Despite the urge to say something along these lines, however, my mouth stays firmly shut. I’m not that person for Riker anymore, and the sooner I can accept it, the better. As the situation with Tara has proven, there’s a side to Riker I don’t have access to—a side to him where other people help to prop him up. I’ll just have to trust that this new independence of his is more than a fluke, hope that he’ll be able to remember how far he’s come when he’s back on dry land.
If we all get back on dry land.
There aren’t many people in the cabaret lounge when we arrive, and since I plan on leaving as soon as I see everyone settled, I doubt it will remain busy for much of the day. As expected, the majority of the ship’s guests go wherever the tiara is. I already won my table, which means I have nothing but free time on my hands, so they’ll be spending the day watching me get my much-needed massages and nap time.
What? There’s not much more I need to do to put my plan underway, and I’m really sore. Being bound and at the mercy of Grant’s expert touch took a much bigger toll on me than I expected.
I’m still in the spa, an angry Swedish woman pounding my muscles into oblivion, when word hits that Kit O’Kelly took his table in a sweeping victory. Although my masseuse claims responsibility for my sudden and overwhelming relaxation, the real cause isn’t difficult to figure out. One down, one to go.
Of course, by the time Riker’s game ends, it’s much later in the day—he had a lot more ground to catch up and a lot more work to do to accomplish it. I’m on the outdoor terrace with Jordan and Tara, our dinner being served by an efficient Oz, when we finally hear the news.
“You should have seen the look on Two-Finger’s face when he lost,” a man says as he takes a seat at the table next to us. “I’m glad that young, angry-looking one beat him—Two-Finger’s been a cheat for as long as he’s been alive—but I wouldn’t trade places with him for anything. He’s made a lifelong enemy of that one.”
I look anxiously at my dinner companions, but they don’t appear unduly concerned.
“Guys, I’m worried—”
Tara shushes me by plopping her dessert, a quivering pile of custard covered in caramel sauce, in front of me. “If you think Two-Finger is the first enemy Riker’s made in his lifetime, you’re a fool,” she says and hands me a spoon. “Eat. He’ll be fine. In fact, he’s probably over the moon right now.”
She turns out to be correct. He and Lola join us on the terrace not too much later, the pair of them grinning and flushed with their first foray into victory. Riker is so used to losing—at cards, at love, at life, at everything—that being in the winner’s seat transforms him. He’s always at his best when he’s in the middle of a big job, boyish and grinning and, well, happy.
“Did you see the look on his face when—”
“Oh, yes. It was wonderful. I thought for sure we would get caught after—”
“Are you kidding? No one at the table suspected a thing—”
“Everyone hates him, you know. They loved seeing an underdog finally beating him at his own game. Besides, you’re so sweet and handsome and—” Lola cuts herself off and casts a flushed, anxious look at Tara. “I mean…”
Tara takes pity on her and pats her hand. “He’s the sweetest and most handsome man I know. You two did great today.”
It’s true—they did. All my pieces are set exactly where I need them to be. The final game begins tomorrow, and there’s literally nothing more standing in my way.
Which can only mean one thing: there’s no turning back now.
* * *
I realize the master key is missing as soon as I get ready for bed.
I’m not sure what prompts me to look for it, but it might have something to do with the fact that I’m packing my bags for a hasty departure. I doubt we’ll have time to come and collect our things before we leave, but I like to know the option will be there. All my wadded-up clothes return to the hard-shell case where they belong, with Tara’s precious silk prints laid lovingly on top. As soon as my fingers hit the metal ring in the center of the fated bikini, however, I’m recalled to another metallic object that once lived nestled close to my naked body.
“Oh, shit,” I say, rifling through my pockets and checking my bra pouch, even though I can’t remember the last time I thought about that key. “Where did I put it?”
“Where did you put what?” Lola asks as she emerges from the shower. Even though there’s no reason why she can’t return to her own room now, she’s decided that just as I protected her when she was saddled with the tiara, so too will she protect me.
Mostly I think she likes having the company, poor thing. As far as I can tell, she hasn’t talked to her father at all since she was in the infirmary. Even though my own father wasn’t around when I was her age, I still had my friends to count on. Lola is literally all on her own.
“Um, nothing,” I lie. “Just a memento I might have lost.”
Not one to take a hint easily, Lola comes over to help me in my search. “What kind of memento?” she asks. “I’m really good at finding things since my memory holds on to stuff for so long. When was the last time you saw it?”
“It’s a key,” I admit, though I don’t tell her what it’s capable of. “I know I had it with me the morning of your attack, because I was careful to put it in my bra pocket.”
Lola will probably never win an award for being the most astute girl in the world, but she doesn’t miss how odd that sounds. “You carry a key in your bra?”
I think fast. “Yeah. It’s a good luck charm.”
More like a terrible luck charm, but who’s counting?
“Oh, that makes sense.” She pauses, lips pursed. “You say you had it before the attack?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it. I remember because I scraped it on my skin as I was tucking it in.” As if to prove it, I lift the edge of my neckline down to show the tiny red scratch it caused.
