Taking risks. Oh, the irony.
He still doesn’t know the real reason I’m in Monte Carlo. I suspect I wouldn’t still be sitting here eating at his table if he did know.
Then again…
“The mako shark has a particular way of hunting, swimming underneath his prey, completely unobserved until it’s too late.”
The piece of food in my mouth feels painfully large going down my throat, landing in my stomach like a lead ball. I reach for my glass of wine to wash away both the feeling of it and the sudden dread that hits me.
I cautiously observe Magnus as he studiously enjoys his own piece of meat. I can’t help but make the obvious connections between his carnivorous meal and his nickname.
“So, what exactly will I be doing for the next forty days?”
His humorless eyes slide up to me, then back down to his plate. “Whatever I demand of you.”
I bristle at his choice of word. Demand? Not “ask” or “request” or even “desire.”
Demand.
“Whatever I can do to be of service—within my professional capabilities of course.”
I watch a cynical smile grow on his lips as he continues to focus on his meal. “I have a feeling your capabilities are far more broad than you give yourself credit for, Sloane.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
There, I’ve said it. None of this wordplay or games or suggestive remarks that don’t quite tell me what he’s really thinking.
His eyes come up to rest on me, giving absolutely nothing way. Nor do his lips so much as twitch with a hint of a response. His dark gaze lingers so long that I begin to wonder if I need to actually expound on that very frank and very literal statement I just made.
“Your sleep will be all yours.”
I suppress the inhaled breath of frustration. He might as well have openly stated that having sex with him will be part of the deal. Before my rational, indignant brain can respond, other parts of me do:
My eyes, which scan the muscles outlined in his bespoke suit.
My stomach, which twists, remembering how he looked in nothing but a black speedo.
My hands which suddenly tremble too much to hold onto my fork and knife.
The spot between my thighs, which spasms with glee, imagining the ways this man sitting across from me could put it to work.
Sometimes I manage to disgust myself. The shame and self-reproach crash in like a tsunami, washing away those prurient thoughts. At least it has the added effect of cleansing my mind, keeping me focused.
“I meant sex,” I clarify.
“Yes, Sloane, I know exactly what you meant,” he says in a patronizing tone.
Which still isn’t a response.
I stare at him, waiting for him to give me a firm agreement.
Magnus’s only response is to bite into another piece of meat, his eyes devouring me as hungrily as his mouth does with his veal.
That’s when it hits me. The deal I made with the devil back in New York, is nothing compared to the one I’m making with the shark sitting across from me.
* * *
The rest of the dinner is mostly quiet, at least in verbal terms. But anyone looking at us from across the room could take note of our body language, which speaks volumes.
The calm, self-assured man, enjoying his meal, no doubt expecting a very special dessert afterward.
The stiff, silently seething woman across from him, who has no intention of satisfying his sweet tooth.
By the time the waiter blessedly comes back to take our plates, the wine is gone.
“May I interest you in—”
“No dessert, thank you,” I say before Magnus gets any ideas about extending this torture.
The waiter turns to him to confirm, which I should be used to by now, but I still find irritating. Magnus just nods imperceptibly, and the waiter silently slips away with a slight bow.
“I’m going to assume we don’t have to wait for the check?”
Magnus’ lips play around with a hint of a smile. “I will walk you back to your room.”
“I think I can—”
“I insist.”
His words are so soft and mellow that the undercurrent of demand would be missed by someone less seasoned to his dominant personality.
I swallow hard, then inhale before standing up. I toss my napkin on the table and leave, not bothering to wait for him.
Magnus is as silent as a predator as he follows me. In fact, the only reason I know he’s less than two steps behind me is the surreptitiously guarded glances of the other patrons in the restaurant who quickly dart their eyes away after taking note of the man, the shark, tailing me as I exit.
By the time I reach the entrance, he’s caught up to me. With his longer stride, it’s pointless to try and out-walk him, so I simply face forward, chin held high, completely closed off expression as I continue on.
He doesn’t try to engage, even when we’re alone on the elevator, me still avoiding eye-contact. When the doors open, I make sure to continue the facade of confident disinterest.
If he so much as crosses the threshold of my suite, I’m packing my bags and flying home to New York. With Theo’s brain and my knowledge and experience, I’m sure we can find a way to either raise the money the man in New York demanded or convince him of some alternate way to pay it off.
I stumble a bit on my heels as a sudden wave of dizziness hits me, causing my body to go weak. It stiffens like a board when Magnus gently takes my elbow and places a hand on the small of my back to steady me and escort me down the rest of the hallway.
When I try to shake him loose, his grip just hardens.
“I can manage,” I say.
“I’m sure,” he says in that enigmatic way of his. His hands remain on me.
When we reach the door, I once again try to twist out from underneath his touch, and he finally allows it.
“Thank you for
