Arrabella
“What on earth are you two doing here?” Lillith’s steely eye pierces her, then flicks to Patrick.
“Honestly, Lillith,” she says, “I only learned long after we booked that you were coming on the Orchid. I knew, of course, that you and Angus had wait-listed, and the trip sounded so wonderful that I wait-listed myself and Patrick as well. When the invitation eventually came, I booked. I just assumed you weren’t going anymore because of . . . what happened to Angus.”
Lillith regards her a long moment, then turns to Patrick, takes his hand, gives it a squeeze.
“However it happened, it’s lovely to see you both.” Her tone belies her words. She gestures to the table. “Why don’t you join us? We haven’t ordered yet, so it’s good timing.”
The matriarch has reassumed control. She raises her hand for extra chairs. Menus appear. Everyone reorganizes around the table, and Arrabella orders a vesper martini. “Make it a double,” she murmurs to the waiter. “And bring it right away.”
Seconds later, her stiff drink arrives. She takes a long sip to blunt her nerves, and sneaks a glance at the bar. No man with a purple orchid. Yet.
Might as well have said he’d be sporting a bloody carnation.
She swallows another gulp, then realizes that Poppy is watching her keenly. Too keenly. It sharpens her anxiety. So she turns on Poppy to deflect.
“You look so lovely tonight, Poppy. I do like your dress. One can never go wrong with a navy three-quarter-sleeve shift, can one?”
Poppy crooks up her brows. “It’s nothing special.”
“Oh, I know—it’s just that I haven’t seen you in a dress.
” Before the barb can really wound, Arrabella deftly redirects in her classic thrust and parry.
“Then again, we really haven’t seen much of either of you, have we, Lillith?
When was it that I stopped officially working on your book with you? Just before Christmas?”
“When I was hired,” Poppy says.
“Of course. Yes. You moved in off the bat, right before Christmas. Then we had that big luncheon, and”—she glances at Patrick—“then we so shockingly lost Angus on New Year’s Day.” Arrabella underscores the we, purposefully carving Poppy out. “How are you holding up, Lillith?”
“We—Poppy and I—are here in Angus’s spirit and memory, my dear. He wanted this trip, so Poppy and I are holding that front of mind.”
Patrick’s hand presses on her thigh under the table. Not in affection. It’s a warning. One she doesn’t heed.
“So what do you think of the Black Orchid so far, Poppy?” she asks, pivoting away from Angus—clearly a sensitive topic for Lillith—and flicks another glance at the bar.
Still no man with an orchid. What if he’s not on the boat at all? Just messing with me?
“It’s lovely.” Poppy delivers her words in a flat tone. Her eyes remain inscrutable behind her round spectacles. Then a sudden reckless flicker darts through her gaze, and she blurts, “It’s definitely one of the nicer luxury liners I’ve been on.”
It’s a lie. Arrabella is certain. Poppy is cheap.
Off-the-rack clothes. Zero class. No money.
Why Lillith hired the woman remains a complete mystery to Arrabella.
Yet the plain, odd creature clearly has a degree of hold over Lillith.
Arrabella intends to find out why before the end of this voyage.
It’s why she hired the Israeli—to dig into Poppy’s background.
He’s ex-Mossad, dark ops, comes with a rep of working deep in shadows, unafraid of crossing legal lines.
But he was not supposed to come near the Orchid. As far as she knew, he was still in London. If Patrick finds out she hired a black ops PI to investigate Lillith’s assistant, he’ll go apoplectic. He’ll dump her. She has not one doubt about that.
“Several,” Poppy says.
Her attention jolts back to Poppy. “Several what?”
“Several luxury cruises.”
“Oh, really? Which ones?”
“Various.”
“When?” Arrabella presses. “Which lines?”
Patrick inhales sharply, his posture tightening. Lillith remains impassive, simply observing the repartee. Which is unusual. Warnings whisper more loudly through Arrabella. Warnings she still doesn’t heed.
“I traveled with previous clients of mine.” Poppy shrugs. “Some liked cruising. So.”
“All older clients?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m guessing they were all seniors.” Arrabella realizes her martini is nearly gone.
“Well, yes. It’s what I do. I take care of elderly people.”
“And then move on.”
Poppy’s face remains expressionless. But her body has gone very still. She says nothing more.
Arrabella drains the last drop. She’s about to ask for another when the server comes to take their food order.
While Lillith asks for the lamb with fresh rosemary, and some wine for the table, Arrabella sneaks another glance of the bar. It’s busier now. But still no man with an orchid.
