Chapter 30
“Well,” I announce as Ransom and I step back into the Valentine’s Grand Soirée in the Royal Ballroom. “Nothing quite says romantic evening like surviving an attempted murder and living to tell about it.”
“And here I thought the biggest threat tonight would be my dancing,” Ransom deadpans.
“Very funny,” I say, pulling him close and slow dancing with him whether he likes it or not. And judging by the way he’s running kisses up my cheek, he’s not about to complain.
The music is moody, the dessert buffet has been deliciously restocked, and throngs of people have escalated things romantically to the point where someone should announce get a room over the PA system.
“There’s our welcoming committee.” Ransom nods toward a cluster of familiar faces near the champagne fountain.
Wes spots us first and quickly approaches us with Elodie, Tinsley, and Nettie flanking him like a support group for people whose friends have dangerous hobbies.
“Thank goodness you’re safe,” Wes says as he pulls me in without hesitation—despite the fact Ransom isn’t letting go. “Quinn just briefed me about the overboard incident.”
“It’s true,” Ransom confirms with morbid gravity. But hey, he’s just witnessed his wife’s magnetic attraction to homicidal activities firsthand. “Someone tried to introduce her to the Atlantic Ocean on a permanent basis.”
“I’m fine, really,” I say quickly. “And, Elodie, thank you for those wicked heels. They literally saved my life.”
Elodie offers a wicked smile in response. “I’ve always maintained that stilettos are a woman’s best defense—whether against bad fashion choices or attempted homicide. It’s all about the right tool for the job.”
Tinsley frowns at me. “Good work not becoming another casualty around here. I was starting to think you had a death wish disguised as a hobby, and I still do.” She glances around the ballroom with the hunting instincts of a cruise director tracking down romantic prey.
“Now, where did my Valentine’s date disappear to? There he is—”
She points toward Rob Stone, who’s currently engaged in what appears to be a deep philosophical discussion with a potted palm, most likely about cosmic energy alignment.
Wes, Ransom, and I emit synchronized groans that could register on seismic equipment.
“It’s been Rob who’s been wooing you this whole time?” I ask, genuinely surprised by this plot twist in Tinsley’s love life.
Tinsley preens like a peacock who’s just discovered mirrors. “I can see you’re all green with envy over the distinguished gentleman I’ve managed to attract. Not everyone can appreciate a man with spiritual depth and therapeutic hands.”
I open my mouth to deliver the devastating news about her cosmic Casanova, but Elodie raises one perfectly manicured hand like a traffic cop with excellent timing.
“Allow me to enlighten you, sweetie,” she purrs as she’s about to detonate a gossip bomb. “Your spiritually gifted Romeo? He’s the welcome wagon for the wife-swapping committee. Turns out, those therapeutic hands have been making the rounds.”
Tinsley’s eyes bulge like someone just informed her that her organic kale smoothie contained actual vegetables. She starts gagging and rubbing her tongue against her arm with enough desperation to scrub away the memory of any cosmic enlightenment he may have inflicted on her.
“I kissed him!” she gasps between retching sounds. “I need industrial-strength mouthwash and possibly a full-body decontamination chamber.”
She bolts toward the exit as if her dress is on fire and dignity is overrated.
“Easy come, easy go,” Nettie howls out a laugh. “Though I suppose that’s the whole point with that crowd—sharing is caring and all that jazz.”
“Jazz, indeed,” I say, shooting a look to the exit before turning back to Nettie. “Before I forget, Richard wanted me to give you a special goodbye. He said to tell you that meeting you was the highlight of his afterlife.”
I decided to leave out the part about him mentioning he’ll see her soon. Some information is better delivered by the cosmos than by amateur sleuths with questionable communication skills.
Nettie’s smile carries just enough melancholy to make supernatural romance seem perfectly reasonable.
“Easy come, easy go in the afterlife, too, I suppose. Death doesn’t exactly come with relationship guarantees.
” She straightens with renewed purpose. “I think I’ll hit the buffet in his honor.
That ghost had excellent taste in both women and chocolate fountains. ”
She trots off toward the dessert displays like a woman on a mission to honor love through carbohydrate consumption.
“Well, the night is still young, and so are my heels,” Elodie announces, checking her reflection in a nearby champagne flute. “Don’t break an ankle, darling.” She winks at me before gliding away toward whatever romantic chaos awaits her next victim.
Ransom spots a cluster of his security officers near the ballroom entrance, and their body language suggests that someone’s evening is about to get significantly more complicated.
“I should brief my team,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to my temple. “Be right back. Try not to solve any murders while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” I call after him, though my track record suggests that’s exactly what’s about to happen.
The music shifts into something far moodier and more romantic, the kind of music that makes people forget their better judgment and remember why they booked Valentine’s cruises in the first place.
Wes steps in close. “May I have this dance while your husband handles official business?” he asks as he holds a hand my way.
“How could I resist?” I say, accepting his offer and his hand. “Although I should warn you, I step on toes almost as often as I stumble over dead bodies.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he says, leading me onto the dance floor with a confidence that suggests he’s navigated both storms and social disasters with equal grace—and his feet have most likely been stepped on quite a few times, too.
