I squeeze the glass in my hand so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.
“I train the way I compete. Thus, when the real race begins, I’m prepared. Anyone who doesn’t do the same is only setting themselves up for failure.” Once again, his gaze is hard, staring at me as though trying to dig deep enough to read my thoughts.
I realize his words hold some meaning for me. All of his words.
If the prize I was after required me to be naked…then I would be naked right now.
Suddenly his body isn’t something to be worshiped, but something to be avoided at all costs. None of this was an accident, except perhaps him originally running into me back at the marina, though I wouldn’t put even that bit of happenstance past him.
“Happy training,” I say with a bright smile.
His lips curl into another grin, and he laughs. “Enjoy the rest of your wine. It will go well with the food I’ve had packed for us. Feel free to indulge while I swim.”
Before I can reply, he makes a perfect dive into the sea. My eyes linger on the surface where he’s disappeared. For a long time, there’s no sign of him. I crane my neck, waiting.
By the time the seconds threaten to turn into a full minute, I’m half leaning over the edge, ready to dive in after him.
His head bobs up further out. I meet his amused grin with an accusatory glare. I thought for sure he had drowned.
Magnus laughs. How he manages it after holding his breath for so long is beyond me, but now, I’m also beyond caring. When he brings one arm up for his first stroke, I fall back into my seat on the boat.
My eyes fall to the bottle of wine I purchased, which still has at least an entire glassful. I empty it into my glass. It’s only too late that I realize I underestimated how much was left. Red liquid sloshes over the side, down my hand. I lift it to lick away what is the equivalent of liquid gold, at least in terms of value. That causes a few drops to splatter onto my white dress.
“Shit!” I say, staring down at the stain on my lap.
I set the glass down and scan the boat for something that might have water so I can wipe it clean. Finding nothing, I search below where there’s at least a tiny bathroom in the very nice but small interior. At the small sink, I splash the water onto the front of my dress, patting the stain, which is now more of a faded plum color. It won’t get completely clean, but at least I can keep it wet, so it doesn’t set.
My eyes find my reflection in the mirror, and my mouth twists into a wry grin.
“Wet, you say?” I laugh, despite the situation. It’s got to be the wine allowing me to make light of the situation.
Nothing about this is a laughing matter.
Magnus “The Shark” Reinhardt basically views me as chum.
The clock is ticking even as I stand here. And—I take a moment to look at my watch—I now have thirty-nine and a half days to find out what the hell Magnus has been planning for the past year.
That’s what the man demanded of me after his goons abducted me. I didn’t have the money he, or rather, his employer requested to pay off the amount Theo stole from them via his ingenious scheme. So I was offered a deal instead. Get enough information about what big plans Magnus Reinhardt has, presumably so they can time the market just right and make a fortune doing it.
All perfectly below board and very illegal.
Since I work tangentially in the financial industry, I’m fully aware that Magnus Reinhardt has been quietly selling off his assets, studiously avoiding any new deals, and operating in complete radio silence about it all—even more than usual.
Most of his holdings are private, but he still manages to create waves in the financial world as an influential figure. Taking note of what he’s up to often pays off big—at least most of the time.
I remember reading a Forbes article about him that detailed his purchase of a swath of raw land in Louisiana. It turned out to be right next door to where the next big annual music festival—à la SXSW, Coachella, and Lalapalooza—was rumored to soon have its premiere. Overnight the value of the land went up tenfold, and a hotel conglomerate and a group of commercial real estate investors clamored for a slice of the pie.
The festival turned out to be a bust. By then, Magnus had rid himself of any holdings, leaving all the buyers with worthless swampland. The only one who made a killing on that deal was one Magnus Reinhardt, who seems to have a knack for knowing when deals are going to go south.
Not even the top analysts of Wall Street have a clue why he’s suddenly selling off so many of his holdings. The only conclusion everyone is coming to is that whatever his next purchase is, it must be huge. Bigger than any deal he’s ever made, and he’s made quite a few of them in his career.
“So let’s find out what he’s up to, shall we Sloane?” I say to my reflection.
On the way back up, I see the basket of food. Immediately, my stomach begins to growl. It’s a reminder that the only contents are a full glass of decent wine and more than half a bottle of really good wine. I grab the basket and bring it up to the top, setting it down on the long bench that has a perfect view of both the small beach and Magnus’s upper body cutting through the water.
As fast as a shark.
I take a breath and focus my attention on the basket. Inside are multiple little containers of food and
