28. Jenn

Chapter 28

Jenn

The German woman’s sympathetic gaze was like salt in the wound of my epic loss. I forced what smile I could, trying to mask the sting of defeat and the growing unease in my stomach. So much for putting my love life in the hands of fate.

Fate had just given me a great big middle finger.

Mr. Bespoke pulled out the chair between us and patted it. “Why don’t you come over here and sit with me? Maybe I can help you turn your luck around.” His voice oozed slimy charm, and his predatory glare made my skin crawl.

I stood. Grabbing the drink I’d been nursing since Emmett abandoned me, I tried to keep my movements casual, my smile polite but dismissive. “I have to find my husband.”

How convincing was a fake marriage without a ring? Not very, but it was enough to shake off Mr. Bespoke’s unwanted attention.

I wandered between gaming tables, staying close to the blackjack area in case Emmett appeared. The glamor and excitement that had initially dazzled me now felt oppressive, each laugh and clink of a glass reminding me how out of place I was. After watching several more hands of blackjack at another table, then drifting over to observe a few rounds of baccarat, I drained my glass. The alcohol did little to settle my nerves.

Emmett had said he’d be an hour or two, and it had already been one. My fingers itched to check my phone, to lose myself in the numbing scroll of social media, but it was still locked up with security. Going back through the checkpoint wasn’t an option—knowing my luck, Emmett would come looking for me the moment I left.

“Excuse me.” I caught the attention of a passing server, a young woman with a pretty smile and a tray laden with colorful cocktails. “Can you tell me where the ladies’ room is?”

She nodded, gesturing toward the second large room. “Past the door to the restaurant, second turn on the right.”

I thanked her and headed in that direction, dodging between casino patrons.

How many were tourists like me, and how many were locals? Surely the people of Monaco didn’t spend all their time here, despite the surprising number of occupied tables. It wasn’t as packed as the Monte Carlo Casino had been the night Dante and Massimo took me to dinner at the Rose Salon, but it was close. Maybe it was more popular in the evening?

I slowed as I passed the restaurant, peeking inside. The ceiling was lower, with fewer natural variations in the stone than in the main rooms. Had they intentionally done that for food safety?

And where was the kitchen? How did they vent heat and exhaust? How much effort went into bringing supplies down here?

Did everything come through the elevator Emmett had brought me through earlier, or were there other access points I hadn’t seen?

After passing the restaurant, I turned down the hallway toward the ladies’ room. Just past the door, an enormous fresco adorned the wall. Reminiscent of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, it featured a naked woman, her breasts and pelvis covered by her hands and hair, with laurel leaves and cherubs in the background. Odd place for such a stunning piece of art.

Drawn closer, I inspected the fresco. Chips and cracks littered the surface, but the colors remained vibrant, as though someone had recently cleaned it. Strangely, an ornate frame surrounded it, designed with leaves that mimicked the laurels in the fresco.

Except…

Laurel leaves were lanceolate—like the head of a lance, with a rounded bottom tapering to the top. One foot above my eye level, a series of four leaves stood out as linear, thin, and straight. I reached out to trace the intricate design. I never could keep my hands off a beautiful frame.

The leaves—olive?—were rough and cool to the touch, as though crafted from the stone of the Casino’s cavern. The laurel leaves were warm, like wood. I pressed harder against the wooden frame, slipping my fingers into the grooves, and closed my eyes as I traced the patterns with my fingertips. I breathed deeply. My nerves began calming with the soothing movement.

But as my fingertips slid over the olive leaves, the stone gave way under my touch. A section sank into the wall. My eyes shot open. The wall in front of me shifted, grinding stone against stone as it slowly opened.

Another enormous cavern loomed behind it. What the?—

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?” A suited man seated behind a desk leaped to his feet.

Before I could respond, another man materialized, a gun pointed directly at me.

Shit, shit!

I threw my hands up.

“I’m sorry! I was looking at the fresco.” I stumbled backward, my mind reeling. Twice in less than twenty-four hours, I’d stared down the barrel of a gun.

This was the last time I ever came to Monaco.

The armed man lunged forward, his grip crushing my upper arm. He spun me, shoving me back the way I’d come, pressing the gun against my spine. A stream of French curses filled the air, the words harsh and guttural.

“It was an accident!” I pleaded, my voice high-pitched and frantic.

We were heading back into the Casino. You’ll be safe in there. Someone will fix this.

His only response was to squeeze my arm and dig the gun deeper into my back. “Move.”

My shoe caught, and I went down hard, pain shooting through my knees. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs, and for a moment, all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. Before I caught my breath, he yanked me back to my feet, forcing me forward once more.

“I can follow the hallway on my own,” I gasped, desperate to put some distance between us. “I promise I won’t?—”

“Save it for the boss,” he snarled.

Tears blurred my vision, the glittering lights becoming a kaleidoscope of color. Could this trip possibly get any worse? Not only did no one come to my rescue, but no one seemed to care that a man was holding a gun to my back in the middle of a crowded casino.

I swiped at my eyes, trying to regain my composure. You were trespassing, and he’s a security guard, that’s all. You’ll be fine. But didn’t security guards normally just tell you to turn around?

“Stairs. To your right.”

I hadn’t even noticed them, carved so seamlessly into the cavern wall they were nearly invisible. With each step, dread settled deeper in my stomach. Who was the boss? What was waiting for me?

And what would Emmett say when he couldn’t find me?

This was all a colossal misunderstanding. I’d simply taken a wrong turn. Surely someone—hopefully his boss—would listen to reason.

But wait. How strict were the police in Monaco? Would I go to jail for trespassing?

No. Emmett said this place operated outside the law, so they wouldn’t call the police.

Oh shit.

At the top of the stairs, my captor nudged me through a door. The room was elegantly furnished with plush velvet chairs and gleaming mahogany tables that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Prince’s Palace. Crystal sconces cast a warm glow across smooth stone walls. The whole space radiated old-world luxury, a stark contrast to the rough tunnels below. A man and a woman stood at a bank of tall windows overlooking the casino floor below, their backs to me.

“Martine,” the man behind me announced, “this one came through the back entrance.”

The pair turned, and my heart stopped.

The man at the window was Emmett.

His face was a mask, giving nothing away. He leaned toward the woman—short graying hair, with sharp eyes that cut right through me—and whispered something in her ear.

The woman waved a dismissive hand at the man still holding the gun to my back. “Go back to your post. I’ll handle this.”

As the armed man retreated, Emmett’s eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something—relief? Concern? Irritation? Then, a soft smile. “Martine, I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Krista.”