The manager, Denes, who was just about to close for the night, greets us with the sort of warmth reserved for a high commission.
“Monsieur Reinhardt. Mademoiselle Alexander.”
A small smile comes to my lips as I recall Neville’s informing me that Sloane insisted on being referred to as “mademoiselle” instead “madame.”
“I have arranged an assortment of pieces based on your suggestion,” he continues, leading us back to one of the private showrooms.
Sloane is silently looking around, mostly with curiosity.
“Please,” Denes says, pulling a chair out for Sloane.
She takes one long ambiguous look at me before slipping into the seat to stare at herself in the mirror.
I also look at her reflection, noting the way her chin is still held high, elongating the neck that will soon be adorned with jewelry worth more than she’d make in at least a month.
“No necklace,” I say, almost instinctively.
Sloane’s eyes flash to mine, which are still trained on her neck. I want to stare at that neck all night without the obstruction of gemstones and precious metal. A neck like that doesn’t need adornment.
“Just the earrings.”
“Oui, Monsieur,” Denes says. If he’s disappointed, he has the good sense not to show it. The earrings, even if only on loan, will still earn him a nice chunk of change.
Sloane isn’t so much disappointed as she is irritated.
“We can start with the emeralds, which I think—”
“The diamonds.”
They both look at me in the mirror. My eyes are still focused on Sloane’s neck, but I raise them slightly to meet hers in the reflection.
“Very good, Monsieur,” Denes says, reaching for the velvet box with the drop earrings. He presents them to Sloane, and she slides her eyes to me, raising her brow as though to sardonically ask my permission.
My only answer is a subtle smirk.
She reaches out to take the first one, a strand of diamonds leading down to one five-carat drop. She places it on her ear, tilting her head slightly to admire it in the mirror. I’m pleased to note the hint of a smile, despite whatever objections she has to this.
With the second one on to join the first, the three of us stare at her in the mirror.
“Do you approve?” I ask with a cynical smile.
“They’re gorgeous.”
“Don’t get too excited. They’re on loan.”
Her jaw hardens, and she pierces me with her gaze in the reflection. “Well, then, I’d better make sure they don’t get stolen.”
“I pity anyone else who lays a hand on you,” I say with an intense stare back at her in the mirror.
Her gorgeous throat pulsates with the hard swallow she takes—no doubt understanding the insinuation behind “anyone else”—before averting her gaze. “We should probably get going.”
“Yes, before our carriage turns back into a pumpkin.”
She twists her lips into a smirk as she rises.
“Thank you, Denes,” I say as I place a hand on the small of her back to lead her toward the exit.
“Of course, Monsieur Reinhardt,” he says. For such a paltry take-away, he should be seething inside. But he knows that I have the ability to make or break this store, and a favor owed to Magnus Reinhardt is…worth its weight in diamond earrings.
Once in the backseat of the car, Sloane finally deigns to open her mouth. “I hadn’t figured you for the type who likes to play dress-up.”
“I hadn’t figured you for the type to be so ungrateful. If you knew the effect those earrings had on enhancing the qualities you already possess, you might sing a different tune.”
“And what qualities would those be?”
I turn to look at Sloane, who has been staring ahead during this little back and forth. She finally turns to me with a cool, sardonic gaze.
“It’s a shame that you have to even ask.”
Chapter Twenty-Five Sloane
I twist to face forward again.
The earrings are stunning, more than I’d ever dare to wear if left to my own devices—certainly more than I could ever afford. But suddenly they feel like fifteen-pound weights on my lobes. I want to rip them off if only to rid myself of the equally heavy weight of Magnus’ gaze.
Instead, I focus my gaze on the city laid out before me as the car winds down the sinuous streets of Monte Carlo. From what little I can see, it looks stunning at night. The pristine, pastel colors of daytime have transitioned to vibrant bursts of color at night.
When we finally arrive at the same marina where I first met Magnus, I take a better look around at the city above us once he leads me out of the car.
There are cities that “come alive at night,” as the clichéd saying goes. New York comes alive at night. But Monte Carlo doesn’t just come alive, it becomes a living, breathing entity, heart beating with the pulse of excitement and vice that drives its existence. Even the static lights I see populating the landscape in the distance seem to dance like multicolored fireflies decorating the darkness.
“Stunning, isn’t it?”
I jump at the sound of Magnus’ voice a whisper’s breath away from my ear. The majesty and thrill of the city seem less stimulating and more ominous once I turn to him. Perhaps because his predatory yacht lies just beyond him, looming above us like an oversized avatar of its moniker.
The Mako.
“After you,” he says, waving a hand ahead of him.
I make my way up the walkway, feeling his eyes on me with every step.
What did he mean by the qualities I possess? His eyes were on my neck during the entire sitting at the jewelry store, and yet, it remains free of any jewelry. Perhaps he likes it that way. I read somewhere that most predators attack the throat first—something about it being the most vulnerable yet deadly place to strike.
One hand instinctively comes up to my throat, and I feel the pulse of my rapidly beating heart underneath my fingertips.
Once on board, I allow Magnus to take the lead. From this point on, I’m
