brother again and beating the shit out of him was a very good idea.
He didn’t know what to do, other than assaulting his brother again.
Assaulting his brother again seemed like an excellent option, a truly spectacular option, and it seemed even more enticing with every additional sip of whiskey, except that Pierre had threatened Maxence that no one would find his body if Max didn’t leave the building immediately.
And ditto if Maxence even breathed a damn word to anyone about Flicka’s whereabouts. In that case, Pierre had assured Max, his death would be slow.
When you have seen your brother make good on threats like that without a moment of hesitation or remorse, you believe him.
Maxence had to get word to somebody about Flicka, though.
Pierre seemed to want Flicka right where she was.
Flicka had told Maxence to leave her there and not tell anyone. Her whispers had rung in his ears like a command he could not disobey.
Flicka’s tone had sounded like she was hiding and needed to stay there to be safe.
She was in danger.
And yet, she had said she was safer where she was than if people knew or tried to get her out.
She’d told him not to tell anyone and not to do anything to rescue her.
He hated it.
He ran his hand through his hair, his dark curls twining around his fingers.
With every minute that passed, Maxence worked harder to resist the inclination to dial the phone number for her reclusive brother, Wulfram von Hannover, and narc to him where she was.
Except that she’d specifically forbidden Max to call Wulf.
Maxence was confused and angry as hell, and he tipped more whiskey into his mouth. The slow burn down his throat felt like courage gathering in his stomach.
Pierre was only a few blocks away, ready to be punched.
Maxence could walk there in fifteen minutes.
He hated this.
A soccer match was playing on a wide-screen television in one of the casino’s small rooms called the Salle Touzet Sud. He couldn’t quite hear the commentary over the clattering of the roulette wheels and gamblers cheering from the White Room behind him and the soccer fans laughing and chattering around the TVs.
The Monte Carlo casino was decorated for Christmas, with garland draped from everything that would hold it and twinkling Christmas trees stationed in every corner and doorway. The rooms looked like a particularly festive forest had been magicked into the building.
He should be thinking about other things to distract himself from the conundrum irritating him. The Monte Carlo casino brimmed with beautiful women, and Max loved women. He loved everything about them, from their finer skin to their soft curves to the sweet scent of them to the sparkly and beautiful clothes they wore.
The doorway between two rooms where Maxence was standing was half-blocked by Christmas trees that towered over his head and the doorway. He’d been careful not to jiggle the tiny gold-and-glass ornaments that encrusted the tree. The balls and icicles tinkled alarmingly every time his arm brushed the branches.
Maxence had just decided to inch closer to the televisions airing the soccer match when his old high school friend Simone Maina rushed across the opulent casino room and through the crowd toward him.
Her lithe figure was a harmonic vibration on a violin string, blurred at the edges of her slim curves by the lights sparkling on the glass beadwork of her white dress. As she neared him, the smooth skin between her eyebrows and under her eyes creased, indicating strain. Her arms reaching for him were slim, dark lines in the room of round, solid bodies held tightly together to avoid contact.
Maxence set his whiskey glass on a small table behind himself and drew a breath to ask her what was wrong.
Simone’s natural Afro hair was a sleek halo around her thin face. She was reaching out to Maxence, her fingers nearing the lapels of his tuxedo, and she glanced behind herself in fear. Black eyeliner and eyeshadow in soft sage and glittering gold accentuated her sloe-eyed beauty, and she almost looked like an Egyptian hieroglyphic of a queen.
Rough abrasions and the darkening plum of bruises covered her slim throat.
Maxence’s heart fell as rage rose in his body. Her husband, Estebe Fournier, must have thought people wouldn’t notice the damage to Simone’s dark-bronze skin. Estebe had always been a bully when they had been at school together, and he’d been excellent at creating incidents where he could deny his guilt.
About twenty feet behind her, two men in dark suits pushed