Page 5 of An Epic Voyage (The Epic Beauty Salon Files #1)

I ndigo rolled her suitcases along the boardwalk, enjoying the warm breeze off the Atlantic Ocean.

The caw of seagulls circling overhead mingled with the gentle lap of waves against the wooden pylons.

Soaring palm trees lined the shore in all their tall, elegant glory.

They were her favorite, but she never got the chance to see them in Boston.

Indy burned easily, so she’d slathered on sunscreen in the airport bathroom, and the faint scent of coconuts tickled her nose.

It reminded her of sultry nights and exotic drinks garnished with fruit skewers.

Not that she’d indulged in a vacation like that in years, but, hey, a girl could dream, right?

During the three-hour flight to Miami, she’d done more digging on Van Houten. She wasn’t worried about anyone confiscating her phone and finding her browser history. It could easily be explained as researching her last-minute client.

Indy felt as prepared as humanly possible. Evangeline and Jackson’s brief had been thorough. Gossip websites filled in the rest. She probably knew more about Benedict Van Houten than he did about himself.

A fine-living magazine had published a piece about his yacht.

From all accounts, it was a floating luxury hotel with amenities galore.

It was also massive. Indy wasn’t sure she’d have enough time to search it before they reached his resort.

She’d have to do the best she could while avoiding suspicion.

As she navigated the pier, the boats grew larger and more ostentatious.

She couldn’t imagine the wealth it took to own one of these monstrosities.

They had to have a large staff to keep it running smoothly, which was another concern.

If the boat were packed with people, it would be next to impossible to check every nook and cranny for a wayward nuke.

Not to mention that he no doubt employed a plethora of security personnel.

The Benny One, Benedict Van Houten’s yacht, was moored a hundred feet in front of her.

As she approached, her steps slowed. Activity buzzed around the watercraft.

People were coming and going, loading what looked like food supplies onto the ship.

The article she’d read mentioned the Michelin-starred chef Van Houten employed as his private cook.

He traveled with the billionaire, so she might get to sample some of his award-winning cuisine—assuming she was allowed to eat with the host. There was a good possibility that she would dine alone in her cabin.

A tall man with light-blond hair and mirrored sunglasses caught her eye.

He was standing on the deck of the yacht, watching the comings and goings with his arms crossed.

The black polo shirt he wore fit him like a glove, emphasizing his size and muscle mass.

Security. She could spot them a mile away.

Squaring her shoulders, Indy adjusted her sunglasses and strolled forward, her blue hibiscus flower-print dress blowing with the breeze. She approached the bridge that led to the boat and started across. A massive hand stopped her progress.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, this is a private yacht.”

Indy’s gaze followed his arm to his face.

He hovered several inches above her five-nine height.

Maybe six-five or six-six. Square jaw, lips set in a firm line.

His short hair stood up fashionably in the front.

She imagined it was as silky as it looked.

Though she couldn’t see his eyes, she was guessing a moss green. Goodness, he was handsome.

“Oh, I know,” Indy informed him. “I’m here for Jinger. I’m her makeup artist.”

“You’re not Pammy.”

“No, she developed a horrible case of food poisoning.” Indy made a face and patted her tummy. “It was particularly nasty. Liquid was coming out of both ends, if you get my drift.” He recoiled a bit at the description. “I mean, it was explosive at times—”

“Okay, I get the picture,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you on. You haven’t been vetted.”

Indy frowned and feigned ignorance. “You mean I need a permission slip from a veterinarian?”

The man’s lips twitched, and a hint of dimples appeared. She almost sighed.

“No, it means you haven’t been investigated. I’m talking about a background check.”

She slapped her hand against her chest. “Why do you need to investigate little ol’ me? I’m simply a cosmetologist.”

Dang, she needed to dial down the Southern Belle act. She’d almost ended her sentence with, “I do declare.” Maybe she was overdoing her attempt to appear unthreatening, but the man’s attractiveness was throwing her off kilter.

“So you say,” he drawled.

“Are you calling me a liar, sir?”

His phone buzzed. “Stay right there,” he ordered as he answered. The person on the other end talked loudly, so Indy shamelessly eavesdropped.

“Griffin? Pammy just called. She can’t make it. I was so distraught until she told me she sent her best friend to cover for her. Her name is, wait a minute, I wrote it down. Here it is. Indigo Adair. Please send her to me as soon as she arrives. It’s an emergency.”

