“The poker game starts at ten tomorrow, so we should get to bed early,” I say, and casually set the penguin on the side table. My sunglasses slide off, dislodging his beak and showing the edge of a slip of paper protruding like a tongue. “You should take a shower—I’m sure you need it after our big day.”
“With this thing on, though?” she asks and touches the tiara on her head.
I’d almost forgotten it was there. It’s strange to think I could get used to the sight of two hundred carats in just a few hours, but the tiara no longer has the same dazzling effect. I can’t help wondering if that’s part of Peter Sanchez’s plan—to get us all so inured to the sight of it, it’s just another twenty-million-dollar rock.
“Well, your father did say you’d have to wear it in the shower, but unless he somehow sneaked cameras past my dad…”
At the mention of her father, Lola’s lips pull down. “No, you’re right. I better follow Daddy’s orders to the letter. It’s the only way. If I take the tiara off and something happens to it, he’ll be sure to blame you for it. We wouldn’t want another Bernadette situation.”
Um, yeah. We definitely don’t want that.
“Just do the best you can,” I say and direct her toward the bathroom. “You go in there and relax. It’s been a big day.”
“It has, hasn’t it?” she asks, her chest rising. “I think it might be the best day I’ve ever had.”
It takes me a moment to follow her line of reasoning. I meant the term big day as a euphemism for exhausting day, emotionally draining day, a day in which her father revealed himself to be the most ruthless and uncaring parent in the world. If it were me in her place and my father traded my safety and well-being for the sake of a stupid diamond, I’m not sure I would’ve had the strength to make it through.
To Lola, however, there’s nothing but joy in the hours she spent in the company of me and my friends. Sure, there were five hundred people keeping a close watch on her, and yes, her death was a possibility at every turn, but for the first time in her hard, strange, isolated life, she got to enjoy herself like a normal young woman.
My heart, already strained with empathy for the girl, cracks.
“Take your time in there,” I say roughly. “I’m not going to shower until the morning, so there’s no hurry.”
“Thank you, Penelope,” she says.
She looks as if she wants to add more, but I turn away to prevent any additional outpourings of gratitude. There’s nothing to thank me for—not really—and I still have reservations about my ability to keep her out of harm’s way. Especially if, as the rumors suggest, the likes of Eden St. James, Two-Finger Tommy, and Johnny Francis are lying in wait for the first opportunity to steal that tiara.
I wait until I can hear the water running before I tear into the penguin, hoping for a long, rambling explanation of Grant’s intentions and what he wants me to do next.
So of course I don’t get one.
I knew I could count on the great Penelope Blue. Keep that tiara safe for me, okay?
And that’s it. No mention of Kit O’Kelly’s intentions or how the hunt for Johnny Francis is progressing. There’s not even a hint about what he’s doing in Peter Sanchez’s pocket. Just some basic instructions.
It’s so typical of him. High-handed mystery is his default status.
As I prepare to rip the paper to shreds so I can dispose of the evidence, I notice a postscript on the back. That, too, is so typical of Grant, I can’t help but laugh.
You dated that guy? Really?
I can practically see him shaking his head at me from the other side of the boat.
I think I preferred it when I only had Riker to worry about.
11
The Visitor
My dad doesn’t appear in his room before we’re ready to turn in, which means I’m forced to leave the adjoining door slightly ajar with a note informing him that he should keep an ear out for attempts at robbery and/or murder. A note’s not how I prefer to do things, but I also don’t want to leave Lola alone for any length of time to hunt him down, so it has to do.
I also follow Grant’s directions and channel my inner FBI agent to make a full sweep of the room. I start with the balcony—which, if I was planning on making a clandestine entry, is exactly where I’d get in. Several of the rooms on this side of the ship have outdoor balconies, which means a crafty thief could leap from one to another, slowly but surely making her way toward this one. Granted, hanging off the side of a moving cruise ship is a pretty strong deterrent, but given the quality of thieves aboard this boat, it’s a definite possibility.
There don’t seem to be any hooks or carabiners in my line of sight, but I slick the railings with a bottle of coconut-scented body oil from my bathroom anyway. It’s a terrible waste of the oil, which smells quite nice under the wide Caribbean sky. I also feel slightly guilty at the thought of sending one of my peers careening off the side of the ship and into the ocean, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Hopefully, anyone trying to head in this way will have a security harness on. Or at least a life raft waiting down below.
That task completed, I lock the sliding door securely and draw the curtains tight before I start knocking on the walls to see if any sound hollow.
“What are you doing?” Lola asks from the bed. She’s much better at this whole girls’ night sleepover thing than I am, sitting cross-legged as she braids her damp hair. The tiara is perched carefully on top of her head, glinting like a party favor.
“I’m making sure no one can sneak in while we’re sleeping,” I say and keep knocking. I might not be good at braiding, but this I can do. “How’s the battery life on your cell phone?”
“Um…decent. Why?”
“I’d like to set it up near the door with a motion detector app. It’s not the best tech in the world, but it’s better than nothing. Does this wall panel sound different to you?”
