Fire and Ice Cruise

Chapter 1

Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!

Fire and Ice—What a Milestone!

Hey there, mystery-loving readers! Ready to join me aboard the Emerald Queen for the most dramatic—and potentially deadly—Iceland birthday cruise ever?

I’m turning FIFTY (how did that even happen?

!) and I’ve packed my sense of adventure, my waterproof everything for those hot springs, and enough chocolate lava cake to properly celebrate this milestone!

From the steaming geothermal waters of the Blue Lagoon to the breathtaking northern lights dancing across volcanic landscapes, I’m determined to soak up every drop of Icelandic magic—along with plenty of champagne and those divine pastries that make turning fifty feel almost fabulous.

Oh, and did I mention Ransom is currently on unexpected “leave” from his job?

(Corporate politics are messier than murder.) So now my gorgeous, unemployed husband and I are both aboard for this adventure, which I’m choosing to view as romantic rather than a harbinger of things to come.

My track record suggests I should know better.

Here’s to turning fifty, volcanic hot tubs, and hopefully keeping my sanity intact. But I have a sinking feeling this birthday cruise is going to be anything but relaxing.

XOXO

Trixie

Copenhagen, Denmark

Five minutes ago, my life was perfect. Well, as perfect as life gets when you’re married to a former FBI agent turned cruise ship security chief while solving murders and seeing ghosts on a regular basis.

Then Quinn Riddle appeared with a folder that changed everything.

Ransom—my brilliant, capable, devastatingly handsome husband—has just been fired from the Emerald Queen of the Seas.

As in terminated. Let go. All because he did his job too well and solved Madison Rothschild’s murder alongside his liability of a wife.

Apparently, Royal Lineage Cruise Lines decided that having a security chief married to someone who attracts dead bodies like a magnet is bad for business.

Meanwhile, I’ve been reinstated to my art instructor position. Because that makes sense. Fire the professional, keep the amateur who literally trips over corpses.

The irony isn’t lost on anyone, least of all the small group gathered around us on the gangway. Bess and Nettie are as stunned as I am, Elodie looks furious on our behalf, and Captain Wes Crawford studies the termination papers as if he’s looking for a loophole written in invisible ink.

Ransom’s hand is still in mine, his grip steady despite the bomb that just detonated our carefully constructed life.

His face doesn’t give away any emotion—years of FBI training don’t disappear just because your world is falling apart—but I can see the tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes.

“Well…” Wes says, finally, folding the papers and handing them back to Quinn, hardly concealing his disgust. He looks at our little group—every last one of us is shell-shocked, angry, and we’re all still standing on the gangway like we’re not sure what to do next.

“I know just the place I need to take us. I think what we all need right now is a drink.”

“And nachos,” Nettie adds without missing a beat. “Some of us still have an appetite despite the emotional devastation we just witnessed.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Wes replies with a half-smile that doesn’t look too promising about anything.

We follow him through the cobblestone streets of Copenhagen’s harbor district as the afternoon sun does its best to pretend everything is fine despite the fact our lives just imploded.

The bar Wes leads us to is tucked between a fish market and a souvenir shop, its weathered sign reading “Havnekrogen” in faded letters.

Inside, the place has that comfortable dimness that all good drinking establishments possess—dark wood, brass fixtures, and the kind of worn leather booths that have absorbed decades of secrets and maybe a few decades of bad decisions, too.

It’s almost noon, so the lunch crowd is just starting to trickle in, but we manage to snag a table near the bar.

Nettie wastes no time flagging down a server and proceeds to order what I’m pretty sure is half the appetizer menu. “Nachos, buffalo wings, mozzarella sticks, potato skins, and do you have fried pickles? No? Well, what about onion rings?”

“Nettie,” Bess hisses, “we’re in Denmark, not Wisconsin.”

“Food is food,” Nettie counters. “And stress eating is a valid coping mechanism.”

Wes leans toward Ransom, his captain’s authority softening into genuine concern. “Listen, this isn’t permanent. You’re not going anywhere. Trixie is an employee, which means you still have reasons to remain on the ship. I’m going to fight this with everything I’ve got.”

Ransom’s jaw tightens. “And if you can’t get me reinstated? I just had my last cruise as an employee myself.”

“Maybe the gift shop is hiring!” Nettie chirps.

Bess swats her arm. “I’m pretty sure he’s verboten from any staff position. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they yanked him from his living quarters, too.”

Actually, Ransom and I purchase our own cabin for each sailing because we prefer it to the employee quarters, but still.

I gasp, turning to Wes. “They can’t banish him from the ship, can they?”

Wes winces. “Well—”

But he doesn’t finish. His eyes go wide, his lips parting slightly as his gaze locks onto something—or someone—at the bar.

Ransom and I follow his stare to where a redhead sits hunched over the counter, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs as she nurses what appears to be a very inadequate cocktail.

“Oh, that breaks my heart,” I say, placing my hand over my chest.

Ransom nods. “Poor thing seems to be all alone.”

I crane my neck to get a better look. She’s about my age—close to fifty—with long, glossy crimson hair that catches the light even in this dim bar.