“Are you okay, Jinger?”

“No. I broke a nail.”

The man rolled his eyes and disconnected. Indy learned two things. One, the man’s name was Griffin, and two, Jinger with a J was going to be a handful.

“Everything okay?” she asked sweetly.

“I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”

“Why? Are you going to make me steer the ship too?”

Instead of responding, he held out his hand. The man obviously didn’t know how to take a joke. She thought it was a good one too. She was hoping for another reappearance of the mysterious dimples.

“Any day now.”

“Keep your shirt on,” she muttered as she fished in her bag and withdrew her wallet. She slapped her ID into his hand.

“Take off the sunglasses.”

She crossed her arms. “Why?”

“Take. Off. Your. Sunglasses.”

One of her shortcomings was that she didn’t take orders well. “You first.”

“Fair warning, you don’t want to keep Jinger waiting.”

She could stand here and argue with the man, which, she had to admit, was rather enjoyable, or she could get on with her assignment.

In the spirit of succeeding at her job, she removed her shades.

He stared at her with a narrowed gaze before checking out her license.

Before she knew what he was doing, he snapped a picture.

“Aw, if I’d known you wanted a photo, sugar, I would’ve smiled for you.” She did so and batted her eyelashes.

No reaction whatsoever. Did he have no sense of humor? She’d have thought he was a robot if he hadn’t almost cracked a grin earlier.

“Why did you take my picture?”

“To run you through facial recognition.”

“That sounds like some sophisticated software you have for a rent-a-cop.”

He ignored her dig. “I’ll need to search your bags.” He turned to a man standing off to the side. “Gomez, take over here.”

“On it.”

Griffin took her luggage from her hand.

“I can manage my own . . .” Her voice trailed off as he completely ignored her and marched forward.

When she stood where she was, he looked over his shoulder. “Follow me.”

She saluted him. “Yes, sir.” Her pace was leisurely. Why she was trying to pull his strings, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was because she felt an instant attraction to him, which was obviously one-sided.

He had disappeared into a room. When she wasn’t immediately at his side, he barked, “Any day now,” again.

That made her smile. Mr. Gorgeous had a temper. A blast of cool air slapped her in the face when she stepped into the roomy space. It was a welcome change from the humidity outside, but the sudden temperature difference caused her to shiver.

Indy glanced around. Several desks were scattered about, but right now, the room was empty.

Two walls were covered with dozens of televisions.

They appeared to be live feeds from cameras around the boat.

That made her pause. She should’ve expected a billionaire to have the boat rigged with cameras.

It would make her job excessively more difficult, especially if someone were to monitor them all the time.

They would see her searching, and she didn’t have a reasonable explanation for why she was doing so.

She turned to look at Griffin and sucked in a breath. He’d removed his mirrored shades to reveal eyes a light spring green, almost gray, framed by thick pale lashes women would kill for if they were darker. Actually, they paid ridiculous sums for her to apply them in her fake job.

She was going to have to figure out a way to keep her hormones in check around him. “So, Griffin, I see all the screens. Am I to assume every inch of the boat is on camera?”

When he didn’t answer, she turned to look at him. He was scowling at her.

“What?”

“How do you know my name?”

Oops. She hadn’t planned on letting him know she’d listened to his telephone conversation but she had no choice now. “I heard what Jinger said. She’s a loud talker.”

He didn’t look as though he believed her. Too bad. She repeated her question. “Are there cameras everywhere on the boat?”

“No.”

That was helpful, not at all.

“Why all the questions?”

“I’d like to know if my room will be bugged. I’ve read stories about nefarious types planting cameras in smoke alarms and such.”

“Why? Got something to hide?”

Oh, yeah. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He grunted and picked up her makeup case, placing it on a table before zipping it open.

“What, you think I’m going to stab someone with tweezers? Maybe powder puff them to oblivion? Death by lipstick?”

He didn’t even crack a smile, but, oh, if he only knew.

Everything in her kit was a weapon, from the knife inside the makeup brush to the razor blades in hidden compartments of the eye shadow palette to the vial of knockout drugs screwed into the base of a bottle labeled as toner.

With the flick of a button, the comb became spikes, and the curling iron doubled as a gun.

It truly was a bag of horrors for the unsuspecting criminal.

Griffin rifled carelessly through the contents.

“Hey, I keep that in order,” she complained. “Be careful with those catcher’s mitts you call hands.”