21

The Bait

I ask Riker, Jordan, and Lola to meet me poolside to put the final touches on my plan. Jordan’s part is relatively easy—and right up her alley. I need her to set a few things on fire.

“Do you mean it, Pen?” she cries, her face lighting up as though I just told her she won the lottery. Her exclamation isn’t discreet, but then again, none of us are. Not only am I wearing the requisite tiara on my head, showing myself to all and sundry in accordance with Peter’s directive, but I’m also wearing the white bikini.

The suit isn’t technically a bikini—the top and bottom portions are attached by a metal ring in the center of my stomach—but there are maybe five inches of fabric on my body right now. They’re five very strategically located inches of fabric, but I don’t dare make any sudden movements. Some of these body parts have never seen the sun before.

“Yes, Jordan,” I say with an imploring look. “I was just wondering if you still have that recipe for chocolate chip cookies.”

“Oh, I never use recipes for cookies,” she says. She pulls her sunglasses down her nose and casts me a speaking glance. “You know I like to throw a pinch of something in here, a dash of something there. It’s all about adapting to the ingredients you have on hand. But don’t worry—you’ll get the results you want.”

Jordan is seated on the lounge next to mine, soaking up the evening sun in a skimpy yellow one-piece. Once again, it’s a much more daring outfit than I’m used to seeing her wear—I can’t decide if it’s the vacation setting or something else that’s causing her to give up her usual sweater-set levels of modesty, but it’s a jarring experience either way.

“Just make sure the cookies don’t burn,” I warn. “I mostly want them for the smell. There’s nothing like freshly baked cookies to bring people running.”

“You got it.” A look of rapt contemplation smooths the lines of her face. “Cookies. Lots and lots of cookies. I haven’t whipped up a good batch of those in forever.”

Content that Jordan now has more than enough information to keep her busy—that woman and her love of cookies is the stuff of a firefighter’s nightmare—I turn my attention to Riker and Lola instead. Although I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s being solicitous of the poor girl, he has kept his sarcastic remarks limited to one every ten minutes or so. It positively warms the heart.

“I like cookies, too,” Lola says with a happy sigh. “Especially oatmeal raisin.”

Despite Peter’s heavy hand with the medications, she looks none the worse for her imposed rest. In fact, the longer she goes without the weight of the tiara on her head, the more relaxed she looks. I assume that the exact opposite is happening with me, especially given how little sleep I’ve gotten as of late. By the time this thing is over, I’ll be a haggard old crone.

I don’t care, so long as I’m not a widowed haggard old crone.

“Believe me, you don’t like this kind,” Riker mutters from the lounge on my other side. “When Jordan starts cooking, it’s time to get out of the kitchen.”

I smack him, my hand striking his bare chest. The sight of all that glorious nakedness almost caused Lola to suffer another asthma attack when we first arrived, but she managed to get control of herself by thanking him for his help in taking her to the infirmary. Nothing turns that man unpleasant faster than heartfelt thanks.

“Are you sure you don’t mind wearing the tiara, Penelope?” Lola asks for what must be the fifteenth time in as many minutes. “I feel so silly causing all this panic and trouble for nothing. If there’s anything I can do…”

I don’t bother explaining to her that being attacked and almost killed isn’t a thing she should have to apologize for. For one, I’ve tried already, and she keeps telling me she’s sorry anyway. For another, I need to leverage her guilt for one teensy favor.

“It’s no trouble,” I say and smile at her. “In fact, I’m enjoying the attention. If I squint my eyes and tilt my head like this, I can pretend it’s my cleavage they’re admiring.”

Lola giggles obligingly, so I continue while I have her in a conciliatory mood.

“Although I do wonder if there isn’t something you can do for me…” I begin.

Riker and Jordan come to attention at once, but Lola isn’t so well versed in my machinations to suspect anything untoward.

“Anything,” she breathes. “Say the word, and I’ll do it. You’ve been so kind to me, so understanding, so—”

“You haven’t heard what I want from you yet,” I say wryly, “or you wouldn’t be so quick the use the k word. I was, um, sort of hoping you could take Riker back to our room and give him a few pointers.”

“Pointers?” she echoes.

“If you don’t mind,” I say. “See, the thing is, I really want him to be at the final table. So far, we have my dad, Tara, me, Kit O’Kelly—”

Jordan picks up on that last name in a heartbeat. “Kit hasn’t won yet, has he? Last I heard, he and Hijack are pretty close.”

