“I am,” I say, still studying her.
She lifts the glass of red wine in front of her to take a sip, eyeing me over the edge. I have a feeling she’s analyzing me just as much as I am her. When she sets it down, she’s back to looking regal again—a queen secure on her throne.
But I’ve snatched crowns from the heads of far more powerful people than this woman, whoever she is.
“To what do I owe the detour?” she asks with idle amusement.
“Perhaps I just hate the idea of a woman drinking alone.”
“How gentlemanly of you.”
We both smile, not in a friendly or polite way, but in a way that assures the other that we both know what game we’re playing here.
Now I’m even more suspicious.
But hell if I’m not also more intrigued.
“Magnus Reinhardt,” I say, mostly to get it out of the way.
“Everyone knows who you are,” she replies with a coy smile, batting her eyelashes for effect.
All of which diminishes any interest I had in her. Flattery doesn’t work on me. I’m more infamous than famous. People who proclaim to know who I am fall into two camps: those who want something from me and those who want to take something from me.
The kittenish look instantly disappears, replaced by a slightly imperious air. “I suppose that’s why you felt so entitled to sit with me before bothering to ask permission.”
The tiniest spark of interest is reignited.
“Would you like me to leave?”
She gives me a long considering look. “I’m not sure yet.”
I laugh. We both know that the last thing she wants is for me to leave. That isn’t me stroking my own ego, that’s me reading her like a damn book.
“What can I do to persuade you to allow me to stay?” I ask, if only to see how she’ll respond.
One side of her mouth hitches into a smirk. “Let’s see.”
She picks up the wine menu, turning it to the back where they are listed as full bottles instead of by-the-glass. Her eyes scan the page until they pause at something that’s piqued her interest.
She turns to catch the waiter’s attention.
I’m disappointed. If she’s hoping to win me over by indulging in some expensive bottle of wine on my dime, she’s sorely mistaken.
“I’d like a bottle of the Château Haut-Brodeur,” she says, pointing at the menu.
Her French is appalling, but her taste in wine is exquisite. The bottle is undoubtedly worth whatever ridiculous mark-up the bar most likely added to the original multi-hundred dollar price tag.
“A fine selection,” I say, making no move to get my wallet.
She gives me an indulgent smile before returning her attention back to the waiter. “Please put it on my tab.”
“Oui, madame.”
Now, my interest is more than a spark.
A nice power move on her part.
“I have to wonder, to what do I owe the generosity?”
“You rescued me from being a woman drinking alone,” she says matter-of-factly.
I laugh, genuinely amused at this point. “Perhaps with the wine, I can get a name?”
She takes a long sip from the glass still in front of her. After setting it down and swallowing, she gives me a cool smile.
“Sloane Alexander.”
Chapter Three Sloane
Good grief, five-hundred and eighty-nine euros?
Still, with a man like Magnus Reinhardt, you go big or go home. And home is looking pretty precarious for me right now.
I recognized the label from my days as a summer intern at Douglas & Foster, back when they were trying to woo us with expensive meals and over-the-top perks.
One of the senior partners, Jamie Reaves, ordered a bottle “paid for by the firm” (wink, wink) when he took me and two others out to dinner one night toward the end of that summer. Considering what a pompous ass he is, it’s no surprise that the bottle is obscenely expensive. But it’s also damn good wine.
More importantly, it seems to have done the trick.
I should have known that stupid coquettish act wouldn’t work with a man like Magnus. Based on the women I’ve seen in this city since I arrived this morning, flirtation and sex-appeal seem to be the most inflated forms of currency here.
I’m almost ashamed to admit that it came purely by instinct. Fortunately, I quickly came to my senses—which wasn’t easy. The man practically permeates the air with an overabundance of testosterone, activating every feminine urge in me, even those I didn’t realize I possessed. Everything about Magnus Reinhardt screams masculinity, from the hard, rugged lines of his face, covered in day-old stubble that only enhances the handsome features, down to the long, muscular legs now bent with one ankle over the knee of the other as he leans back to assess me.
His eyes are his most intriguing trait, a rich green that both hides and reveals so much. He’s cautious with those dark jade irises, giving away nothing of his true intentions. But he’s also quick to convey exactly what he wants me to know with them. The flash of disappointment when I tried playing the vixen. The intense curiosity when I paid for the wine instead of assuming he would.
It’s those eyes I’ll have to pay the closest attention to.
“I saw you admiring the marina. Do you have a particular interest in boats?”
He’s being sly, even as he gets straight to the point. We both know he only joined me because I was stupid enough to be caught showing too much interest in his yacht.
“I was admiring yours in particular. The Mako?” I can be just as confrontational as he is.
He studies me hard for a good long moment. Before he can respond, the waiter comes back with the bottle of wine.
“Madame,” he says, formally presenting it to me after setting two empty glasses down on the table before us. I’m annoyed to see him swivel it toward Magnus as well. “Monsieur.”
The waiter quickly uncorks it and then hesitates, swallowing hard as his eyes dart back and forth between
