He frowns. “You aren’t prepared to stay. You didn’t bring a bag or anything—all you have is your dress.”
“This place is a floating hotel, Jack,” Erin says matter-of-factly. “Georgia has everything stocked for guests. Complimentary pajamas, robes, toiletries. You don’t have to worry. She’s safe with us.”
“I’m sure she is,” he says, his tone laced with sarcasm.
Erin tugs me away from Jack’s side and says, “It’s settled then! She’s ours now. We’ll take good care of her. Georgia! Look! Brooke is staying! And don’t worry, Jack: I’ll have her home early, because I have to run to the station in the morning, if you remember.”
Georgia seems to glide over the floor as she separates from her husband’s arm and joins us. “Looks like it’ll be just the three of us tonight.”
“And Robert,” Jack says. “Don’t forget about your doting fiancé.”
Georgia lifts her hand in a dismissive wave. “He drank so much, he’ll be passed out in bed, dead to the world, in an hour flat.”
CHAPTER TEN
BROOKE
I should be exhausted, but I’m wide awake.
Warm in bed in my stateroom, I feel the yacht slowly rolling side to side as it slices through the bay. I’ve been searching Google for anything I can find on Georgia and her dead exes since Truth or Dare ended and we called it a night.
I check the time. Two a.m.
My head hurts from the hours of staring at the screen. Or maybe it’s the cocktails…or a sloppy combination of both. Either way, I’m fighting the migraine from hell as I try to piece Georgia’s story together, and I still wouldn’t be able to force myself to sleep a wink if my life depended on it.
The deeper down the rabbit hole I go, the darker Georgia’s past seems.
She was born into a middle-class family in Livermore. Lived in the California Bay Area her entire life. No siblings. Mother was a financial adviser for a local bank. Father worked as a software developer for an IT company. On the surface, it appears she had a stable home life.
But when I search for her mother’s name, an obituary pops up. Her mother and father were killed while on vacation in Australia. Freak boating accident. Georgia was sixteen at the time, and on the boat with them. Most likely watched her parents die. Only she and the captain of the boat survived.
That’s another thing Georgia and I have in common: I watched my father die as well. It does something to a person. It changes them, and not for the better. In the middle of the night, I see my father’s face, screaming in terror, though no sound comes from his gaping mouth. I wonder if she has visions of her parents’ deaths too.
The tragedy would explain why she doesn’t like Maxine. Suddenly Georgia’s seemingly-illogical hatred of Robert’s yacht isn’t so illogical after all.
Lawyers must’ve gotten in touch with Georgia after her parents’ death because she sued the boat company and won an undisclosed settlement. I can’t find anything on Georgia after that—no college records or any old social media accounts that would show what she was doing from the age of sixteen to twenty-three.
Until Eli Dalton came into her life.
At a young and vibrant twenty-five years old, Eli sold his software development company to Compaq for $150 million. Forbes called him an “up and comer” in the tech scene. Just days after the news broke about the multimillion-dollar deal, Eli met Georgia at a charity event in the city. Their wedding eighteen months later made national news. Cost him a fortune. She strutted through the church in a one-of-a-kind, form-fitting Oscar de la Renta, dragging the diamond-studded cathedral veil behind her. The pictures are breathtaking. She looked like an angel. Celebrities copied the style of the dress for their own weddings for years afterward. Five hundred people attended.
And then there was the prenuptial agreement. According to its provisions, the only way Georgia was getting out of that marriage with Eli’s money was if he died before her.
A year later, Eli slipped and cartwheeled down the staircase—Georgia’s staircase, as she bought the house alone. Public records show that her name is on the deed, and her name alone. Eli had landed at the bottom of the stairs, arms and legs broken in awkward angles like a demented starfish. At least that’s what the city paper had reported. Georgia had called 9-1-1 immediately—she claimed—and they’d rushed Eli by ambulance to St. Mary’s Medical Center.
Five years later, at thirty years old, Georgia met Andrew St. Claire in Hawaii. He was attending a charity event benefiting sea life, and she was donating millions of Eli’s hard-earned dollars to adopt a pod of whales.
He must’ve thought Georgia was adorable, the way she fawned over the sea life that she’d seemingly had no interest in seven years earlier. Andrew had inherited his fortune, and had been a different kind of rich his whole life. He didn’t have anything to prove, as Eli had. He’d outbid her on the pod, and then adopted them in her name.
I couldn’t even write something in a book that cute. Readers would claim men like him don’t exist in the real world.
Not even a year later, Georgia and Andrew were engaged. They were married on Waikiki Beach at sunset, just before her thirty-second birthday, with only his closest friends and family in attendance. She walked over the sand in a silky and elegant Vera Wang dress that, again, caused a stir in the fashion community. The images are magazine-worthy. Andrew placed a flawless ten-carat diamond on her finger. It was twice as large as the one Eli had given her.
Again, a prenup signed.
But sadly, according to one article, Andrew had “swallowed a bullet eight months after he married Georgia. She found him in the office of her home, his brains staining the back of an Italian leather chair she’d given him for Christmas that year.”
