“Wonderful,” Marielle said in a voice that was nearly as shaky as her legs.
“Thanks so much, Heidi,” Omar said, his voice disappointingly normal.
Omar took her hand and led her up the stairs to the bar, breezing past the bodyguards as if they weren’t there.She lowered her gaze awkwardly as they passed the men.Looking directly at them without addressing them seemed incredibly rude, even for the obscenely wealthy Margaux Irfan.
The moment the glass door swung closed behind them, the hum of conversation, clatter of china and crystal, and piped-in music from the dining room faded.In its place, the warm bass and the downtempo beat of island chill house music filled the space.As the smooth rhythm washed over her, Marielle shook off the response—physical and emotional—that Omar’s lips hot against her bare skin had stirred up.
She could play the part of a new bride wildly in love with her husband.
What, like it’s hard?
She smiled a secret smile and nestled into Omar’s side as they neared the bar.
“Welcome, Mr.and Mrs.Irfan,” the rosy-cheeked bartender called in greeting.
“Please, it’s Oscar and Margaux,” Omar told her.“And you must be Lucia.”
The woman dipped her head.“That’s me.I’m told your wife would like a Vermut Muter Blanco, yes?”
“Please.”
“How would you like that?”
Marielle pulled up the briefing book in her memory.“On the rocks, with a slice of orange.”
The bartender smiled her approval.“And for you, Oscar?”
“I’ll have the same.”He gestured toward the table furthest from Idris and his companions.“Could we sit over there?”
Marielle felt more than saw the men at the bar stiffen at the question.The one closest to her leaned over and patted the stool next to him.“Why don’t y’all sit here with us?We’re your downstairs neighbors so to speak.Robbie here and I, we’re from the U.S.of A.”
She smiled coolly.
Omar furrowed his brow.“No disrespect to you or your friend.But this trip is a romantic getaway for us.We’d prefer the small table by the window.”He turned his attention back to Lucia.“You understand, right?So we can gaze longingly into each other’s eyes.”
“And play footsie under the table,” Marielle added with a giggle, slipping back into character.
The men at the bar guffawed.It wasn’tthatfunny.
She appraised them.Despite their casual attire and back-slapping friendliness there was something off about them.They were too fit, too clean-cut, with matching Ivy League crew cuts, tapered in the back and long enough to style on top.One Black, one white.But they may as well have been twins.They may not be Idris Mahmoud’s bodyguards, but they weren’t two random tourists, either.
Beside her, Omar worked his jaw as if he was doing the same mental calculations.
The one called Robbie spread his hands wide, “Come on, now.Let us buy you lovebirds a drink.”
Marielle was about to demur when a roar of laughter from Idris’s table cut through the music.She turned to see Idris bent double, holding his stomach while he laughed.Next to him, an olive-skinned brunette with large almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones smiled reluctantly.She was elegant, almost regal, in a pale pink ruffled crepe wrap dress with a high-low hem and a wide collar.
Across the table, a redhead who was a dead ringer for the singer Poppy Jones was standing up, smacking her own admittedly impressive butt with one hand while gesturing wildly with the other, evidently recounting one heck of a story.Her rainbow-sequined minidress shimmered and bounced with each smack.Marielle squinted.Wait.Wasthat Poppy Jones?It couldn’t be.Could it?
Before her brain had a chance to fully process the possibility, the man sitting next to Possibly Poppy reached over and gave her bottom a slap of his own.Then he pounded the table, throwing his head back to laugh.Marielle’s attention shifted from the woman to the man next to her, and her stomach flipped over.There was no doubt whohewas.
Bradford Hampton, the prodigal son of Vice President Jonah Hampton, snorted and pulled the woman down on his lap.She screamed, a pitch-perfect soprano note.Yep, that was Poppy.
She turned back to the men at the bar with sudden understanding.They were Brad’s Secret Service Detail.She and Omar were being sent onto a ship with six armed guards, two Secret Service agents, the son of an oligarch, the hard-partying son of the sitting Vice President, a musical superstar, and the quiet woman in the wrap dress.
The flipping Secret Service.
“Merde,”she whispered.
