The music shifts into something far moodier and more romantic, the kind of music that makes people forget their better judgment and remember why they booked Valentine’s cruises in the first place.
Wes steps in close. “May I have this dance while your husband handles official business?” he asks as he holds a hand my way.
“How could I resist?” I say, accepting his offer and his hand. “Although I should warn you, I step on toes almost as often as I stumble over dead bodies.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he says, leading me onto the dance floor with a confidence that suggests he’s navigated both storms and social disasters with equal grace—and his feet have most likely been stepped on quite a few times, too.
We fall into an easy rhythm, laughing about everything from Tinsley’s romantic meltdown to Nettie’s supernatural love life, the conversation flowing as smoothly as the champagne and significantly more entertaining than the formal couples around us who appear to be discussing stock portfolios and property taxes. I think a majority of the Crimson Key Society has already drifted off to do their swapping thing.
“You know,” Wes says as we navigate around a couple engaged in what appears to be competitive ballroom dancing, “is there such a thing as a part-time husband? Because I’m willing to fill in whenever Ransom is busy playing hero.”
I laugh, spinning under his arm. “You’re hired. The position comes with excellent benefits—constant danger, regular murder investigations, and the occasional assassination attempt.”
A familiar hand taps Wes on the shoulder with the authority of a man reclaiming stolen property.
“Mind if I cut in?” Ransom asks with the kind of polite menace that suggests the question is purely rhetorical.
“Of course.” Wes steps without hesitation. “And I’d like to mention your wife is an excellent dance partner. Very graceful under pressure.” He gives a little bow my way.
“She’s excellent at a lot of things,” Ransom replies with just enough emphasis to make his territorial claim clear without requiring subtitles.
“I’d like to say something, too,” I interrupt before their masculine posturing requires intervention from ship security. “You’re both charming, distinguished, and?—”
Something near the buffet snags my attention. It’sCandy, sobbing by the heart-shaped ice sculpture like a sparkly pink tragedy in couture.
“Oh my word,” I gasp, my maternal instincts overriding everything else. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have to see what’s the matter.”
All three of us head toward the crying woman, who’s drowning in sparkly pink tulle that makes her look like a runaway prom queen.
“Candy, what’s wrong?” I ask, stepping in and draping my arm over her shoulders. “Is there something I can do?”
She looks up with mascara-streaked cheeks, her expression saying her romantic fantasy just collided with reality at highway speeds. I get it. Valentine’s Day can be a tough one.
“Everything is wrong.” She tosses her hands in the air in a panic. “And I doubt you can fix it. My husband brought me here so we could be part of some kinky... Crimson Double Dipping Society or whatever perverted nonsense he’s gotten us mixed up in.”
“You mean the Crimson Key Society?” I ask, a bit bewildered by the revelation.
Candy’s eyes widen as if I’ve just confirmed her worst nightmares. She gasps as she looks from me to Wes to Ransom, her expression shifting from despair to horror.
“Don’t tell me the three of you are part of it, too!” she wails. “If even the ship’s officers are jumping on the wife-swapping bandwagon, then Rex was right. If we didn’t join in, we’d be the only normal people left on this floating orgy.”
“Wait, what?” I gasp. “We’re not swingers,” I say quickly, before this conversation can derail into assumptions that would require therapy and possibly legal disclaimers for everyone involved. Her words hit me with a jolt, and I straighten. “Wait a minute. Did you say Rex? As in Rex Hartwell?”
Candy nods miserably. “That’s my husband. The lying, cheating, swinging scumbag who’s been pretending to be single while seducing sweet old ladies and dragging me into his perverted lifestyle experiments.”
Oh my living word.
I see red.
Wes sees red.
Ransom sees red so hard I’m surprised the ballroom doesn’tspontaneously combust from the collective outrage radiating from our little group.
“BESS!” I start calling frantically, my voice carrying across the ballroom like thunder splitting the night sky. “NETTIE!”
Nettie appears almost immediately, probably drawn by the sound of chaos like a moth to a particularly chaotic flame.
“What’s all the shouting about?” she asks, eyes already scanning for potential entertainment or disaster.
