Poppy
As she nears their table, she sees Patrick sitting solo. Surprise ripples through her.
He looks bent, broken. He holds a fresh drink, and the plates of food have barely been touched.
Lillith’s Bangkok Sling cocktail glass is still full.
Everything on the upper deck feels quieter now.
Almost sinister. The brighter lights have been dimmed in favor of lanterns and fairy twinkles.
Music is softer, the singer more croony as the evening wears into night.
“Where’s Lillith?” she asks as she reseats herself at the table.
Patrick tilts his chin toward the railing. “Found herself a friend.” He drinks deeply from what appears to be a whiskey or cognac. “Can I pour you some wine? Get you another cocktail?”
She doesn’t answer. Her gaze is fixed on Lillith at the railing.
She looks ethereal in her white palazzo suit, strands of her white hair blowing loose in the ocean breeze.
She stands rather close to a man not much taller than her.
He has a straight spine, squared shoulders, a shock of silver hair streaked with pepper.
As he leans forward to say something to Lillith, moonlight glints on his glasses.
Lillith stiffens at what he says. Poppy frowns.
Her mind flicks back to the gift left beside Lillith’s bed—the serpent necklace. Could he be A.G.? The same “gentleman” who sent the Bangkok Slings—the drinks that appeared to deeply unsettle Lillith?
“Who’s she with?” Poppy asks Patrick.
He shrugs, finishes his drink, and hails a server.
“Another cognac, please.” He faces Poppy, eyes bleary. “One for the lady?”
Lady.
No one calls her lady.
“I—ah—yes.” She leans forward earnestly. “Patrick, listen to me. Did that man just come up to the table and approach Lillith? How did it happen, exactly? Did he introduce himself? And then ask her to go to the railing with him? Why hasn’t she finished her food? Did he interrupt her?”
His gaze drifts toward the couple. “It’s rather sweet, I suppose.
” His words come out slurred, slow. “Romantic interest at her age.” He pauses.
His eyes go even more distant. “My father hasn’t been in his grave a year, but .
. .” He shrugs. “Angus was a tough bastard. Everyone admits that. He took up far too much space for anyone’s good.
Lillith must feel some measure of relief that he’s gone. ”
“From what she’s told me—and from our work on her memoir—she loved him, Patrick. She really did love him.”
He snorts. “Love’s a joke. It’s a convenient narrative around the mating urge, that’s all.” The drinks arrive. He reaches for his, swirls the ice, and takes a quick sip.
“There are different kinds of love,” Poppy says.
He raises a brow, smiles. “Really?”
“Well, yes. Like friendship love. Love for animals. Love that transcends the reproductive years and changes into something special with old age.”
“And you know all about this love, do you then, Poppy?”
Her chest tightens. Poppy might not know it, but she believes it. Even if just not for her.
He nods, as though to say, Yep, I can see you’ve failed in the romance department, someone who looks like you. And at your age.
“One thing I can tell you about Lillith and Angus,” he says, pointing his glass at her, “they were both masters at controlling narratives. Their own. And everyone else’s.
” He meets her gaze, his eyes cloudy. “Whatever Lillith chooses to say in her memoir, or her autobiography, or whatever she calls it—it’s simply another narrative.
Shaped by her. Something she wants the world to believe about her after she’s gone.
” He pauses again and sits silent for so long that Poppy wonders if he’s forgotten what he was saying.
“And another thing, Poppy,” he says quietly, “even villains are heroes in their own eyes. Everyone is either a hero or a victim in their own story.”
She frowns. “Patrick, I’d like to know, how did Lillith react when that man approached her?”
“You’re very interested in specifics.”
“I like specifics. They make me feel comfortable. I’m also Lillith’s travel companion, so it’s my job to be concerned for her safety. She’s in a position to be targeted, you know? She’s vulnerable.”
“Given her wealth? Yes. Everyone is after the old widow’s billions. Even my fiancée. Especially my fiancée, I’ve come to realize. Sadly.”
Poppy blinks. Patrick is being awfully candid.
“Lilli really should travel with proper security—even you could be a threat, Poppy. Especially on a boat like this. Arrabella thinks so.”
Blood drains from her head. Her mind flashes back to Arrabella with the Tan Man. What if they’re in cahoots against her, not against Lillith? Could they be scheming to eliminate her because they see her as a “threat”?
She casts another glance back at the railing. Lillith and the stranger have now taken a seat at a small table near the railing, and a server has brought them drinks. Poppy pushes her chair back and rises.
