“Eden suspects he might be the elusive Johnny Francis in disguise,” my father explains in an unconcerned way. He takes the opposite chair, leaving me standing in the center of the room and gawking at them both. “Apparently, she’s interested in tracking the man down for…what was it, Eden?”
Eden smiles tightly. “Mr. Francis has access to certain privileged information I’d be willing to pay a hefty price to get my hands on. You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s any truth to my theory, would you, Penelope?”
“Me?” I squeak. “I barely know the guy.”
“Oh, yes. I keep forgetting. It must be the familiar manner he’s adopted with you that has me so confused.”
There’s nothing in Eden’s tone or her posture to indicate she meant that as a threat, but I swear the room drops a good ten degrees as she sits there sipping her wine. And even though I know the smartest thing for me to do is beat a hasty and silent retreat, I can’t help feeling a sudden curiosity about my father’s guest. I drop to the couch.
“What makes you think he’s Johnny?” I ask. “Did he say or do something to tip you off?”
She smiles over the edge of her glass at having caught my interest. “Oh, no. Nothing so amateur. Call it a hunch. When a man of his caliber appears on the scene and no one can recall having seen him before, it raises a few questions, that’s all.” Her smile deepens. “I’m sure you understand what I mean, Penelope. Could you forget a face—or a body—like that one?”
Oh, dear. There’s no way around this one. “No. No, I can’t say that I’ll ever be able to forget that man.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“So what are you going to do to him?” I ask. I’m almost afraid to hear the answer, but I’d kick myself for not putting it out there.
“To him?” She releases a brittle laugh. “I doubt there’s much I could do—I don’t have so much confidence in my combat skills that I’m willing to take a man of his…physique on single-handedly. But to catch him? That’s easy.”
“Oh?” I ask.
“I’m going to do what everyone else on this boat—including Johnny—is trying to do,” she says, a cold glitter in her eyes. “Except I’m going to succeed.”
My father coughs gently. “She means the tiara, of course.”
Some of my confusion must show on my face, because Eden sighs and says to my father, “Surely no daughter of yours is this ignorant?”
I bristle. I’m not ignorant, thank you very much. I’m terrible at jogging, lacking in poker skills, and yes, not likely to beat anyone in hand-to-hand combat, but I know dozens of things she doesn’t. Including the fact that Grant Emerson is not a man she wants to cross—and that Penelope Blue isn’t a woman she wants to, either.
“Uh-oh. That hurt her feelings, didn’t it?” She crosses one leg over the other and sits back in her chair. “Darling, it’s common knowledge that Johnny Francis is on this ship for one reason and one reason only—he wants that tiara.”
“We all want that tiara,” I say. I swear, those words are becoming almost mechanical by now.
“Yes, but some of us are more likely to get it than others, aren’t we?” Her lips spread in a dangerous smile. “And whoever does end up the lucky winner will hold all the power. Just think what Johnny Francis might be willing to sell in exchange for a rock like that. I get a shiver just thinking about it. They say that man knows the secrets of every thief who’s ever walked on two feet.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so it’s just as well that my father intervenes.
“Unfortunately, I haven’t been of much use to Eden. I don’t approve of this Kit O’Kelly’s extravagant airs, obviously.” He casts me a warning that’s as firm as it is unnecessary. We share that sentiment. “But I have no reason to believe he’s Johnny Francis. Nor am I convinced the man is here in the first place.”
I stop. “You aren’t?”
“He’d be a fool to be on board a ship like this,” my father says. “I know plenty of people who would like to see him at the bottom of the ocean. He knows too much and is far too willing to sell that information. It would be best if we all just forgot about him and concentrated on the game. That is, after all, why we’re here.”
“But—” I begin.
I don’t get a chance to finish. Without a word, my dad rises and moves to the adjoining door, standing with his hand on the door until the message gets through. It’s high time little girls are in bed.
“Good night, Penelope,” he says.
“But—” I try again. I still need to warn him against letting Eden stay the night. Surely he saw that malicious, greedy glint in her eye?
“I said good night, Penelope. And be sure to lock your side of the door before you retire. You were foolish to leave it ajar last night.”
Me? I’m the foolish one? For trusting my father to have my best interests at heart?
The door closes in my face, preventing me from saying so out loud. The click of his lock being put into place carries with it a note of finality.
Do not enter. Do not pass go. Do not trust anyone.
And most of all, do not let Eden get her hands on that tiara.
16
The Top Deck
There’s a note under my front door the next morning.
I manage to get to it before Lola notices, which is a good thing, since I assume Grant has some instructions to issue that can’t wait for Oz to make his towel rounds. Finally—finally—he has something concrete for me to do.
Imagine my disappointment when I find a message scrawled in an unfamiliar hand.
Meet me in the fourth floor starboard aft supply closet at dusk. I can help you get away with the tiara without anyone noticing. Bring the girl.
There’s no signature, no indication of compensation, nothing. Just an invitation to lure my charge into a dark and unattended room where the sounds of our screams would go unheard.
