Degrees of Wrong

by Anna Scarlett

  shouldn’t—” I said, pushing away.

  His hold on me tightened, and he growled in my ear, “Even if she found out

  from me, it would still be coming from a stranger. And you really should have thought about that before you left the house in that dress, love.”

  “I didn’t wear it for you,” I lied.

  “No?” I felt him stiffen. “Who exactly is it for, then?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking. You’re engaged. Dr. Folsom and the admiral are

  engaged. I’m kind of the third wheel here. So, I figured I’d start trying to find a solution to the problem.”

  The only solution to the real problem at hand was distance. I needed to put

  distance between myself and this man. I laid my head on his chest.

  “What problem is that?” he asked, resting his chin on my hair.

  “The problem of my being single.”

  He leaned in to my ear, and his lips brushed it lightly when he whispered,

  “I’m not sure what game you’re playing now, love, but whatever it is, I assure

  you, I’m better at it.”

  I smiled and tried not to shiver too noticeably. “Oh, there’s no game play

  here, Captain. Sooner than later, I’ll have accomplished what I set out to do here.

  When that happens, you and I will part ways. You to your fiancée, and me to—

  Well, that’s the part I’m working on with this dress.”

  He pulled me from him, lifted my chin with the crook of his finger. His eyes

  arrested mine. “The only thing you’re working on tonight is getting someone

  seriously injured.”

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  I giggled, but his gaze didn’t lighten. And that’s when I sobered up. “This

  ridiculous challenge was your idea, Nicoli Marek. I didn’t agree to it, don’t approve of it and won’t participate in it. You are engaged to be married. Unless

  that changes, you have no business telling me what I can or cannot do in my

  personal life. And don’t even think about bringing up the captain-of-the-ship stuff.”

  “And if it does change?”

  “If what changes?”

  “The status of my engagement.”

  “What? Didn’t you pinky swear to marry her?” I clucked my tongue in

  disapproval.

  “I am asking you a specific question, Elyse,” he said softly. “Although, it

  really is unbreakable.”

  “Then why ask questions that start with if?” I hoped my expression—and

  my voice—didn’t leak the emotion underneath. Because if it did, he would know

  right away how I would feel if. Get it together, nitwit. He. Is. Taken.

  He pulled me to him again. Was this the longest song in the history of

  composed music, or had we breezed through several in our inappropriate

  exchange?

  “It wouldn’t be so terrible, you know,” he murmured. “It would be as if we

  were married. We just wouldn’t have the certificate.”

  “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

  “We would be completely free to do as we pleased. You could join me on the

  Bellator, like Dr. Folsom and the admiral.”

  I huffed. “She’s just biding her time, Nicoli. Until they can be married. You and I would never have that option.” And didn’t I just say I wasn’t having this

  conversation?

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  He thought for a moment, and then, “Well, we could rebuild your house on

  your island. I would build you an observation deck on the roof, and install a

  huge, technologically advanced telescope. We could spend our evenings looking

  at the stars. Well, not the entire evening,” he added huskily.

  My face burned on cue. “None of that sounds appealing.” Aside from all of

  it. “Unless your wife would cook us breakfast in bed.”

  I felt him grin into my hair. “I could certainly ask. Although my appetite

  wouldn’t be for breakfast, if you were in my bed.”

  I thought my cheeks might actually burst into flames. Still, I knew very well

  that eggs and bacon wouldn’t be the focus of my appetite, either. Food would be

  neglected to the point of molding if set next to Nicoli in a state of undress.

  “Knock it off,” I whisper-yelled. “And I wish you’d stop reading in my file.”

  Evade, evade, evade. I’d never told him—or Dr. Folsom—about my interest in astronomy.

  I felt him shrug. “What else can I do? You aren’t exactly forthcoming with

  personal information, you know.”

  “Because I don’t want to encourage your behavior. And anyway, I’ve been

  reading up on you too.”

  “Have you, love? I’m flattered.” Although the way he stiffened seemed to

  contradict that.

  “You wouldn’t be flattered if you contracted chickenpox.”

  He chuckled, relaxing again. “You’ve been reading my medical file?”

  “Chickenpox in an adult can be very serious,” I told him. “And what’s with

  all the injuries? You have more injuries than a suicide bomber.”

  He laughed loudly, the sound attracting loads of female attention. I noticed

  my admirers at the bar had left.

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  “The two broken-nose incidents were compliments of my younger brother,

  Ryon. And the broken ribs, and the concussion. The broken toe was from my

  little sister, Amisiri. She likes to stomp her feet, like you.”

  “Your little brother tore you up, huh?”

  “You should read his medical file, love.”

  I laughed. “How old are they? Your brother and sister, I mean.”

