Page 9 of Royal Shark
She laughs. “Yes, that was my nefarious plan. Play on your weakness for her.”
“It wasn’t a weakness. I liked her same as you.”
Her voice is soft. “Sometimes I think it was harder on you than me when she cut us off.”
I don’t respond. It was tough, and obviously I never let her go, but that’s the kind of thing Silvia would jump all over with her romantic sentimental ideals. For all I know, Sara and I won’t even be compatible as adults, other than a shared love of poker. I don’t have expectations. I just need to know that she’s okay. And I’m curious about a person who was a big part of my childhood. Nothing romantic going on in the least.
“Okay, enough mushy talk from you,” Silvia says in a teasing voice. “So you’re going to check out her game?”
“Worth a look. I can’t get away for long. I’ll fly out on Monday since we’re closed here on Mondays.” Our private jet makes travel easy.
“The boss man.”
“Not all glitz and glamour. My assistant cowers from me, and the staff can’t get over my title to be straight with me.”
“It’s your voice. It comes out like a gruff growl when you’re irritated. Personally, I find gruff, growly men endearing.” She speaks away from the phone. “Yes, I mean you, love, and also my twin and my cousins.” There’s a kissy noise. Cade looks like a mountain man—six feet six, dirty blond hair left loose to his shoulders, with a full beard. He works for an outdoor recreation retail and services company as a financial analyst. He’s gruff and outdoorsy. The near opposite of my sweet bookworm sister.
She gets back to me. “Cade overheard. Anyway, some people find that type of voice a wee bit intimidating. Add in the prince thing for locals who’ve only known you from afar and you’ve got uneasy staff.”
“Nothing I can do about being a prince, and I can’t help my voice when I’m irritated.”
“Try to put some sweet into it like me.”
“I’m sweet as pie,” I growl, and she laughs.
“Make Emma take your place when you’re gone,” Silvia says. That’s our older sister and investor in the casino. “She has a stake in it and should take more interest.”
“I’ll run it by her.” I pause. “What’s she like?” I mean Sara.
“She’s the same but different. There’s a hard toughness to her that she didn’t used to have, but when she smiles, it’s like old times. And Chloe is no longer the wild child. Sara says she’s a very serious student. She just started at Columbia and plans to graduate in three years so she can go straight to Harvard Medical School. She wants to be a medical researcher and find a cure for cancer.”
“Wow. That’s…great.” But concerning to hear the complete turnaround in Chloe’s personality. She was never serious as a kid. Of course, the last time I saw her, she was only five. I never would’ve thought she’d be a serious student and a doctor. It seems there’s a lot I don’t know about Sara and her sister.
“I know, it’s a little weird considering what a terror she was. I plan to visit her too. Okay, got to go. Text me when you get in town. Love you!”
“Love you too.” I hang up and sit there for a moment, my mind replaying memories of Sara as a kid, teasing, playful, laughing. That summer when I rescued her and kissed her and made a solemn vow.
If Sara needs a hero, then, good news, I’m on my way. And if she doesn’t, I have a good excuse—we’re twenty-five, and we had a pact.
Chapter Three
Sara
I ring the bell of a Park Slope brownstone and tell myself to stay cool and confident. This is the hard part of my job. The morning after the poker game, I have to collect the debts from the losers before I can distribute the money to the winners. Sergei lost big last night. It’s a balancing act with wealthy, powerful men. They don’t want to lose face, don’t want to be seen as the loser. I have to keep it light and fun.
A moment later, his housekeeper, Ms. Davies, a woman in her sixties with a short bob of gray hair, ushers me in. “Hello, Sara, he’s in his office.”
“Hello, Ms. Davies, and thank you.”
I’ve been here before with his winnings, but never for such a big loss. I glance around. What am I worried about? He can afford it. Sergei lives alone in this prestigious historic neighborhood in a six-thousand-foot town house. It’s a mansion, really. These places go for millions. Just look at this carved wood staircase original to the home, more than one hundred years old. That alone is probably worth more than my apartment. My heels click across herringbone parquet floors as I pass French doors leading into an elegant parlor.
I’m in a black and white striped short-sleeved blouse with a black pencil skirt and black pumps, going for the professional look. This is business. I turn to the open door of his office. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-bound books stretch the length of the wall on either side of the fireplace and above it. The room is well lit by two large windows on the far side of the room.
Sergei’s back is to me as he stares at a photo on the fireplace mantel. He’s a tall wiry man in his thirties with dark brown hair in a buzz cut that accentuates his sharp cheekbones.
Light and fun.“Morning, Sergei. Looks like a gorgeous day out.”
He turns to me and smiles, his dark brown eyes glittering with shrewd intelligence. “Always good to see you, Sara, though I wish it were under better circumstances this morning.” He has a slight Russian accent, which he’s been working to lose with a private dialect coach. I know this because he asked me if I could detect his accent when we first met. Um, yeah, sure can.
