“You cramp everyone’s style.”
Surviving the world’s youngest—and most beautiful—stepmother requires a thick skin, and I like to think I’ve developed a good one. Still, her words needle me more than usual. Once upon a time, before I got all straight and narrow and worried about Grant, I was considered the fun one of the group. I swear.
“Why do you care what my dad’s doing, anyway?” I ask. “You’re supposed to be vacationing with Riker.”
Her pursed lips pull down in a frown, the expression so brief that had I blinked, I would have missed it. But I didn’t blink, and I didn’t miss it, and I don’t like it. There’s something more going on here than a pair of estranged spouses taking separate vacations on the same thirty-thousand-ton pleasure cruise. Something a lot more. Take it from a woman who knows what it’s like to be in a constant battle of one-upmanship with her husband.
“Tara…” I begin, but her rare unguarded moment is over. She opens my hard-shell case in the middle of the living room and pulls out one of the outfits she let me borrow for the trip. It’s an orange romper that looks halfway comfortable, which is rare for one of Tara’s loaners. Most of them are made of Lycra.
“Put this on.”
I look longingly back at my tub. It’s no longer steaming. “But I was hoping to unwind before dinner.”
“Too bad. You and I have work to do.”
“Real work, or you-want-to-scope-out-the-competition-and-need-me-to-go-with-you work?”
“Both.” She tosses the romper at me. “There was a message in my towel swan. His Majesty would like us to make a survey of the boat’s layout and commit it to memory.”
She loses me at towel swan.
“On the bed,” she says. “Or didn’t you notice?”
I shake my head. “I was too blinded by the luxury of my surroundings.”
With a muttered “brat,” Tara heads toward the bedroom, returning with a white bundle in her arms. From the looks of it, that’s no swan—I think it might be a frog—but the idea is the same. The terrycloth has been twisted to resemble a creature that, when unfolded, regurgitates a slip of paper covered in my husband’s signature scrawl.
Go over the boat with Riker and memorize every last inch, especially hiding places and emergency exits. And lifeboats. Always lifeboats.
Aw, how sweet. Grant’s been dwelling on the Titanic metaphors too.
“It’s pretty genius if you think about it,” Tara says as she leans in and reads the note, oblivious to a little thing called privacy. “No one will think to look for messages in the towel animals. I had no idea Oz was so talented.”
“Me either, but how am I supposed to respond? By folding my bras into monkeys?”
“That’s what I intend to do,” she says breezily—and unhelpfully, I might add. What if I have an emergency? What if I have information that will save Grant’s life? An army of towel animals won’t save him then.
“You’ll want to destroy that note so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands,” she adds and stands there watching me until I make an effort to do so. My instinct—composed, admittedly, of spy movies and cartoons—tells me to shove it in my mouth and swallow, but I end up ripping it into pieces and flushing them down the toilet instead.
Since bath time looks to be out of the question, I drain the tub and follow Tara’s orders to get dressed. The sleeveless top and loose shorts combo is as comfortable as it looks, and there’s something to be said about the simple elegance of it. Especially when Tara commands me to bow my head and clasps a chunky gold necklace around my neck before loosely ruffling my hair around my shoulders. The woman knows fashion, there’s no doubt about that, but she also knows me. In a matter of seconds, I go from street rat to swanky cat burglar—no complicated undergarments required.
“There. Now you’re fit to be seen in public with me.”
“How generous of you,” I say dryly. “How come you’re the one coming with me, anyway? The note says I should go with Riker.”
“No real reason. Riker had other things to do.” She moves toward the door, ready to embark on our mission, but I don’t follow right away. It’s an action she interprets with alarming accuracy. “Don’t worry. I didn’t throw him to the loan sharks just yet. He wanted to go over the passenger list to see who else might be playing in the tournament, so I flirted with the captain and stole a copy. I figured it might also help in the search for Johnny Francis.”
“Oh.” I blink at her. “That was good thinking.”
