For a wild heartbeat Roshaan considers letting guests “Lady” Arrabella Fairfax and her fiancé, Patrick McGregor, find their own suite. Like regular-fare passengers. But “good girl” Roshaan answers, steady and bright. “On my way—be there in a sec.”
Poppy
Poppy hefts her bag of books onto her bed in the “assistant’s” suite, then turns in a slow circle. Disbelief swallows her as she takes in the sheer size of the place. It’s beyond huge. She even has a deck of her own, a private hot tub, a fully stocked bar with top-shelf liquor, a marble-tiled bathroom with both a shower and soaker tub. All decorated in the palest of Scandinavian neutrals. So classy. So clean.
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.
It’s been so long since “the Event”—as Poppy calls it—that she dared believe she was finally in the clear. Yet it’s entirely possible someone has tracked her down for revenge after all this time. She might have attracted attention through her new high-profile role as Lillith’s assistant. Lillith has been in the media. Poppy has been caught in photographs with her. The attention on Lillith has been fairly intense since Angus’s sudden death, plus there’s the controversy around his will.
Her heart begins to palpitate. The room tilts—she feels she might faint.
Relax, Poppy. The man is more likely stalking Lillith and after her money, not you.
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 tellPoppy that the late Lillith Ravenscroft McGregor has bequeathed her a small—or not so small—fortune.
Her smile deepens.
Sheseesit.
Shefeelsit.
Shesmellsit.
She’smanifestingthis 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.
