Arrabella
“Roshaan, have you seen Patrick?”
Roshaan looks confused.
“My fiancé—Patrick McGregor. We’re in the Calliope suite.”
“Of course. My apologies. I was distracted. Yes, he disembarked earlier this morning. He asked about transport options to Chania.”
Her heart kicks. “Thank you.” She rushes for the exit and races along the gangway, sun hat and bag in hand. On the dock she sees no sign of Patrick. She stands in the hot sun, tourists milling around her, struggling to figure out what to do next. If she were Patrick, where would she go in Chania?
His bags are still in their room. So he could be planning to come back. But once he sinks into a morose frame of mind and starts drinking, it can take him several days to snap out of it—he’d be looking for more alcohol.
She grabs a cab to the old town of Chania, asks the driver for a list of drinking establishments, and when he drops her off, she begins wandering the meandering cobblestoned streets, stopping at tavernas and bars in search of him.
She finally finds him in a dimly lit pub with cool stone walls from ancient Venetian times.
She stills in the doorway at the sight of him hunched over the counter. Relief washes through her. She sucks in a deep breath, and approaches.
“Patrick?” she says gently as she reaches him.
He glances up. He looks terrible. Gaunt, gray, sweaty. He wears the same clothes as yesterday and reeks of ethanol oozing from his pores.
She sets her black sun hat on the bar and takes a seat on the stool beside him. “Are you okay?” She eyes his drink—it’s raki, a very strong grape spirit. She can smell the anise.
“Well, don’t you look all fresh and sexy,” he slurs, tilting his chin toward her white shorts and red halter top. It’s an outfit he adored in Italy. Now he grimaces at the sight of her in it. Hurt darts through her.
“Patrick, can we talk?”
He drains his glass, tosses euros on the counter, rises from his stool, and walks to the door.
“Patrick!”
He exits the arched doorway and vanishes into the blinding Crete sunlight.
She hurries out after him. But he’s gone. She puts on her big black sunglasses and scans up and down the alley. The old city is entirely for pedestrians—no vehicles apart from early-morning delivery trucks. And the streets are mazelike in places, and so many stairs.
She thinks she saw him turn right as he exited the pub, so she heads in that direction, moving up a steep cobbled alley and climbing countless uneven steps. Near the top, where a road bisects the old town, and where taxis wait, she finally catches up with him.
“Patrick, for God’s sakes,” she says breathlessly. “Can we please just talk?”
He spins to face her, eyes full with rage. His skin gleams with sweat. Moisture forms big damp circles under his arms.
“What’s going on?” she asks softly.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
She blinks at his profanity, at the venom in his tone.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing behind my back? You’re a slut, Arra.”
Her jaw drops.
He pivots away and climbs higher. She grabs his arm.
He jerks free. “Do not—do not fucking touch me again.”
Shock ripples through her veins. “Patrick, please—just listen. It’s Poppy. She—”
“Oh, for Chrissakes.” He storms up several more stairs.
Desperation erupts in her. “Patrick!” she yells after him. “She murdered someone.”
He stills. Turns.
Arrabella hurries up the few stairs, lowers her voice. “She killed her husband, Patrick. Poisoned him. Stopped his heart.”
“What?”
“I told you she’s dangerous.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Poppy is not her real name—well, she legally changed it, but only after the trial. She was Helen Doyle when she was arrested fifteen years ago, and charged for poisoning her husband, Peter ‘Paz’ Doyle. Here—” She digs into her tote, hands trembling, pulls out printouts.
“I had these printed at the ship’s business center.
Online proof that Poppy used to be Helen. ”
He doesn’t take the articles. He just stares at her.
She lowers her hand with the papers. He’s too drunk. Not processing properly.
“Patrick,” she says carefully, gently, pointedly using his name, “this is evidence that Lillith is in jeopardy. Poppy Buchanan isn’t who she says—”
“Who is he, Arra?”
“What?”
“His name—the man you’re fucking behind my back? The man you dragged on this trip to make a fool of me. So that you could screw him under my nose while you make me grovel for my inheritance? The one with the pink jacket and the orchid in his lapel—the one you were texting. Who in the fuck is he?”
Arrabella’s heart stalls in shock.
“Patrick, that’s not—you’ve got it all wrong. He’s not—”
“Oh, don’t think I didn’t know, Arra. And about your ex, too. The nightclubs. The late nights in London. The so-called ‘business trips’ to Málaga, to the French Riviera, Barcelona, Lisbon.”
