Chapter 21
Lila Logan Cameron
Call sign: Cassiopeia
Lila didn’t dare approach her husband until Alejandro was belowdecks and his nephew was at the wheel. She trailed Francis
to the primary suite.
She knew what she wanted to say, had spent the last half hour getting tipsy on hibiscus tequila and rehearsing the words in
her head after the twins had gone to their room.
This is madness, Francis. The longer we delay telling the authorities about the accident, the worse it looks for us. All of
us.
Lila had flirted with scandal, and she’d found it to be a selfish and rather uncouth lover. Already, the untimely death of
a woman who worked for the family was enough to make waves. If Lila’s name could snag an entire article under suspicion she’d
had undisclosed lip injections, then an experienced sailor’s drowning on her family boat going unreported would certainly
make nasty headlines.
Francis must see reason. Her husband might defy common maritime laws, but he was still a rational man.
To ignore this hiccup and continue on their family vacation could be catastrophic down the line.
Surely he knew that? She settled on reminding him in such a way that it would seem like his idea.
That was the key with powerful men; Lila knew that from decades of show business and marriage.
She parted her lips to croon his name, start the conversation out light when he turned without warning and pressed his mouth
over hers.
Lila’s half-baked words smoothed into a sigh. She hadn’t tasted Francis’s lips in ages. The scent of sea salt from the dive
had replaced his carefully chosen cologne. She dissolved into him, letting his arms bear her weight and carry her to the bed.
What had changed? What had made him see her? She hated to question it, but she had to because there was another flavor in
his kiss, one that resurrected that boyish, ambitious man from years ago.
Triumph.
“Francis,” she breathed as he loomed over her on the bed, his jaw grazing her throat. He inhaled heavily, and she imagined
that he was reacquainting himself with the scent of her hair.
“Francis, wait . . .” she whispered.
He paused, one hand propping him above her, the other hand on his belt. “Why wait, Lil?”
She sat up but cupped his face. Held his focus. “I could ask you the same thing, my love.”
Francis leaned into her. “You should trust your captain, Lila Logan.”
She should. She did. Well, she almost did, but she knew him too well to trust him again.
“I just have to know why,” Lila went on with care while he watched, unreadable. “I have to know, and I want to know because we’re on the same team.” She unspooled his fingers and threaded hers between them while he considered her
words and her.
Francis sat back on his heels and broke their grip. Lila resisted the urge to yank him back again, but she was a patient woman. She waited for him to nod and explain and mostly for him to kiss her once more and paint a silver lining on this horrible day.
“No,” he said without a shade of apology. Then he stood, adjusted his belt buckle, and left with a brief twist of the watertight
door.
The place where he had been, heavy and burning, froze over.
No . . .
The tequila she’d already consumed was no longer enough. Lila made her way to the galley, and for once she was thankful Alejandro
wasn’t there. She poured herself a double shot and added a slice of lime and a rim of pink Himalayan salt.
The galley was empty, but it didn’t feel like it. A net of bananas swayed over the kitchen sink, and a Florida-shaped spill
of truffle sauce had congealed on the steel counter. A sweaty plastic bag of meat loaf was left defrosting next to the stain.
Lila supposed Alejandro would have thrown everything from the freezer out now that they could no longer store food there.
Why keep the meat loaf? Their freezer was now a coffin.
There’s a dead woman in that freezer.
She knocked back the glass.
Maybe, in a beautiful and terrible way, it was better like this, she told herself. The reporters would smell a scandal. But
Lila could guide it. She could massage the narrative.
MJ was like an older sister to me. A member of my own family. The ocean stole her, and I will never forgive it for that.
Lila was profoundly disenchanted with the ocean; no part of that was a lie.
And the death had been a rather cinematic one, hadn’t it? What if it got made into a movie? But what would the overall plot
be?
She pinched the lime’s juice into the empty cup and poured a fresh shot. This time she didn’t bother with the salt before she drank. Her body thrummed with anticipation. She couldn’t hold still. She swept down the hall, alit with nervous energy, and hovered outside the twins’ door.
They’d been slack and catatonic when they’d descended the companionway hours ago. They hadn’t reemerged since. Her children
were unraveling. Her husband wasn’t listening.
No, Francis had said to her, but now she wondered what exactly he had been referring to.
No, Lila, you don’t have to know.
Or maybe, No, Lila, we’re not on the same team.
Or worst of all . . . No, Lila Logan . . . you don’t want to know.