Chapter 23
“This is all Weston Crawford’s fault,” Ransom grumbles as we navigate the ship’s corridors toward what might be the most questionable decision of our marriage.
“I should have known better than to listen to a man who thinks investigative value is a valid excuse for attending activities that would make our grandmothers spontaneously combust.”
“Well,” I laugh, dodging a couple engaged in what appears to be aggressive Valentine’s Day foreplay against the elevator doors, “he did have a solid argument. Though I’m starting to think his definition of research differs significantly from Webster’s, and probably requires a lawyer present—and maybe an armed guard. ”
“That would be me. But don’t think for a minute I’m going to stand by and watch as those men try to lay a hand on you. They’re the ones that will be in need of protection—from me.” He pats his weapon with his elbow to drive his homicidal point home.
The Emerald Queen’s corridors are drowning in Valentine’s overkill—rose petals scattered like crime scene evidence, pink lights casting everything in a romantic glow, and little Cupid statues positioned at every turn with their arrows aimed at unsuspecting passengers.
Every couple we pass is either making out or having a fight—no in between.
“But just for the sake of our marriage,” I continue, linking my arm through his with false bravado and zero common sense, “we’re only there to hear what they have to say, see if we can glean anything for the case, and then we’re out.
Deal? Like, immediately out. Before anyone suggests we ‘explore our boundaries’ or ‘expand our consciousness’ or whatever euphemisms they use for things that would traumatize our future grandchildren. ”
Ransom stops dead in his tracks and extends his hand like he’s negotiating the terms of his own surrender. “Deal.”
We shake on it, then seal the agreement with a kiss that starts innocent and quickly escalates into something that would make every Cupid on the ship blush. When we finally come up for air, I’m slightly dizzy and definitely reconsidering our evening plans.
“Where were we off to again?” I tease, noting how his hands have somehow found their way to places that suggest he’s forgotten our mission entirely.
“Our cabin,” he says immediately, trying to steer me in the opposite direction with the determination of a man who’s just remembered why he married me. “For the rest of the night. And possibly the rest of the cruise. And maybe the rest of our lives.”
“No way.” I reel him back, not falling for his diversionary tactics. “Let’s get this over with, then we can get to more important, far more romantic places that don’t require safe words or liability waivers—or other people.”
I bite down a smile as his expression shifts from disappointed husband to resigned detective to someone contemplating early retirement.
“Speaking of romantic locations,” I add, because apparently, I enjoy torturing both of us and testing the limits of our sanity, “we’re docking in Le Havre, France, tomorrow—and rumor has it, Paris is just a hop and skip away.”
Ransom’s eyebrows waggle as if he’s just been offered the keys to paradise. “Say less. It’s a date—just you and me, and Bess and Nettie.”
“I wouldn’t miss it, and thank you for including my friends,” I whisper, though part of me wonders if our trio will survive long enough to see the City of Light, given Bess’s apparent plans to relocate to Montana and Nettie’s talent for international incidents and questionable vodka consumption.
We round the corner and stop before the door that’s about to change everything we thought we knew about cruise ship entertainment.
The suite entrance is decorated with enough red key magnets to open every lock in Europe, plus heart-shaped balloons that bob like romantic warning beacons and what appears to be a Welcome to Paradise sign written in glittery script that screams abandon all inhibitions, ye who enter here.
“Subtle as a neon sign in a blackout,” I say, counting approximately seventeen crimson keys clustered around the door frame like some kind of adult-themed advent calendar.
“At least we know we’re in the right place,” Ransom mutters with the enthusiasm of a man approaching his own execution.
We exchange one last are we really doing this? look before I knock, and the sound echoes down the corridor like a death knell for our innocence.
The door swings open to reveal what can only be described as Dante’s Inferno if the damned had excellent taste in mood lighting and premium wine selections.
The suite is dimly lit with enough candles to qualify as a fire hazard, while music plays at what I’m mentally categorizing as seduction volume—just loud enough to mask conversation but not quite loud enough to drown out the grunts and groans coming from various shadowy corners.
The space hits me with a sensory assault that’s equal parts expensive cologne, vanilla candles, and whatever pheromones are apparently standard atmosphere at alternative lifestyle gatherings.
