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“Gabriel Rosencranz,” said Young Daniel Craig tersely, without rising. “CEO of Rosencranz Industries. I appreciate the invitation.”

And wasn’tthatabout as forthcoming as a turtle hiding in its shell. Still, there was information to be gained. He was English, and interestingly, he had the same sort of careful BBC pronunciation that Emma used. Another British model of my acquaintance—one whose daddy held a knighthood—had once told me dismissively that it was the accent of someone who’d grown up in the lower classes and was trying tobetter themselves.

Her sneer on the final two words had been audible.

I wasn’t sure how much trust to put in what had clearly been a catty remark, but it was interesting.

In my turn, I rose and pasted on my best appealing smile. “I’m Elijah Bardot from New York. I have two claims to fame. One, my mother is the second cousin twice removed of the French actress Brigitte Bardot. And two, I appear to be both the token male modelandthe token omega model on this yacht.” I let my tone turn teasing. “So, watch out, girls—affirmative action is coming for your jobs.”

Titters from some of the models greeted me, along with suspicious looks from others. Most of the rich dudes didn’t seem to know what to make of me, though one of the society wives was definitely giving me heavily Botoxed bedroom eyes.

Yeesh.

Em’s cousin stood up, having evidently missed the part where the rich guys weren’t doing that.

“Cade Huntwell,” he said self-importantly. His accent was also English, but closer to what I suspected Ms. Knighthood would have dismissively dubbed ‘the lower classes.’ He cleared his throat and continued. “My father and I control a substantial operation in London. We’re here to forge new business ties.Networking, don’t you know. And what better place to do it than on a yacht surrounded by beautiful women?”

I mentally made juvenile gagging noises, becauseew.

The painfully awkward procession continued. Both of the men with wives turned out to be associated with TSB, which made sense. Those wives probably knew better than to let them come here alone. One of the models was a former child prodigy who’d been a concert pianist, which was mildly interesting. Cade’s father was named Tommy, and Huntwell the Elder was a lot more commanding and a lot less forthcoming than his son had been. Then again, that was alphas for you.

Speaking of which...

I turned to Young Daniel Craig. Or,Gabriel Rosencranz, rather. “I used to hate it when the teacher made us do this on the first day of classes.”

He quirked a pale eyebrow and tipped his glass to his lips, taking a single sip of wine before setting it down. His blue eyes assessed me from russet hair to unbuttoned collar. “Somehow I have a hard time believing that.”

Promising start.

I lounged back in the chair, enjoying the hint of fresh moss and petrichor that teased my nostrils. “Oh, no. Complete wallflower, me. The confident showman you see before you today is nothing but a fabrication.”

“Hmm. Cut from whole cloth, are you? I suppose that’s apt, given your choice of career.” He saluted me with a shrimp fork and turned his attention to his appetizer, evidently unwilling to devote any more effort than that to casual flirtation.

Pity. Still, if I focused on his cool James Bond thing, I could mostly ignore the awkward vibes coming off Em’s creepy cousin on my other side.

I applied myself to the food, which was excellent. Shrimp salad, chicken consommé, couscous with lamb medallions,roasted asparagus, and a refreshing raspberry sorbet marched across my plate. I pitied the poor models who were watching every calorie and started scheming ways to smuggle Em some leftovers.

Tommy Huntwell cleared his throat, and I tensed.

“It seems we’re one guest short tonight,” he said, in a tone that might have been casual.

Casick, the CMO, frowned as he looked once more at Em’s empty chair.

And that was my cue. “I’m afraid Emma is feeling ill,” I said, striving for an equally casual tone. “She’s resting.”

Cade’s greasy gaze landed on me. “In her cabin?” he demanded.

“Well... yes,” I replied, caught out.I mean, where else would she be resting?

“Send the ship’s medic to take a look at the girl,” the elder Huntwell said gruffly. “Can’t have some Typhoid Mary getting the whole ship sick.”

I barely managed not to mouth ‘Typhoid Mary’in disbelief. What century was this, again?

But Casick was nodding. “Yes.” He gestured toward a steward. “An excellent idea. Go get Dr. Metzer and send him to Miss Hope’s cabin, please.”

Shit.

Oh well, as strategies went, it had been worth a try. Maybe she could plead seasickness.