Tinsley storms off in a huff of coal dust, leaving black smudges on everything she touches like a disgruntled artist marking her territory.
Wes chuckles with deep satisfaction as if he orchestrated the charcoal chaos himself. “I’m not sorry you were forced to spend your first Valentine’s Day in the City of Amor instead of chasing killers around the midnight buffet.”
“Very smooth, Captain,” Ransom observes with grudging admiration. “Though I suspect your matchmaking skills were less about romance and more about getting us out of the way.”
“Maybe a little of both,” Wes admits with diplomatic charm. “The Valentine’s Grand Soirée begins in just a few hours.It’s the most romantic venue on the ship, perfect for either marriage proposals or homicidal confessions. Here’s hoping we get a little of both.”
I nod his way. “Speaking of homicidal confessions, please tell me our suspects haven’t been murdering people while we were conducting cultural research in Paris.”
“No new bodies,” Wes says, though his expression shifts from amused to concerned. “But we do have a problem.”
My blood turns to ice mixed with French champagne and growing dread. “What kind of problem?”
“Time,” Wes continues with sober gravity. “If we don’t solve this case quickly, we’re going to have to consider the very real possibility that a killer might just walk free.”
Ransom’s entire demeanor shifts, his jaw tightening with focused intensity because he’s made a career out of preventing exactly these kinds of scenarios.
“We dock back in Greenwich tomorrow morning,” Wes takes a moment to glare at Ransom. “Once we’re in port, the passengers disembark, and our window of opportunity closes permanently. After that, it becomes an international investigation involving multiple jurisdictions, extradition treaties, and enough red tape to gift-wrap the Eiffel Tower.”
I shrug up at Ransom. “Tonight’s Valentine’s celebration is our last chance to catch a killer before they vanish into the general population with nothing but romantic memories and a homicide they’ve gotten away with. I guess we’ll have to catch a killer if we can.”
“I will catch a killer,” he says sternly. “You will have a great time while looking ravishing as usual. I mean it, I need you safe, Trixie. There’s no way I’m going to let anything happen to you. And certainly not on Valentine’s day.”
Leave it to this cruise to turn the most romantic night of the year into a deadly game of find-the-killer-before-midnight—because nothing pairs with chocolate-covered strawberries quite like cold-blooded murder.
CHAPTER 27
As soon as dinner is through, Bess, Nettie, Ransom, and I head to tonight’s grand gala being hosted by the captain himself.
“Well, would you look at Cupid’s hostile takeover,” I tease as we step into the Royal Ballroom, where every surface of theEmerald Queen of the Seashas been attacked by hearts, roses, and enough pink to cause retinal damage.
“It’s like someone took every romantic cliché in existence and turned up the volume,” Bess observes, adjusting her elegant navy dress that makes her look like royalty who’s decided to grace us commoners with her presence.
“Good thing I wore my fancy underwear. You never know when romance or disaster will strike, and they’re basically the same thing at our age,” Nettie adds, practically shimmering in her hot pink cocktail dress that’s encrusted with enough sparkling rhinestones to make a Vegas showgirl jealous. “This beats our usual evening entertainment of bingo riots and trivia night fistfights.”
True as gospel.
The Royal Ballroom hits me with sensory overload that would make the Vegas strip green with envy. Crystal chandeliers cascade light like molten silver while red roses tumble from every available surface in waterfalls of romantic excess. The scent of sweet chocolate pastries mingles with fresh coffee and whatever aphrodisiac theship’s florists apparently bathe their flowers in, creating an olfactory assault that I wholeheartedly approve of.
Heart-shaped ice sculptures gleam under soft lighting, slowly melting into romantic puddles while soft rock music filters through the speakers. The gentle clink of crystal flutes mingles with bouts of laughter and the rustle of formal wear.
“I have to give it to Tinsley. She really outdid herself. This truly is the party of the year,” I say, smoothing my stunning red evening gown—the one Elodie smuggled into my closet and claimed was research equipment for romantic homicide investigations. She’s not entirely wrong. Although she might be wrong about the heels she’s paired it with. These four-inch wonders might be encrusted with rhinestones, but I’m silently cursing Elodie for the way they make my feet beg for mercy.
Ransom appears beside me in a black tuxedo that makes him look like James Bond’s more attractive brother. The man could probably commit crimes and get thank-you notes for his actions just by existing in formal wear.
“You look absolutely stunning,” he murmurs, sliding his arm around my waist with the confidence of a husband who knows he’s about to get lucky. And so am I.
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I say, althoughpretty wellis like calling the Eiffel Tower moderately tall. “Try not to break too many hearts tonight.”
“I’m only interested in one heart,” he says with that devastating smile that still makes my pulse quicken to unsafe levels after months of marriage. “And I promise to take very good care of it.”
We look out at the sea of people, and sure enough, all of the important players are here. Two camps with two very different values. Both groups mingle through the ballroom like opposing armies at a very civilized war.
The Valentine Renewal Couples’ Retreat occupies one corner in conservative elegance—traditional marriage advocates dressed like they’re attending a state dinner. Meanwhile, the Crimson Key Society flows through the opposite side in sophisticated attire that suggests they’re planning to revolutionize romance one designer dress at a time.
“It’s like watching Republicans and Democrats at the same cocktail party,” Nettie points out, because she’s survived enough social warfare to qualify for diplomatic immunity. “Everyone’s being polite, but you can practically see the ideological daggers flying.”
Rex appears like the quintessential silver-haired romantic hero, his perfect tuxedo making him look like every distinguished gentleman fantasy come to life. He extends his arm to Bess like a perfect gentleman.
