947 A.M.
OFF THE COAST OF CROATIA
ANTONIA
The regret came in waves as Antonia sat on the toilet late the next morning.
Far too much booze. Far too much rich food.
Far too loose with her lips. And now, it was as if her bowels were driving home the point Ted had been trying to make the night before.
When she woke, she felt for him in the bed next to her only to find his side cold and empty.
A metaphor for their marriage if ever there was one.
But now she was glad he had sneaked away because she certainly didn’t want him in the suite at the moment.
Her head pounded, her eyes hurt, and her mouth was bone dry.
But underneath that was a feeling of urgency that was beginning to bubble to the surface.
Oh God, she had said Travis was a narcissist. An overt narcissist. The words made her cringe, then she was immediately hit with the memory of Charlotte speculating that Mercy was a killer—and her siding with Charlotte.
Her face flushed as the reality set in. She had screwed up horribly.
Ted’s angry expression flashed through her brain.
Letting out a groan, she felt a sense of urgency.
She needed to find Winslow and Miguel and tell them she was talking nonsense last night.
She also had to make a heartfelt apology to Oliver for speaking about him like he was a hearing-impaired gigolo.
She’d need to get a sense of whether Oliver was going to tell his bosses what she had said.
And she would have to do this as quickly as possible, before their hosts arrived.
Twenty minutes later, she had showered, dressed in a flowy white maxi skirt with enormous teal flowers and a matching teal cowl-neck, short-sleeved top with lots of ruching (so much ruching these days).
She had blown her hair dry and applied some subtle make-up.
Not too much, just a bit to even out her skin tone and blur the fine lines.
The make-up artist on the show, Le Shawnda, had taught her that mature skin wouldn’t tolerate caked-on foundation.
It would suck it up and display every year.
She grabbed her sunglasses, slid her feet into a pair of raffia sandals, and hurried out to find the others.
As soon as she stepped out onto the deck, she realized they were not docked anymore, but were now moving at a fast clip, the sails up and the bright sun bouncing off every polished surface on the boat—each one an assault to her senses.
Her stomach churned as she realized that it was too late. If they had pushed off, Travis and Mercy must be aboard. “Shit,” she muttered.
How had she—a fifty-three-year-old professional—allowed herself to act like an impulsive idiot last night?
Ted would still be furious. Oh God, and she had tried to seduce him last night, only to get shot down.
The humiliation made her skin burn. Rejected by her own husband.
Although, he was right to do it with the state she was in.
She would’ve passed out in the first couple of minutes anyway.
Still though, her fuzzy recollection of the whole thing made her feel like an ogre.
Something about the look on his face. Was it disgust or pity? Or maybe a blend of both.
She found her husband seated on the bench where she had been the night before, next to Miguel and Winslow.
Mercy and Travis sat on the director’s chairs with their backs to her as she made her way to the table.
Ted was too engrossed in the conversation to notice her walking toward them.
Or maybe he was just ignoring her. He was wearing his workout uniform of a fitted black Helly Hanson dry wick t-shirt and matching shorts, meaning he’d already hit the gym while she had been nursing a hangover. The bastard.
Glancing around, she noticed that Charlotte wasn’t there, and she wondered if her assistant was hungover like her, or completely fine and madly working away on her laptop.
A full breakfast spread filled the bar top, and Indira was serving this morning.
She was as pretty as Oliver was handsome, her nearly-black hair swept up in a simple bun at the back of her head.
Being good-looking must be a prerequisite for working aboard a yacht.
The young woman smiled at Antonia and offered her a small bow, then continued cooking up something in a frying pan on the outdoor grill.
Ted threw Antonia a quick smile, lips only—his eyes were having none of it. “Ah, she’s alive.”
“Barely,” Antonia answered, shifting her focus to Mercy—who looked absolutely perfect in a white tennis dress that showed off every curve.
Her stomach clenched as the word narcissist popped into her mind again.
They gave each other rich women air-kisses while Mercy apologized for being unforgivably late.
Then Antonia greeted Travis, who stood to fold her into a hug infused with the musky cologne he wore that made her feel nauseous on a good day.
Today it was all she could do not to gag.
“Good morning, Dr. Dawson. You’re looking lovely, as always.
I hear we missed quite the party last night,” Travis said in his big Texas drawl.
