The question now is whether we’ll solve this case before we’re all banned from international travel and possibly required to carry warning labels.
CHAPTER 11
Great news: Nettie Butterworth didn’t get tossed out on her ear from jolly old England.
Yet.
Though I’m pretty sure we’re now on some sort of international watch list, and Stonehenge security probably has our photos pinned to a wall labeledTourists Most Likely to Accidentally Destroy Civilization. And well, it’s sort of warranted.
The aroma of Belgian chocolate mingles with sea salt and fresh strawberries while crystal chandeliers glow across the Blue Water Café’s black granite floors. Valentine’s Day decorations drape every surface as if Cupid had a craft store addiction—heart-shaped balloons bob against the coffered ceiling, red roses cascade from crystal vases, and even the soft jazz drifting from hidden speakers sounds like it’s been dipped in romance and rolled in red glitter.
The midnight buffet bustles around us with the kind of energy that only happens when you combine unlimited desserts with people who’ve spent the day pretending to be cultured tourists. Nothing says I’m on vacation quite like eating cake at midnight while wearing yesterday’s mascara and tomorrow’s regrets.
“She can deny it all she wants,” I tell Ransom as I attack my molten chocolate lava cake the way it demands to be accosted, “but Bess Chatterley has met her romantic Waterloo—and his name is Rex Hartwell.”
Ransom slides a spoonful of tiramisu across the table, the mascarpone and coffee layers arranged like edible architecture. “From what I witnessed at dinner, she’s completely smitten. The woman who spent forty minutes explaining why Valentine’s Day is a capitalist conspiracy couldn’t stop giggling every time he passed the salt.”
“It was painful to watch,” I agree, sampling his offering before attacking my own dessert fortress. The lava cake oozes molten chocolate like sweet volcanic activity, while my raspberry cheesecake mousse sits like a pink cloud next to towers of chocolate-dipped strawberries and chocolate éclairs stuffed with vanilla cream. I’m having two of each in case you’re wondering. “She kept dropping her napkin just so he’d pick it up. I haven’t seen moves that obvious since high school.”
“Says the woman who once pretended to need help with her life jacket,” Ransom points out with that devastating smile that still makes my pulse do the Macarena.
“That was different. That was strategic reconnaissance.”
“That was you batting your eyelashes at the head of vessel security,” he counters with a grin that could melt glaciers.
I feed him a strawberry dipped in enough chocolate to fund a small country’s cocoa imports. “And look how that turned out. Sometimes obvious works.”
His lips close around the fruit with the kind of slow precision that makes me forget we’re in a public dining establishment. “Best decision I ever made, and I’m looking at her.”
“Best decision? I’m pretty sure that honor goes to whoever invented midnight dessert buffets. This is just a very close second.” I give him a quick wink. “I jest.”
He shoots me a look that says he’s not so sure.
The Blue Water Café hums with the contented sounds of passengers who’ve discovered that cruise ship desserts at midnight are basically legal narcotics. Crystal glasses clink like wind chimes, silverware creates its own percussion section against fine china, and somewhere nearby, someone is having what sounds like a religious experience with the chocolate fountain. I can’t help but frown at the thought.
“Of course, Nettie’s got her own romanticagenda,” I continue, spooning up more molten chocolate before it escapes across my plate. “The moment I mentioned Richard thought she was a hoot, she practically demanded a séance. I’ve never seen someone so eager to flirt with the afterlife.” By the way, I don’t believe in participating in anything as demonic as a séance. Actually, I don’t believe in talking to the dead either, but here we are.
“Speaking of Richard.” Ransom leans forward, his voice dropping to that serious tone that means we’re switching from dessert banter to something far more homicidal-inclined. “You really think his wife killed him?”
“He seemed pretty convinced. Though getting details out of that particular poltergeist is like trying to negotiate with a particularly evasive politician—lots of dramatic revelations followed by mysterious disappearances.”
Ransom’s fingers intertwine with mine across the table, his thumb tracing circles on my palm that send little sparks up my arm. “You know, this will be our first Valentine’s Day together.”
How I love it when he changes the conversation and shines the haunted spotlight back on us.
“Technically, it’s still three days away.”
“I’m not talking about the calendar date,” he murmurs, those blue eyes doing things that should require a permit. “I’m talking about the first time I get to spoil you properly on the most romantic day of the year.”
“You spoil me every day.”
“Not like I plan to spoil you on Valentine’s Day.” His voice drops to that particular register that makes me forget my own name. “I have very specific plans for you, Mrs. Baxter.”
The way he says my married name still makes my stomach do backflips and flutter like a teenager all at the same time. “Care to share any preview details?”
“Let’s just say it involves champagne, rose petals, and that little red number Elodie smuggled into your closet.”
Before I can ask which red number—because Elodie has smuggled approximately seventeen suspicious garments into my wardrobe as of last Tuesday—she materializes beside our table like a blonde racing to a sample sale in designer heels.