How she convinced these handsome, single, wealthy men to marry her and agree to hand over their millions should they die is beyond me. But neither of them had any family that they’d been especially close to. No children. No nieces or nephews that I can find in my hours of research.
I don’t have to guess where Georgia met Robert Donnelly.
A charity event at the yacht club, approximately four years after her second husband’s death. Georgia’s now in her mid-thirties, two husbands down with the next one on the line.
I’m deep into a fashion article speculating about the style of Georgia’s new wedding dress when something bumps against the side of the boat. It’s jarring. The sound of metal on metal.
We’ve hit something.
I sit up, scared, listening.
Another thump. This time, it’s softer. Not metal, but the yacht’s definitely hit something. Another bump knocks against the hull.
It’s as if the boat is rubbing against the dock, but that’s not right because we’re still moving. I feel the hum of the engines all around me. I open the closet, where I’d found the silk chemise earlier, slip into the matching robe, and sink my feet into the plush slippers. Peeking into the hall, I listen for more thumping, and look to see if anyone else has heard it as well.
Nothing out here. All quiet.
I close my stateroom door and hear it again. Right outside my room, but on the outside. This time, I lift the blinds and peer out the window. It’s black out there. Blinding black. I can’t even discern water from sky, and yet there’s something bobbing beside the yacht. Isn’t there? It can’t be my imagination. Another thump, just beyond my field of vision.
Clutching my phone, I text Georgia and Erin.
Either of you up?
I wait a few minutes, staring out the window into the blackness, when something definitely moves outside. It’s a shadow—no, it has a smooth form. It’s something bobbing in the water. A silhouette of something large marring the smooth, inky dark.
My heart begins to pound as I head into the hall. I think I remember Georgia saying her stateroom was the one at the end, but no
w, with the migraine piercing my skull, I’m not sure. The room across from me was Erin’s…right? Or had she been in the one beside me?
“Erin?” I whisper into the dimly lit hall. “Georgia? Anyone awake?”
The smooth purr of the engines answers me. As I tiptoe through the dining room and living area, where the party had been earlier, it’s cold and dark as a tomb. The curtains are all closed, table reset for breakfast.
A chill creeps up my spine. I should go back to my room, lock the door, and try to sleep.
There it is again. A bump of something against the side of the boat.
Unlocking the sliding glass doors that go onto the front deck, I shove back the glass. Wind blasts over the bay, sending goosebumps scattering across my skin and my hair flying around my face. I tighten my robe and tuck my hair into the collar as I step outside. With only the light of the moon illuminating the deck, I tiptoe around the lounge chairs and peer down the length of the right side of the boat—had Robert called it the port side? Or had this been starboard? I’m not really sure.
There’s nothing there. Bench seating. Small table for drinks. A ladder going down to the black water below.
A series of waves rock the yacht unsteadily, sending gusts of sea spray into the air, wetting my face and robe. It seems as if the boat’s motor grows louder, echoing through the night. I grip the railing, and then, when the yacht seems to steady, I swipe my eyes and peer into the darkness. The outline of a boat bobs over the waves, a stone’s throw away from the yacht.
Doubting my vision, I rub my eyes again, clearing the sea spray, and peer harder. It’s definitely a boat. Smaller than this one by a long shot. Maybe only twenty feet. It looks like one of those black rubber boats I’ve seen in movies—the ones the military trains on. It’s moving away from the yacht, and if I’d seen it earlier, it wouldn’t have caused concern.
But it’s sailing in complete darkness. No one seems to be in it. At least not that I can make out from this distance. Not even the moonlight reflects the metal of its hull. It’s the epitome of a ghost ship, and by the time I’m wondering if that’s the thing that had bumped against our boat, it’s gone.
To be sure, I glance over the side of the yacht toward my stateroom window. There’s nothing there that would bump against the window, but it’s water level. Maybe it was a log floating in the water. Or debris of some kind. The boat might’ve just been some fishermen out for a late-night catch. If there was one in the vicinity at all.
With one last search for the ghost ship on the horizon, I head back inside, closing the sliding doors behind me. When I turn around, someone’s standing in the center of the dining room, cloaked in shadow.
I gasp, but can’t breathe—the air has frozen in my lungs.
“What are you doing up?”
It’s Georgia. Her tone sounds strange. As if she’s suspicious rather than simply curious. And she doesn’t have that familiar sleepy rasp to her voice. It puts my walls up.
I point toward the starboard side. “I heard something out there, banging against the side of the ship.”
“Really?” She folds her arms over her chest. “I didn’t hear anything.” She pauses, and then, “Did you find out what it was?”
Pulse spiking, I swallow hard. I don’t even know why I should be nervous, but something about this whole situation has me wanting to go back to bed, and fast. “No, but I saw—at least I thought I saw, a boat close to ours, but moving away. That direction.”
She takes a slow step closer. “You thought you saw a boat?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t be sure.” I look to where it’d disappeared into the dark. “It didn’t have any lights.”
“Are you feeling all right? I know you said you weren’t feeling well earlier. Was it your head?” She’s still moving closer, and for a split second, when she reaches her hand out, I’m not sure what she’s going to do. But she rests the back of her hand on my forehead to test my temperature. “You’re cool. No fever.”