A toss of her hair is the only acknowledgment she gives of my compliment. Tara would kill anyone who said so out loud, but underneath her sex kitten exterior lies a heart that might not be made of gold but is certainly plated in it. Even though it’s the last thing she wants, I can’t help but let her know how much I appreciate it—her willingness to take care of Riker, to support Grant’s mission, to put herself out there for no reason other than it being the right thing to do. There aren’t a lot of kind-of-but-not-really-stepmothers out there who would do the same. I place my hand on her arm and give it a gentle squeeze.
“You’re good for him,” I say. “And for me. Thank you for doing all this.”
“Don’t be so sappy, Pen. I didn’t come down here to chat about your feelings.” She shudders over the word feelings, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “The sooner I fulfill my obligations and escort you around, the sooner I can focus on getting that tiara.”
“If all you want is to win the tiara, why are you helping me?” I ask. I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth—or in this case, a gift jewel thief in the eyes—but there’s no reason why I can’t make a survey of the ship on my own. “You don’t have to, you know. This was supposed to be your vacation. No one would think anything of it if you just ignored me and had your own fun.”
Instead of answering, she turns the question back on me. “You don’t have to be here, either,” she says. “Why are you?”
“Because he asked me to.” The answer is simple and springs immediately to my lips. There are few things in this world I wouldn’t do for my husband. “Besides, it’s not like I had much of a choice. He’s still not fully recovered, but he’ll be damned if he admits as much. You know how pigheaded he can be about these sorts of things.”
“Yes, I do, and it’s your own stupid fault. If you’d asked me before you got married, I would have told you that strong, willful men are rarely worth the effort.”
She’s unable to keep her gaze from the door leading to my father’s room as she says it. I’ve never really thought of my dad as the strong, willful sort before, but I know better than to doubt Tara’s judgment. Gauging diamond clarity and men’s deepest desires—her skill sets are very specific.
“We can go see if he’s in there,” I offer doubtfully.
For a moment, I think she’s going to take me up on it, but she gives a curt shake of her head. “Don’t be silly. How your father chooses to entertain himself is of no concern to me.”
The similarity of her words to my dad’s strikes me as uncanny, but she prevents me from saying so with a sharp, “And I’d like to state for the record, if you so much as spill a drop on that silk, you’re buying me a new romper.”
* * *
Overall, the Shady Lady isn’t a huge vessel, at least not when compared to those cruise ships that take tens of thousands of people on their dream vacations through busy tourist ports. Although the six hundred feet of length sets a more intimate backdrop for the guests, I’m happy to find that it still offers plenty of places to hide—not to mention a full squadron of lifeboats. I’m not sure what the Shady Lady is commissioned to do when she’s not being used as a floating casino, but for the time being, she’s more than doing her duty.
There are a total of ten floors, not including the sundeck at the very top. Most of them contain nothing more than row upon row of boring staterooms and utility closets
, but a few are dedicated to pleasures of the flesh. Three separate dining rooms, a spa and hair salon, an enormous swimming pool surrounded by deck chairs, and even an outdoor gym with a running track make up the entertainment sector of the boat. There’s also a cabaret lounge taking up half of the fifth floor, but it’s closed off, so we aren’t able to sneak a peek inside.
“Do you think this is where they’re keeping the tiara?” I ask as Tara and I try a few of the doors to see if one has accidentally been left open. They haven’t, and I wouldn’t mind trying my hand at picking a lock or two, but there are several people milling around and doing some exploring of their own. “Or is there a safe or something where it’s being held?”
“There’s one good way to find out.” Tara casts a quick look around before discreetly shoving a hairpin in the lock.
“What are you doing?” I hiss. “Do you want to get us thrown off the boat before the game even starts?”
She ignores me. “Damn. These are really strong. Do you have a credit card on you?”
“Of course not.” I nudge her with my hip. “Would you please stop doing that? People are staring.”