“Don’t, Poppy,” Patrick says. “Just let them be awhile. The man seems charming enough—allow her the attention.”
She hesitates, then settles back into her chair, but she positions it so she can better observe Lillith.
“Do you care for her, Patrick?”
He inhales and runs his hand over his hair. “Fact is, I do, yes. Rather deeply. I might be the only one who doesn’t want a penny from her.”
“Why?”
“Long story. Private.” He meets her gaze. “But believe me. It’s true.”
“Why should I believe you? You just basically accused me of being a gold digger.”
“Well, you might be, I don’t know. Arrabella is pretty certain you are.”
“And where is Arrabella now?”
He gives a disinterested shrug.
Poppy glances toward the exit, mentally recalculating—Arrabella’s absence and Patrick’s inebriation present an opportunity to dig for more information.
“Did you guys really not know Lillith would be on the Black Orchid?” she asks.
“Wouldn’t be here if I did. Arra tricked me into coming.”
“So why did she do it?”
“Feels my presence under my stepmother’s nose will remind Lilli how badly my father shortchanged me and it’ll guilt her into either paying me off, or garner me a guarantee that I’ll be written into her will.
” A fierce light suddenly crackles into his eyes, and his voice turns cool and oddly sharp.
“I don’t want a penny of the old bastard’s money, and when that sinks into Arra’s skull, she won’t stick with me. ”
“Oh, Patrick, I’m not—”
“I’m certain of it.”
Poppy sips her drink—admittedly a very good cognac—and a soft buzz wraps around her as she absorbs this new revelation.
“Besides, I think she’s having an affair,” Patrick says.
“What?” She lowers her glass.
“With someone on the ship.” He takes another swig, his knuckles whitening as his grip tightens on the glass. “She tricks me onto the cruise while she fucks someone else she’s brought along for the ride.” He curses viciously.
A chill crawls down her spine. Poppy is no stranger to men turning violent with too much booze in their bellies.
“Are you sure, Patrick?” she asks cautiously. “I mean, how do you know he’s actually on the ship?”
“I saw him. At the bar. Mr. Mega Muscles with tinted shades and a fucking flower in his lapel. He texted Arra earlier. She hid it from me. And I saw him leaving the bar to follow Arra. Now she’s claiming to have a headache and has allegedly gone back to the suite.
” He gulps his drink. “She’s always been a bit of a demon for rough sex, and I probably don’t deliver for her in that department. ”
Poppy’s cheeks burn. She’s startled at the rawness of his drunken candor. He’s also clearly in pain, and lonely, even in his relationship, and it hurts her to see it, because in some strange way she identifies with it. Still, she takes the gap.
“Patrick, what if it’s not a sexual liaison that Arrabella has with the man on the ship? What if they’re planning something?”
“Planning?” he asks. “Like, what?”
She hesitates, then plays her hand. “That man from the bar—Mr. Mega Muscles—I saw him at the airport in Edinburgh. And again in Athens. Now he’s on the ship. He’s been following Lillith and me since Scotland. And I just saw him conversing with Arrabella at the mural.”
Patrick’s gaze locks on hers. His face changes. His eyes turn hard.
“I see,” he says quietly.
Silence descends. Wind gusts and turns cool. The tempo of music slows. A few couples dance slowly, intimately, beneath the bunches of grapes and lanterns swaying in the wind. Lillith is still in a deep conversation with the man.
“What is it that you see, Patrick?” she prods softly.
He doesn’t answer. He raises his hand and waves the waiter over, then tilts his chin to Poppy’s glass. She shakes her head.
He orders another drink, takes two big swallows, and finally he says, “Arrabella claims you ousted her, Poppy. She saw herself in that role—as Lillith’s assistant, business manager, ghostwriter.
She was going to help compile those award-winning photographs from conflict zones around the world, and tell the story of Lillith Ravenscroft’s rise and fall and rise.
She wanted to subsume Lillith, her life, the castle, the fortune.
Everything.” Another long pause. “She wants to become the wife of the next McGregor media mogul. His name just happens to be Patrick.” He pauses.
“I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to face the fact I’m just a tool.
A means to her end. She’s always been ambitious.
This is why she thinks you are dangerous, Poppy.
You’ve messed with her plans.” He meets her gaze. “Are you? Dangerous?”
“Do you think I am?”
He studies her. Wind gusts. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “Perhaps I will stay on the ship—just to find out.”