“Poppy,” he says quietly, “all they sense is vulnerability. Bullies, con artists, insecure arses—they zero in on that.” He covers her hand with his, gives a small, sincere smile.
“Sorin took a fair dig at me, too,” he adds. “But he’s right. He ripped off a mask I’ve been trying to remove myself on this trip. I need to stop trying to be the person I think others want me to be.”
Poppy’s mind flicks to what Lillith told her about Patrick not being Angus’s son—and about Arrabella’s deceit.
Love is blind, Poppy. Patrick was unable to see, or unable to admit to himself, what Arrabella is. A seductive and transactional vulture. She’s still seeing her ex. She has other sexual dalliances on the side. But she’s after the McGregor legacy. I just wanted Patrick to see her for what she is.
“Where exactly did Lillith say she and Hendrick were going for air, Patrick?” Poppy asks. Her anxiety sharpens as she recalls Avi quietly handing Lillith that pouch, now tucked into her diamanté clutch.
“Our conversation went from Hendrick’s interest in art and antiquities to the merits of the ship’s murals,” Patrick says. “Hendrick asked Lillith which was her favorite, and she said something about not yet having seen the Nemesis one.”
“Reflections of Arrogance?”
“That’s the one—yes. He offered to take her down during intermission.”
“It’s way downstairs,” Poppy says. “On the lowest deck before the restricted crew areas.”
“They said they’d be back for act two.”
She stares at him, her pulse quickening. Suddenly she’s overwhelmed with concern for Lillith. Which is weird and confusing because she should detest the woman who dumped her in a booth as a newborn. But the image of Avi handing her that pouch lingers—the secretive way Lillith slipped it into her clutch. Something is going down.
“I’m going to check on her.”
She pushes her chair back just as the ship tilts with a groaning creak. Something crashes in the kitchen. Sorin’s crystal ball rolls off its stand and hits the stage with a dull thud. One of the crew hurries to collect it.
The pianist steadies his glass, then resumes his melancholic tune.
Poppy grips the back of her chair, balancing herself.
“They’ll be fine, Poppy. Relax.”
“She’s my charge. She—” It abruptly hits home. Hard.
She’s my mother.
And a wanted woman.
And she’s gone down to the “basement” with an infamous, charming snake of a con man killer who still has a mysterious hold on her.
How many times has Vincent escaped against every single odd? How many times has he killed to get free?
Patrick sees her concern. “Would you like me to come with you?”
Lillith’s stepson—who knows nothing about who Poppy really is. She feels a world of hurt still waiting for Patrick when he realizes that not only is he not Angus’s son, but that Lillith has a legitimate biological heir. A daughter.
Should she leave him sitting here, and go down and check on Lillith alone? What if somethingisgoing down? She might need help.
And where is Avi—how deeply is he involved? She hasn’t seen him since Roshaan handed him that heavy-looking sling bag. Until now, he’s been a constant in the shadows.
“Yes, please,” she says in a small voice, but clears her throat, makes it louder. “I think I would like you to come with me. Thank you, Patrick.”
Carter
Carter sucks in a sharp yelp of fear at the sight of the large man with the silver death mask. But the wind is too loud in the ropes, the sea too thunderous for anyone to hear him.
Thanatos—death—can’t see him, either. He’s small. Obscured in the deep inky pool of shadows right between Sorin the Magnificent in his billowing cloak, and the hulking, silver-faced form of Death himself.
Sorin hasn’t seen Carter, either. The mind reader’s gaze is fixed outward—toward the cliffs of Santorini.