She does stop, but with a sigh condemning my lack of nerve. “Don’t get mad at me for being indiscreet. I’m not the one they’re staring at. You are. Haven’t you noticed?”
I hadn’t, so I take a moment to glance around. Sure enough, several small groups of people slow down as they walk by, their voices dropping the closer they get.
“I bet they’re just admiring my outfit.” I cast a glance over my clothes to make sure everything is in order. “I do look pretty amazing, but this romper would be nicer if it had pockets. I always wonder why more women’s clothing doesn’t come with pockets. I’d be able to carry lots of credit cards for you then.”
“Most of us carry a purse for that exact reason, Pen. Same great features, much smoother silhouette.” Her sigh this time is one of annoyance as she gives up on the lock picking. “I’ve never seen locks like these before—there’s no way I’m getting in today. I guess we’ll have to wait and see the cabaret lounge alongside everyone else. Did we miss anything on our tour?”
I shake my head, glad to call this particular job finished. Two hours spent crawling over a ship and memorizing its dark corners isn’t my idea of a good time. We even explored the bottom levels, which are mostly made up of staff accommodations and a fuel-scented engine room I’d like to never visit again. Talk about confined places.
“No, I think we’re good.” I pause as a woman down the hallway lifts a finger and points at me, turning away just as quickly when she notices me watching.
Okay, this is getting weird. I think I preferred it when I was in cutoff shorts and everyone ignored me.
“You’re right,” I say in a low voice. “They are staring at me. Why?”
She lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “I don’t know. We’ve only been here a few hours. Did you make an enemy of someone already?”
“Not even I can work that quickly,” I say, though I can’t help feeling dread fill my stomach. They know. Word about Grant must have spread. They’re searching for the traitor in their midst, and all the towel swans in the world won’t be able to save him.
My rising sense of panic is cut short by a loud squeal from behind us. I turn, expecting to find a masked coalition coming to seize me, but all I find is a young woman staring at us with wide eyes and an expression of pure joy.
“What’s happening?” I ask Tara, grabbing her arm. “What did I do?”
“Omigod—it’s you, isn’t it? It’s really you?” The woman runs to greet me, stopping herself about two inches short of hitting me with a full-body slam. Not that her full body would do much damage. She looks to be in her late teens, her build rounder than mine but just as horizontally challenged. Rich, tawny skin and dark hair in a single braid down her back give her an even more youthful appearance, especially when matched by the long-lashed eyes gazing up adoringly into my own. “You’re as pretty as I always imagined, but I had no idea you were so short. How tall are you? Five two? Five three?”
Her rapid-fire delivery and high-pitched, breathy voice throw me off-balance, but I do my best not to let it show.
“Uh, somewhere closer to the first one,” I say. “But I always lie on forms and say I’m five three.”
She laughs, showing a neat line of pearly teeth on which I swear I can see the ghost of a recent set of braces. She’s that young.
“Do you really? Me too. Five one and three-quarters is what I write down, but it’s closer to just one-quarter. Daddy says I might still grow, but I’m almost nineteen, so I don’t think I will. It’s hard, isn’t it, being so small? No one in a place like this takes small girls seriously—especially when they have a voice like mine. Did you ever hear anyone sound so much like a mouse?”
I haven’t—not in terms of tone and definitely not in terms of volubility—but I can’t think of a kind way to phrase that, so I just say, “I think overly tall, deep-voiced girls have a hard time of it, too. Speaking of, can I introduce you to—”
“Oh, I know who she is,” the young woman says, turning to my stepmother with the same adoring eyes. “You’re Tara Lewis, right? I wouldn’t miss you anywhere. Daddy says you have the body of a sinner, the face of a saint, and the heart of the damned. He means that as a compliment, even though I know it doesn’t sound like it. We’re big fans.”
I have to laugh at Tara’s expression. No one has ever summarized her quite so succinctly—or accurately—before.