“Yeah, well.” I try not to squirm in my seat. I forgot that not all the details of my plan have been aired yet. “I think Hijack might be further down than you think.” Not to mention, he has explicit instructions to throw the game tomorrow. I didn’t tell him why, of course, but I need Grant to be at that final game. It’s the one way I can be sure he’ll stay where I want him.

“Anyway, I thought Riker could use your help—”

“Like hell I do.” By the time Riker finds his voice, he’s sitting up and scowling at me. “You want me to take poker-playing advice from a teenage girl? That’s where we are now, Pen? Really?”

I can’t help but laugh at how affronted he looks. You’d think I just asked him to undergo a head transplant.

“Not advice, exactly,” I say and send Lola an imploring look. “Remember that thing we talked about the other morning in my room? About how amazing you are at cards?”

Her eyes widen and she nods, her skin flushed. I assume the color is there because of the prospect of spending some quality one-on-one time with Riker rather than embarrassment at being able to count cards.

“The thing is, I feel like he could really benefit from some of your knowledge,” I say. “I mean, considering who he’s up against and all. It’s only fair that the playing field is even.”

Lola catches my meaning almost immediately. “I told you Two-Finger is more like a snake than a man.”

“Exactly. So if you could find a way to help Riker out a little, step up his game… He could win, if he had you to help him.”

Riker glares at me anew. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

Yes, he does, and for so many more reasons than he’s aware of. For now, however, the most important one is getting him a seat at that final game—and Lola is the ticket to make it happen. “All I need you to do is listen to her, okay?” I ask. “You might be surprised what kinds of tricks she knows.”

His glowering face indicates that he’s not happy about this turn of events, but he gets to his feet with a sigh. He also extends a hand to hoist Lola out of her seat. He jerks way too hard and could have easily sent her flying, but she clings to him with a tenacity that would make her father proud.

Aw. The poor girl is plenty strong. She just needs something worth holding onto.

“Oh, and don’t be surprised if Tara and my dad are next door,” I say as a parting shot. “They’ve been spending a lot of time together recently, but I guess that won’t come as much of a surprise to you, will it?”

If Riker’s sharp intake of breath is any indication, he’s none too pleased to discover that I know the truth. Too bad. I’m glad it’s out there now. I don’t know if he had real feelings for Tara or what, but at least now he knows I’m here in case he needs to talk.

Not that I think he will, of course. Riker talking about his feelings is like Grant behaving with circumspection. Some people never change.

As if aware that I’m lamenting the day I met him, the day I married him, the day I agreed to come on this godforsaken mission, my husband appears on the other side of the pool. Jordan takes one look at him and decides she’d like to follow Riker and Lola to the relative safety of a room five floors down.

Before she abandons me, Jordan leans down and kisses my forehead with a laugh. “If he kills you, Pen, please know that I’ve enjoyed every minute of being your friend.”

* * *

I don’t rise to meet my foe.

Not because I’m scared or anything, but because I’m afraid that getting up will cause gravitational shifts inside my tiny swimsuit. Grant is angry enough at me without an accidental nip slip. I’m not taking any chances over here.

Instead, I tip my head back and feign sleep. It’s not a very long sleep, however. I sense a shadow falling within seconds.

I open one eye. As Grant is standing directly between me and the sun, he appears as a dark, looming, ominous form.

“Excuse me,” I say as sweetly as I can, but it’s difficult with so much looming, ominous darkness nearby. “You’re blocking my light.”

“I’m surprised you need any. With that rock on your head, you’re practically making your own.”

My other eye pops open. “That’s weird. You don’t sound angry.”

“Angry? What makes you think I’d be angry?”

With each repetition of the word, some of his casual facade slips.

“Call it a hunch,” I say and indicate the seat recently vacated by Riker. “Care to join me?”

I doubt he cares to do anything except hoist me over his shoulder and return me to the engine room, but since he can’t do that without giving himself away, he’s forced to lower himself to the seat instead. Like me, he’s dressed for poolside activity, a pair of way-too-tight swim trunks doing distracting things to his lower half.

His upper half is also plenty distracting. It’s weird, but you’d think that the angry pink scars he carries on his front and back would render him less attractive than before, mar an otherwise perfect physical specimen. They don’t. There’s something about the juxtaposition of fragility and strength, the reminder that he’s a man who bleeds hot and fights hard, that makes him appear infinitely appealing.

Grant is the best, strongest, and most virile man I know. But he’s just a man.

I’m not the only one to have noticed his manifold virtues. Even if I do squint and tilt my head, there’s no pretending anyone is looking at me anymore.

“I’m happy to see you don’t hold any grudges from before,” he says.

“What? You mean that silly little episode in the engine room?” I laugh and hold out my hands, where my various injuries are fading to distant memories. “Unlike some people I know, I heal quickly. I think it’s because I take such good care of myself.”

