My eyes fall to the rack of dresses, and I think back to Magnus's suggestion that his original date for tonight was a prostitute—maybe something more, considering the ridiculous fee she was (is still) getting.
I’ve obviously chosen the wrong profession.
I walk over to the rack and pull out the gold dress. It’s a strapless, floor-length silk number.
Normally, I’d never choose gold. I’ve always considered it too flashy, especially contrasted against my dark skin tone. I lay it against my arm, considering the color in a new light.
Magnus was right. Looking at it a certain way, it is flattering, especially with the dull metallic glow of this fabric. I pull it off the rack and walk over to the mirror over the credenza by the door, placing it against myself.
It’s glamorous, certainly more than anything I’d ever consider for myself. Where would I wear it? In New York, the most formal thing I get invited to is the Douglas & Foster Christmas party.
I think about another thing Magnus said, and for some idiotic reason frown at myself in the mirror. Why wouldn’t someone consider me a prostitute—specifically one earning twenty-thousand euros a night? It’s a shameful thought, but one I can’t shake, and I know exactly why.
Growing up, I was never one of the more desirable girls. I’m not above knowing full well it’s because of the color of my skin. The “post-racial” world can crow all it wants, but I know exactly where on the spectrum of beauty standards I lie.
If I was overlooked while coming of age in the Bronx, I became practically invisible at Princeton. Harvard Law, where brains counted for something, was slightly better, but by then, the emotional scarring was etched on my ego.
“Good grief,” I say to myself, laughing.
Whatever Magnus’ interest in me is, I know full well it has nothing to do with attraction, and everything to do with power and control.
I’m also not stupid enough to let it interfere with what I came to Monte Carlo to do.
Chapter Twenty-Four Magnus
Sloane.
She’s been the only thing on my mind all day.
This morning was supposed to be a power play, a way of throwing her off her guard. Establish dominance early on. I should have paid heed to my own assessment of her last night.
Venus flytrap.
It isn’t even the image of her in that towel—which definitely wreaks havoc with my brain. It’s the audacity she had to sit there, allowing me to ogle her as she laid down the ground rules to this “professional” relationship.
As if I’d be bound by the rules of anyone, let alone a woman I’ve, for all intents and purposes, paid ten-million dollars to have complete control over for forty days.
She probably doesn’t even realize the effect she has on a man. And now I’m the one caught in her trap.
“You’re sure there’s nothing more?” I say to Jaques, who has been filling me in on the details of Estelle’s latest boy toy—who is turning out to be more of a man than I originally suspected.
“Nothing,” he assures me.
“And Theodore Alexander?”
“He’s being protected.”
Although I have no idea whether or not Sloane took me up on my offer to call him, I obviously had my own resources look into whether or not he suffered the same fate as his friend. I’d like to say it was simply a matter of protecting my own interests—no need to have Sloane preoccupied with the murder of her brother while she is doing my bidding—but a part of me knows it was purely out of concern for her welfare. After all, I am using her just as much as she’s using me.
I can sympathize, being that I have my own sibling that I care about, whether or not that sibling appreciates it.
Just thinking about Estelle exacerbates the headache I feel coming on.
“That will be all.”
Jacques wisely makes his leave without comment.
With him gone, I take a moment to clear my head. Tonight’s “small gathering” is far more than another asinine dinner party with a motley mix of eccentric but very impressive names. Each attendee serves a specific purpose for my ultimate goals.
Including Sloane Alexander.
* * *
I arrive at the Le Grande Suite promptly at eight o’clock. I’m in a bespoke suit and tie, appropriate for the semi-formal affair. Considering the guest list, I didn’t want to go too formal nor too casual.
I get exactly two knocks in before Sloane answers the door.
I’m pleased to see she’s wearing the gold dress I suggested. I’m even more pleased to see that she looks better than expected in it.
Her hair is up in a French twist, showing off how long and elegant her neck is, especially with that tendency she has to raise her chin as though daring the world to defy her.
The perfect queen for a king.
I must be staring too long and too hard because she twists her lips in annoyance.
“Do I meet with your approval, sir?” She asks with a note of sarcasm in her voice.
“Almost…but not quite.”
She blinks in surprise, her head snapping back with offense.
“Give me one moment to rectify that,” I say, pulling out my phone.
I walk into the suite and make one quick text before returning my attention to Sloane.
“I think we’re ready now.”
She raises one eyebrow. “I should hope so; I wouldn’t want to keep your guests waiting.”
“My guests will be more than happy to wait.”
The dinner doesn’t officially start until nine. Even before then, there will be plenty to keep them occupied until our meal starts. All the better for Sloane and me to take a quick detour.
Fifteen minutes later, our car is parked in front of the jewelry store, Marchand.
“What is this?” Sloane asks, craning her neck to look out the window as I step out of the car.
“A special order,” I say, reaching my hand in for her.
She stares down at it with the usual uncertainty before taking it and allowing me to help her out.
