But depending on what he does with the footage—if they’re caught—charges could range from misdemeanors to felonies. She looked it up.
“Seriously, Rosh,” he says in a low, seductive tone before she can speak. “You cannot imagine the vein of rich treasure we’ve tapped into. And we’ve barely even set sail.” He kisses her hard, grasping her face firmly in both hands.
She pulls back, reeling in a tsunami of conflicting needs—for relief, escape, grounding, to be loved, assurance that she’s the only one in his life.
“God, I love you, woman,” he whispers, looking deep into her eyes. “You’ve done good, girl. We are going places. You. Me. Together.” He trails a hand down her waist as he speaks. She feels herself being sucked into his kinetic aura. She feels desire rising in her belly. She wants to yield, fold into him, make the outside world vanish. She wants to drown in the arms of her Theo Pappas, a.k.a.Sorin the Magnificent, the mentalist, the traveler between worlds. The man who can read and control minds.
It’s been so long since he touched her like this. Yet a deeper part of Roshaan screams warnings to flee, to call it quits. To get out while she still can. Or perhaps it’s already too late. Perhaps she’s doomed to go all the way down with him.
He kisses her again, this time gentle, searching, questioning. Lips soft, tongue warm, inviting, exploring. His hand slides up her back, and he cups her neck. Her tension cracks, releasing a flood of white-hot desire that roils over the other destabilizing and confusing emotions.
Theo draws her toward his bunk. But the image of Lillith on her bed flashes sharply into her mind. On top of the image rides the memory of Theo touching Maxine. Panic whips back through Roshaan. She pushes Theo, trying to force him to slow down, but he yanks her closer, harder, his movements more urgent. She feels his hand pushing up her dress, his fingers coming up the inside of her thigh. She can’t do this. She shoves him again, harder.
“Please, Theo—please, stop. I need to talk to you.”
He hesitates. She feels a shift in his body, hears a sigh of irritation.
But his words are gentle. “What is it, baby?” He brushes hair away from her brow.
“I’m not comfortable doing this.”
“I just need to feel you against me, Rosh. I love you. I want to feel you naked against my skin.”
“Not this. That.” She points to his laptop. “The spying.”
He exhales heavily. “Look, I know you’re uneasy. I can see that—obviously. But we’re already all in. What were you even thinking trying to remove that cam? Talk to me. Tell me.”
“It’s breaking the law.” Her voice sounds weak, even to her own ears. She clears her throat. “Wecanstill stop this. I can remove all—or most—of the devices while everyone is upstairs for the launch events.”
His mouth firms. A coolness creeps into his eyes.
The man who takes control of your mind, sees your fears ...
She swallows.
“Rosh, tell me how this is so different from what we’ve done on other ships. How is this so radically different from all those times you casually eavesdropped, then brought snippets of information back to me so I could braid them into my acts? How is you giving me the information from the guests’ intake forms—what they like to eat, drink, their allergies, their preferences—so different from this?”
“Because the guests knew I was present. They knew that what they were saying in front of me wasn’t private. They knew that what they wrote on the forms would be seen by various crew members.”
“But were theyreallyaware, Rosh? People like them—they’re snobs. Full of hubris and entitlement. They don’tseepeople like us. We’re just servants catering to their privilege. All I’m doing, with your help, is finding fresh ways to awe and entertain them. That”—he nods at the laptop—“adds shock and thrill. It’ll bring them back to my shows, for more. They’ll spread word. And the tips ...” His voice fades. Gratuities on theBlack Orchidremain a gray area. Technically tips are built into the cost, but a blind eye is usually turned if guests decide to give very generous extras.
“Sit,” he says, pulling out the chair from his desk. “Please.”
Slowly, she seats herself. He takes the bunk opposite her. Their knees almost touch.
“Let me tell you what I’ve gleaned so far.” He points to his laptop. “Arrabella Fairfax and her fiancé have major trust issues. Both are keeping huge secrets from each other. And get this, she even suspects that Lillith McGregor’s assistant, Poppy, could have something to do with Angus McGregor’s death.”
“What? You mean, like ...murder?”
“Yes, Rosh. Fuck, yes—this is huge. And from watching Poppy in that suite—she’s definitely up to something. Snooping, taking photographs of medications. Even more weird is that Lillith seems aware that her assistant is doing this, but is pretending she doesn’t notice.”
Roshaan stares.
“And get this, Angus McGregor cut Patrick, his own son, from his will after some huge row at Christmas. He won’t tell Arrabella what his dad said to him during that fight. But Arrabella now wants him to make nice with Lillith on the cruise so he can get some of his inheritance back. Do you realize how big this all is, Rosh? How we could use this? They’re freaking wackos. Rich weirdos all up to something. It’s a gold mine for my mind-reading show.”
Roshaan stares at the shut laptop, heart hammering. Fear snakes through her.
“Theo,” she says softly, “you’re not going to extort them, are you? Is that what you mean about a gold mine?”
