, he curses his frustration, throwing his cards on the table.

  It’s during another breakdown that I realize what’s going on. Edwan has stupidly put all his chips in and lost. He’s been doubling-down over and over in the hopes of making one big win to cover his losses, a plan that certainly isn’t working out in his favor. Now, he has a conversation with the dealer, who then has a conversation with the man who whispered in Magnus’s ear. I watch him nod, and eventually, another neat stack of chips is placed in front of the man.

  “Another hundred thousand,” the man eventually comes back to whisper in Magnus’s ear. His only response is a small, villainous smile.

  Why is Magnus allowing the man to borrow so much? Three-hundred-thousand? It’s insane. Especially considering the abysmal luck the man seems to be having.

  It’s almost as though Magnus wants him to fail.

  The time crawls by, and I wonder what the heck we’re still doing here. It’s only when the debt is at a million euros that Magnus finally signals we can leave, even though the man playing is becoming more and more interesting to watch. It’s like a train wreck. I feel bad for him, but I also know he’s somehow managed to incur the wrath of Magnus, so perhaps he deserves it?

  “You want him to be in debt to you, or at least your hotel.” It comes out as more of a fact than a question.

  Magnus simply smiles ahead as he leads me out of the casino to the lobby of the hotel.

  “Why?” I press.

  We walk for a while before he answers, the smile disappearing from his face. It’s only when we’re back at the elevators that he replies.

  “He destroyed my grandfather,” Magnus finally says, turning to look at me. His gaze is scrutinizing, reading me for my reaction.

  “So…you really are in all-out warfare mode,” I say thoughtfully.

  “I am.”

  “I assume there’s a point at which he won’t be able to pay back his loan. Then what?”

  “Then, his legacy becomes mine, and he has nothing, which is exactly what he left my grandfather with. He’s just lucky I don’t go so far as to want to see him in jail.”

  I’m guessing there’s a story there, but the elevator arrives, and I walk in ahead of Magnus. We both stare ahead as the doors close, and the car begins to rise.

  “Does it bother you? My being this ruthlessly cutthroat?”

  “At least it’s not literal in this case.”

  He chuckles softly.

  “What happens if he starts winning again?”
<
br />   “He won’t.”

  “Is the game rigged?” I ask in surprise.

  He turns to face me with an amused smile. “Do you know what a cooler is?”

  “I’ve heard the term, but I suspect my version is slightly different from yours.”

  The smile remains. “Someone who, for all intents and purposes, brings bad luck. We were there to throw Edwan Holt off his game—a game he was already losing, thanks to Zach’s expertise.”

  “I didn’t take you as one to be so superstitious.”

  “I’m not. But poker players have a tendency to be. For example, Edwan.”

  Based on what I saw, Magnus seems to have a point. On the other hand, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t play like shit if I had Magnus Reinhardt focusing that hard gaze on me all night.

  “Have you ever thought about just…letting go?”

  “I’ll let go when I’m done.”

  Something in his voice sends a shiver through me, and I turn to look at him in profile. I’m reminded why his nickname is the Shark. I can see the intense focus and determination in his gaze even as he stares at the elevator doors.

  When they open, he finally turns to me with a challenging look, daring me to counter his statement.

  “Another escort back to my room, I see. Still savoring the hunt, Magnus?” I say before walking out ahead of him.

  I feel his eyes on me from behind. Now, I know what the guppies of the world feel like once a shark has caught scent of them.

  But as Magnus asked me himself, do I really want to remain a guppy?

  Vengeance over forgiveness. Ruthlessness over mercy. Ferocity over gentleness. In his world, there’s no room for being soft.

  The way my blood rushes at the thought of what could happen if I decide not to cut the night short at my door certainly doesn’t make me feel like prey.

  It makes me feel like a shark.

  By the time I reach the door, I’ve made up my mind.

  “So, Magnus—”

  I spin around just in time for him to cut me short, forcing me into the door with his body, his hand coming up to the nape of my neck, encouraging my head back, so his mouth has full access to mine.

  As much as I crave the taste of him, I’m not ready to give in that easily. I force my way out of his embrace and pull back, glaring up at him.

  “So much for the hunt.”

  “Sometimes biological imperative trumps playing with one’s food.”

  “Is that what I am to you? Food?”

  “Who says I was talking about myself,” he says with a devilish grin.

  “You’re obviously reading too much into what happened last night.”

  “I’ve been reading you since the day I first saw you. It wasn’t just information for Jan that you wanted the moment you laid eyes on me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, just to throw him off the scent.

  “Should I buy another pair of earrings to whet that appetite of yours?”

  I slap him, only realizing after the fact that I’ve done it. My first instinct is to apologize, thoroughly appalled at the act. I quash it before it can come to fruition. My curiosity to see how he reacts to something so violent overshadows any sense of decorum. Or job security.

  The flash of angry surprise that first touches his eyes, turning them to green lightning excites me. It cools as quickly as a clap of thunder, leaving nothing but an echo of desire.

  “Don’t be cliché, Sloane. You can do better than that. Where’s your real bite?” He practically growls, leaning in closer.

  My eyes crawl over that sophisticated tuxedo that hides the animal underneath. I shouldn’t be doing this. But the fact that I told Magnus I wouldn’t do this releases the last of my inhibitions.

