“Excusez-moi. Parlez-vous anglais?” That is about ninety percent of my French, and I mentally cross my fingers, hoping he answers yes.
His casual shrug and nod allow a small sigh of relief to escape my lips.
“Is it too early to order a drink?”
The way he assesses me indicates that officially the answer would be “no,” but he may make an exception.
I’m obviously American, which may or may not be a bonus.
Being black is a toss-up these days, usually not in my favor.
My beauty? Well, it lies in the eye of the beholder.
The only thing I can reasonably rely on is the Yves Saint Laurent handbag draped over my shoulder. Expensive accessories are my guilty splurge.
As someone specializing in the financial industry, I know better than anyone: money talks.
Seemingly finding me acceptable, he nonchalantly waves a hand toward the seating area. I flash a brief smile and wander in to settle down on one of the corner couches nearest the marina, which just happens to have a perfect view of the Mako.
The boats are arranged by size, from the small two-seater motorboats across the road right in front of me to the large cruise ship in the distance.
But I only have eyes for one of them. From my vantage point, I can see all the comings and goings of the activity onboard the Mako. If I’m lucky, I may even get a glimpse of the owner himself.
The waiter I talked to brings me a menu, and I quickly order a glass of one of the reds listed, making sure it’s expensive enough to be worth his effort. I hand him my card to keep the tab open. I have a feeling I may be here a while.
Theo already owes me big time. This is just one more thing to put on his bill. As though I’ll ever collect. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t stolen money in the first place. My heartbeat begins to race as I recall how all of this started for me. I was snatched late at night, only a block away from my luxury apartment building in downtown Manhattan. It was like something out of some cheap thriller movie, complete with a hood over my head. The terror has yet to go away fully. I close my eyes to take a few deep breaths just to get my heart back to its normal rhythm.
Focus, Sloane.
The only thing I care about at this moment is that yacht before me and what information I can gather from it.
Nothing else matters.
Not the danger that awaits both Theo and me back in New York.
Not the partnership I’d hoped to get this year.
Not the glass of wine the waiter brings to set down in front of me.
Not even the ear-splitting sound of a rumbling engine nearing me as I stare out at the docks.
Until the reason for that sound stops right in front of me in the form of a Harley Davidson. It’s enough to draw my eyes away from the Mako and down to the motorcycle’s owner. My breath catches when he pulls off his helmet, and I realize who it is.
Magnus Reinhardt.
Chapter Two Magnus
She was staring at the Mako.
That’s what caught my attention. Now that I have a closer look, I’m glad I took the time to stop.
Even in nothing but a simple white sundress and sandals, she has a regal air about her. Both are a blinding contrast against her dark skin gleaming in the French Riviera sun. Long legs bent to the side and demurely crossed at the ankles. Back straight, forcing her chest slightly forward and elongating her elegant neck. Her hair is pulled back into a bun at the nape, allowing the eye uninhibited access to her oval-shaped face with its high cheekbones, enticingly full lips, narrow eyes, and long but slightly flared nose.
She didn’t even acknowledge the noise my bike was making until I came to a stop right in front of her. Those eyes remained focused on my yacht with laser-like intensity.
Which is both suspicious and intriguing.
What does she want?
The way she now stares down at me has me wanting to know more. I’m never one to be swayed by feminine allure. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it while I sate my curiosity.
I turn off the engine, then kick the stand for my bike and set it to rest, placing the helmet on one of the handlebars. Anyone else leaving their motorcycle sitting here on the side of the road near the marina would get a ticket and most likely have it removed.
With me, they know better.
The platform of the outdoor area she sits in is only slightly raised off the ground. Rather than waste time going all the way around to the front to take the stairs, I grab hold of the railing surrounding it and heft myself up, easily lifting one long leg, then the other over it.
I’m casually dressed in a black t-shirt, jeans, and dark shoes. My original plans for the day involved something far outside the realm of business.
But that can wait.
“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes widened in surprise.
So she’s American. Not that it matters. I have enemies on almost every continent. It just determines which language to use with her. Having been born in Luxembourg, I speak French, German, Luxembourgish, and of course, English fluently.
“I was headed to my boat, but I decided to make a detour.” As I say it, I watch her, like a predator assessing his prey as I take the seat across from her. The mention of my boat caused her to blink once. Admitting I took a detour for her has her breathing heavier.
Fear or arousal?
It’s difficult to tell.
Perhaps both.
“And you decided to sit here of all places?”
“Do you mind?” I ask in a way that tells her I have no intention of leaving.
“Well,” she says, swallowing. Something in her gaze shifts,