“Yeah, right,” I mutter as I crush the paper in my palm. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”
I might have considered it a fluke—and an amusing one at that—if I didn’t get repeat offers throughout the day. No one else is stupid enough to assume I’ll answer an unsigned summons, but the other patrons on board the Shady Lady don’t do much to convince me their collective intelligence is very high. Two separate men accost me on the way to the cabaret lounge, offering me cuts of sixty percent and seventy-five percent, accordingly, if I’d be willing to cast all my scruples aside and join forces with them.
As they make these proposals within Lola’s hearing range and in full view of the entourage accompanying us to our destination, I don’t hesitate to let them know what I think of their not-so-subtle tactics.
Lunchtime finds me the unhappy recipient of three more offers, one of which is written on a napkin and slipped to me under the plate of the main course. That one makes me the angriest of all, as I find it incumbent to toss my lamb chop out. I don’t think anyone would resort to poisoning my food in an attempt to clear the path to Lola, but it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
“Aren’t you the belle of the ball?” Eden asks as she watches me ransack the bread basket. “Let me guess—they want to hire you to kill the girl and steal the tiara for them, don’t they?”
“Don’t start with me, Eden,” I warn. Between my low blood sugar and the fact that I’m down another two hundred thousand dollars that have made their way to her stack of chips, I’m in no mood to deal with her attitude. “It’s not funny. We’re talking about an actual human being here.”
“I would never ask you to harm her. I’m not that kind of professional.” The way she says the word professional sends a shiver down my spine. “I’m sure we could come up with a plan that’s amenable to us both. And then I promise we never have to interact again—a partnership of convenience, if you will.”
I s
wear, it’s enough to make a girl scream. I can’t help but imagine this is what it feels like to be an heiress thrust into some old English marriage mart. The offers just keep coming, each one a little more desperate and a little less appealing than the last.
Everyone wants a piece of the great Penelope Blue.
That’s my excuse, anyway, for what happens at the end of the day’s poker play. Although I’m down to about a quarter of my money by the time the final bell sounds, the other members of my family have made a pretty clean sweep of things. Both my father and Tara won, as expected, which gives them a few days of leisure while everyone else finishes. Riker’s stormy look and Two-Finger Tommy’s smug one don’t bode well for his chances of making it to the next round, but Grant appears to be a few hands away from taking his table out from under Hijack.
With a few exceptions, Team FBI is back.
“Pen, do you have a second?” Hijack asks before I have a chance to join my friends off to one side of the cabaret lounge. I look longingly at Jordan, who I notice has a pastry in her hand waiting for me.
“Not really,” I say, more curtly than I intend. “No offense, Hijack, but it’s been kind of a long day.”
“I can tell. You look like shit.”
It’s the last straw. I know I look like shit. I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep since I boarded this stupid boat, and my stomach is rumbling so hard, it feels like there’s an alien baby in there. I’m wearing leggings and yesterday’s tank top, and Eden kicked my ass at the tables so badly today, I doubt I’ll be able to recover. And to top it all off, I can see her out of the corner of my eye making a beeline for my husband’s side. Thanks to the useless one-way towel communication method he devised, I haven’t had a chance to warn him yet about her theory that he’s Johnny Francis or that she’s probably sleeping with my dad so she can slip into my room at night and kill me.
Maybe, if people would leave me alone for more than five minutes, I could work on improving my appearance. Maybe.
“Hijack, I swear to God, if you so much as mention that tiara to me, I will rip your heart out right here in the middle of the cabaret lounge and start playing Ping-Pong with it.” My vehemence gives him slight pause. “For what is the last possible time, I am not going to steal the Luxor Tiara. Not for you, and not for anyone. In fact, I’m going to do the exact opposite. I’m going to guard it—and Lola—with everything I have. If you want it so bad, you’re going to have to buckle down and win it the old-fashioned way.”
Since it appears my vehemence is also giving pause to the rest of the people in the cabaret lounge, all of whom are standing perfectly still and watching me as one might a circus freak, I add, “And that goes for all of you. You should be ashamed of yourselves, behaving like cannibals. Whatever happened to honor among thieves?”
I could probably keep going in this vein all evening—or at least until I pass out from hunger—so it’s for the best that Riker makes a beeline for my side.
“Hey there, Pen,” Riker says, laughter underscoring his voice. “Whatcha doing?”
Oh, you know. Not much. Just alienating five hundred people who’d like to see my head impaled on a wooden pike.
“They started it,” I mutter.
“Yes, they did. And I think we can safely say that you’ve ended it.” His arm slings over my shoulders. It’s a casual movement, but I can feel the strain of his muscles as he exerts pressure to keep me from flying out. “What do you say you and I get out of here for a spell?”
“I can’t,” I protest. “Lola—”
“Will be just fine with Tara and Jordan,” Riker says and taps on my shoulder to draw my attention to the two women in question. They’ve arranged themselves on either side of Lola, providing a physical barrier few would have the nerve to break. “You won’t mind if I tear her away, will you, Hijack? You’ve never seen Penelope in this kind of mood before, but it’s not easy to bring her back down again.”
