“Thank you, Neville, I believe I can make my way from here,” I say as I pass him to enter the restaurant.
One quick scan of the room and I see Magnus in an elevated corner, talking intently with another man.
“Ah, I see that Monsieur Reinhardt is still occupied,” Neville says, catching up to me. “Perhaps a drink at the bar—”
“No, no,” I say, straightening my shoulders to brace myself. “Monsieur Reinhardt’s invitation said eight o’clock and eight o’clock it will be.”
“Mademoiselle, Alexander,” he pleads, “I think perhaps—”
“Thank you, Neville,” I say, walking purposefully toward the table.
Magnus seems to sense my approach and takes his eyes off the man across from him to meet mine. I stare directly back, not even pausing. If he’s irritated or caught off guard, he certainly doesn’t show it. In fact, he raises one eyebrow as though to encourage the intrusion.
That’s when the other man turns to look at me. The grin that comes to his face indicates he’d more than welcome the interruption as well, if only for his own amusement. He looks younger than me by only a few years, but handsome in that cocky, bad boy sort of way young women his age would probably fall prey to.
I’m a bit more seasoned. My eyes slide back to Magnus, now close enough for me to see how hard those green eyes bore into me. My heart beats a bit faster, letting me know I’m perhaps not as immune to this one as I think I am.
“You must be Miss Sloane Alexander,” the younger man says, allowing his eyes to wander appreciatively. He turns back to Magnus. “Speak of the devil, and she doth appear.”
I blink in surprise. Have these two been discussing me? I turn an accusatory gaze toward Magnus. He just stares hard at the man, seemingly unhappy at this utterance.
“Starting today, you have exactly one year to kill your father.” This is enough to draw the man’s attention sharply back to Magnus. “Otherwise, I will do the deed for you.”
The two of them stare at each other, completely ignoring me. Which I, for one, find odd since the voice inside my head is screaming.
Chapter Fifteen Magnus
Although Sloane is still only in my periphery, I see the way her chest immediately begins to expand and contract on the heels of my statement.
At the very least, it’s captured the Pirate’s attention, enough to shut his damn mouth up. The last thing I want is Sloane knowing how much I know about her.
“Agreed,” he says in a voice as level as his gaze. “One year.”
With my eyes still on him, I greet my date for the evening, “Sloane, thank you for being so prompt.”
The barest hint of a smirk touches the Pirate’s lips, and he eases himself out of the seat, holding it out for her to sit in.
“Toutes mes excuses, Mademoiselle Alexander,” he says, shooting her a grin that would probably make most young girls’ hearts flutter. I’m irritated to see Sloane’s eyes blink rapidly, indicating she isn’t impervious to his charms either.
She hesitates only a moment before taking the seat he’s offered. As he exits, she watches his retreat, then swallows hard and brings her gaze back to me, eyes wide with trepidation.
“What the hell was that about?” She asks, finding her voice.
“We were just discussing business.”
“It sounded more like you were discussing a crime.”
“You say that as though the two are mutually exclusive.”
She opens her mouth to say something—probably some argument to the contrary. Then, she no doubt recalls her own line of work and closes it again. Or maybe she’s simply still in shock.
Noting her arrival, a waiter comes by with two menus for us.
Sloane busies herself with studiously looking it over, probably to avoid eye contact with me.
I busy myself with studiously looking her over.
The dress isn’t one of my selections, but then I would have expected no less from Sloane. Still, she’s obviously appreciated my preference, both for color and just enough, but not too much, skin showing.
“You look nice in that dress.”
Her eyes flash up to me. There’s a brief moment of fright before she inhales and straightens up in her seat, the menu suddenly forgotten.
“Why would you admit to murder in front of me? Is it because you assume I won’t report you? Are you that above the law in this city that you think you can get away with killing someone?”
“No one is above the law.”
“Well, then?”
“It isn’t that I think I’m above the law—at least not enough to get away with murder. It’s that I know you won’t report me.”
She coughs out a soft laugh. One hand instinctively reaches out for the glass in front of her, before she realizes it belonged to my former guest. Her eyes flash to the bottle of wine, and upon recognizing the label, blink in surprise.
“Yes, I think perhaps a drink is in order. Another glass of wine for you?”
“I’ll take something stronger.”
My lips curl in amusement. One subtle cue to our waiter, and he’s at our table.
“My date would like a drink,” I say.
“A brandy, any label.”
“The Remy Martin XO,” I clarify.
Her brow wrinkles with irritation at my ordering for her, then softens when she considers the selection I’ve made.
I pass on the drink, still enjoying what’s left in my wine glass.
We both wisely wait until the drink is placed before her and our waiter well out of earshot before we continue where we left off.
“So,” she says, lifting the snifter of brandy with one hand and swirling it around. “The question still remains, why would you risk letting me know about your proposed criminal activities? I assume there is some ulterior motive, but I can’t fathom what that might be.”
“Taking risks is what I do for a living.”
Her only response is a visible struggle not to roll her eyes before taking a sip of her brandy.
I tilt my head to consider her. “Back at the bar
