Page 24

“Drinks first,” Elijah said. “For god’s sake, try to act natural, both of you.”

He pasted on a smile and sidled up to the bar. I was reasonably sure I saw his long, copper-colored eyelashes flutter at the bartender. “Vodka and tonic, please,” he requested, before turning back to us. “What’ll it be for you two?”

I gestured for Ms. Hope to order first.

“A Fairy Godmother, please,” she said, making me feel both old and hopelessly out of touch, since I had no idea what that was.

“Bourbon on the rocks,” I said.

We waited while the bartender made the drinks with a flourish. The Fairy Godmother apparently involved absinthe as well as a slew of other ingredients. It arrived a less putrid shade of green than absinthe straight from the bottle would have been, at least.

Elijah handed our drinks to us, and I was struck again by how tall they both were. Perhaps that was another unwritten rule of the modeling industry, but there were only a few inches of difference between myself and Ms. Hope, while Elijah and I werenearly of a height. I led the way to an unoccupied section of the railing near the bow of the ship, looking out across an unbroken expanse of moonlit waves.

“Well,” Elijah said awkwardly, “this is nice.”

Apparently, he’d hit the boundaries of whatever forward planning had gone into this little venture.

“Yes,” Ms. Hope agreed. “Um. Pleased to meet you. Thanks for d-doing this.”

With her back to the main part of the deck, her shoulders looked as tense as though she expected someone to physically tackle her from behind. The faintest hint of blackcurrant from her cocktail tickled my nose along with the stronger smell of absinthe, mixing with the now-familiar rosewater scent of Elijah’s pheromones.

We stood, sipping our drinks, with Elijah intermittently attempting banal small talk to defuse the increasingly awkward atmosphere. I returned his volleys to the extent necessary not to leave the poor bloke twisting in the wind, but small talk had never been my forte.

When the drinks were finished, I raised an eyebrow. “Would it better serve your purposes for me to invite you both back to my cabin?”

They exchanged glances. I could sympathize with their conundrum. Follow an alpha they didn’t know back to his room? Or stay out in the open, where the Huntwells could easily find them?

“That might be safer,” Elijah said.

Ms. Hope gave a single, tight nod.

I shepherded them back to the main staircase, stopping only to exchange pleasantries with a few people who’d probably discovered how rich I actually was and wanted tonetwork. God, how I hated that kind of thing, even though it was a necessity in business.

Elijah sparkled in the presence of other people, though I imagined I could see the hairline cracks in his façade. Ms. Hope, by contrast, appeared to be past the point of professional masks. No doubt she was as skilled as her companion in selling an image during better times—but whatever mess she was wrapped up in, it had stripped her of that ability, at least for the moment.

I unlocked my cabin door and ushered them inside. There was no way to close it completely without the electronic lock engaging. Unfortunately, we needed to have a serious conversation, and I didn’t want any passing betas listening in through the gap.

“I’m sorry about the lock,” I told them. “If you want to leave at any point, just say so. But if you’re staying, I expect some answers.”

Ms. Hope crossed her arms—an unconscious defensive posture. The smell of roses and rain already filled the cabin, but the alluring hint of absinthe and blackcurrant still clung to her. Perhaps she’d spilled a bit of the drink on her white sheath dress, given how badly her hands had been shaking.

“I think you’d better tell him, Em,” Elijah said. “We’re a bit short on allies, here.”

Ms. Hope huffed and turned away.

“The Huntwells aren’t good business partners,” she told the jade-inlaid wall. “They do have a business back in London, but it’s not exactly what you’d call...”

“Legal?” I suggested. “Yes, I’m aware. What’s their interest in you?”

Her shoulders stiffened, though she didn’t move otherwise. “Tommy Huntwell is my uncle. He and my father didn’t get on, to put it mildly.”

“I see.” I slotted that information neatly into place. “Elijah said you didn’t know they were going to be here, but they knewyouwere here.”

Her shrug was a jerky thing, like a marionette controlled by a clumsy puppeteer. “Looks like it.”

Elijah cleared his throat. “Could they have, I dunno, manipulated you into accepting this gig somehow?”

At that, she turned. “I don’t see how.” But her gray eyes—the same color as Tommy Huntwell’s, now that I thought about it—looked haunted.