  Channeling my own inner mako shark, my hand swims across the sensually smooth, white fabric of his dress shirt. Just as my fingers reach the opening between the buttons, I curl them, my nails finding the skin hidden beneath. They turn to claws as I rip it open, the buttons popping to the floor.

  It’s only when I find his lips curled into a grin and his eyes crawling over my white dress that I realize my mistake. In what I’m sure is a rare moment of mercy, Magnus leans in and whispers in my ear.

  “You’d better open that fucking door before I bite back harder.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Magnus

  Sloane’s eyes are wide, having already figured out just how I plan on returning the favor of her claw marks across my chest and my ruined shirt.

  She scrambles for her purse, dropping it in her quest to retrieve the key card and open the door before I rip that damn dress off her right here in the openness of the hallway.

  Just as I did last night, I fall to the floor before her, resting on the balls of my feet to rescue it. This time I’m decidedly less gentlemanly about it. She stretches her hand out for the purse, and I hold it out of her reach. Sloane swallows hard, staring down at me as if to ask what I want. My eyes fall to the area just below that chained belt around her waist.

  I start with her ankles. At the first touch of my fingertips, she flinches, pulling her leg away. I grab it, fiercely clamping my fingers around the slenderest part and holding it in place. I let go of the purse in my other hand, resting it well behind me and bring that hand around to join the other one.

  Making sure she knows damn well not to move her leg, I take hold of the hem of her dress in each hand. The soft, gauzy skirt feels pathetically weak in my harsh grip. The blindingly white fabric rises with my hands to reveal even more strikingly dark skin underneath.

  When the progress is halted by the belt, I allow the fabric to fall and find a better use for my hands. Once again, Sloane flinches when skin meets skin but wisely stays in place. My palms are filled by each curve of her firm calf, then the soft yield of her thigh.

  Sloane gasps when my I fingers trace the edges of her panties, slipping underneath to find her soaking wet. Once again, tenderness turns to ferocity as I claw at them, snatching them away as I drag them down her legs. I force one ankle up, then the other to claim them as my own.

  “Give me my purse.”

  “No.”

  She looks down the hallway, and I laugh in a low, soft growl.

  “Worried someone might come and find us perfectly indecent? Feel free to put them back on,” I say, dangling the black lace on the end of one finger.

  She snatches it away, her lips curled into a snarl as she does.

  I laugh even louder and rise back up, taking her purse with me. I reach inside and grab the key card, tapping it against the pad to relieve her of this burden of impropriety.

  She glares at me before opening the door. I press my hand flat against it, lest she get any ideas of slamming it my face. I walk in, falling back against it to close it behind me.

  Sloane walks ahead of me, the skirt of her dress swaying around her.

  She heads toward the stairs that lead up to the master bedroom of the suite. I watch with growing hunger as that brown leg repeatedly slips between the slit in the side.

  “One bite is all I get from you? I’m disappointed,” I say.

  She stops halfway up the stairs. That one leg, exposed through the slit in the dress, rests a step above her, bent and flexed to show off the lean, dark lines. It’s so stunning that it can only be for my benefit.

  Tempting bait, Sloane.

  My eyes rise from that leg to find her smiling down at me, knowing damn well I’ve been pierced by her hook. All she has to do is reel me in, not that I need much urging.

  “So stop swimming below me and join the hunt. I’ve got plenty more bite in me than that, Magnus,” her eyes fall to the top half of my shirt that’s been ripped open, showing the red welts that have already begun to rise on my skin.

  She laughs and continues up the stairs.

  I’m pretty sure I actually growl as I speed to follow her, tossing the purse on the couch along the way. I take the steps two at a time and reach Sloane just as she passes the
threshold. Her wrist is soon in my grasp, pulling her back toward me.

  Her free hand reaches out as quick as a whip, lashing away at the rest of my shirt so that it’s ripped open all the way down to the waistband of my pants.

  “Are you sure that’s how you want to play?” I ask yet again, eyeing the far more delicate fabric of her gown.

  “Who’s playing? I thought we were hunting?”

  “I think we’re well past hunting,” I say, backing her further into the room.

  It’s dark, the only light filtering in from downstairs, casting everything in sharp contrast so that I can see the hints of her face and body, especially outlined by the lights of the city in the window beyond her.

  It’s the perfect setting.

  I walk her back until she’s pressed against the glass beyond. In this light, I can see how wide her eyes are, realizing that, even though the light is low, all of Monte Carlo could see us if they choose, and had a decent set of binoculars.

  “Don’t you dare,” she hisses.

  “What part of anything I’ve done so far makes you think I’d go easy on you?”

  I grab the skirt of her dress, sliding my hand into the side slit and ripping it open to reveal her entire side from toe to well above the hip.

  She gasps. “This dress cost several thousand euros.”

  “I’ll buy you another.”

  “Bastard,” she spits, even though I can see the gleam of excitement in her eyes.

  “Just the way you like me,” I laugh, drawing back to admire my handiwork. She looks like a half unwrapped present, showing just enough to reveal what’s inside, yet making me crave more. I can see almost everything exposed below the waist, and it’s glorious.

  I shrug out of my jacket and toss it on the bed, following it with my bow tie and ruined shirt.

  “I believe that’s my job.”