He had his charm dialed up to maximum, which would normally mean he didn’t know anything about what was said the night before.
But with someone like Travis, you’d never know.
He’d lull you into a false sense of security, then pounce.
“Yes, your staff may have made us a little too comfortable,” she told him. “I haven’t drunk that much since before I had children.”
Travis chuckled and sat down. “That’s what I refer to as top notch hospitality.”
Antonia attempted a gracious smile, but it was entirely possible it was a grimace. Even her face hurt at that point. “I honestly would be happy with lower notch hospitality for the rest of the trip, if that’s a thing.”
“Not here, it isn’t. Have a seat, Antonia,” Mercy said, pointing to the empty spot next to Ted. “Let me get you the world’s best hangover cure.”
“I won’t say no to that,” she answered, sliding onto the bench. She leaned over so she could see Miguel and Winslow. “How are you two feeling? Please don’t tell me I’m the only one worse for wear.”
“We were both struggling this morning,” Miguel said. “But Mercy fixed us right up.”
“She’s an angel,” Winslow added.
Travis sniffed. “That she is.”
Antonia’s eyes moved from Travis—who looked like a middle-aged Dick Cheney, dressed in a faded yellow golf shirt that his ample gut spilled over—to his wife, who could still grace the big screen as a leading lady.
She turned, carrying a plate of food in one hand and a mimosa in the other and floated across the deck.
So far, it appeared as if they must not know about the conversation the night before.
If so, surely they wouldn’t be nearly so hospitable toward her.
Setting the plate in front of Antonia, Mercy said, “Now, Travis here has tied one on in nearly every country on the planet, and this is the meal he swears by. It’s called Loco Moco. White rice and a hamburger patty smothered in gravy, all topped with a fried egg.”
“This is from Hawaii, isn’t it?” Antonia asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Travis answered. “Just like most things, the very best in the world comes from the U.S. of A.”
She took a whiff, only to be surprised by her stomach growling.
“Eat up and feel better, doctor,” Travis told her. He picked up a mug of coffee. “Now, what were we talking about? Oh right, my favorite topic. Huntin’. I was just about to ask Winslow here if he ever had done any trophy huntin’.”
Miguel snorted at the idea. Winslow shook his head. “Not really, no. I went on a few quail hunts as a young man, but I’m afraid it wasn’t my thing.”
Miguel leaned forward. “He’s being modest. Winslow was a regular at shooting weekends at Balmoral for many years.”
Travis sniffed. “Is that so, Winslow? You any good?”
“Not at all. They only invited me to make the other men look good.”
“Well, in that case, you’re my favorite kind of huntin’ companion.” He glanced at Antonia, who was doing her best to eat her meal delicately despite the overwhelming urge to inhale it. “You like that, Doc? It’s nice, isn’t it?”
She nodded. Her mouth was full, and she covered it with the cloth napkin as she answered. “Delicious.”
“It hits the spot,” he agreed. Looking at Winslow and Miguel, he said, “This here is what I call one of the many blessings of signing on with my network. You’ll be glad you hitched your star to my wagon.”
Mercy smiled brightly at Miguel. “You really will be happy. When my husband takes you under his wing, it’s for life.”
Miguel beamed at her. “Yes, it’s going to be amazing.
It already is.” He fanned out his hand. “I mean, just look at where we are right now. If you had told me as a six-year-old boy living in a tiny, cramped bungalow in Miami that I would end up on a yacht on the Adriatic, I never would have believed it.”
“Isn’t life wonderful that way?” Mercy said, smiling at him. “I had a similar upbringing, I think.” She put her hand on Travis’s. “And there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t thank my lucky stars that this man came along.”
“That’s only cause I’m sinfully rich.”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “You would’ve taken good care of me even if we didn’t have two beans to rub together.”
“Pennies,” Travis told her.
“What?” she asked.
His lips curled up in disgust. “Pennies, not beans.”
Her cheeks turned pink and she said, “Oh, right. I always get that one wrong.”
“Yes, you do,” Travis told her. “Now, out here on the ocean there’s nowhere to go on a proper hunt, but what we can do is go spearfishin’, so we’ll still get to shoot things. Ted, you up for that this week?”
“I’m up for anything, Travis.”