  “Ryon is your age, twenty-four. He’s Special Forces in the UN Ground

  Legion. Amisiri is twenty-one. She’s still in school. She’s more politically inclined than me and Ryon. She has aspirations to follow in my father’s footsteps one

  day.”

  “Why did you join the UOC? Someone of your intelligence has so many

  more appealing options. Why choose the military?”

  “I wanted to shoot people and blow stuff up.”

  I jerked away from him to look at his face.

  He grinned. “I didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps. Politics are not

  my specialty. That’s also why I agreed to this damned engagement, you know.

  To appease him, since I’d already joined the UOC against his wishes.”

  I tried to swallow a distaste for his father, a man I’d never met.

  “Ryon joined for the same reason,” he continued. “Although our father never

  requested that he take a wife. It’s just as well, though. My brother

  is…fickle…when it comes to women. His reputation renders him useless to my

  father’s political agenda.”

  I giggled. If Ryon was even a fraction as good-looking as his older brother, I

  was sure he enjoyed a diverting social life, indeed.

  “Although he is trying to convince us that he’s changed his ways. Says he

  met a girl on a recent mission. Says the details are classified, but that he’s sworn off all other women ever since. He says he’s going to marry her.” He shook his

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  head. “That’s someone I’d like to meet, the woman who stopped my brother in

  his sinful tracks.” He drew me closer. “Though I can certainly relate.”

  I pushed away from h
im. “No, actually, you can’t. Because he’s free to marry the object of his attention.”

  He sighed, took my hand and pulled me back to the table. The room

  suddenly felt chilly without his body pressed against mine.

  “I can see I haven’t been doing enough to persuade you,” he said. “I promise

  I’ll do better.”

  “There is no persuading me. Leave me alone, Nicoli.”

  “I wish I could.”

  He was lucky I was so comfortable in this chair. And he was lucky there was

  nothing immediately available to throw at him. Because, from where I sat in the

  huge, overstuffed recliner, I had a perfect shot at his head.

  I glanced around me again, searching for something I could throw to make

  him stop snoring. His delicious body draped unmoving over the expanse of the

  couch, his blanket pooled on the floor, leaving him exposed. I considered

  covering him up myself—gawking at him every five seconds stalled my research

  considerably.

  I gritted my teeth and forced myself to look at the screen of the admiral’s

  laptop. Why did the man insist on sleeping on the couch while I worked? I

  admitted it might have something to do with my comment about escaping the

  other day.

  I shook my head in frustration but kept my glare on the screen. I had

  received the file transmission from Ralph today, and perused the autopsy

  reports. Anton, Belle and Philippe all died from the Black Death. And Philippe’s

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  death certificate was dated approximately two weeks after those of his father and sister.

  Ralph had also contacted the French doctor’s wife, who I now knew to be

  Marie Belmonte. She confirmed my suspicions—she never contracted the virus at

  all. She did forfeit a few vials of her blood, though the details surrounding the exchange were not disclosed. I hoped for her sake she cooperated.

  The files offered something else of significance. As it turned out, their

  daughter Belle—seven years old according to her birth record—had been

  adopted. She was not directly related to the only known survivor of the Black

  Death. Philippe, however, was the biological son of Mrs. Belmonte. And he survived longer than anyone who had ever contracted the virus—an interesting

  coincidence.

  Only, I didn’t believe in coincidences.

  I couldn’t pick apart the phenomenon until we boarded the ship again and I

  could examine the actual specimens from the autopsies. For now, I’d have to

  occupy myself with the unlikely task of finding others like her.

  I burrowed deeper into the nest of blanket and searched for someone other

  than casualties. At three o’clock in the morning, I actually found one.

  His name was Marcel Eaton. A French-Canadian. He was a businessman en

  route to London to meet with a client when a single terrorist infected with the

  virus boarded the plane—one of the new three-level superjets with the passenger

  capacity of twelve hundred people.

  The lone revolutionary was only able to expose the first two decks in the

  course of the trip. Six hundred forty-two people succumbed to the illness in the

  two days after the incident, not including the people exposed at the airports. I

  sifted through hundreds of police reports from the passengers on the unexposed

  decks. Some claimed to see the man being arrested, others had family members

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  on the exposed decks, and still others reported complete ignorance of the

  situation until they’d seen it on the news days later.

  After the chaos had subsided, the police tracked down everyone on the

  passenger list and recorded their version of the tragedy. Marcel’s police report

  stood out as a gold coin among rocks. In his account, he described his position on the plane:

  The bastard sat right next to me. He kept looking around. He seemed anxious. I also noticed that he didn’t look well, he looked very ill. He was sweaty, and he kept coughing.