Her heart kicks into overdrive. She can barely breathe. She thought Patrick was oblivious to the fact she was still seeing Hugh. She thought they’d been careful enough. Panic circles as she scrambles mentally for an explanation, a way out.
“I ignored the rumors you were still seeing him, Arra. I ignored the receipts I found. But you know what’s worse?
I loved you enough to pretend. I loved you so bloody much I compartmentalized it—all of it.
I fooled my own fucking self that it wasn’t happening.
But an illusion only goes so far, right?
Magic only works for those who come willing to believe in it.
When that will fades, the magic crumbles to dust.”
“Stop. Please. You need to listen.” She reaches for his hand.
He flings her off.
“I’m done. This stunt—luring me onto the ship, parading me in front of my stepmother—it’s too low, even for you.
” Anguish distorts his face. “And you bring your piece of meat on the side—I saw the texts, We need to meet. Got something big and juicy . . . I’m on the ship.
You lied to my face about it being Mary from work.
I saw him waiting for you at the bar. I know he’s the reason you never returned to the dinner table last night.
Poppy also saw you—together at the elevators. ”
A chill trickles down her spine. “It’s not what you think. I can exp—”
“Stop!” He holds up both hands. “I’m done, Arrabella. Stay the fuck away from me.”
“That man you saw at the bar is not my lover. He—he’s just someone I asked for help.” It’s her last card. She wanted to keep it from him, but now she has to play it. This is her Hail Mary gamble to salvage it all.
“He’s a private investigator. I hired him to dig into Poppy’s background because I didn’t trust her. That’s how I learned she’s a murderer. He got us proof.”
“You hired someone?”
“Poppy is a con artist, Patrick. She’s targeting Lillith with a long game.
I believe she’s done this before with her other clients.
I think she recognized Lillith in Brighton, and she took the gap.
She maneuvered herself into my position.
She took my job. She’s been cutting us all out of Lillith’s life, Patrick,” she says softly.
“And I swear, it’s not just about the money. ”
“Isn’t it?”
At least he’s asking questions.
“I swear. This is about Lillith being in grave danger. Because what if Poppy did have something to do with Angus’s death? He died almost the same way her husband did. For all we know it was Poppy who persuaded Angus to cut you from his will before she killed him.”
He barks a laugh. “Right. Sure. I don’t think you’ve grasped, Arrabella, that I do not want a penny of that inheritance. And I won’t fight it in court, either.”
“Do you want to tell me why—so I can understand? Because it is rightfully yours. You’re his only true son, his only biological child.”
He watches her intently, like a thin, pale snake looking for the best place to strike.
“That’s just it, Arrabella,” he says quietly. “I’m not his son.”
She blinks. Her world tilts.
“I—I don’t understand. You’re—”
“I’m not his biological son. Remember his second wife?
The one with the twins, the contessa who Angus was seeing while still married to my mother?
That woman had suspicions about me. She was invested in securing Angus’s fortune for her own offspring.
She found one of my baby teeth that Angus had kept.
Sent it in for DNA.” Emotion fills his face.
“Results came back—Angus was not my father. She told him, used it like a weapon. He sat on it, never said a word to me or anyone. Not even my mom. But he knew. For years. And when that deal fell through, it was the last straw.”
“The fight over Christmas?”
Not worthy of my blood. Or my legacy . . .
“Yeah. He was livid about the deal. I followed him into his office. That’s when he dropped the bombshell. I was not his blood.”
It all suddenly makes sense. Patrick’s subsequent emotional retreat, curling into himself.
“Lillith knows,” Patrick says. “Angus told her that Christmas Day.”
She swallows, suddenly dizzy under the blazing heat and the weight of this revelation.
“So prove it, Arra—prove you’re not after the legacy. Stay with me despite knowing you’ll get none of it, not one penny from the Angus McGregor empire. Because I am not a McGregor. Lillith owes me nothing.”
He holds his hands out to his sides. “I’m just the simple son of some Danish electrician named Hans Skov. No wonder I never looked like Angus.”
He turns away.
“You’re lying!” she shouts. “I refuse to believe it!”
He keeps climbing the stairs up to the taxi rank.
She lunges after him, grabs his arm. He shakes her off so hard she slams back against the stone wall. The impact knocks the air from her lungs and sends her hat cartwheeling down the stairs. She doubles over, struggling to gasp for air, eyes streaming, black dots swimming in her vision.
When she finally manages to look up—Patrick is gone.