“And afterward?”
“I can’t remem—” I begin, but of course I do remember. I remember very well. Afterward, Grant dragged me down to the engine room, where he wreaked havoc on every part of my body. A considerable portion of that time was dedicated to my bra and all that’s contained within it, but not once did either of us notice a key.
That’s when I recall the wayward hands in the plunging darkness of the cabaret lounge—and how odd I found it that someone would use that moment to cop a feel.
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” I start tearing through my bags anew. “It can’t be missing. It can’t be gone.”
But of course it is. Ever the trooper, Lola helps me work my way systematically through every item of clothing I have and every pocket in them. It’s no use. I know, in the depths of my heart, that the key isn’t there. It’s only after we’ve exhausted all possible hiding spaces that I allow myself to admit how badly I’ve screwed up.
I slide to a sitting position against the wall adjoining my father’s room, Lola beside me, all four of our short-girl legs out in front of us.
“Is it really so terrible if it’s gone?” Lola asks in a small voice. “I mean, you say you lost it two days ago. That means you didn’t have it yesterday, and Riker still won his poker game. Your luck held just fine.”
I stifle a groan. Unfortunately, my luck has little to do with that. Neither did Riker’s. That was good ol’ cheating and manipulation.
Lola hesitates in that meaningful way people have before they start speaking again. I wait for it, sure I know what’s coming.
“You’re planning something tomorrow, aren’t you?” she asks. “That’s why you wanted Riker to win against Two-Finger—it’s why you need the good luck key now. Are you going to steal it?”
Thanks to our intensive search, the it in question sits askew on my head, poking me with its prongs and making me long to take up a nice, quiet life of embezzling instead.
“Yes, Lola.” I’m careful not to look at her. “I’m going to steal it.”
“Oh. Okay. Cool.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That’s it? Cool?”
“I told you that if anyone is going to have it, I want it to be you,” she says. “It’s what I thought the first time I met you, and it’s what I think now. It’s what I’ll think forever. You’re the only person on this boat who likes me, the only one who cares whether I live or die.”
“That isn’t true, and I don’t want to hear you say it again,” I snap.
Just as she never winces when Riker grumbles, never cries when her father’s cold look settles on her, so too does she accept my harsh words with a nod.
Dammit. How did her father ever think she could follow in his footsteps? Why would he want her to be more like me? Can’t he see that she’s way too good for this life we lead?
I snatch her hands in mine, softening my tone to say, “There are so many people here who care about you, Lola. I mean it. Do you think Tara accepts just anyone in her inner circle? Did you notice how Jordan always makes sure you’re eating well and getting rest? Even Riker smiled at you yesterday—I saw it with my own two eyes. And he smiles, like, three times a year, max.”
Her lips quiver. “Do you promise?”
“That Riker only smiles three times a year? Oh, yeah. I counted.”
Her laugh is mostly a sob. “Does that mean you’ll let me help you steal the tiara tomorrow? I won’t get in the way. I swear, Penelope, I won’t. Please let me help you. It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”
I don’t know how to respond, my heart heavy in my chest.
“Oh,” she says and brushes a tear from her cheek. “I see. You’ve already made your plans.”
“You’ll be safe,” I say. “We won’t leave you behind. And you did help by getting Riker to the next round. We couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
“Of course.” She nods and gets to her feet, doing the worst impersonation of a happy person I’ve ever seen. “You know what you’re doing. There’s no need for me to be involved. There’s no need to take me into your confidence.”
I watch her move around the room and tidy up my things, her gaze never straying to mine. I wish I could take her into my confidence—assure her that not only are Tara and Jordan and Riker looking out for her, but the suave Kit O’Kelly, as well. Unfortunately, there’s still too much danger involved to let her know about my relationship with Grant.
That truth will have to wait until I have him safe and back home again.
“I hate to do this, Lola, but you can’t stay here tonight.”
She looks up from the act of folding a skirt. “What?”
I think about that master key and what it means now that it’s missing. Almost anyone could have taken it from me in that panicked flight to Lola’s side. That it hasn’t been used yet to steal the tiara is no comfort whatsoever. A good thief bides her time, waits to strike at the best possible moment.
Like, you know, the night before the final game begins.
“Being with me is too dangerous right now,” I say. “I think it might be best if you stay with Jordan tonight.”
She recoils as if struck. “You’re kicking me out?”
“Of course I’m not kicking you out,” I say, prepared to assuage her hurt feelings and draw her into my arms. Unfortunately, a look of optimism replaces the injured kitten look, and I realize that the only way to get rid of her—for both our sakes—is to rip the bandage off as quickly as possible. “Actually, yes, I am. I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in weeks, and I need to rest up before the big game tomorrow. You’ll be a distraction if you’re here.”
If I’d said that to any of my other friends, they’d have laughed and berated me for being a grump. We’ve been through way too much to take offense at the occasional need for solitude—like a family, we’re stuck together whether we like it or not. But Lola isn’t used to good-natured ribbing, and she’s emotionally fragile enough that rejection hits her hard.