“I can see he was right, too. You’re so beautiful. I think you might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
Tara blinks a few bewildered times, but she eventually accepts the compliments as her due. Her streak of vanity runs deep.
“Well, I have no idea who she is, but I like her,” Tara says. “Do you have a name, honey?”
“Oh, I’m so stupid! It’s Lola. Lola Sanchez.” The girl sticks her hand out, so close to Tara’s chest she has to take a step back before she can shake it.
The name sounds familiar, but I need Tara to put the pieces together for me. “Lola Sanchez, huh?” she says. “I’m guessing that would make Daddy none other than Peter Sanchez.”
Ah, yes. Peter Sanchez, the smuggler currently in possession of the Luxor Tiara—the man making a financial killing on this cruise. Nowhere on the FBI dossier I read did it say he has a teenage daughter, but I accept Tara’s all-knowing word for it. It still doesn’t explain why the girl is fawning over us, though.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Lola,” I say politely. “Will you be playing in the poker game?”
She takes a wide step back, as if caught in the middle of a criminal act. “Me? Oh, no. I could never,” she says. “But you’re going to be in the game, right? Can I watch you play? Daddy says that under no circumstances am I to bother you with my questions and chatter, but you don’t mind, do you? You’re so nice in person. I never expected you to be nice on top of everything else.”
On top of everything else? I look to Tara for help only to find a smile of real amusement on her lips.
“Well, well,” she says, laughing. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe we’ve discovered your very first fangirl, Pen.”
Lola giggles but doesn’t seem to take offense. “It’s true. I’ve been hearing about you ever since I was a baby. My whole life, it’s been, ‘Penelope Blue was helping her father break into jewelry stores when she was five years old,’ and, ‘Penelope Blue isn’t afraid of the dark,’ and, ‘Penelope Blue didn’t cry the first time she smashed her finger in a safe door.’ You have no idea how hard I’ve tried to be like you.”
“Er, that last one’s not strictly true,” I interject, compelled to tarnish the shiny version of my reputation she’s holding out. “I did cry the first time I smashed my finger in a safe door. For about three hours, if I remember correctly.
To this day, it’s still crooked.”
To prove it, I lift my right hand, showing her the slightly hitched bend to my forefinger. I’d been about six years old when it happened, playing with—what else?—the safe that my father was opening layer by layer. It was a new model, and he needed to learn the mechanics of it if he ever hoped to crack one in the wild.
He did eventually learn the mechanics, and I’m pretty sure he’s broken into about seven of those particular models since, but I wouldn’t recommend using the door as a child’s swing. No matter how bored you are and how much you wish your dad would just take you outside to play.
At the sight of my mangled extremity, Lola’s eyes widen, and her whole demeanor lights from within.
“Mine too!” She holds up her left hand to show me a pinky with its own slight bend at the tip. “And he wouldn’t even take me to the hospital to get it X-rayed, because he didn’t want any nosy questions from the doctors. We went to the vet instead.”
My heart goes out to the poor girl. Having a famous criminal for a parent isn’t easy. I, too, have been stitched up alongside a kennel of dogs more times than I care to count.
“Oh, boy. When I heard you were coming on the cruise, I could barely believe it. You will let me watch you play, won’t you?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer, her sweet face crumpling. “You can say no if you want, and you can also tell me to leave if I’m bothering you. It’s okay. People do all the time.”
Since I can’t get a word in edgewise, I have to make do with a nod of my head. I wouldn’t have the heart to deny her even if I wanted to.
Her expression changes as if on rewind. “I knew it—you are the nicest! I feel so famous standing next to you. Everyone is staring. Did you notice? I bet you’re used to it by now. I hate it when everyone is looking at me, but you just carry on like normal, don’t you? Walking around as though you don’t have a care in the world.”
I have plenty of cares, as my current situation attests, but I’m happy to find that not everyone thinks I’m one small step from playing a horror movie villain. I’m even happier to find that word of my husband’s undercover operation isn’t the cause of my sudden notoriety.
Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 6
