Chapter 26
Bart Preston watched the Cutter woman hustle into the darkness at the aft of the ship, probably to the restroom, judging from her frantic gait.
Bart knew the feeling. His hooded sweater was way too thin to keep out the wind.
He’d been out here in the cold watching her long enough he needed to take a leak as well.
He turned and leaned against the rail, listening to the footsteps coming up behind him.
“Hey!”
Bart turned, startled at the angry growl.
It was the guy who’d been walking with Cutter’s old lady.
Bart looked fore and aft. The evening chill had chased everyone inside.
There were a couple of crew members stacking chairs on the open area around the pool below, but the whole upper deck was deserted.
At six-one and two hundred pounds, Bart Preston was no small fry, but this guy had him by two inches and at least twenty pounds.
Fortunately for Bart, he owned a gym, and this guy had to be pushing fifty—twice his age.
Still, the man had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt despite the chill. It was clear he meant business.
Bart stepped away from the rail. His right leg dropped back, ready to go.
“You got a problem with something?”
The big guy loomed closer and wagged his head. “Have you got a problem with something?”
“Do yourself a favor and move on,” Bart said. “I’m not buyin’—”
“What’s your issue with my friend?”
“What? I got no issue—”
“How about you knock this shit off?” the big guy said. “You think that stupid hoodie offers some kind of disguise? You’ve been watching her since we were in line to board. Now you’re standing around here by your lonesome eyeballing us every time we walk past. What gives?”
“I got no idea—”
The big guy took a half step in. “Why are you following her? I’m not going to ask you again.”
“You a cop?” Bart asked.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Well whoop-tee-do!” Bart said. “You know as well as I do. A cop don’t have any jurisdiction on the open ocean.”
The big guy smirked. “I don’t need jurisdiction to put a boot in your ass for bothering my friend.”
“Oh,” Bart said. “She’s your friend, is she? You know who she’s married to?”
“I do not,” the big guy said. “But you obviously do, which proves my point, genius.”
Bart gave a nervous chuckle. Where was Leo? He turned back to the railing. “Get away from me—”
“Oh, I’ll leave,” the big guy said. “I’m a firm believer it’s better to shine the light on a cockroach. You can explain yourself to security. See what they have to say about—”
Leo finally emerged from under the stairs, moving at a fast lope. He tossed his track jacket over the nearest camera as he passed. Smaller and leaner than Bart, Leo Bouchard could go from cordial to berserk in a heartbeat.
The big guy spun with surprising speed at the sound of footsteps only to meet a devastating blow to the liver from Leo’s left hook. He staggered backward, one arm over the railing.
“Get his leg!” Leo snapped.
“What?”
The big guy realized what was happening a split second before Bart.
He attempted to push himself off the rail, but the liver shot had wobbled him bad.
Leo followed up with a barrage of cross elbows to the face.
The big guy raised his hand to ward off the punches, keeping him occupied while Bart grabbed his right leg.
With a man on each leg and using the ship’s railing as a fulcrum, it wasn’t much of a feat to toss even a large man over the side.
The big guy choked out a primal whimper—like something out of a horror movie, the most terrifying sound Bart had ever heard. It was over in an instant. There was no splash. Just the breeze over the deck and the sizzling hiss of the ship sliding through black water.
“We need to haul ass!” Leo said, already turning to retrieve the jacket he’d thrown over the security camera.
“How long you think he’ll last?” Bart stood entranced, pushed by some unseen hand to look over the rail.
“Hell, the sharks probably have him already. If not, minutes maybe. That water is colder than a witch’s tit!” Leo said, one hand hovered over the jacket, ready to grab it off the security camera. “Maybe he got chopped up by the screws.”
Bart looked over his shoulder toward the nest of electronics and cameras affixed to the rail toward the foredeck. “What about those?”
“Taken care of,” Leo said. “Now come on. I said haul ass!”
Bart shook off his stupor and ran. Leo yanked the jacket away, clearing the image as soon as Bart was out of the frame.
If anyone from security happened to be watching, they would have seen Bart and the big guy talking, a glitch, then an empty deck.
It was an extra precaution. None of the cameras would be a problem—as long as their man came through and did what they’d paid him to do.
Joellen walked out of the women’s room relieved and anxious at the same time.
She stood along the track, drying her hands on a paper towel while she waited for Steve to come out from behind the movie screen.