She unfolds herself from the bed and places her ear against the wall. “Do it again.”
I knock on that one and the panel next to it, but Lola shakes her head. “They sound the same to me.” She pauses. “You’re really good at this sort of thing. Do people sometimes hire you to be their bodyguard?”
“Not if they want to stay alive for very long,” I say. But then I see her stricken face and regret my flippant words. “I’m sorry—that wasn’t a very good joke.”
It’s an accurate one, though. As the bodyguard of one Agent Grant Emerson, I’m failing spectacularly. I haven’t thought about Johnny Francis or the FBI in hours.
“If you want to know the truth, all I’m doing is figuring out the different ways I might try to get into this room undetected,” I explain. “Then I’m making sure no one else can do the same.”
She perks. “You’d have climbed onto the balcony from the outside?”
“I might have, yes.”
“Even with the bowed grade of descent?”
I stare at her. “The what now?”
“The way the ship curves on the outside,” she explains in a tone so matter-of-fact, she might be telling me about what she had for dinner. “When you rappel down a cliff, there’s usually a straight or measurable angle from the top. But between the Shady Lady’s shape and her velocity as she moves through the water, you’d have to account for—”
“Yeah, um, I don’t know what any of that means. I would have just charmed my way into a room a few doors down and jumped from balcony to balcony.”
“Oh,” she says, nonplussed. “I guess that would work, too.”
I pause. “So…you’re like a mathematical genius, right?”
“Oh, no. Not me.” She laughs and shakes her head, whipping her wet braid over one shoulder. A few droplets flick my cheek. “I can remember things like numbers and facts, but I don’t know anything else. I only finished high school because Dadd
y got me private tutors, and even then, he had to pay someone off for my diploma. He’s always telling me how useless I am. He wanted to teach me the family business so I could carry it on when he retires—kind of like you and your dad—but I couldn’t do it. I don’t like to hurt people.”
I don’t say anything. And here I thought my family was messed up.
“If you didn’t manage to get in through the balcony, what else would you have tried?” she asks brightly.
There’s nothing in her tone to indicate she’s suffering from the aftereffects of a cruel and unusual upbringing, so I answer her as levelly as I can.
“I might cut through a wall panel—which is what I’m sounding for now—or find a hiding place to wait in. I looked in all the cupboards and the laundry basket, but they’re clear. So are the suitcases.”
“Oh, of course.” She nods. “Like the Tailortown job.”
“Exactly.”
“Would you also try to come through the door?” Lola asks. “That’s why you want my cell phone?”
I don’t tell her about Hijack’s master key still tucked in my bra.
“It’s just a precaution,” I say. “Given how secure these locks are, a door entry isn’t likely. There are too many people, both staff and guests, milling around in the hallway—and thanks to your dad’s threat, the last thing anyone wants is a witness to this theft. But it never hurts to be safe.”
“You sure know a lot about this stuff,” Lola says. “I’m glad you’re on my side. I feel a lot better knowing you won’t let anything bad happen to me. You won’t, will you?”
I wince. “About that, Lola…”
“You’re wrong when you say anyone under your protection would end up dead. I don’t think that’s true. I don’t think that’s true at all.” A wobbly smile crosses her lips. “Anyone lucky enough to have you looking out for them is sure to be okay.”
Even though I want to correct her misguided assumptions, words are having a hard time escaping the tight squeeze of my throat. I hope she’s right. There are far too many people on this boat depending on me.
“You better secure that tiara to your head and get to sleep,” I say, mostly to forestall any other emotional outpourings. “I’m going to bunk down near the sliding glass door. I’m not sure I trust that coconut oil to do the trick.”
“That doesn’t sound very comfortable,” Lola says with a frown.
No, it doesn’t. But the couch is bolted down, so I have no choice but to grab a pillow and head for the floor. It’s not ideal, but since the alternative is to disappoint all the people on board this boat counting on me to keep them alive, I don’t see what other choice I have.
* * *
I only get a few indifferent hours of sleep before I hear the muffled sounds of the first attempt on our lives.
Sleeping on the floor turns out to be a great way to stay vigilant and wary of intruders, because the deep ache of my hips grinding against the floor makes it impossible to get comfortable for more than a few minutes at a time. I toss and turn and wedge pillows in unlikely places, but nothing seems to do the trick. It only takes a slight scratching and a hissed whisper in the distance to jolt me to awareness.
My first thoughts are of Lola and her twenty-million-dollar burden. Clutching my bedding like a weapon, I prepare to smother and/or pillow-fight the intruder to the death. But other than the gentle and steady sound of the girl’s breathing, I detect nothing amiss. The glint of the diamond on her pillow provides enough light for me to see the dark swirls of her hair that have come loose and wound their way around the tiara’s prongs. Those will be awful to untangle in the morning, but she appears to be fine otherwise.
And who wouldn’t be, on that cloud of a bed with all those lovely pillows padding her hips?
More furtive movements sound to my left. I force my creaking bones into a crouched position and cock my head to try and ascertain the direction it’s coming from. The dark shadows of the room make it impossible to see every corner, but the blinking red light of Lola’s phone at the door and the lack of movement behind me indicate that the two most obvious portals are secure.
