His bomber jacket is gone, replaced with a summer blazer in a soft pink. And he wears a flower in his lapel—the same purple orchid both Poppy and Lillith have growing in pots in their elite suites.
Her mouth goes dry. Her brain reels.
She witnessed an unmistakable connection between Arrabella and the man. Arrabella seemed to be expecting him. And nervous. She saw Arrabella go up and speak to him at the bar. Patrick saw, too.
Her heart races faster at the notion that Arrabella knows the Tan Man. Perhaps he has nothing to do with Poppy’s past and everything to do with Lillith. And he and Arrabella are in on it together.
Isthiswhy Arrabella came on the cruise? To hurt Lillith? With the help of the Tan Man? What else could it be?
TheBlack Orchidis certainly a perfect place to stage an accident. It’s a sealed-off world adrift at sea, filled with plenty of ready-made suspects as diversions. Lillith is on the cover ofVanity Fair, and the magazine is being sold on the ship. Anyone could theoretically see the feature and then notice that the notoriously wealthy media mogul widow is right here, among theOrchid’s guests. It’s a perfect red herring that would keep investigators’ eyes off the real culprits.
And Lillith has no one to protect her. Other than Poppy.
Poppy makes a spur-of-the-moment decision. She lays down her napkin and hurriedly excuses herself, saying that she, too, needs to visit the ladies’ room.
And she scuttles after Arrabella and the Tan Man.
Carter
Carter is tucked into the bench alcove by the mural, knees up, his back pressed against the bubbled glass wall. Instead of answering passport questions aboutThe Loom of Fate, he’s busy jotting entries in his notebook of suspicious happenings.
All is quiet when suddenly the redhead appears. Carter peeks up from under his lashes. His heart skips.
She really is beautiful. Just like a movie star. She holds a cocktail glass and begins pacing in front of the mural. Her gaze keeps darting to the doors, like she’s expecting someone.
Moments later a big man arrives—the one with the orchid in his lapel, the guy who ignored Carter when he said hello.
Curiosity crackles through him. He musters all his energy to remain quiet and to appear as though he’s deeply focused on his notes. He writes in his book that the man wears a pink jacket and tinted glasses like fighter pilots wear in movies.
The man moves calmly toward the woman. If he even notices Carter, he doesn’t show it, or doesn’t care about a small eight-year-old boy with his nose in a book in the corner.
The man stops beside the woman, close, almost touching her but not quite.
She goes very still but does not turn to him. She faces the painting and sips her drink.
“I said we’d talk at the bar,” he says quietly.
“We do this on my terms,” she almost whispers. She appears irritated as well as nervous. Carter’s curiosity tips into full-throated excitement.
The man tilts his head, as though studying the painting. “The Fates measure our time on earth from the moment we are born, do you know that?” His voice is husky and deep. And he speaks with a foreign accent Carter can’t place. “Mere mortals cannot change what they decree.” He faces the woman. “Do you believe in fate, Arrabella?”
Arrabella.
Carter scratches her name in his notebook:
Arabella.
It fits her, he thinks. Fancy, important, and a little unusual. He’s not sure exactly how to spell it, though.
“I don’t appreciate this pressure,” she says quietly. Her accent is definitely English. “What have you got for me that’s so important it couldn’t be done over the phone?”
“Our subject is not who she says she is.”
She stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“The name she’s using is not the one she was given at birth. She changed it legally. After standing trial for murder.”
“What?”
