Roshaan points them over to their table. The dashing couple begin to weave their way through the crowd toward Poppy and Lillith.
Poppy tenses as her protective guard shoots up. With a shock she realizes it’s not herself she’s worried about—it’s Lillith. Her charge is clearly rather deeply upset by the mysterious cocktails, and Poppy suddenly feels fiercely protective of her as the avaricious Arrabella approaches like a hawkish runway model.
Patrick trails behind her. Pale, gangly, thin, very tall. Long face with permanently sad eyes that turn down at the corners. He’s not touching Arrabella tonight. Odd, given the way his hands pawed all over her at Christmas. At least, until the big fight with Angus. She senses a new coolness between the two. Interesting.
They reach the table. Poppy braces.
“Oh, Lillith!” Arrabella exclaims. “Poppy! How very lovely to see you both here!”
Lillith swivels around in her seat.
Her jaw drops.
Arrabella
Arrabella’s stomach knots as Lillith gapes at her and Patrick.
“What onearthare you two doing here?” Lillith’s steely eye pierces her, then flicks to Patrick.
“Hello, Lilli.” Patrick bends to kiss his stepmother’s papery cheek. He’s always called her Lilli. Early in their relationship he explained to Arrabella that he was fourteen when his parents’ marriage imploded. Lillith eventually took him under her wing, but he would only ever have one true “mom.” His birth mother.
“I’m so sorry about the ‘surprise,’” he whispers near Lillith’s ear. “The cruise was Arra’s idea. I only realized that you were aboard once the ship was sailing.” He gives that false laugh that irritates the hell out of Arrabella, then glances at her. “And there I thought it was just us—me and Arra—on a romantic getaway.”
Arrabella forces a brittle smile while silently cursing Patrick for tossing her under the bus in seconds. Worse, she can’t abide the smug smirk on the frumpy PA’s round face.
“Honestly, Lillith,” she says, “I only learned long after we booked that you were coming on theOrchid. I knew, of course, that you and Angus had wait-listed, and the trip sounded so wonderful that I wait-listed myself and Patrick as well. When the invitation eventually came, I booked. I just assumed you weren’t going anymore because of ... what happened to Angus.”
Christ, you’re overdoing it. Slow it down, Arrabella.
Lillith regards her a long moment, then turns to Patrick, takes his hand, gives it a squeeze.
“However it happened, it’s lovely to see you both.” Her tone belies her words. She gestures to the table. “Why don’t you join us? We haven’t ordered yet, so it’s good timing.”
The matriarch has reassumed control. She raises her hand for extra chairs. Menus appear. Everyone reorganizes around the table, and Arrabella orders a vesper martini. “Make it a double,” she murmurs to the waiter. “And bring it right away.”
Seconds later, her stiff drink arrives. She takes a long sip to blunt her nerves, and sneaks a glance at the bar. No man with a purple orchid. Yet.
Might as well have said he’d be sporting a bloody carnation.
She swallows another gulp, then realizes that Poppy is watching her keenly. Too keenly. It sharpens her anxiety. So she turns on Poppy to deflect.
“You look so lovely tonight, Poppy. I do like your dress. One can never go wrong with a navy three-quarter-sleeve shift, can one?”
Poppy crooks up her brows. “It’s nothing special.”
“Oh, I know—it’s just that I haven’t seen you in a dress.” Before the barb can really wound, Arrabella deftly redirects in her classic thrust and parry. “Then again, we really haven’t seen much ofeitherof you, have we, Lillith? When was it that I stopped officially working on your book with you? Just before Christmas?”
“When I was hired,” Poppy says.
“Of course. Yes. You moved in off the bat, right before Christmas. Then we had that big luncheon, and”—she glances at Patrick—“then we so shockingly lost Angus on New Year’s Day.” Arrabella underscores thewe, purposefully carving Poppy out. “How are you holding up, Lillith?”
“We—Poppy and I—are here in Angus’s spirit and memory, my dear. He wanted this trip, so Poppy and I are holding that front of mind.”
Patrick’s hand presses on her thigh under the table. Not in affection. It’s a warning. One she doesn’t heed.
“So what do you think of theBlack Orchidso far, Poppy?” she asks, pivoting away from Angus—clearly a sensitive topic for Lillith—and flicks another glance at the bar.
Still no man with an orchid. What if he’s not on the boat at all? Just messing with me?