  He didn’t even try to cover his mouth when he coughed. Once the plane took off, he was always getting out of his chair. Now I know what he was doing, visiting the other decks and all. I almost offered that bastard a tissue. I hope he suffered.

  His statement was dated six days after the incident occurred. Marcel had sat

  next to him, had probably been the most exposed person on the plane, and had

  given a witness statement six days later. Marcel Eaton was French-Canadian. The police report indicated he held citizenship in both countries.

  Ralph wasn’t going to be happy about this.

  “Did you plan on sleeping tonight, love?”

  I glanced up to see Nicoli sitting on the edge of the couch. He leaned over,

  his elbows resting on his knees.

  “We need to call Ralph,” I said, excitement coursing through me. He stood,

  stretched and lumbered to the chair, sitting on the armrest. I tried not to breathe in his masculine scent.

  “What have you got?”

  “I’ve found another person who was exposed to the virus but didn’t contract

  it.” I showed him the news clippings and the police reports.

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  “Ralph’s going to have a coronary. I think someone’s getting fired over this

  one. Tell me what you need, and I’ll contact Ralph in the morning.”

  “It’s already morning.”

  “Yes, but we can fight about that later. Now, come to bed. That couch isn’t as

  comfortable as it looks.”

  “You’re not sleeping with me again tonight. Or this morning,” I amended.

  “Like hell I’m not. This isn’t the Bellator, love. Extra precautions need to be taken. I’m not sleeping on a completely separate floor from you. It’s out of the

  question.” He took the laptop away from me and hauled me up by my elbow.

  I hadn’t thought about it from a security standpoint. I studied his face to see

  if this was game play. He seemed a little perturbed—and a lot sleepy—so I

  guessed his motives were honest.

  I allowed him to drag me up the stairs, admitting how much faster we

  arrived than if I’d managed the stairs myself. I nestled down into the covers as he plopped on top of them.

  “You’re not cold?” I asked.

  “Are you inviting me under those covers? Please say you are.” He turned on

  his side, facing me, and propped his head on his hand, leaning on his elbow. I

  knew he was joking but was still thankful my pajamas and the heavy comforter

  masked the instantaneous goose bumps.

  I rolled my eyes. “I was asking if you needed an extra blanket.”

  “No, thank you.” He smirked. “Are you cold? I could—”

  “Good night, Nicoli.” I rolled away from him.

  He chuckled. “Good night, love.”

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  I woke up in an empty bed. The sun permeated the room with midmorning. I

  showered and dressed quickly, eager to hear Ralph’s thoughts on my findings.

  Nicoli stood at the kitchen counter, cracking open a coconut. Coconut palms

  were generously indigenous to the Maldives, and the admiral’s island in

  particular seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of them. Nicoli grinned at me

  and offered to pour me a gl
ass.

  “Please.” I smiled. “Did you talk to Ralph?”

  “Yes. And quite frankly, I can’t subject your innocent ears to his response.”

  I giggled and accepted the glass of milk from him.

  “I suppose though,” he continued on, grabbing another coconut from the

  counter, “I could relay it to you in summary. He said, ‘Thank you for your

  laborious search, and I will certainly find this Marcel and invite him over to tea so we can chat about his experience.’ He also said, ‘I will also endeavor to find the silly member of my staff who accidentally overlooked this incident and will

  have a heart-to-heart with them, over cookies and milk, about how I can make

  his or her job easier, so that this doesn’t happen again.’”

  I giggled again. “That bad, huh?”

  He grinned. “I blushed at some point during his outburst.”

  I laughed and took a sip of my milk.

  “May I ask why you are dressed?” he asked, devastating the contents of his

  glass with one swallow.

  That I didn’t grasp his meaning must have been obvious on my face. He said,

  “You need to change into your swimsuit, love. You’re learning how to swim

  today, if it kills me.”

  Oh. That. No can do. “Actually, I forgot to purchase a swimsuit yesterday. I just knew I was forgetting something.” I couldn’t quite make eye contact.

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  He’d already donned a pair of blue swimming trunks. Why couldn’t we have

  stopped in Antarctica, where I wouldn’t have been subjected to swimming

  lessons and where Nicoli might have been less inclined to walk around shirtless?

  He chuckled. “I figured you’d have a convenient lapse in memory. That’s

  why I asked Dr. Folsom to pick one up for you yesterday. She said she put it in

  your top drawer.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “You can choose to be proactive about this, you know.” He crossed his arms,

  ready for a fight. “Now run along and change, love. Meet me at the dock. We’ll

  take the pod to a nearby lagoon. The waves won’t be so rough there. I’ve already

  packed lunch.”

  He turned and walked out the door, grabbing the coolant box containing our

  lunch on his way out. I stared after him, frozen in place for a few endless

  seconds. Apparently, he felt confident in my obeisance. That, or he knew I