The two-story penthouse stretches before us like a carnival of questionable life choices, already thick with bodies in various stages of horizontal exploration.
“Holy mother of maritime activities,” I breathe, taking in what appears to be a live-action adult documentary happening in designer surroundings with production values that suggest this isn’t amateur hour.
Everyone I can see is still fully clothed—thank heavens for fabric-based favors—but the positioning suggests that situation might be temporary.
It’s like walking into a nature documentary about mating rituals, except all the participants have excellent healthcare and questionable judgment, and have probably signed waivers.
Ransom’s grip on my hand tightens enough to cut off circulation, his expression suggesting he’s calculating the distance to the nearest exit and possibly the nearest therapist.
All eyes seem to look our way, and within seconds, Dr. Jazz Stone materializes beside us like a bohemian hostess from hell, her wild curly hair catching the candlelight as she practically bounces on her toes with excitement.
She would.
“Trixie! And this must be your gorgeous husband,” she gushes, extending perfectly manicured hands toward Ransom as if she’s greeting royalty instead of potential new recruits for activities that come with their own safe words.
“Ransom Baxter,” he manages with professional politeness as Jazz clasps his hands with both of hers like she’s conducting some kind of spiritual energy transfer or possibly checking the size of his fingers.
“Dr. Jasmine Stone, but everyone here calls me Jazz—or Dr. Jazzy, if you prefer more intimate designations,” she purrs, and I swear Ransom’s eye twitches as if he’s having a minor stroke or possibly a major one.
“I’m a psychiatrist specializing in alternative relationship therapy.
Lavender and I worked together for years developing what we call ‘therapeutic polyamory’—the radical idea that multiple loving connections can actually strengthen rather than threaten primary partnerships. ”
Oddly enough, Ransom was a playboy of the highest variety before he met me. Of course, he wasn’t swapping with anyone. He was sort of just doing everyone who was female.
Jazz gestures toward the suite with a touch of pride as if showing off her life’s work.
“As you can see, unlike Claudette’s stuffy traditional group with their repressive Victorian values, we believe in expanding horizons.
Love shouldn’t be confined by society’s narrow definitions—it should flourish in whatever form feels authentic to the individuals involved. ”
Ransom gives a mechanical nod as if his brain has short-circuited somewhere between alternative relationship therapy and the couple currently engaged in what appears to be interpretive massage therapy on the nearby sofa.
“You’d be amazed,” Jazz continues with enthusiasm as if she’s found her calling in destroying conventional marriage, “how many so-called ‘traditional’ couples are secretly curious about exploration. Even some of Claudette’s marriage counseling clients have joined us—although they’d never admit it publicly, of course. ”
My sleuthing radar starts pinging like a car alarm at three A.M.
“Really?” I ask, trying not to sound scandalized, though my brain is already filing this information under potentially case-breaking revelations.
“Oh yes.” Jazz leans in, and her chunky jewelry creates its own percussion section as she moves. “In fact, that poor man with the forehead tattoo? Mark Sterling? He was one of Lavender’s most enthusiastic participants before his wife cracked down on his personal growth journey.”
The temperature in the suite suddenly feels approximately twenty degrees hotter, and not just from all the body heat generated by recreational activities.
Before I can process this bombshell fully, a Zen-master-meets-beach-bum materializes beside Jazz like smoke from a cosmic campfire.
“This must be the beautiful couple you’ve been telling me about,” he says in a voice that sounds like it’s been marinated in meditation retreats and questionable herbal supplements.
“I’m Rob Stone, Jazz’s cosmic partner and energy guide.
The universe has clearly brought you here for karmic reasons. ”
Rob Stone looks exactly like someone who’d use the phrase cosmic partner without irony—sandy hair that suggests regular encounters with hemp products, enough jewelry to stock a small metaphysical store, and the kind of Zen smile that makes you wonder what he’s been smoking and where you can get some.
“Rob specializes in therapeutic massage,” Jazz explains, and I catch Ransom’s expression shift from polite terror to something bordering on rage. “He’s incredibly gifted at helping people release physical and emotional tension through targeted bodywork.”