As quietly as possible, I shift to the edge of the room and wait for the sound to return.
It comes a few seconds later, this time as a low-throated laugh and a purring sound I can’t place. Unless I’m mistaken, the intruder is near the conjoining door to my father’s room. I hold my smothering pillow tighter.
The unknown sound picks up again, followed shortly by a soft thump and a muted, “Oh, Warren…”
Okay. Yep. I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s going on now, and I regret everything.
“The door to the other room is locked, right?” the female voice says, soft and indistinct. “I wouldn’t want anyone to…”
Overhear the sounds of my dad having sex with some random woman he picked up on the cruise? Yeah, that would be a terrible thing to foist on a girl.
My father murmurs some kind of response, which increases in volume as he approaches the door. I can tell the exact moment he realizes it’s ajar, his pause heavy as he reads the note I left informing him of my visitor.
“I’ll be damned. She’s either the most brilliant thief in the world or the most foolish,” he says. “She’s got the girl in there with her.”
I can’t make out the woman’s reply, which I assume is delighted surprise. And why wouldn’t she be delighted? My father is a remarkably good thief—there’s no denying it—but it appears he’s just as stupid as every other man when sex is on the line. He basically just told that woman where she can find quick and unsecured access to the Luxor Tiara.
There’s another laugh and the snick of the latch closing. I also hear the telltale click as my dad locks the door from his side. The added security doesn’t make me feel comforted. I’m happy my dad isn’t wallowing in his loneliness, of course, but what’s stopping that woman from sneaking in here as soon as his passions are sated and taking what she wants?
Unfortunately, I know the answer to that question. Me.
As quietly as I can, I also turn the lock from my side. Yanking my blankets close, I abandon my post by the balcony to resume a long night of not-sleep closer to his door instead. At this rate, I might be able to sneak a few hours of shut-eye before dawn.
The great Penelope Blue is starting to seriously regret she ever agreed to this trip.
12
The Competition
The next morning dawns bright and clear—and by bright and clear, I’m talking about the diamond on Lola’s head, not my mood. Although it’s a relief to see the tiara intact and us with it, I can’t help but feel uneasy about any visitors still resting next door. The last thing I want to do is confront my father regarding his late-night booty call, but I fear the task lies in my immediate future.
Yay, me.
Lola, in her bright optimism, notices nothing amiss. Like so many of the people in my life, she’s up way too early and with way too much enthusiasm about the day ahead. I guess it could be worse. At least she’s not trying to make me drink algae.
“We have just enough time to grab breakfast before the games start,” she says as she gets dressed. She’s still weirdly obsessive about following her father’s instructions to the letter, which means I have to help her as she tries to pull a shirt on around the tiara’s prongs. “You didn’t change your mind about letting me sit with you, right? I can still keep you company at the table?”
“As long as the rest of the players don’t mind, I can’t see why not.” In fact, I think they’d prefer it that way. Nothing feeds the competitive spirit like a highly visible prize. “I’m sure they’ll all agree that your safety is the most important thing.”
I reach something of an impasse as I search my own bag for something to wear. While I’d like to keep up my new reputation by wearing something daring and authoritative, eight hours is a
long time to sit at a table playing cards. My instinct says to go full yoga pants and forget about the rest.
In the end, I go for the middle ground—an asymmetrical top and a tight black skirt that, if you cut a few inches off the hem, might pass for something Tara would wear. I sigh as I think about the likelihood of her descending on me tomorrow and picking my clothes out for me.
Lola hears the sigh and assumes it’s meant for her. “I promise not to talk any more than necessary,” she says and makes the motion of a zipper over her lips. “I’ll just sit quietly and observe. I can, you know, especially when people are doing something like playing poker. When my brain is busy, my mouth takes a rest.”
I pause in the act of slipping a pair of flat-soled sandals on my feet. I don’t like the way that busy brain part sounds—especially since I’m starting to understand the way her brain works. “Um…can you count cards, Lola?”
“Of course!” Her wide-eyed incredulity suggests that not counting cards would be a much stranger occurrence. “I mean, I don’t do it on purpose, and Daddy says that under no circumstances am I to let anyone know about my abilities, but it’s impossible to turn it off once the cards start flipping over. That’s why Daddy won’t let me play in the tournament. I always win.”
I bite back a groan. As if there weren’t enough problems with this girl. Of course she’d be some kind of poker whiz on top of everything else.
“I hate to say this, Lola, but if you can count cards, I’m not sure you should sit at the table with me. If word gets out, people might think I’m cheating.”
“Oh.” Her face falls. “That would be bad.”
Yeah. Bad is right.
“Maybe you can find a seat in the nearby bleachers,” I suggest. “I doubt anyone is going to take the tiara in such a public place. That’s the whole point of your dad’s security plan—you literally have hundreds of bodyguards.”
“You’re right. Of course you’re right.” Lola’s smile is so sudden and pronounced, I know it’s fake. “I wouldn’t want to be in the way any more than I already am.”
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