My heartbeat thumps in my ears. “I think I’m going to head back to bed.”
As I pass her, she mumbles, “Sleep like the dead, Brooke.”
I stop, turning around to stare at her silhouette in the dark. “What did you say?”
“Sleep your pretty head,” she says, unmoving, hands hanging oddly still at her sides. “Good night, Brooke.”
But I know what I heard—at least I’m almost sure what I heard—so I lock my stateroom door and climb into bed, certain I’m not going to sleep a wink the rest of the night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ERIN
WEDNESDAY
I have a little over an hour to get to my appointment at the station.
Plenty of time considering Georgia is the best hostess in the world. I don’t have to run home for a thing. It’s as if she knew Brooke and I would be staying overnight on the yacht. The closets are stocked with a variety of clothes and sandals in a range of sizes. I choose black Bermuda shorts, a floral blouse with a flouncy tie near the neck, and black wedges. I’m not going to tell her just yet, but I’m totally keeping this outfit. I spend the next twenty minutes in the bathroom that’s rather large for a yacht. Flipping my head over, I tousle my hair and run my fingers through in an attempt to give it that beach-wave look. I use generous amounts of skin cleaner, eye cream, toner, and moisturizer, yet still don’t feel awake enough to speak to my boss.
I shouldn’t have drunk so much last night. I still have bags under my eyes, and no amount of cream is going to fix that.
Georgia had told Brooke and me to leave our dresses hanging in the closets—that she’d have them delivered home later. What a treat. She really knows how to make a guest feel special.
As I step into the hall, I hear her voice carrying from the dining room. “What do you mean, he’s not here? He has to be here. This is a ship. There are only so many places he could be hiding. I’m not messing with you, Raul. Look everywhere.”
Raul—the one who must’ve been driving the ship during our foray last night—nods obediently and disappears belowdecks. Georgia turns to me, eyes wide, hands in her hair.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
She nearly collapses into my arms. “Robert’s not here.”
“What do you mean?” I pull back to read the desperation in her eyes.
“He’s gone.” Her eyes shift from the left to the right side of the ship. “When I went to sleep last night, he was beside me, and when I woke up in the middle of the night, he wasn’t in bed. I thought he might’ve been sleeping in one of the guest quarters, but just now Raul said those rooms were unused. Robert’s not answering text messages or any of my calls either. It’s like he’s vanished off the face of the earth.”
Despite Georgia’s anxiety, I’m not panicked. At all. What a change of pace, isn’t it? Is this how I look when my anxiety gets the better of me? A little ragged, nerves frayed, like I’m about to rattle apart? Anyway, I’m not freaked out because Robert takes off all the time. He’s kind of a nomad, that guy. There have been a few dinner parties at Georgia’s that I can recall specifically where we thought he’d gone to bed, but in reality, he’d taken an Uber into the city to frequent his favorite pub. It wasn’t a big deal. She’d get a little peeved, but that’s how he is. A free spirit or bird that didn’t want to be caged kind of thing.
“Okay, let’s calm down,” I say, smoothing my hands along Georgia’s arms. Her skin is cold to the touch. “We’re going to find him. It’s possible he drank too much last night and passed out somewhere.”
She nods, borderline hysterical. “That’s true.”
I’ve never seen her this panicked, not even when Eli and Andrew died.
“Or maybe he was ready to disembark right when we docked,” I offer. “It’s possible he took off without telling anyone. You know how he can be.”
“You don’t th
ink that—”
“No.” I put up my hand, stopping her. It’s best not to breathe life into terrible thoughts. “That’s not possible.”
Her eyes are wide, concerned. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
She distances herself from my embrace and paces in front of the windows. “Then why isn’t he answering his phone? He always answers when I call. I tracked him using the locator thing on our phones, and it shows that his phone’s battery is dead. Last registered location was under the Golden Gate.”
I don’t know how to respond. She’s right—it’s not like Robert to decline her calls, or to neglect to charge his phone. All the times he’s disappeared on us during parties, when Georgia’s called, he’s picked up his cell right away to ease her fears.
Brooke enters the room in khaki shorts and a white top, looking fresh-faced and clear-eyed, even after the night of drinking we had. I hate her now more than ever. Why can’t I ever look like that so effortlessly? Simply being near Brooke makes me feel old.
Georgia seems to come alive and rushes to her. “Did you see Robert last night?”
“What? Yeah. Of course.” She stops when Georgia charges closer. “We all did.”
“No,” Georgia spits, pointing toward the outdoor deck. “I mean when you got up last night. Did you see him?”
Brooke frowns quizzically. “No, I didn’t see anyone but you.”
Now I’m confused. “What are you talking about? When last night?”
“Brooke thinks she saw something in the water at, like, two in the morning. I heard someone moving around out here, and came out to see what was going on. She’d just come in from outside. And you didn’t see him? A weird splash in the water—anything?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Georgia, I wish I could say that I had. I just thought I saw a boat, that’s all. And I can’t even be sure about that.”
Making a whimpering sound, Georgia begins punching numbers on her cell.
The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives Page 9