Page 80 of The Scarab's Game
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 anothertable, 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 frescoadorned the wall. Reminiscent of Botticelli’sThe 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.”