Wes sighs like a man carrying the weight of his poor life choices that led to this career path. “And to your point, that’s exactly why I should have fired Ransom the moment he set foot on my ship. It would have solved multiple problems simultaneously.” He nods my way. “And you would be married to the captain of the ship.”
“And I would have loved it,” I say with a little laugh. We both know it’s true. The only thing standing between Wes and me was Ransom. Here’s hoping Ransom survives the revelation.
Nettie lifts a finger. “That’s because Handsome Ransom had a way of hitting the sheets with women before they exchanged hellos.”
I bite back a laugh. “I’ll have you know that Ransom didn’t land me horizontal until our wedding night, thank you very much.”
“I can attest to that travesty,” Elodie says, rolling her eyes with exasperation. It’s true, she tried all of her best naughty tricks to land me beneath Ransom far before I was ready to get there. “I was half convinced you didn’t know what to do with a naked man if he came with an instruction manual and helpful diagrams.”
“Oh, trust me, they’re making up for lost time now.” Bess laughs. “On the last trip, my cabin was right next door to them. I got more sleep when my children were newborns. In fact,I paid extra to upgrade down the hall right next to the elevator—and believe me, there’s less grunting and shouting all the way around.”
I gasp her way. Good grief. We’re not that bad, are we? A few carnal scenes play out in my mind and—oh, wow, we are exactly that bad.
“Bess!” Rex’s voice cuts through our conversation like a silver-tongued hot knife through well-buttered Bess, and the aforementioned octogenarian practically levitates once again with excitement.
She trots off without so much as a goodbye wave, leaving us standing there, abandoned wedding guests at a reception where the bride and groom just eloped.
I notice a pretty blonde from the other night watching them with the kind of interest that suggests she’s either writing a romance novel or plotting a murder. Possibly both.
“Speaking of making up for lost time.” Wes tips his head toward the departing lovebirds. “Should I be concerned about Bess and her new gentleman friend? He seems rather enthusiastic.”
“If Bess follows the tips I gave her,” Nettie says with a wicked grin that suggests she’s shared some very specific advice, “they’ll be harder to find than Jimmy Hoffa’s vacation photos. I told her the key to keeping a man interested is to always leave him wanting more—preferably while he’s still recovering from wanting what he just got.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter.
“Wonderful, indeed,” Elodie purrs like a tigress.
“Speaking of men,” Nettie continues, spotting a fresh bus disgorging its cargo of testosterone and tourist cameras. “I see reinforcements have arrived. Time to self-appoint myself as the welcome committee and possibly the entertainment director.”
She trots off like a woman on a destructive mission, leaving Wes to get mobbed by passengers wielding cameras and questions about stone circles.
Our tour guide, an enthusiastic woman named Margaret who looks like she could personally vouch for every stone’s historical accuracy, gathers the crowd with the prowess of a master magician. “Welcome to Stonehenge, one of the world’s most famous prehistoric monuments! Built in several stages between 3100 and 1600 BCE, this stone circle has puzzled archaeologists and inspired countlesstheories about its purpose— astronomical calendar, healing temple, burial ground, ancient nightclub, or perhaps all four!”
She gestures toward the massive trilithons with the reverence usually reserved for religious experiences. “The largest stones, called sarsens, weigh up to 50 tons each and were somehow transported from the Marlborough Downs, twenty miles away. The smaller bluestones traveled even farther—240 miles from Wales! How our Neolithic ancestors accomplished this feat remains one of archaeology’s greatest mysteries, though current theories include aliens, really dedicated moving companies, and prehistoric CrossFit enthusiasts.”
“I bet they used Uber,” Elodie whispers. “Though the surge pricing must have been astronomical.”
A small laugh titters through the vicinity, and as the crowd disperses to explore the monument, I notice Claudette Sterling standing apart from the group, admiring the ancient stones with the kind of peaceful expression that makes you forget she recently threatened to murder someone with dessert at the welcome party. Okay, so the dessert thing sort of just happened to poor Lavender, but I bet Claudette didn’t mind the fact either.
Elodie gasps and points as she spots her prey across the crowd—a distinguished gentleman who’s probably wondering how his quiet historical tour turned into an episode ofHousewives of the High Seas: Prehistoric Edition. She turns to me with a predatory grin that could probably be registered as a lethal weapon.
“Darling, see that silver fox by the information plaque?” she mewls. “He’s been stealing glances at me since we arrived, and I do believe it’s time to put him out of his misery.” She adjusts her coat—AKA enhancing his view of her cleavage. “Wish me luck—though let’s be honest, I won’t need it. I could seduce a monk at a monastery convention. And I have.”
I don’t doubt it.
“Elodie, try not to scandalize the poor man in front of a World Heritage Site,” I warn her. “We’re already probably on some kind of international watch list after Nettie’s previous travel incidents.”
Hand to God.
“Oh please,” she purrs, already moving toward her target with predatory grace that would make a leopard take note. “If these stones could talk, they’d have far steamier stories than anything I could conjure up. Besides, a little romance never hurt anyone—it’s murder that tends to complicate vacation photos. Perhaps you should be the one to behave.” She sheds a dark smile that lets me know she jests.
Elodie isn’t opposed to a murder or two so long as it lands a handsome steed in her bed. Come to think of it, that woman owes me a thank you.
And speaking of murder, time to find out if the woman who wants to save traditional marriages is traditional enough to commit traditional homicide with traditional motives. And if she is, here’s to a traditional arrest.
CHAPTER 9
The ancient stones of Stonehenge rise around me like a prehistoric board meeting where everyone forgot to take minutes, their massive trilithons casting shadows that have been the same for four thousand years, while tourists snap selfies that’ll be forgotten by dinnertime. Mostly.
