Poppy
But as she attempts to sink into her new reality, the sharp image of the man in the tan bomber jacket knifes back into her mind. Fear follows.
What could someone like him do to her aboard a ship like this?
Follow and corner her in a dark stairwell—stab her quietly in the liver.
Leave her to bleed out below some stairs.
Toss her overboard on a wildly stormy night.
Poison one of her meals, slip something into her drink at a bar. Sweat slicks her torso.
Her heart begins to palpitate. The room tilts—she feels she might faint.
Lillith did say she was surrounded by vultures drawn by Angus’s death and the inheritance.
Should she mention the Tan Man to Lillith, then?
That could be dangerous. Because if he isn’t stalking Lillith, Poppy would be inviting questions about her own past. That’s not an option—her terrible secret must stay buried at any cost. Especially if her plan is to win Lillith’s favor and a share of her fortune.
She decides a gin and tonic will steady her nerves and help her think.
Poppy struggles out of her wrinkled jacket, tosses it onto the bed, and lumbers over to the bar in her sweat-drenched T-shirt.
She grabs a bottle of No. 3 London Dry Gin and mixes herself a strong G&T.
She takes a big gulp. It’s good. Really good.
She swallows another and almost instantly feels calmer. She raises her glass in a mock toast.
Cheers, Mom. Your “Pop-Tart” made it.
The ice clinks against glass as she wanders over to the sliding doors. A G&T always brings her mother back, a reminder of those rare evenings when her mom actually sat still, drink in hand, and focused only on Poppy and her dad, not on other people’s sick and dying children.
She slides the door open. Heat slams her face.
Dock noises swell up to her balcony in a cacophony of hooting taxis, shouts, beeping forklifts busy loading last-minute supplies and baggage onto the ship.
Over Athens in the distance, an orange wildfire haze hangs low. Her heart swells with tipsy happiness.
Nine days. Nine nights. In all this luxury and excitement. All with Lillith.
She takes another sip and allows the specter of the Tan Man to fade to the outer edges of her focus. Lifting her face to the sun, Poppy closes her eyes, and once more conjures up her vision.
She sees herself inside a lawyer’s office.
Dark wood shelves. A rain-spattered window.
The Edinburgh sky heavy and gray outside.
The lawyer puts on his reading glasses and opens a file.
He begins to tell Poppy that the late Lillith Ravenscroft McGregor has bequeathed her a small—or not so small—fortune.
Her smile deepens.
She sees it.
She feels it.
She smells it.
She’s manifesting this vision into reality.
A car horn sounds loudly. Poppy opens her eyes.
Her gaze drifts to the long lines of vehicles gridlocked in their approach to the terminal.
She’s relieved she and Lillith arrived earlier, or they’d be stuck in there, too.
Poppy lifts her glass to her lips and sips as she watches a burly cab driver exit his car.
Almost simultaneously his two passengers—a man and a woman—spill out from the passenger doors. Poppy chokes on the gin going down her throat.
She lowers her glass, stares.
The man is tall, lanky, white-blond hair. The woman is pale. She wears a black-and-white polka-dot sundress, and her hair is such a deep red it’s almost fuchsia.
No.
Not possible.
Arrabella?
With Patrick.
Poppy hurries inside, sets down her gin, grabs the pair of courtesy binoculars on the desk, and nearly trips in her haste to get back onto the balcony.
Heart racing, she focuses the scopes, zooming in on the couple. Her heart stalls. Her breath stops.
It’s her.
Lady Arrabella Fairfax. Slender as a whippet. Creamy-white complexion. Oversize shades. Vivid red lipstick like a slash of blood across her white face. Arrabella grabs the handles of two suitcases and begins to run on her wedged espadrilles along the sidewalk to the terminal.
Behind her, Patrick McGregor, the only biological son of the late Angus McGregor, thrusts a wad of cash at the driver and grabs hold of the remaining two suitcases. He starts to chase after Arrabella. The wheels of their bags bounce along the paving behind them.
Poppy lowers her scopes.
They’re coming on the cruise. Patrick, who was suddenly cut from Angus’s will right before he was found dead. And Arrabella, Patrick’s charming, stunning, cunning, and hungrily ambitious fiancée.
Lillith’s words sift through Poppy’s mind.
I’m surrounded by jackals, Poppy. They all want a piece of me . . .
Everything has just changed. Poppy has competition. The worst kind. And they’ll all be locked together for nine days and nine nights. She needs a new plan. Fast.
She needs to sharpen her knives.