Dangerous Desire

20

Another casual dress awaits me on the bed, this one a lovely shell pink under a pattern of white palm fronds. It has cap sleeves and a scoop neckline and fits as perfectly as the yellow one did. There’s a lightweight jacket to go with, crisp white linen with a ragged-edged hem that hits me right at the hip and looks trendy and cute. The panties are simple white cotton. There is no bra. The tan leather moccasins are a size too big.

Did someone die for this outfit?

I shudder to think of how many female crew members there might have been before the Silver Shadow set sail from New York. If Killian would murder the captain for a few pills, the man is capable of absolutely anything.

Or did the captain meet his fate before today? Or even, perhaps, was Killian simply lying? I don’t know, but I do know I need to be extraordinarily careful with him. The man is too unpredictable.

I slowly make my way upstairs, fatigue weighting every cell in my body. I suspect I’ve caught an infection, possibly picked up something from the hospital and made it worse with my swim in the sea. I’m achy, feverish, and have a headache that throbs with every beat of my heart.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I stop and listen. I see no one, but I hear muffled conversation from somewhere nearby, behind a closed door or through an open porthole perhaps. I catch only snippets of sentences, the occasional word here or there, but it seems as if someone is having some kind of money problems. Something to do with his accounts being emptied, the money mysteriously transferred out to untraceable destinations.

I can tell by the French accent that someone is Raphael.

“Tabby,” I whisper, feeling a thrill in my blood.

It has to be. She did the same thing to Dimitri. Hacked into his bank accounts and drained them to zero using whatever magical knowledge she possesses in that genius brain of hers.

It hits me like a thunderbolt: they know where I am.

If Tabby is messing with Raphael’s money, it means she knows I’m on this ship. Naz knows I’m on this ship.

And he’ll be coming to get me.

Like buckshot from a shotgun, my mind blasts into a dozen different directions at once. My heartbeat accelerates until it’s so fast I’m breathless. Emotion lashes through my body. Hope and euphoria and terror and desperation all fight for dominance, leaving me frozen with ambivalence, my thoughts tearing this way and that.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this gut feeling is only whatever illness I’m coming down with. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions and this is merely a coincidence . . . but holy hell does it feel like I’m right.

One flashing warning light underscores all the chaos, something that in my exhausted haze escaped me earlier. If I don’t make it back to Dimitri, if Naz rescues me from this ship before Killian and Dimitri can make a deal about whatever it is Killian wants, it will be a disaster.

No matter the reason, no matter even if I’m dead, if I don’t return to Dimitri, he’ll kill Naz.

Maybe not this week. Maybe not next week, or even next month. But eventually he’ll find a way to eliminate him, to bring down the hammer on Naz’s head and end his life, inevitably in the most gruesome way possible.

No matter what, Dimitri always holds up his end of a bargain. It’s how I knew he’d keep my mother alive if I complied with his sick wishes. It’s how he’s earned such respect from everyone in his employ. Even his enemies know that Dimitri Ivanov—vicious psychopath though he might be—does whatever he says he’s going to do.

Always.

I can’t let Naz find me or he’s a dead man.

A door down the hallway past the media room opens, and I turn toward it as Raphael and Killian step out. Killian’s gaze sharpens as soon as it lands on me, as if he can read my mind. I look away, desperately trying to compose myself and think of a plan.

“Ah, there she is! How lovely you look in that dress, my dear.”

Raphael sounds strangely happy to see me. He probably thought Killian had dismembered me and thrown me piece by piece into the sea. “Hello, Raphael.”

Wringing his hands, he advances toward me with an expression of barely contained hysteria. “How are you feeling? Still feverish?”

I shoot Killian a glance, but look away quickly when I meet his eyes. It’s always difficult to look directly into them, but there’s something new in his gaze, beyond all the calculation and hardness. Something even more strange than Raphael’s relief to see me still alive.

Whatever it is, it’s profoundly disturbing. Worse even than that incongruous dimple of his.

“I’m fine, Raphael. Thank you.”

He stops in front of me and stares at me with his brow crinkled, then takes my hands. “Hair is fine, my dear,” he says, gently cradling my hands in his. “People are either well or they aren’t.”

“Oh. In that case, I’m not only well, I’m great. I’m excellent. I’m positively splendiferous.”

His face falls at my tone, which is as dry as bone. He produces a small sigh. “Yes, I see your point,” he says sadly. “And I want you to know I’m very, very sorry about all this—”

Killian’s hand closes so quickly around Raphael’s throat I barely register it when his arm lashes out. It’s a literal blur, then Raphael is clutching at his neck and making awful gagging sounds as Killian begins to crush his windpipe.

Instinctively, I launch into action. “Stop! Killian, stop it!” I shove him as hard as I can in the chest, which manages to do nothing but make him whip his head around and stare at me while Raphael struggles and gasps, his face turning beet red and his knees beginning to buckle.