Magnus says something to him in French, pointing down to the bottle on the table. I watch over my glass as I finish the contents, waiting to see what will come of this.
There’s no way it would be legal to take an open bottle off the premises, would it? Based on the conflict in the waiter’s eyes, my hunch is correct.
But that’s nothing compared to the sheer will of Magnus getting his way—no matter what.
A few forceful words in French and a colorful bill—a two-hundred euro based on the hue—folded into his palm, and he’s more than happy to look the other way. I can’t help but note that for that amount, we could have almost bought another damn bottle; true, not as good as this one, but not pure vinegar either.
On the other hand, the two glasses I’ve had are already beginning to affect me. The last thing I need is to lose my wits, especially in Magnus’s territory.
He looks over the railing, the same one he used to access the bar, then back at me with a subtle smirk. His eyes wander across my dress as though already picturing what it would look like hitched halfway up my thighs as I scaled it then jumped down to the street below.
Once again, I give him an incredulous look.
There’s a soft rumble of laughter in his throat before he grabs the bottle by the neck with one hand and reaches out his other to me.
I pause only a moment, staring down at the massive palm, long fingers with thick pads. Then I take it.
We must look like two reckless lovers enjoying an early afternoon of uninhibited fun, what with our casual clothes and half a bottle of very expensive wine carelessly held by Magnus. I wonder how common this is here in Monte Carlo.
Magnus walks me straight to the docked boats. I glance back at his motorcycle, which is only slightly out of the way of traffic.
“What about your bike? Shouldn’t you move it?”
Without looking back, he answers. “I’ll have the person bringing our food move it for me.”
Which just poses even more questions in my head. Shouldn’t there already be food onboard? I’m sure a yacht the size of the Mako has a state of the art kitchen. Just how long is this boat ride going to be if he’s having food delivered specially?
As we pass the police guarding the marina, he casts a quick, aggressive glance down at the bottle in Magnus’s hand, but immediately straightens up, breath held in when he notes the person to whom that hand is attached. It must be heady to wield so much power that even the police cower in your presence.
I’d be lying if I denied that being attached to such power by nothing more than a held hand is a bit of an ego trip.
I’m surprised when Magnus turns down a pathway leading to the smaller boats instead of further up where the Mako awaits.
“Where are we going?”
“My boat,” is the only answer I get without so much as a glance my way.
My eyes slide to the Mako, then back to the row of motorboats we’re walking past. I suppose this is what he meant when he said he was taking his boat out. A man like Magnus can obviously afford more than one.
Silly me.
Stupid me.
It only now occurs to me that it will be just the two of us instead of us and an entire crew.
All alone on the water.
My eyes fall to the hand gripping mine. They blaze a trail up the taut, sinewy muscles of his forearm and bulging bicep, over the round mass of his shoulder and across the back that ripples underneath his t-shirt with each step he takes.
What the hell am I doing?
Getting answers, that’s what.
I realize this is quite fortuitous in retrospect. Going out with him on his little motorboat may end in danger. Or it may end up getting me exactly what I need.
Not obtaining the information I came to Monte Carlo to get will most certainly end in danger, possibly even death.
Worst case scenario in my current predicament, I can jump overboard if things get too dicey. Thank God, I know how to swim.
“Here we are,” he finally announces, stopping by a boat slightly larger than the others nearby. Certainly nothing compared to the Mako. That doesn’t mean it isn’t impressive to look at. It’s sleek and dark with mahogany paneling so polished it shines brighter than the sun reflected off the water. The seating is bright white, looking brand new. The whole thing looks like a Rolls Royce in boat form, old-fashioned in a way, but incredibly sophisticated. Rivamare, reads a chrome label on the side of it.
“I need to call to have our food delivered,” he says, handing me the bottle of wine.
“Actually, I should make a phone call too. Just to let someone know where I am,” I say, looking directly into his eyes, in case the reason is lost on him.
An amused smile touches his lips, and he sets the bottle down on the wooden planks of the dock.
While he reaches into his back pocket to pull out his phone, I dig mine out of my purse. Once it’s in my hand, I stare at it, wondering who in the hell I can call.
There’s no way I can tell any of my friends about this. The same is doubly true of my family.
Except, of course…
I close my eyes and sigh, pulling up my brother’s number.
Magnus is speaking rapid French into his phone, and I casually widen the distance between us until I’m sure he won’t be able to hear my low voice as I speak.
“Sloane,” Theo answers after the first ring. His voice sounds panicky, as it should. “Is everything okay? Did you get the information already?”
“Of course not,” I hiss in a whisper. “I haven’t even been here a day.”
“Oh,” he says, sounding both disappointed
