Roxanne had known Arthur for a few years, and there was just something there that she wasn’t quite getting.
Lord Arthur Finch-Hatten, Earl Severn, was a rich guy who lived off the interest and income from his investments. He didn’t work for a living. He just owned things. Granted, Arthur owned things like an enormous manor house in the English countryside and a huge apartment in London near Kensington Palace, but that didn’t make him an expert in defensive driving.
Plus, there was that time when Rox had managed to lock herself out of her phone so thoroughly that the guys at the mall told her she’d just have to buy a new phone, but Arthur had plugged it into his laptop and unlocked it in five minutes.
And then, Arthur changed her phone’s background to a selfie of him winking at her with those haunting, silver-blue eyes of his. No matter what she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to change it for a month.
It was weird that Arthur was so confident that he could evade trained, professional mercenaries, or whatever they were.
And it was weirder that Casimir and Gen had accepted this without comment, so Roxanne didn’t argue.
She did need to talk to Cash about Arthur sometime because it seemed that a whole heck of a lot was going unsaid.
But later.
Right now, they had to get to Genoa to find Maxence.
The plan was for the four of them to converge on the yacht they were borrowing just seconds before the boat cast off, lest the thugs who’d been following them either get their own boat or board theirs, probably leading with their guns.
So, Roxanne and Casimir walked out of the hotel’s lobby and into the bright midday sunshine, threading between neon-colored Lamborghinis parked in front of the casino that the tourists rented by the hour and drove on the winding, crowded streets of Monaco.
Christmas ribbons and balls festooned the fountain and small courtyard between their hotel and the Monte Carlo casino, and they strolled across the lawn to begin their escape.
Casimir glanced behind them. “They’re back there. Like Arthur said, at least four guys are following us. Some were in the lobby. Others were hanging around the entrance outside. I can’t believe I didn’t notice them before.”
Roxanne squeezed his hand and watched her step as they walked onto the sidewalk. “It’s okay. We’re okay. We’ll get through this.”
They dodged through the accumulating crowd and crossed the busy street to the public garden on the other side. As Arthur had instructed, they were walking in the opposite direction from the yacht club and the marina.
After a quick trot through the twisty paths of the Little African Garden, theJardins de la Petite Afrique,where the warm-weather plants grew lush and full in southern France, they emerged on the opposite side.
After that, they made a loop back around the garden and through the shopping center, the place with the diamonds and the bakery where Roxanne and Gen had eaten second-breakfast that morning, and worked their way back.
They hurried as they walked on sidewalks by the sea, busy streets where fleets of luxury sports cars sped past, down staircases that led to passageways underneath roads, through shop-lined tunnels, and finally arrived at the marina to approach the designated slip from the opposite direction.
The air was fresher and cooler on Rox’s face from the breeze blowing directly off the salt seawater that lapped at the sidewalk built on the quay. Wooden piers extended over the water.
Dang, but Roxanne was glad she hadn’t worn heels when they’d left Amsterdam in the wee hours that same morning. Monaco required a lot of walking.
She risked a glance back at the sidewalk behind them. “Did we ditch those guys?”
Casimir whispered, “We’ll know in a minute. Here’s the boat.”
The name of the boat, written in black script on the gunmetal gray hull, wasFlirting with Disaster.Crew members in black tee-shirts and white pants were scrambling, drawing in ropes hand-over-hand and preparing to cast off.
Ahead of them, Arthur was ushering Gen onto the boat, making sure she stepped in just the right place on the small ramp. The trailing ruffles of her fluttering maternity dress disappeared inside the back of the ship.
The yacht was built like an arrowhead, smooth lines from its sharp point flowing to the back of the hull. Unlike many of the yachts around it,Flirting with Disasterdidn’t look like a miniature cruise ship. The round, high hull was shaped more like a futuristic version of a naval patrol torpedo boat, built for agility and racing through the sea rather than luxury and comfort.
Of course, Alexandre Grimaldi would own a death trap of a boat and name itFlirting with Disaster.
Roxanne lowered her head and walked faster.
Dang it, when they got home, she and Casimir needed tospeakabout this.
Ahead of them, Arthur beckoned to them with one hand and then looked over their heads. His pale eyes narrowed, and he waved them up more insistently.
Roxanne and Arthur ran.
