Poppy
Twenty-Eight Minutes To Impact
Intermission is underway. The lights are slightly brighter, and conversation in the lounge is animated yet tense as guests huddle in groups beneath swaying chandeliers, glasses in hand.
She weaves her way toward him, bracing herself on chairs as the ship rocks. She sits, stumbling slightly as another tilt pitches her forward.
“Feeling a bit better?” he asks.
She nods. “Sorry about that. This storm is messing with my stomach and nerves. Never mind that vile mind reader.”
He swallows the rest of his drink and signals a waiter. He orders another round of boulevardiers. His expression is curiously flat, unreadable.
“You know,” he says quietly once the server departs, “he’s actually very good at what he does.”
“Sorin?”
He nods. “He had a go at poor Lilli and Hendrick—calling her a duplicitous enchantress, and him a sly trickster.”
She swallows, glances around the room. “Where are they now?” She notices Lillith’s diamanté purse is gone.
“Went out for some air.”
“Is Lillith okay?”
He shrugs. The waiter arrives, wobbling slightly as the floor tilts. He sets down their drinks.
Patrick reaches for his glass. “It’s not so much what he says,” he murmurs.
“It’s that his words land against each individual’s private, internal narrative.
The guests—his victims—do the work for him.
They come with an expectation he will find a secret, so their own guilt or shame is already topmost of mind. ”
Poppy stares at the moving liquid in her glass. It catches candlelight. Above, the crystals in the chandeliers quiver and tinkle like tiny bells.
“I don’t know, Patrick. What he said to me felt . . . just nasty.”
He snorts. “You challenged him. A man like that—he hates being challenged. He had to make a show of putting you in your place, to scare the rest of the audience. He wanted to make them tremble in fear that he might turn on them next.”
“I suppose I am always the foil people pick on. I must have loser written all over me.” She hesitates, then looks up into his blue eyes. “Bullies have always sensed something in me. Ever since I was little.”
He holds her gaze. Something in his features softens.
“Poppy,” he says quietly, “all they sense is vulnerability. Bullies, con artists, insecure arses—they zero in on that.” He covers her hand with his, gives a small, sincere smile.
“Sorin took a fair dig at me, too,” he adds. “But he’s right. He ripped off a mask I’ve been trying to remove myself on this trip. I need to stop trying to be the person I think others want me to be.”
Poppy’s mind flicks to what Lillith told her about Patrick not being Angus’s son—and about Arrabella’s deceit.
Love is blind, Poppy. Patrick was unable to see, or unable to admit to himself, what Arrabella is. A seductive and transactional vulture. She’s still seeing her ex. She has other sexual dalliances on the side. But she’s after the McGregor legacy. I just wanted Patrick to see her for what she is.
“Where exactly did Lillith say she and Hendrick were going for air, Patrick?” Poppy asks. Her anxiety sharpens as she recalls Avi quietly handing Lillith that pouch, now tucked into her diamanté clutch.
“Our conversation went from Hendrick’s interest in art and antiquities to the merits of the ship’s murals,” Patrick says. “Hendrick asked Lillith which was her favorite, and she said something about not yet having seen the Nemesis one.”
“Reflections of Arrogance?”
“That’s the one—yes. He offered to take her down during intermission.”
“It’s way downstairs,” Poppy says. “On the lowest deck before the restricted crew areas.”
“They said they’d be back for act two.”
She stares at him, her pulse quickening.
Suddenly she’s overwhelmed with concern for Lillith.
Which is weird and confusing because she should detest the woman who dumped her in a booth as a newborn.
But the image of Avi handing her that pouch lingers—the secretive way Lillith slipped it into her clutch. Something is going down.
“I’m going to check on her.”
She pushes her chair back just as the ship tilts with a groaning creak. Something crashes in the kitchen. Sorin’s crystal ball rolls off its stand and hits the stage with a dull thud. One of the crew hurries to collect it.
The pianist steadies his glass, then resumes his melancholic tune.
Poppy grips the back of her chair, balancing herself.
“They’ll be fine, Poppy. Relax.”
“She’s my charge. She—” It abruptly hits home. Hard.
She’s my mother.
And a wanted woman.
And she’s gone down to the “basement” with an infamous, charming snake of a con man killer who still has a mysterious hold on her.
How many times has Vincent escaped against every single odd? How many times has he killed to get free?
Patrick sees her concern. “Would you like me to come with you?”
Lillith’s stepson—who knows nothing about who Poppy really is. She feels a world of hurt still waiting for Patrick when he realizes that not only is he not Angus’s son, but that Lillith has a legitimate biological heir. A daughter.
Should she leave him sitting here, and go down and check on Lillith alone? What if something is going down? She might need help.
And where is Avi—how deeply is he involved? She hasn’t seen him since Roshaan handed him that heavy-looking sling bag. Until now, he’s been a constant in the shadows.
“Yes, please,” she says in a small voice, but clears her throat, makes it louder. “I think I would like you to come with me. Thank you, Patrick.”