The server turns to her.
“The stuffed eggplant, please. And I have a severe shellfish allergy. Please make sure the chef knows.”
“Of course. I’ll tell the chef.” The server turns to Poppy.
She says, sweetly, “Well, I was going to go for the lamb, but . . . actually, I think I’ll take the grilled prawns. Extra garlic butter. A side of calamari. And tzatziki.”
Arrabella’s mouth opens. She looks at Patrick.
But he seems oblivious to what the PA bitch has just done.
Plus Arrabella detests the scent of garlic.
She mentioned this over Christmas lunch, and she knows Poppy heard.
And the shellfish? Poppy is seated right next to her.
Too close for comfort. Fear prickles over her skin.
If Poppy did have anything to do with Angus’s death, what might she try now?
Arrabella resolves to switch seats with Patrick when the food arrives. She wants a buffer between herself and Poppy with the prawns.
“And another martini for me,” she tells the server quietly as he gathers up the menus.
“Of course.”
As the waiter departs, Arrabella zeroes back in on Poppy. “You were telling us about your favorite luxury cruise trip?”
“Correct. I think it had to be the one around the Cape of Good Hope. We stopped at ports of call including Namibia and Mozambique.”
Arrabella raises a brow. “Africa?”
“Yes.”
Patrick is interested now. “That sounds marvelous. Which line does that route?”
Poppy hesitates, but barely. “Silversea. But several of the higher-end outfits offer similar stops. Seabourn. Ponant.”
Patrick’s attention deepens. He leans forward over the table as the band gets louder. “Africa is high on my travel wish list.”
“You never told me,” Arrabella says.
He doesn’t seem to hear. “I’ve only ever visited Tanzania—the Serengeti—on a safari.”
“I adore Tanzania,” Poppy says, brightening to Patrick’s interest. Arrabella frowns. She’s convinced Poppy is all lies. And fueled by Patrick’s attention, she’s just leaning further into her fabrications.
Poppy says, “But Lillith of course has the most African experience. Given her combat work in Sudan, Chad. Rwanda. Libya. Ivory Coast, Burundi, the Congo.”
“Not exactly tourist locales,” Lillith murmurs.
Poppy warms further and reaches for her drink. “I’ve visited the Democratic Republic of the Congo. My parents worked there when I was young. My father was a doctor. A specialist in tropical diseases. My mother was a nurse. They did volunteer work.”
“Are they still alive?” Patrick asks.
Suddenly she hesitates.
“I—they passed when I was young.”
“How young?” Lillith asks.
“Fourteen.”
Patrick exhales. “That’s a really rough age to lose family.
” He knows. He was the same age when he had to leave the castle because Angus was having an affair with a young Italian contessa who became wife number two, before he started the years-long affair with Lillith, who ended up wife number three—the final wife.
“What happened?” Patrick asks.
“They were in a small plane that went down over remote jungle in Liberia.”
Arrabella notices Lillith studying Poppy with uncharacteristic softness.
“I’m so sorry, Poppy,” Lillith says, her tone kind, gentle.
Arrabella curses inwardly. She’s losing ground. It’s all backfiring. Poppy is clearly a talented and manipulative long-con artist. Her increasing grip over Lillith, and now Patrick, is both frightening and mesmerizing to watch.
Arrabella has noticed how much more fragile Lillith suddenly appears. And there are new tremors and tics. Poppy could be poisoning her right here on this ship.
She flicks her gaze to Patrick. And freezes. Because behind Patrick, at the bar—is her man. Rose-pink blazer, purple orchid in the lapel.
Arrabella swallows.
He’s built like a powerlifter. Not just a broad wingspan, but tall—overall big. He sports tinted aviator shades despite the hour, and he’s looking across the crowd, right at her.
Fear flutters into Arrabella’s belly. Her heart begins to gallop. She returns her attention to the table and finds Poppy is observing her closely again—she saw Arrabella’s reaction to the man at the bar. But instead of looking smug, Poppy also seems worried.
Arrabella is rescued by the arrival of food and bottles of wine. She pushes her chair back and reaches for her clutch purse.
“A quick trip to the loo,” she says, then bends over and whispers to Patrick, “Can you swap seats with me before I get back? I don’t want to sit on top of the prawns.”
“Sure,” Patrick says, but his tone is still cool toward her.
Arrabella heads to the ladies’. She needs to freshen up and mentally regroup, and determine how best to do this without raising Patrick’s suspicion.