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Hugo snarled at the other man and slammed his laptop closed. He ripped his phone out of his pocket and called the number James had sent.
“Hugo?” James answered as Hugo unlocked the library door.
“We’re going silent on our end,” James said softly. “It’s going to be okay. Good luck.”
Hugo shoved his phone in his pants pocket. It took three tries, he was shaking so badly.
He took the stairs as fast as he dared, following the circuitous route to the third-floor private apartment that had been their wedding venue.
He wished Lancelot were here. He would know what to do; he would figure out a way to rescue Sylvia and then get all three of them off this island.
But he was glad Lancelot wasn’t here. At least this way, if he and Sylvia were both dead, there would be someone to tell their families what had happened. Someone to mourn them. Their love was still new, their marriage less than seventy-two hours old. Lancelot would be able to marry again, love again.
That was assuming Eric didn’t figure out some way to wipe all members of the Masters’ Admiralty off the map.
Charming. That was one of the traits of a psychopath. Eric could be charming. He could also be a sarcastic ass.
Arrogant. He was that.
Master manipulator. Again, that fit Eric, but all the good fleet admirals probably had been.
Hugo put a hand on the doorknob.
Please be alive. Please be alive.
Remorseless. Unable to feel emotions, only mimic them. That didn’t describe Eric at all. He might hide his feelings, cover them with sarcasm, but Hugo would bet his life—was about to bet his life—that Eric felt emotions as deeply as any of them.
So didn’t that mean Eric couldn’t be the mastermind? Couldn’t be the killer they were seeking.
He turned the knob, opening the door.
Eric was standing, bare-chested, before the wall of glass that looked out over the cliff and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
And Sylvia lay on the floor at his feet.
Hugo’s heart stopped.
“Sylvia,” he breathed. Before Hugo had made the conscious decision to move, he was running toward Eric. Rage and grief flooded through him. He would rip this man apart with his bare hands.
“What should the aperture setting be?” Sylvia asked. She wiggled on the floor, turning so he could see the large black camera she held.
“You need to be shooting between f 2.8 and 4.” Eric’s tone was resigned. “This picture is going to be stupid.”
“It’s going to be beautiful. A scarred angel warrior.”
“This is a terrible angle. You’re looking up my nostrils.”
“This is the only way I can get the light behind your shoulders to look like wings.”
Hugo had skidded to a stop and was staring at them, mouth agape. She wasn’t dead. She was…lying on the floor taking pictures of a half-naked Eric.
Hugo dropped into a chair and put his head in his hands.
“I think you gave your husband a heart attack.” Eric sounded only mildly interested. “I told you he wouldn’t like it if he walked in and I was half naked.”
“Nudity for art doesn’t count,” Sylvia said.
“That’s a good excuse. Can I use that?”