She had a clear view down either side of the ship.
He wasn’t waiting by the diner. She’d walked past that already.
No, he was behind the huge screen. He had to be.
But he didn’t come out.
She pulled the oversize blazer tight around her chest and walked faster, glancing over her shoulder in case he’d decided to hide and then sneak up behind her. He didn’t seem that childish. But then, he was a guy and—
She stopped in her tracks when she rounded the corner. The tunnel behind the screen was completely empty.
He must have gotten cold and gone inside.
Nope. The elevator alcove was vacant but for an Indonesian crew member polishing the brass fixtures.
Thinking she must have missed him, she pushed the button on the sliding door and stepped outside again.
The wind felt ten degrees colder than it had mere seconds ago.
Her cheeks burned. Hair whipped across her face.
She ignored it. Hands stuffed in the blazer pockets, she trudged along the deserted deck, making a complete loop around the track.
She even stopped to lean across the barrier ropes and peer into each of the four hot tubs.
Stupid. No way Steve was dumb enough to climb four steps and then tumble into one of the tubs. They hadn’t had that much to drink.
“You idiot,” she whispered into the night. “You came on too strong. The night doesn’t have to end … Good Lord, Joellen, the poor guy’s getting over a dead wife and you come on like a sex-starved maniac. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
She took the stairs down to the pool level, hoping she might find him there.
Nope. Same story inside by the elevator alcove.
Minnesota Steve had done a runner. There was no doubt about it.
Joellen wiped tears of frustration out of her eyes, catching the earthy odor of cologne on the sleeve of his coat.
Pretty sad day when a guy was so desperate to get away, he abandoned a five-thousand-dollar Tom Ford jacket.
Too impatient to wait for an elevator, Joellen virtually flew down the stairs.
She found deck 6 all but deserted. It was long past trivia or mambo lesson time.
Cruise ships this size never actually slept, but they did doze.
She counted seven passengers lounging on the couches and chairs around the grand piano, reading, scrolling through their phones.
Soft, nighttime music played over the intercom.
A single uniformed crew member staffed the passenger service desk.
Flushed and frazzled with worry and embarrassment, Joellen tried to get her words in order as she approached. At the last second, she realized Steve’s ridiculously long sleeves on the oversize sport coat made her look drunk or, at the very least, too ditzy to be taken seriously.
She shrugged it off quickly and draped it over her arm.
“I’ve somehow become separated from my friend,” she said.
“Perhaps he’s gone back to your cabin.” The twentysomething Danish woman was polite enough, smiling, nodding, as the crew were trained to do.
“Oh no,” Joellen said. “We’re not together … I mean, we’re not sharing …”
“Perhaps he’s gone back to his cabin,” the woman said.
“Could you give me his cabin number?” Joellen asked. “He loaned me his coat, and I need to return it.”
It was clear the Danish woman didn’t see the gravity of the situation.
“You don’t already know his cabin number?”
“He never gave it to me,” Joellen said.
A condescending smile. “Perhaps he will call you back tomorrow.”
“Look,” Joellen said. “This is a five-thousand-dollar Tom Ford …” She bounced her fist on the counter, nodding to herself in resignation. “Never mind.”
Joellen thanked the woman out of habit—she was from the South, after all—and then made her way slowly aft to the spiral stairs leading up to the casino deck. Maybe he’d gone to a bar or found someone else who didn’t come on so strong.
The bastard. He could have just told her he wasn’t interested. He didn’t have to disappear. But what if he hadn’t? What if something had happened to him? The familiar itch of a stranger’s eyes crawled over her skin. Someone was watching her. She could feel it.
She looked at her watch. A square-face Cartier that Arliss had given her on their first, and only happy, anniversary.
The ship would be in Ketchikan in five hours.
She’d find Steve then and give him an earful.
She looked down at the blue blazer draped over her arm.
Her head was beginning to clear enough from her cocktails that she could see things more rationally.
Why would he abandon such an expensive sport coat just to end the date?
Joellen was no spring chicken, but she wasn’t an old hen either. Something had happened. Something bad.
Arliss would figure it out. She’d told him not to worry. He said he wasn’t going to come. But Joellen knew better. He’d be there bright and early tomorrow, ready to kick ass and take names. Arliss Cutter couldn’t resist showing up to save the girl. It was ingrained in his DNA.