“A queen.”
I smile as I think about her one constant admonition: “Sit up, head up, and the rest of the world will lift you up.”
Even today, when I feel myself slouching, some involuntary reflex kicks in to force my back straight and my chin up.
“Fuck her,” I say. Sometimes simple vulgarity is the only thing to make you feel better.
I decide to stop for a drink before soldiering on—as though this is some quest I must accomplish lest all is doomed.
In reality, there may be some truth to it.
I have Magnus’ attention. The first hurdle is overcome. The only way to get him to confide in me is to earn his respect.
Either that or…
I shudder as I think about the alternative that the man in New York so crudely suggested. Sleeping with the man is a last—as in final, eleventh hour, no other options, Hail Mary, plan Z—resort.
That doesn’t mean I can’t look fly while I make my way through plans A to Y.
With a smirk on my face, I champion on to the next dress store. They can’t all be snobs.
Chapter Twelve Magnus
“I want you to find out everything you can on this Giorgio Conti,” I instruct Jaques. “It’s your number one priority from this point on.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’ll be all.”
Once again, I wait for him to leave before I relax and turn my attention back to more pleasurable fare. No doubt, Jaques will find something unsavory about the man to dangle in front of Estelle as a way to lure her back to Paris. She’s notorious for attracting the wrong sort of men.
My mind rewinds back to the phone call from Neville regarding Sloane’s phone call to him. Then, I fast forward to the call from Lisette. Hearing about Sloane’s reaction secondhand wasn’t quite as amusing as it would have been in person, but it was enough. I can only imagine what Sloane is thinking right now.
I wonder which dress she’ll pick for tonight.
I wonder if she’ll pick any of them at all.
That thought is more upsetting than I’d like to admit, not because of my own ego. I’m fully aware that she’s adept enough at this game of cat and mouse to decide to completely ignore my gracious offer just to make a point.
It’s that I chose each dress because I’d actually like to see her in them. Granted, I didn’t obsess over the selection. One quick phone call to someone who specializes in such things—Monte Carlo is perfect for services of this sort—and I had a selected catalogue of various designers from which to choose ten.
Before I can let my mind slip into imagining what Sloane would look like in each, I get a phone call. Not my personal cell, but the specialized ringtone indicates it’s a personal matter all the same.
Extremely personal.
“Yes?” I say after answering.
“We’ve managed to make contact with the Pirate.”
I feel the blood in my veins surge.
The Pirate. Much like my own moniker, the Shark, an apt descriptor. He’s well-known in certain wealthy circles, much to their misfortune—literally.
My own relationship with him, such as it is, is far more complicated. At some point, I discovered we seemed to be after the same thing: revenge.
It took me a while to connect the dots enough to learn that our targets—specifically one of them—were the same people.
“Has he agreed to meet?”
“He has.”
I’m rarely surprised by anything, but this one makes the cut. The Pirate has managed to stay anonymous for obvious reasons. Stealing from the people he’s targeted is a definite way to get a far more deadly target on his own back.
Which means he’s good at what he does.
“He’ll be in Monte Carlo for tonight only. He said he would call you personally with a time and place to meet.”
Cocky son of a bitch.
Usually, I’m the one making the rules. Then again, I’m usually dealing with people who have at least something to lose. I suspect that part of the Pirate’s success lies in the fact that he has nothing to lose…and just as much thirst for vengeance as I do.
Two sharks in the sea.
“Was there anything else?”
“No, sir.”
I hang up. Almost as soon as I do, it rings again. There’s no ID on the screen, and I can’t help but smile. I have no idea how he does it, but I’m officially impressed.
“The Pirate, I presume,” I answer in English since I’m still not sure what his native tongue is. The reports I’ve heard claim he usually operates in English, but there have been sprinklings of Spanish, French, and even crude Russian mixed in, all depending on his target.
“You presume correctly.” His voice sounds younger than I expected, mid-twenties perhaps. I suppose in his chosen line of work, the agility of youth is an advantage. His English is perfect, but with a vague hint of an accent that I can’t quite place.
“Usually, I’m the one deciding when and where,” I say.
“And usually I don’t bother with a phone call before making my introductions. That would ruin the surprise.” He laughs at this little joke of his. When people “meet” the Pirate, it’s because he’s in the process of robbing them blind.
“I suppose we’re both making exceptions for one another,” I say in a dry tone.
“In my case, quite the exception. The only reason I’ve agreed to meet is that I’m just as curious about you as I suspect you are about me.”
I’m not stupid enough to admit to anything.
He chuckles on the other end. “I know you have a hot date tonight, and I’m nothing if not a romantic. I’ll meet you half an hour before Sloane Alexander is set to make an appearance. At the same restaurant…and I’ll take a bottle of the Château Haut-Brodeur,” he says before hanging up.
My grip on the phone tightens. He’s pronounced the name of the wine better than Sloane did this morning. The fact that he knows exactly what bottle we drank means he’s been in