Slender figure, cheekbones that could touch heaven, and she’s wearing a jade green dress with tan heeled boots that scream I had plans today that did not include crying in a Danish bar.

“Is that a suitcase next to her?” I gasp. “Maybe I should go and—”

Before I can finish, Wes is already on the move, settling onto the barstool beside her with the kind of effortless grace that comes from decades of command—and most likely dealing with emotional passengers, too.

Ransom and I scramble to catch up, positioning ourselves on the other side of her.

She looks up and appraises us all with her red, swollen eyes lingering a moment too long on Wes.

And just like that, I know whatever brought her to this bar with a suitcase and tears isn’t over.

It’s just beginning.

Marina

Through the veil of tears currently destroying what’s left of my mascara, I become aware of far too much company.

As if crying in a bar wasn’t bad enough, being surrounded by a group of concerned citizens feels that much worse.

A decidedly handsome man in a navy suit with enough brass buttons to outfit a marching band has materialized to my right.

To my left, a beautiful blonde with concerned eyes stands next to a dark-haired man who looks like he could double as a movie star playing a cop, as the rugged, intense, and yet protective energy radiates off him in waves.

But my gaze sweeps back to the man in the navy suit. Dark hair peppered with just enough silver to make him look distinguished. He has dimples deep enough to lose your car keys in, and eyes so green they could double as emeralds.

My heart thumps unnaturally at the sight of him.

Great. Now I’m crying in front of gorgeous strangers. This day just keeps getting better.

“Are you okay?” the man with the dimples asks. His voice is warm, and he seems genuinely concerned.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I say quickly, wiping away tears that are immediately replaced by fresh ones. Apparently, my tear ducts didn’t get the memo about maintaining my dignity in public.

“It doesn’t look like you’re fine,” the blonde woman says gently. “Is there something we can do?”

“Someone we can call?” the rugged man offers.

“No, no, that’s okay. Really, I’m just fine.” My voice breaks on that last word, which really undermines my credibility.

I start to slide off the barstool, and the man with the dimples catches my arm. He offers a friendly pat, and something in me comes alive at the warmth of his touch. It’s been so long since anyone touched me with kindness instead of calculation.

“Did you just get off one of the cruise ships?” he asks.

“No, I actually just left a hotel.” I wipe my eyes again, but it’s like trying to bail out the Titanic with a teaspoon.

“Do you need help getting to the airport?” the blonde asks. “Or your next destination?”

“Technically, there is no next destination.” The words taste bitter just saying them.

How do I explain to these kind people that I just walked away from my entire life?

My eyes connect with the dark-haired, dimpled god again, and something in his gaze makes me want to trust him. Which is insane, because my trust-o-meter is clearly broken.

“Where are my manners?” He extends his hand. “I’m Wes Crawford. And these are my friends—” He gestures to the others. “Trixie Troublefield Baxter, her husband Ransom, and back at the table we have Bess and Nettie.”

“So nice to meet you all.” I wipe away tears once again, but that doesn’t stop more from falling.

“I’m Marina. Uh, Maxwell.” I nod, the name feeling strange on my tongue.

Marina Maxwell. That’s exactly who I’ll be.

I have the ID and passport already—I don’t see why not.

Fresh start, fresh name, fresh disaster.

“Marina,” Wes says softly, though his eyes never leave mine. “That’s a beautiful name.”

I give a little laugh that sounds slightly unhinged.

“My parents raised me on a boat until I was in middle school. I suppose it seemed fitting. I love the water.” I gesture toward the harbor visible through the window as if that explains why I’m drowning my sorrows.

“Anyway, I should probably get going.” I move to stand, but this time it’s Trixie who catches me by the hand.

“Hey, we don’t mean to chase you off,” she says, and I can’t help but notice the deep look of concern in her eyes. “Where are you headed? You said yourself you don’t have your next destination mapped out.”

Ransom purses his lips and studies me with intent. “Are you traveling solo?”

“No,” I say quickly. What if they’re looking to rob a solo traveler and I’ve just fallen into their clutches? Although I’m not getting that vibe from them. Not that my instincts are anything to brag about, as evidenced by—

I glance down at my bare ring finger.

“The truth is, I don’t know what comes next for me,” I say with a heavy sigh. “But I do know one thing, I need to get the heck out of Copenhagen.”

And fast. But they don’t need to know that. They don’t need to know anything about me.

Wes glances at Trixie and Ransom, then back at me, those dimples digging in deep. “Do you need a lift?”

“Do you have a car?”

“I’ve got a boat.” His smile curves just enough, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that, for some reason, makes me feel far too safe.

Somehow, within the next ten minutes, three perfect strangers have convinced me to take a cruise to Iceland with them.

They might be harboring a few secrets, but I’ve got more than a few of my own.

My phone buzzes in my purse, and my heart rate spikes. I glance at the screen long enough to see his name before burying the phone back into the depths of my bag.

I force a smile at my new friends. “Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned today, it’s that sometimes the best way forward is to sail in a completely different direction.”

Trixie grins. “Welcome aboard, Marina. Trust me, life on the high seas is never boring.”

She has no idea how right she is.