“I don’t need to be brought down. I need—”
Riker’s fingernails bite into my shoulder, which is when my anger abates enough for me to take notice of Hijack’s perfectly grave expression. Gone are the smile and easy charm that have always characterized him; he’s hard and cold and, I hate to admit it, a little frightening.
I realize, too late, that I miscalculated how serious Hijack was about last night’s ultimatum. That wasn’t him cajoling and wheedling me to do his bidding. That was him reaching the limit of his tolerance.
And I, in my anger and hunger, just took one wide step over it.
“Of all the people I know, I thought I could at least count on you, Pen,” Hijack says.
Guilt is added to all the rest of the emotions swirling through me. Granted, Hijack’s out to serve himself—and has been since day one—but he never made any attempt to hide what he wanted from me. In this place of lies and double-dealing and husbands who refuse to tell you what they’re up to, honesty is a rare thing.
I open my mouth to apologize, but he’s already turned away and brushed past Lola without so much as a second glance at the tiara perched on her head. His disinterest alarms me more than all the rest.
“I should follow him,” I say, but Riker holds me firm.
“No, Pen. What you should do is get something to eat.” Such sound logic from Riker’s mouth is difficult to refute, especially when he follows it up with, “You also need to chill the fuck out. Come on. I know something you’ll enjoy.”
I stare at him. There isn’t a single thing on this boat that would bring me more happiness than leaving it behind forever.
“Just trust me, okay? You’ll like this one.”
Riker’s idea of a good time rarely coincides with my own, but as there doesn’t appear to be much else I can do, I give in.
* * *
“On my count of three. Ready?” Riker crouches a few feet away from me, his eyes meeting mine in a moment of pure mischief. He doesn’t wait for me to confirm or deny my readiness. “One. Two. Now!”
Moving together, we turn and peer through the center railing overlooking the pool area. From the jogging track, it’s a mere three levels to the bathing beauties below. Riker’s target is a pale, skinny man who keeps berating the waitress to bring him a fresh drink. Mine is Eden St. James, who’s resting languidly on a chaise lounge in a bright-red one-piece.
Our aim, unfortunately, is off. I blame the forward movement of the ship for my water balloon splashing a few inches above Eden’s head. Riker decides his misfire is the fault of the wind. Either way, the sound of broken latex and splashing water on the wooden deck below is overridden by several shouted obscenities.
Giggling, I duck out of the way, my back to the railing. “Damn. I almost had her.”
“It’d be better if we could put food coloring in them, but the kitchen didn’t have any.” He laughs. “It’s too bad. There are a lot of people who would pay good money to see Eden St. James walking around with a purple face. We could make a killing.”
“I think more people would be willing to pay to watch heavy objects fall on me,” I say. Then, before he can chime in with his own delight at such a thing, I ask, “Again?”
Riker hesitates. “Aren’t you afraid they’re going to come up here and murder us?”
“This was your idea. You tell me.”
“One more, and then we escape down the side stairwell.” He makes the decision quickly and with confidence. It’s always been his way. His decisions aren’t always smart ones, but there’s no denying he’s willing to stand by them. “Ready? Go.”
We turn and take aim again. My balloon misses Eden by an even wider margin this time, but Riker’s lands squarely on the man’s chest. The man spills his drink and sputters up at us with so much rage, we hightail it to Riker’s side stairwell. By the time we fly down one flight of stairs and make it to the deck below, we’re breathless and laughing.
He grins. “Those bystanders weren’t innocent. I’m pretty sure that guy I hit invents fake charities for a living.”
“Guilty ones then,” I amend. “Either way, it was fun. Thank you, Riker. I needed that.”
Instead of acknowledging my thanks, Riker settles himself on the boat’s deck, slipping his legs over the ledge and hooking his arms on the railing. It looks comfortable—if slightly dangerous—so I join him. The spray from the water isn’t tall enough to make it up to us, but there’s a mist in the air that peppers my skin. It feels good, looks good—is, by all accounts, good. This is the kind of vacation most people only dream of.
“So,” he says, ruining the moment. “You going to tell me what that was about down there?”
“No.” I continue staring out at sea. There’s something mesmerizing about the steady hum of the engine and the sluicing of the ocean against the hull. Mesmerizing and, I can’t help noting, great for hiding open-air conversations like these. Riker’s no fool.
But then, neither am I.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on between you and Tara?” I counter.
“No.”
“I guess that doesn’t leave us much, does it? We could talk about the weather instead. Isn’t this a nice breeze?”
Riker has never been great at taking hints. “Lola is fine, Pen. I know you’re worried about her, but you-know-who ordered each of us to make sure we have eyes on her at all times. You, me, Jordan, Oz, Tara—security detail is basically all we’re doing. She’s probably the safest person on the boat right now.”
“It’s not that,” I say, though of course I’m happy to hear that you-know-who is still capable of understanding the basic concept of danger. If only I could convince him that the concept also extends to him…
“Then is it Hijack? The dude’s a hack, Pen. He always has been.”
Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 18