The fact that he doesn’t answer right away shows that I’ve needled him. Usually, there’s no one faster with a witty rejoinder.

“Ah, but even the great Penelope Blue won’t be able to survive a knife wound to her back.” When I don’t say anything, he points at the tiara. “I assume that’s how you’ll go. Pity. Just when things were starting to get interesting between us.”

“Better me than an eighteen-year-old who’s unable to fight back,” I reply lightly.

“No.”

I pause, waiting for him to expand on that harsh, guttural syllable, but nothing more crosses his lips. I want to let it sit there, let him stew in it for a while, but I can’t. I’ve always been way too curious for my own good.

“What do you mean, no?”

Now it’s his turn to tilt his head back and feign relaxation with the close of his eyes. He doesn’t even bother answering me first.

“What do you mean, no?” I repeat.

When he still doesn’t answer, I decide to let gravity have its way. Rising to my feet, I do my best impersonation of a woman scorned—not a difficult feat considering how callously my husband is treating me right now. Doesn’t he realize I’m the one with the right to be angry? He’s the one who hid the truth despite our promise to work as a team, who put himself at risk when he knows he’s the most important thing in my life.

He’s the one who could die out here.

“What. Do. You. Mean?” I ask one last time.

I must finally sound angry enough, because his eyes flip open. They’re hard at first, dark and cold, but they melt to something much more dangerous when he sees me in the full glory of my bikini. I can’t help but preen a little, giving my ass a shake.

Grant’s sharp intake of breath convinces me that despite my sleep-deprived state, I’m not without my charms.

“I mean,” he says between his teeth, “that it is not better for you to be wearing that tiara. In fact, it’s the worst possible outcome. Lola might not have been able to fight back, but at least she had the protection of her father. I told you I had everything under control. I told you to leave things well enough alone.”

Yes, well. He also told me that next to Simon, I’m the one person he trusts enough to take care of him out here. Maybe it was all a lie, a way for him to woo me into agreeing to this plan in the first place, but this is one time I’m taking him at his word.

Grant Emerson is my friend, my husband, my partner. He brought me along because he needed a support team he could trust. And I’m going to extract him from this boat if I have to render him unconscious and drag his unwilling body by the feet.

“I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but I’m in charge now,” I say. “Whoever wears the crown calls the shots.”

“This is not a monarchy. That’s not how these things work.”

On the contrary, a monarchy is exactly what this ship is. As long as Peter Sanchez is in charge, he’s the one everyone looks to for guidance. He decides who plays poker and who’s confined to the sidelines. He decides who lives and who dies.

Too bad he didn’t count on the great Penelope Blue. Okay, so maybe most of the stories of my infamy are exaggerated. I’ve never stolen a truck of gold, and I didn’t take a ten-million-dollar stamp collection, but the one thing I’ve been successful at since the day I took to a life of crime is looking after my own.

Peter Sanchez’s reign is over. The mutiny starts now.

“Would you like to detain me again?” I ask, loud enough for people to overhear.

“I’d like to do a lot of things to you, but detainment isn’t one of them.”

“I’ll bet you would.” I give my ass another shake. This time, his sharp intake of breath is accompanied by a look of anger so intense, I worry I might have miscalculated.

But then he rises out of the chaise lounge, whether to grab me or to stalk away, I’ll never know. All I can say for sure is that he almost doesn’t make it. The sudden flex of his abdomen, the stress of chasing down the tiara thief, the fact that he’s had to pretend for almost a full week now that there’s nothing wrong with his poor, battered body—it’s all too much. He stops and grunts, bent over double as pain finally gets the better of him.

I release a soft cry and jump to his aid, but he growls and flings out a hand, holding me at bay.

“I’m fine,” he says and forces his body back to a standing position.

He doesn’t look fine, a sheen of sweat covering his face and torso, his lips clenched so tight, they’ve lost all color. Still, I fight the impulse to run to his side and hold him up like a human crutch. To do so would not just give our relationship away but would also highlight his weakness to a crowd that feeds on it.

Oh, man. He has to get out of here—the sooner the better.

“It’s okay,” I say in a low voice. “I’ve got a plan.” My words are meant to soothe him, to reassure him, but he just directs a grimace at me.

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” he says and walks away.

No, he hobbles away, each step slow and deliberate, the walk of a man on his way to the guillotine.

That walk is everything I need to convince me I’m doing the right thing. He may not like it, and he may not be able to ever forgive me, but I’m pulling rank on the FBI. The great Penelope Blue is setting her foot down on this one.