She disappeared into the bedroom area of their little suite.
Wes decided that he’d shower in the morning.
He found a pillow and blanket in the closet and determined that he had more than enough to make himself comfortable for the night.
Lying down, he stared at the door. It was bolted from the inside. But tonight, he was certain that no one could suspect that they were anything other than a happy young married couple, ready to enjoy one another and all the wonders that the cruise had to offer.
He lay there awake. It had been one hell of a day. When he had woken up that morning, he hadn’t had the faintest idea that he’d be going to sleep on a cruise ship when night fell.
That he’d be partnered with an agent from the state rather than the federal government.
He hadn’t heard about the first so-called suicide of Frank Adams before they’d been briefed and left to study what was known. The deaths of the six people had made national news immediately and he could also remember reading about the wife who had supposedly killed her husband before eating the gun herself.
And it did so often come down towhy.
Killers had an agenda, or they were stone-cold psychopaths.
Or both.
What were they looking for? Someone like Celia Henderson?
Or were she and her husband just the kind of personalities who strangely worked together?
Celia being the one who was calling all the shots.
Him being her obedient second, a man happy to have a powerful leader to show him the way?
They hadn’t even begun to fathom the personalities of the others who were on their suspect list.
He groaned and twisted and turned and found himself thinking about his new partner.
Chloe was picture-perfect for the role with her shoulder-length dark hair and bright green eyes, sleek form and energy. She had managed to be passionate yet inoffensive when she had stated that art needed to be created by human beings and not artificial intelligence—not that AI hadn’t already been used over and over again in the field.
And he hoped that she was really okay. From what he had read, it appeared that her timely arrival had kept her partner, Alex Rodriguez, from being shot dead straight through the heart—one of the “boatyard killers” they had taken down had been standing right over the man.
But he knew, too, that anytime a partner was struck in a situation, the second man or woman couldn’t help but blame themselves. Maybe it was part of being human.
He jerked up suddenly; the door between the bedroom and the parlor had opened.
Chloe stuck her head out.
She smiled.
“Sorry, couldn’t help myself, just checking. Hm, but had you fallen asleep yet, anyway?” she asked him.
“You’ll never know,” he told her.
She laughed softly.
“No, honestly, the little refrigerator is out here and I just wanted to get some water,” she told him.
“I think you were checking on me.”
“I think I really wanted water.”
“Then you should get some!”
“Yeah. I’ll do that!”
