Vengeful Viking Cruise

Chapter 1

Embarkation day is my favorite brand of chaos—fresh flowers, free-flowing champagne, and an entire boatload of strangers who have no idea what they’re in for.

The Emerald Queen’s atrium glitters with champagne-colored marble, towering floral arrangements, and approximately six thousand excited passengers who’ve forgotten the concept of volume control.

I can’t blame them. This ship does things to people, and most of those things involve shrieking near the elevators. The rest involve the buffet, and honestly, same.

Marina Maxwell stands next to me near the gangway, effortlessly elegant in the standard women’s crew uniform of a fitted white blouse and a navy pencil skirt.

Her crimson hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she’s gripping a tablet like it might save her from drowning.

And it just might have to, considering she’ll be working side by side with our resident grumpy cruise director, Tinsley, from here on out.

“So this is what you do with each new cruise?” Marina asks, watching a rowdy group of men and women spill through the entrance, laughing like they’ve already discovered the drink package.

“Every single cruise,” I say with a shrug.

Marina nods. “I’m questioning my decisions.”

“You’ve been here ten minutes.”

“I work fast.”

We share a quick laugh as she joins me in waving to the passengers.

I already like her. Anyone who can arrive at regret that efficiently is my people. It took me a full week to regret my first marriage, and look how that turned out.

Bess strolls up on Marina’s other side, elegant as ever in her signature cranberry pantsuit, her red hair swept into its usual tidy bob.

Bess Chatterley is one of my on-ship besties.

Bess-tie, if you will. She’s typically glued at the hip to my other on-ship bestie, Nettie Butterworth.

Both women are octogenarians, although that’s pretty much where the similarities end.

Bess is Vermont-prim with a wicked streak she’ll deny under oath, and Nettie is the wicked streak.

“Don’t listen to a word this one says,” Bess tells Marina, patting her arm. “The job is wonderful.”

“I said it was chaos,” I point out.

“Wonderful chaos,” Bess amends. “Trixie tends to exaggerate. It’s part of her charm.”

“It’s my entire charm,” I say, and I tip my head her way because she’s not wrong.

Nettie swoops in from absolutely nowhere, her wild gray curls defying gravity and good sense. She’s wearing a purple muumuu that could double as a parachute and enough silver jewelry to trigger every metal detector between here and Helsinki.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Marina,” Nettie announces.

“What you need is a proper orientation, and I’m just the woman to give it to you.

” She hooks her arm through Marina’s and claims her the way she claims the last slice of lava cake at the buffet.

Which is to say, with speed, commitment, and zero remorse.

“Oh no you don’t.” Bess takes Marina’s other arm, gentle but immovable. “Her version of orientation involves rating bartenders by chest hair density.”

“It’s a scientific system,” Nettie says.

“It’s a laminated chart,” Bess says.

“Everyone’s seen the chart,” I assure Marina. “It’s practically peer-reviewed. Bess added footnotes.”

“I annotated,” Bess corrects, sounding exactly like the former Vermont schoolteacher she is. “Somebody had to fix her methodology. She had Mr. Heavy Pour on the lido deck ranked third.”

“Mr. Heavy Pour is third,” Nettie balks.

“Mr. Heavy Pour is second, and deep down you know it.”

Nettie doesn’t argue. That’s how you know Bess is right.

Marina shoots me a look that screams help me.

“Consider this your initiation,” I tell her. “There’s no ceremony, but there is, apparently, a ranking system.”

Ransom strolls over, looking lethally handsome in his typical Head of Vessel Security uniform—dark suit, crisp white shirt that does things for his chest and shoulders, and cobalt blue eyes that are drop-dead serious as he scans the crowd for trouble.

He has dark hair with a touch of salt-and-pepper around the temples that gleams under the light streaming through the atrium’s glass ceiling, and I get to look at him guilt-free because I married this man.

Best decision I ever made, even if it came with a body count.

He drops a kiss on my temple. “Playing nice?”

“Define nice.” I nod toward Marina’s predicament. “Bess and Nettie are having a custody battle.”

He watches them tug her back and forth, a human wishbone at Thanksgiving. “Should I intervene?”

“Absolutely not. At this point, it’s practically a tradition. They got hold of me the very same way just over a year ago. I lost circulation in both arms and gained two best friends. It was a win.”

A trace of a wicked grin twitches on his lips. “I’m glad they convinced you to stay.”

“I am, too.” I bat my lashes at him as he lands a far more heated kiss on my lips.