“Oh. Okay. I understand.”
She doesn’t understand—at least, not yet—but she meekly submits when I call Jordan to come collect her. Jordan doesn’t demand an explanation, but I know she’s curious, especially when I add that I’m going to bunk down with my dad for the night.
“Whatever you say, Pen,” is her reply, but I can tell she thinks I’m being needlessly cruel to Lola.
I don’t disagree. Considering that I’m about to rob Lola’s father blind and endanger the lives of everyone I care about in the process, needless cruelty is just the start.
23
The Extraction
Much to my dismay, I make it through the night with all my body parts—and the tiara—intact. Not once during the long night did anyone attempt to break in and rob me; at no point did I feel the need to flee to the safety of my father’s side.
It sounds strange, I know, but I’d been half hoping someone would use the key to try and take the Luxor. At least then I’d know who had it, feel the relief of knowing the worst had already happened.
As it is, I’m forced to accept the possibility that the key simply fell out of my bra during the scuffle. Maybe it got kicked to a dark corner. Perhaps someone threw it overboard. And if someone does still have it, hoping they can strike tonight…well, they’re going to be disappointed.
By tonight, I have every intention of being as far away from this ship as possible.
In honor of the final seven sitting down to play the last game of the tournament, the cabaret lounge is teeming with spectators settling down on the severe metal bleachers. While the suspicious glances they send my way aren’t what you’d call welcoming, my plan’s success hinges on as public a spectacle as possible, so I can only be glad to see that so many people have come out to witness this final game.
Extra seating has been put in the empty spaces where the seven tables used to sit; this time, a lone table is set up in the middle of the room for gameplay. The names are clearly marked on the chairs so we all know our places. I, naturally, am at the head of the table—a position chosen by Peter to ensure that everyone will be able to keep an eye on me at all times.
From there, most of the names are familiar ones: Warren Blue, Tara Lewis, Riker Smith, Kit O’Kelly, Peter Sanchez. If this wasn’t a matter of life or death, and if I didn’t fear that every bite of food I’ve eaten over the past few days is poisoned, this would have been an ideal outcome. The game is strongly stacked in favor of my friends and family—I like the odds of one of us actually being able to win this thing.
“Good morning, everyone,” Peter says as we approach the table. In honor of the day’s events, he’s worn his whitest, crispest linen suit. “I’m happy to see you looking well rested. The day promises to be an eventful one.”
His comments are spot-on. With the exception of Riker, who’s scowling and smells of fuel, we all look incredibly calm at the prospect of one of the most intense, challenging games of poker ever to be played. If Peter knew us better, he’d be aware that nothing is more alarming than this particular group sitting down amicably together. Most of the time, not even Grant and I can sit down to dinner without one of us turning the meal into a competition.
“How’s my tiara this morning?” Peter sends a questioning look my way.
“She had a difficult time waking up, but I bathed her in coffee, so she should be perking up any time now,” I say. “Oh, and a man tried jostling me as I left breakfast, but the man behind him was carrying a fork and stabbed him in the forearm. I suggest plasticware the next time you do this. People are getting desperate.”
The story isn’t exaggerated—that really did happen. From the look of it, the stab went all the way down to the bone.
Peter chuckles. “With any luck, we’ll wrap things up either today or tomor
row, and we’ll get that tiara in safer hands. I can’t thank you enough for volunteering to wear it in my little Lola’s place.”
“Anytime,” I say with a grand smile.
Next to me, Grant is so angry, I can feel his emanations reaching out to strangle me. He didn’t try to make contact with me at all yesterday, and my towels have been sadly message-free, but he’s walking easier today. If nothing else, at least I have that to be grateful for.
“Are we going to stand around and chat all day, or are we getting this game going?” Tara asks as my father pulls out her chair and hands her into it. He also leans down and murmurs something in her ear, which causes her to fall into a trill of laughter.
I have to hand it to him. Never, in all my life, have I seen my father give in to public displays of affection. That he’s willing to play the role of provocative lover for my husband’s sake imbues me with some much-needed confidence. Together, we can do this. We have to.
“That’s my spot,” Riker says as my dad begins to lower himself into the chair next to Tara. “You’re on the other side.”
My father’s brows raise a fraction. “Why, so I am. How remiss of me not to have noticed.” He turns his attention to Tara. “Do you need anything else before the game gets started?”
She lifts a fond hand to his cheek. “Aren’t you sweet? Just send me a few extra aces, and I should be fine.”
“I’ve had more than enough cheating for one tournament, thank you very much,” Riker mutters as he drops jerkily to his chair.
Peter pulls a similar routine with me, helping me to my chair and making sure I’m comfortable before taking his own seat. Nothing could be more catastrophic in upsetting Grant, who bristles to see me on good terms with the man trying to kill us all. He sits in mute anger, watching my every movement as though I’m going to run away with the tiara at any second.
I’m not—at least, not for a few hours—so I sit back in my seat and wait for the game to begin.
Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 26