Both men offer an amicable nod before Ransom follows Quinn toward the exit.
“Ooh, Santino is by the dance floor,” Nettie cries as she elbows Bess. “And he’s wearing his formal toupee!”
“And Bridge is at the champagne fountain,” Bess adds, dreamily, already gathering her sequined skirts. “I think it’s time we made our move.”
“Remember what happened the last time the two of you tried to tango,” I caution. “Your hip was out of commission for a week.”
“And it was worth it,” Nettie says with a cheer, already moving toward her target with remarkable speed for an octogenarian. Bess follows, leaving Wes and me alone at the edge of the increasingly crowded room.
“Well, Trixie Troublefield, you clean up pretty well,” he says with an appraising glance at my sky-blue cocktail dress. “I mean, Mrs. Baxter.”
“Troublefield Baxter,” I tell him. “You weren’t far off.”
He steps in close until we’re shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the room.
“You clean up pretty well yourself, Captain,” I say, bumping my arm to his.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me,” he says, and I bubble with laughter. “There you go again.”
I’m about to correct him when Boomer’s voice echoes across the lounge.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the grand finale ofTrophy Wives of Paradise: Soap Opera Stars Edition!” He gestures expansively, every inch the showman in his slightly too tight tuxedo. “Tonight, each of our fabulous couples will take the stage for a champagne toast, revealing something intimate about their relationship that viewers at home have never heard before! Drama, secrets, scandals—we want it all!”
The crowd applauds enthusiastically, particularly the contest winners who’ve been invited to witness the filming. Soon enough, the trophy wives and their soap star husbands begin assembling near the small stage area with champagne flutes in hand, and expressions ranging from eager (Val) to terrified (Beth) to carefully composed (Harper).
“Is it just me,” Wes murmurs close to my ear, “or does Beth look like she’s about to bolt?”
He’s right. Despite her perfect appearance, Beth’s hands are visibly trembling as she clutches her champagne flute, and she keeps glancing toward the exit as if calculating her escape route.
“Something is definitely up,” I agree. “And where is her husband? I don’t see our resident Dr. Luca with the other husbands.”
Wes’s expression grows concerned. “I don’t like this. Ransom should be here.”
“We can handle it,” I assure him, though my own pulse hasquickened. “Besides, how much trouble can happen in a room full of witnesses and cameras?”
The words hardly leave my mouth when the lights dim even further, plunging us into near darkness, leaving only the stage illuminated. It’s the perfect dramatic staging for reality TV—and equally perfect for any mayhem someone might want to cause in the shadows.
“Keep your eyes open,” Wes whispers, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back. “I have a feeling we’re about to witness the final act of this soap opera, and I’m not sure everyone is going to make it to the credits.”
Marlie’s ghost materializes beside her ice sculpture doppelgänger, looking both amused and perturbed. “Things are about to get interesting,” she announces to me. “And in my experience,interestingusually involves someone getting pushed off a balcony or discovering their presumed-dead husband in the wine cellar.”
As Boomer calls the first couple to the stage—Santino and Val, naturally claiming the premier spot—I can’t help but feel we’re perched on the edge of something explosive. The stage is set, the players are in position, and somewhere in this glittering crowd, a killer is preparing for their final scene.
Let’s just hope I’m not cast as the next victim.
CHAPTER 24
Santino DiAngelo takes the stage with the stride of a man who’s been walking onto sets for over four decades. Val follows a half-step behind with her scarlet gown, catching the light in a way that suggests it was designed specifically for camera angles. They’re the perfect soap opera power couple—if you ignore the fact that they’re about as genuine as Santino’s hairline.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Santino calls out, his voice dropping to that distinctive baritone that’s fueled countless daytime fantasies. “When I first met Valentina, I was a simple international crime lord with fourteen resurrections behind me. I never imagined I would meet a woman who could hypnotize me more effectively than I hypnotized my victims onDays of Our Nights.”
The audience titters appreciatively. Soap fans love in-character references.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” Val takes a dramatic sip of champagne before speaking. “And what I want to reveal tonight is something we’ve never shared publicly.” She pauses, a master of the dramatic beat. “Santino and I actually met when I was judging the Mr. Universe Daytime Drama swimsuit competition.” She runs apossessive hand down his arm. “He won first place and my heart simultaneously.”
“The trophy has tarnished,” Santino says, and the crowd goes wild for the self-deprecation, “but my love for this extraordinary woman shines brighter with each passing day.”
“Good heavens,” Nettie whispers loudly from somewhere behind me. “I remember that competition. He wore a Speedo that left absolutelynothingto the imagination!”
