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What if Jasmine was right?
"Do you have a doctor on the cruise ship?" she asked.
"Yes, we do."
"Then maybe you should take Margo there in that helicopter," Jasmine suggested. "Or you could take her to a nearby hospital, whichever is closer."
She sounded much more lucid than she appeared, so maybe the drugs were wearing off already.
He had to admit that her suggestion had merit.
The helicopter was a four-person small craft that could possibly squeeze in one more, but they had decided to stay on the yacht until it reached the Silver Swan.
Negal had negotiated hard to be the only one other than the pilot and Kalugal to accompany Modana to the yacht. The rest of their team had stayed behind to deal with Modana's men and put them through a crash re-education course that was supposed to put them on the right path to assist their boss's new humanitarian endeavors.
He wondered whether it would work, but he couldn't fault the clan for trying to minimize bloodshed. Modana's men were all seasoned killers, but they hadn't committed the kind of atrocities that their counterparts in Acapulco had, so perhaps they were still capable of salvation.
Margo stirred in his arms, and a moment later, she opened her eyes and stared up at him. "Am I dead?"
59
MARGO
Margo was looking at the face of an angel, which meant that she was dead.
Evidently, she'd been wrong about there being no heaven or hell, and she had somehow ended up in heaven.
She hadn't been a bad person, but she hadn't been a very good one either. Or had she? If being good meant volunteering in homeless shelters or donating money to charity, then she hadn't been particularly good because she had done neither. But if being good meant not doing evil, then she qualified.
But wasn't she supposed to go through a trial before being admitted to heaven? There was supposed to be a review of all the bad and good deeds she'd done throughout her life.
The angel frowned. "Why do you think you are dead?"
He sounded a little hoarse as if he had been shouting, or maybe he was thirsty, but angels did none of that. He also smelled of seawater and clean male sweat, and that, too, was something angels didn't do.
"You're not an angel, are you?"
The smile he gave her was so bright that it was blinding. "You thought that I was an angel?"
She lifted her hand to shield her eyes. "You are bright like an angel, but you don't sound like one, and you smell a little sweaty. Not in a bad way, but not in an angelic way."
He laughed, and now she was convinced again that he was an angel because the sound was so beautiful that it stirred something in her soul.
Margo had always believed that music was a portal to the divine, the one thing that made humans superior to animals, and the guy's laughter sounded like the best melody.
Frowning again, he dipped his head and sniffed at his armpit. "I do smell a little. But I assure you that I'm not bright, and I don't have a glow. I'm not a royal."
That was such an odd thing to say. "Royals don't glow."
"They do where I come from."
"And where is that?"
"Portugal."
He said that with a straight face, but it must have been a joke, something about Portugal being a monarchy? Margo had never heard it before, so she didn't laugh. She also suddenly realized that she was staring into his impossibly gorgeous face because he was holding her in his arms.
"Why are you holding me?"
