“Yes.”
Patrick is interested now. “That sounds marvelous. Which line does that route?”
Poppy hesitates, but barely. “Silversea. But several of the higher-end outfits offer similar stops. Seabourn. Ponant.”
Patrick’s attention deepens. He leans forward over the table as the band gets louder. “Africa is high on my travel wish list.”
“You never told me,” Arrabella says.
He doesn’t seem to hear. “I’ve only ever visited Tanzania—the Serengeti—on a safari.”
“I adore Tanzania,” Poppy says, brightening to Patrick’s interest. Arrabella frowns. She’s convinced Poppy is all lies. And fueled by Patrick’s attention, she’s just leaning further into her fabrications.
Poppy says, “But Lillith of course has the most African experience. Given her combat work in Sudan, Chad. Rwanda. Libya. Ivory Coast, Burundi, the Congo.”
“Not exactly tourist locales,” Lillith murmurs.
Poppy warms further and reaches for her drink. “I’ve visited the Democratic Republic of the Congo. My parents worked there when I was young. My father was a doctor. A specialist in tropical diseases. My mother was a nurse. They did volunteer work.”
“Are they still alive?” Patrick asks.
Suddenly she hesitates.
“I—they passed when I was young.”
“How young?” Lillith asks.
“Fourteen.”
Patrick exhales. “That’s a really rough age to lose family.” He knows. He was the same age when he had to leave the castle because Angus was having an affair with a young Italian contessa who became wife number two, before he started the years-long affair with Lillith, who ended up wife number three—the final wife.
“What happened?” Patrick asks.
“They were in a small plane that went down over remote jungle in Liberia.”
Arrabella notices Lillith studying Poppy with uncharacteristic softness.
“I’m so sorry, Poppy,” Lillith says, her tone kind, gentle.
Arrabella curses inwardly. She’s losing ground. It’s all backfiring. Poppy is clearly a talented and manipulative long-con artist. Her increasing grip over Lillith, and now Patrick, is both frightening and mesmerizing to watch.
Arrabella has noticed how much more fragile Lillith suddenly appears. And there are new tremors and tics. Poppy could be poisoning her right here on this ship.
She flicks her gaze to Patrick. And freezes. Because behind Patrick, at the bar—is her man. Rose-pink blazer, purple orchid in the lapel.
Arrabella swallows.
He’s built like a powerlifter. Not just a broad wingspan, but tall—overall big. He sports tinted aviator shades despite the hour, and he’s looking across the crowd, right at her.
Fear flutters into Arrabella’s belly. Her heart begins to gallop. She returns her attention to the table and finds Poppy is observing her closely again—she saw Arrabella’s reaction to the man at the bar. But instead of looking smug, Poppy also seems worried.
Arrabella is rescued by the arrival of food and bottles of wine. She pushes her chair back and reaches for her clutch purse.
“A quick trip to the loo,” she says, then bends over and whispers to Patrick, “Can you swap seats with me before I get back? I don’t want to sit on top of the prawns.”
“Sure,” Patrick says, but his tone is still cool toward her.
Arrabella heads to the ladies’. She needs to freshen up and mentally regroup, and determine how best to do this without raising Patrick’s suspicion.
