Page 23 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

A dry laugh pulses through him despite his best efforts to stifle it.

Elsewhere on this ship, Nettie is stockpiling Viking romances with no idea the genuine article just dipped me under a chandelier. I’m taking that secret to my grave, where, with my luck, she’ll still hear about it. That woman has sources in every realm.

Ransom kisses me, properly kisses me, and I feel him smile against my lips.

Magnus Darkwater may be gorgeous, charming, and extremely gifted at dipping women to moody music.

But I’m going back to my stateroom with the living, breathing man who catches me every single time I fall.

CHAPTER 6

“Tell me how he dipped you again.” Bess is sighing into the last of her lobster bisque, and we’ve barely made it to the entrées.

It’s the very same night, and the Main Dining Room is doing its level best to make me feel underdressed, which is impressive considering I’m wearing my best outfit. Tonight that happens to be a navy wrap dress Elodie talked me into during a weak moment at the Queen’s Mall. And by weak moment, I mean she stood between me and the exit until my credit card surrendered.

The dining room itself is a three-story spectacle of black granite floors and peach velvet chairs circled around tables draped in white linen, all of it glowing beneath artsy light fixtures that resemble melted gold. The drama and glamour are considerable, and honestly? After the day I’ve had, what with dead Vikings and unscheduled ceiling time, I’ll take every drop of fancy this ship is willing to pour on me.

Our table sits tucked into an alcove with a view of the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows, black water meeting blacker sky. The scent of garlic and butter drifts from the kitchen, mingling with expensive perfume and a thread of salt air sneaking in from the promenade.

I’m here with Bess, Nettie, and Marina, and I’ve just finished giving them the full report on the airborne portion of my encounter with Magnus Darkwater. The dip. The hover. The drop. I left nothing out, and now I’m being asked for an encore.

The reactions are everything I expected, which is to say nobody at this table is the least bit concerned for my safety. Not one single person. I could announce I’d been carried off by a kraken, and these three would ask what it was wearing.

“And how he tried to nibble on your neck,” Nettie adds, leaning forward so far the beads of her necklace nearly baptize themselves in her water glass. “Over and over. Don’t leave out the neck nibbling.”

“There was no neck nibbling.” I cut into my chicken cordon bleu, the knife gliding through it like it had nothing left to prove. “There was hovering. Menacing, seven-foot, dead-Viking hovering. Yes, there was mood music. No, it did not help.”

“But there could have been nibbling,” Nettie insists.

“The man has been dead for centuries, Nettie. He’s fresh out of nibble.”

“For once, I’m siding with Nettie.” Bess dabs her mouth, poised to say something she shouldn’t. “If a Viking is going to haunt you, the least he can do is be thorough about it.”

Nettie aims her fork at Bess. “See? Even the schoolteacher agrees. And they say I’m the bad influence.”

“You are the bad influence,” Bess tells her. “I’m simply the quality control.”

I lift my wineglass to the pair of them. “And that is exactly why I don’t take either of you anywhere with a chandelier.” On second thought, there’s not an inch on this ship that isn’t covered by the light of a chandelier.

Marina shakes her head, her crimson hair catching the light. “And he dropped you from the ceiling?” The teasing empties right out of her voice. “Trixie, this ghost sounds dangerous.”

“Oh, she’s seen worse,” Bess assures her, spearing a roasted Brussels sprout. “Much worse. Remember the ghost who threw furniture, Trixie?”

“That was a fun week,” I say. “I still flinch at ottomans.”

“Magnus is harmless,” I tell Marina, and I mean it. “Dramatic, vain, and a menace to load-bearing ceilings, but harmless. Besides, irritating or not, that ghost is the best lead I’ve got. When the dead talk, I listen. Even when they’re dipping me at the time.”

I glance toward the entrance.

Ransom was called away before dinner to coordinate with the Swedish authorities and comb through security footage, and Wes is presumably up on the bridge steering the ship, or charting a course, or doing whatever it is captains do when they’re not eating dinner with attractive redheads.

I miss my husband with a low-grade ache I’ve decided not to examine, mostly because examining it won’t bring him to this table, and partly because at some point tonight I’ll have to explain tomorrow’s plans to him. I’m saving my strength for that performance. There may be interpretive hand gestures.

Which means for now it’s just us women, fancy comfort food, and murder talk. My favorite combination. I’d get it tattooed somewhere if I weren’t terrified of needles and commitment to fonts.

My plate deserves its own gallery wall. Chicken cordon bleu that melts in your mouth, scalloped potatoes with enough cream to alarm a medical professional, buttered rolls still warm from the oven, and macaroni and cheese with crispy edges that people would fight over at a family reunion. Luckily, no medical professionals are present. I checked.

Bess has the beef tenderloin with garlic butter, and it smells so good I’m reconsidering every decision that led me to chicken. Nettie is working on a lobster mac and cheese rich enough to require next-of-kin paperwork. And Marina picked the seared salmon with dill cream sauce, which manages to look virtuous and delicious at the same time. That feels unfair. Salmon shouldn’t get to have it all.