Wes stands a few feet away in his captain’s uniform—white jacket with gold buttons, navy pants, the posture that says he’s commanded ships through storms and budget meetings and come out victorious.

His dark waves are combed into submission, his green eyes scanning the boarding passengers because he knows exactly how fast chaos can spiral.

He’s been captain of the Emerald Queen of the Seas for years, and it shows in every measured movement.

“Ladies.” He glances at the Marina situation, which is starting to garner more attention than it should. “Are we terrorizing our new crew member already?”

“We’re welcoming her,” Nettie corrects.

“Thoroughly,” Bess adds.

“With footnotes,” I say.

“I’m fine,” Marina manages, her voice only slightly strangled. “This is completely fine.”

And by the looks of it, it’s anything but. Her ponytail has already lost the will to live. I’d offer to hold her tablet, but I’m afraid Nettie would rank me next.

Tinsley appears on heels that should come with a liability waiver, her chestnut hair falling in waves over one shoulder.

She’s clutching her ever-present clipboard and vibrating with enough espresso-fueled energy to jump-start the ship’s engines, and she looks every bit as grumpy as she does professional in her uniform.

“Positions, everyone.” She doesn’t wait for confirmation. “Big smiles. Enthusiastic greetings. And Trixie—” She points her pen at me. “No mentioning last cruise’s homicide. No discovering new bodies. No supernatural incidents in front of paying guests.”

“It’s not like I discover bodies on purpose,” I protest.

“Semantics.” She takes a moment to glower at me.

I’d argue the bodies discover me, but Tinsley isn’t big on nuance. And for the record, I’d be thrilled to follow all three of her rules. The rules have never once returned the favor. Neither have the bodies.

Suffice it to say, Tinsley Thornton isn’t in my fan club. Come to think of it, the meetings are getting smaller every year.

My name is Trixie Troublefield Baxter. I have shoulder-length blonde hair with more than its fair share of tinsel these days, and no, the irony of that word is not lost on me.

I stand at a perfectly average five-foot-five, I live on this glorious ship, and I happen to be married to the hottest ex-FBI-agent-turned-head-of-vessel-security on the planet.

Oh, and I also happen to have an oddball supernatural quirk that allows me to see ghosts.

Not every ghost, mind you—just the ones who come back to help solve a homicide.

And yes, I’m something of a body magnet, too.

As far as talents go, I’d seriously love a refund.

Heck, I’d settle for store credit. I’m not picky.

A fresh wave of passengers floods through the entrance, dragging both luggage and vacation excitement.

And the entire lot of us shift into crew mode—lots of smiles, far more welcomes, and pointing people toward elevators as if our lives depended on it.

It’s organized mayhem set to a soundtrack of rolling suitcases, overexcited chatter, and jazz music playing through unseen speakers.

Nettie finally releases Marina’s poor arm. “Quick question.”

“Here we go,” Bess sighs, although I note she leans in to listen.

“When you said you couldn’t wait to leave Copenhagen”—Nettie’s eyes gleam—”was that code for running from a man? Because honey, I’ve been running from men for sixty years. I could teach a masterclass.”

“For once, I’d attend,” Bess admits.

“Nettie,” I say with a slight shake of my head, though not with much muscle behind it. I want the answer, too.

“What? I’m being helpful.”

I bite down on my lip, and Ransom gives my hand a quick squeeze because we’re both anxious to hear more about that ourselves.

Marina’s smile could freeze every cocktail on the ship. “I’m not running from a man.” She clears her throat, and her face goes bright pink. That particular shade only shows up when a lie has just left the building. “I just needed a change of scenery.”

Right. And I’m a professional ballerina. Prima, if you’re asking.

We all met Marina two weeks ago in a Copenhagen bar, where she was crying into her drink while Wes hovered nearby, looking concerned and possibly smitten.

She had that haunted look people get when they’ve been running from something too long to remember why they started.

But no matter how many questions we asked, she was expertly evasive with the answers.

She’s basically a bank vault with a ponytail.

Wes offered her a free cruise, which she wisely took. And that snowballed into a position on the ship. She’s officially Tinsley’s assistant, so effectively the Emerald Queen now has two cruise directors.

Marina has a fresh start wrapped in ocean views and steady paychecks. But that doesn’t explain why she’s been cagey ever since we docked back in Copenhagen and has been all but counting the hours until we set sail again.

Marina Maxwell is definitely looking to get away from someone or something. My money is on both. And I never bet against my own money.