15

The Conversation

I wait until Lola drifts off into an effortless, exhausted sleep after the party before tiptoeing to my father’s door.

Pressing my ear against the surface, I strain to hear any signs of consenting adult passions. There aren’t any of those purring sounds from last night, and all heavy breathing and laughter seems to be at a minimum, so I decide to go for it.

Knock-knock.

No one answers. I’m not too surprised—it might be bedtime for emotionally drained eighteen-year-olds and their weary twenty-six-year-old keepers, but my father tends to keep later hours.

“Hello?” I call, trying again. “Anybody home?”

Once again, I get nothing but silence. Damn. I was hoping to get a chance to talk to my father—ask him to increase his own security and keep his nighttime visitors to a minimum—but it looks like I’m going to have to prop open the door again and hope for the best. With a sigh, I reach for the handle and twist.

Or attempt to twist, anyway. It’s locked from his side.

“Oh, come on,” I mutter and try the handle again. “Are you kidding me? He’s locking his own daughter out now?”

I hate to draw parallels between Lola’s father and my own, but there does seem to be a certain callousness in putting up these kinds of barriers when there’s so much at stake. I mean, I know my father doesn’t love that I came on this trip, and he dislikes even more that I brought Grant along, but he could be a little more concerned for my welfare.

With a perfunctory glance back at Lola, who’s fallen into the deep sleep of the contented, I slip the master key from out of my bra. I haven’t tested it yet, but from the way it slips in to the lock and easily turns, it’s clearly the real deal.

“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

To my surprise and suddenly leaping pulse, my father waits on the other side of the door. His glasses are pulled down to the end of his nose, and he’s staring at me over the top of them, his dad-face impossible to ignore.

“Geez, Dad, you scared the crap out of me.” I hold my hand to my chest, cleverly concealing the key in my palm. “Why didn’t you answer when I knocked?”

He shifts his body so it covers most of the doorway. “That’s what a man does when he doesn’t want company,” he says in his maddeningly controlled way. “Or is that not something you’ve learned in your lifetime?”

The harshness of his tone causes me to flush. I’d like to pretend that had my father been the one to demand I wear the tiara, I’d have stood up against his tyranny, but I wonder if I’d have ended up as meekly compliant as Lola. Dads are a hard breed to thwart. For most people, that’s a good thing, since fathers are supposed to protect their young. For people like us, it’s not so easy to tell.

“Sorry,” I mutter, unable to look him in the eye. “I just wanted to ask you—”

A sleek female head appears by my father’s side, perfectly on level with his own. I stop, sure I must be seeing things, but when a few seconds pass and that sleek head is still there, I know I’m done for.

Eden St. James.

“Why, Warren, I thought you told me the doors between your rooms were locked.” Eden smiles down at me. “Isn’t this a convenient mistake?”

I can only think of one reason why Eden would be in my father’s room, and it’s not a good one. My heart sinks. So much for counting on my dad to keep me safe. He’s let the lion into the den. Literally.

“They do lock,” I say, my eyes narrowed in a glare. It looks like I’m going to have to protect myself around here. “And they’re the same strength as the main doors, so don’t even think about trying to pick them. As soon as I slam the door in your face, that’s the last you’ll see of me until morning.”

She’s not, as I hope, intimated by that show of bluster. With a tilt of her head, she asks, “Is that so? Then how did you get in here?”

Too late, I realize I’ve given myself away. With my hand still pressed to my chest—and the key with it—I attempt to back into my room. But my father, whether through sheer perversity or a desire to teach me a lesson, throws the door open wider.

“You might as well come in, Penelope,” he says and sighs. “I trust the girl is asleep?”

I cast a nervous glance back at her. “Ye-es. But I promised she wouldn’t be alone.”

“We’ll keep the doors propped open. She’s fine.”

I don’t want to. I don’t like it. Even though I did my thorough sweep of the room and there are no fewer than five scary-looking strangers camped out in the hallway determined to keep an eye on things, leaving her unguarded seems like asking for trouble.

“I don’t have all night.”

“I guess it won’t hurt,” I say. At this point, retreat is probably worse. “But I really am tired, so only for a few minutes.”

“How did you get through the door just now?” Eden asks, unwilling to let the subject drop. “I watched your father lock it with my own eyes.”

Oh, dear. I cast a mute, pleading look at my father for help, but he’s just as interested in the answer.

“I, um…” I can’t think of anything even remotely believable, unfortunately. “It’s a trick I have.”

“You have a trick for getting through Peter Sanchez’s impenetrable doors?” Eden asks.

Her disbelief only serves to fuel my confidence. For all this woman is aware, I know dozens of tricks. It’s just that poker playing doesn’t happen to be one of them.

“Of course. You think one tiny lock is going to stop me?” I toss my hair. “There isn’t a door in this place I can’t find my way through.”

I push past her into my father’s room, which is an exact mirror image of my own. As my back is to them, I slip the key into my bra and let my hand drop. I can’t be sure Eden didn’t see me, but it’s the best I can do given the circumstances.

Both Eden and my father are fully clothed, and the only signs of dissipation—or, to be honest, habitation—are a pair of wine glasses on the coffee table. It’s hardly the stuff of scandalous sexual interludes. Still, it would be nice to hear from their own lips what kind of excuse they can come up with for their traitorous relationship, so I don’t back down.

“Well,” I say brightly as I turn to face them. “What are you two up to in here?”

“Nothing much.” Eden seats herself on one of the beige chairs. “I was simply asking your father what he knows about Kit O’Kelly.”

My mouth goes dry. “Kit O’Kelly?”

“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.