We fall into an easy rhythm, laughing about everything from Tinsley’s romantic meltdown to Nettie’s supernatural love life, the conversation flowing as smoothly as the champagne and significantly more entertaining than the formal couples around us who appear to be discussing stock portfolios and property taxes.
I think a majority of the Crimson Key Society has already drifted off to do their swapping thing.
“You know,” Wes says as we navigate around a couple engaged in what appears to be competitive ballroom dancing, “is there such a thing as a part-time husband? Because I’m willing to fill in whenever Ransom is busy playing hero.”
I laugh, spinning under his arm. “You’re hired. The position comes with excellent benefits—constant danger, regular murder investigations, and the occasional assassination attempt.”
A familiar hand taps Wes on the shoulder with the authority of a man reclaiming stolen property.
“Mind if I cut in?” Ransom asks with the kind of polite menace that suggests the question is purely rhetorical.
“Of course.” Wes steps without hesitation. “And I’d like to mention your wife is an excellent dance partner. Very graceful under pressure.” He gives a little bow my way.
“She’s excellent at a lot of things,” Ransom replies with just enough emphasis to make his territorial claim clear without requiring subtitles.
“I’d like to say something, too,” I interrupt before their masculine posturing requires intervention from ship security. “You’re both charming, distinguished, and—”
Something near the buffet snags my attention. It’s Candy, sobbing by the heart-shaped ice sculpture like a sparkly pink tragedy in couture.
“Oh my word,” I gasp, my maternal instincts overriding everything else. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have to see what’s the matter.”
All three of us head toward the crying woman, who’s drowning in sparkly pink tulle that makes her look like a runaway prom queen.
“Candy, what’s wrong?” I ask, stepping in and draping my arm over her shoulders. “Is there something I can do?”
She looks up with mascara-streaked cheeks, her expression saying her romantic fantasy just collided with reality at highway speeds. I get it. Valentine’s Day can be a tough one.
“Everything is wrong.” She tosses her hands in the air in a panic. “And I doubt you can fix it. My husband brought me here so we could be part of some kinky... Crimson Double Dipping Society or whatever perverted nonsense he’s gotten us mixed up in.”
“You mean the Crimson Key Society?” I ask, a bit bewildered by the revelation.
Candy’s eyes widen as if I’ve just confirmed her worst nightmares. She gasps as she looks from me to Wes to Ransom, her expression shifting from despair to horror.
“Don’t tell me the three of you are part of it, too!” she wails. “If even the ship’s officers are jumping on the wife-swapping bandwagon, then Rex was right. If we didn’t join in, we’d be the only normal people left on this floating orgy.”
“Wait, what?” I gasp. “We’re not swingers,” I say quickly, before this conversation can derail into assumptions that would require therapy and possibly legal disclaimers for everyone involved. Her words hit me with a jolt, and I straighten. “Wait a minute. Did you say Rex? As in Rex Hartwell?”
Candy nods miserably. “That’s my husband. The lying, cheating, swinging scumbag who’s been pretending to be single while seducing sweet old ladies and dragging me into his perverted lifestyle experiments.”
Oh my living word.
I see red.
Wes sees red.
Ransom sees red so hard I’m surprised the ballroom doesn’t spontaneously combust from the collective outrage radiating from our little group.
“BESS!” I start calling frantically, my voice carrying across the ballroom like thunder splitting the night sky. “NETTIE!”
Nettie appears almost immediately, probably drawn by the sound of chaos like a moth to a particularly chaotic flame.
“What’s all the shouting about?” she asks, eyes already scanning for potential entertainment or disaster.
“It’s Rex,” I shout with rage. “He’s one of them!”
“An alien?” Nettie asks with a hopeful expression as if her evening is about to get significantly more interesting.
And trust me, Nettie would be the first in line to date a being from another planet.
She’s pretty much all but conquered this planet, I don’t see why she wouldn’t dip her toe into another one.
“No,” I shout, still scanning the crowd for signs of our missing friend.
“A lion tamer?” she calls out with far too much admiration.
“Not that either,” I practically scream, my patience evaporating faster than champagne bubbles.
“A tamer of the shrew,” she snaps her fingers as she says it.
“He’s a swinger!”
Half the ballroom erupts in applause and cheers, apparently thinking I’ve just announced some kind of musical entertainment.
“A swinger?” Nettie shouts with sudden understanding, her voice carrying enough volume to be heard in neighboring countries. “Well, that explains the Montana ranch invitation! Who needs cattle when you’ve got wife swapping! I bet his idea of branding has nothing to do with livestock!”
We each dart our separate ways, and within thirty seconds I hear, “I found them!”
I dash over to Nettie, where she’s pointing toward a secluded alcove behind the buffet, where two figures are engaged in activities that definitely weren’t featured in the ship’s family-friendly entertainment brochure.
Wes and Ransom zoom across the dance floor like emergency responders with personal stakes in the crisis. Ransom reaches the alcove first, physically pulling Rex away from Bess, who’s adjusting her dress while pretending they weren’t just caught making out behind the shrimp tower.
The sound of Ransom’s fist connecting with Rex’s jaw echoes across the ballroom like the world’s most satisfying percussion instrument, and suddenly everyone’s Valentine’s Day just got a whole lot more memorable.
Nothing screams romance like watching swingers get punched by the security detail while love triangles collapse in real time and people start to realize that their side pieces have side-pieces.