Page 24 of Claim You

She was too busy gnawing the inside of her cheek to shreds.

She wondered for the hundredth time in a row if it had been a good idea to use her black card to rent the plane. She’d wanted to rent the private jet. After all, if she was hoping to retrace the steps of that night, it would have given her the full experience. The expense was mind-boggling, but she’d convinced herself Goldie would be fine with it.

But then Arlo had told her that he needed a co-pilot for the big jet—those were the rules—and so she’d had to settle for Little Blue.

She’dsettled, which meant her stomach would beunsettled, until the trip was over. Thank goodness the flight was only ninety minutes. She didn’t think she could take much more.

The wings bounced on turbulence a little more, as he dipped the plane to descend. For a moment, she thought they were in freefall, so she reached out for something—anything—to grab onto.

“Easy does it,” he said to her with a grin.

“Are we almost there?”

“Si. Coming in for a landing right now.”

She exhaled with relief as they passed through the clouds and she beheld the coast of France.

“Next stop, Nice,” he called to her.

“I thought we were going to Monaco?” she asked, alarmed. Maybe he was still high.

“No airport in Monaco. Nearest one is in Nice, Cote d’ Azur,” he said to her as the plane dipped into what felt like a nosedive, coming in hot.

She closed her eyes and gripped the edge of her seat for dear life. “Okay.”

But a moment later, the plane bumped gently onto the runway, and she let out the breath she’d been holding as she tore open her eyes. They’d landed.

He pulled off his headphones and grinned. “See? Told you there was nothing to it. I’ve made that flight a thousand times.”

The plane coasted to a stop, and he helped her step out onto the tarmac and pointed her in the direction of the front of the airport. “You can leave your luggage here. You’ll just need to take a bus or taxi to Monte Carlo. Right that way. I’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“Thanks,” she said. She expected he would be there. She’d paid him an arm and a leg with the express hope that he’d help her retrace the route, and she still needed to go to Lyon, after this.

“Good luck!” he called after her.

She made her way to the taxi line. When she hailed a taxi, she settled into the seat, watching the sights of the seaside towns. “I’d like to go to the Blue Coast Casino in Monte Carlo, please,” she told the driver, reciting the name Matteo had given her.

The driver took off with a nod. Everything was bright white in the sun, and a cool breeze wafted off of the Mediterranean, making it the ideal temperature for sightseeing. But it wasn’t hard to be reminded that she wasn’t here for sightseeing. Even her driver seemed sophisticated. He was dressed casually in khakis and a button-down linen shirt, with floppy dark hair and stubble, making him look far too attractive to be a simple cab driver.

He was not the only thing on the coast that made her feel like she’d wandered onto a movie set.Everythingabout this was out of her comfort zone. The homes were so opulent, and every person looked as if they’d just finished getting made up for their close-up. They were all chic, attractive, and confident.

As beautiful as it was, it made her shift uncomfortably. When they crossed the border into Monaco, it only seemed to get wealthier and more fantastic. Did normal people even live here, or were only fabulous people allowed?

If so, they’ll probably run me out of town,she thought as the cab pulled up in front of one of the casinos. Far from the gaudy glitz of Vegas, this place was more sedate, relying on old-world glamour and sophistication.

The valet who opened the door for her tipped his hat and said,“Bienvenue au casino de la côte bleue.”

“Merci,”she said, one of the few French phrases she was comfortable with. “Do you speak English?”

“Of course.”

“Great,” she fought the blush climbing over her cheeks. Even the young valet was model-gorgeous, with dark eyes that seemed to penetrate right through to her core. “I’m a private investigator looking into the suspicious death of one of the casino’s patrons, and I’m seeking out a woman who he was last seen with. They had gambled together at this casino.”

“That’s a shame. Which client are you referring to?”

“His name is Franklin Tate.”

Recognition sparked at once. “Frankie? Frankie’s dead? Oh, no,” he said, his face crumpling. His composed façade fell away as he jogged over to the two other men in red jackets at the valet stand. “Boys, I just heard some terrible news. Frankie Tate is dead. This lady here is investigating his death.”

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