She looks absolutely devastating in silver silk that moves like liquid metal designed to short-circuit the male brain,her blonde hair styled to perfection, and her smile suggests she’s already identified tonight’s romantic targets.
“You look incredible,” I tell her, and I mean it. “And I suspect that dress is going to cause traffic accidents among the waitstaff.”
“That’s the plan.” She grins with predatory satisfaction. “A girl’s got to have hobbies, and mine involves making men forget their own names while maintaining plausible deniability about my intentions.”
Before I can respond to this philosophy of romantic warfare, Dr. Jazz Stone glides over like a bohemian goddess in flowing emerald fabric designed by someone with advanced degrees in seduction.
“Trixie! Elodie!” She gushes as if she’s just spotted old friends at a party. And I’d like to think we are. “Thank you both so much for coming by the other night to our private gathering. It was absolutely wonderful having you there.”
I gasp as I look at Elodie with horror. Clearly, she’s been conducting independent research without proper supervision. “You were there?”
Elodie practically purrs with delight like a cat who’s been caught with cream and excellent gossip. “Youwere there? Now this is one story I’ve got to hear!”
Jazz laughs as if she finds us endlessly entertaining. “Oh, it was delightful! We had such meaningful conversations about expanding boundaries and exploring authentic connections.”
“Speaking of authentic connections,” I say to Jazz, trying to steer this conversation away from activities that would make Cupid blush, “I have to admit I could never share Ransom. The thought alone makes me want to hide him in a tower with a very sturdy lock. I know that’s not quite as progressive as you hoped I would be.”
“I completely understand how it feels to have something precious stolen from you,” she says with a shrug. “When someone takes what’s rightfully yours, what you’ve worked for, what you’ve built... it’s devastating.”
Something in her tone sends my detective radar pinging, but before I can analyze her choice of words, she continues with renewed brightness.
“Well, I should mingle!” she announces, floating away toward another group of passengers who probably have no idea they’reabout to be psychoanalyzed by someone with the intent to land them and their partners horizontally—in the naughtiest sense of all.
I turn to Elodie and swat her. “You’ve been conducting unauthorized romantic espionage. Elodie, you’re playing with married men!”
“Married men are playing with me,” she corrects, because obviously she’s perfected the art of technicalities. “There’s a significant difference in both initiative and legal liability.”
She scans the ballroom with predatory efficiency. “Speaking of which, I see one now who looks like he could use some therapeutic attention.”
Before I can warn her about the dangers of treating marriage like a competitive sport, she’s already gliding away toward her next romantic target as if on a mission from Cupid himself.
That leaves me standing alone in a ballroom full of potential killers, relationship revolutionaries, and champagne-fueled confessions, and I catch Claudette Sterling standing by herself near the windows, looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen her.
Mrs. Traditional Values appears to be having her own private moment of contemplation, staring out at the dark Atlantic as if she’s searching for answers in the endless expanse of ocean, and something about her isolation makes her seem less like a potential killer and more like a woman carrying the weight of secrets that could destroy everything she’s built.
I think it’s time for a little chat with someone who’s been living a lie so convincing she’s probably started believing it herself.
After all, parties like this are where secrets come to die, where champagne loosens tongues and formal wear provides the perfect camouflage for confessions that could change everything.
CHAPTER 28
There she is.
My feet are already moving in Claudette Sterling’s direction before my brain or any other part of me can stop them.
The Royal Ballroom continues to pulse with Valentine’s Day excess that would make Cupid file for overtime as heart-shaped ice sculptures slowly melt into romantic puddles while easy listening music provides a backdrop to what appears to be the world’s most expensive relationship therapy session.
The scent of red roses mingles with champagne bubbles and whatever pheromones are apparently standard atmosphere at formal cruise ship events, and it all spells out romance or die trying.
Across the ballroom, Claudette stands alone by the floor-to-ceiling windows like a woman contemplating either the infinite beauty of the Atlantic or the finite nature of her marriage prospects. She’s balancing a towering plate of mini cream puffs, and good for her because we all know that calories don’t count during emotional crises.
A spray of miniature red stars materializes beside me like supernatural glitter, as Richard appears in all his ghostly glory. He looks distinguished in his glowing dinner jacket, even though there’s something wistful in his expression as he surveys the romantic battlefield.
“What’s pulling me away from charming Ms. Butterworth?” hegrowls because clearly, his celestial feathers have been ruffled. That’s high praise for Nettie, as it should be. “Ah, yes, charming Claudette.” He gives a melancholy sigh in her direction. “She does look rather forlorn, doesn’t she?”
“She looks like someone who’s having serious thoughts about either jumping overboard or eating her weight in pastry,” I observe, already calculating my approach to Mrs. Traditional Values. “Time for a little reconnaissance mission.”
I navigate through the crowd of relationship warriors and champagne philosophers, dodging couples engaged in activities that would require awkward explanations to my mother.
