“It’s lovely.” Poppy delivers her words in a flat tone. Her eyes remain inscrutable behind her round spectacles. Then a sudden reckless flicker darts through her gaze, and she blurts, “It’s definitely one of the nicer luxury liners I’ve been on.”
It’s a lie. Arrabella is certain. Poppy is cheap. Off-the-rack clothes. Zero class. No money. Why Lillith hired the woman remains a complete mystery to Arrabella. Yet the plain, odd creature clearly has a degree of hold over Lillith. Arrabella intends to find out why before the end of this voyage. It’s why she hired the Israeli—to dig into Poppy’s background. He’s ex-Mossad, dark ops, comes with a rep of working deep in shadows, unafraid of crossing legal lines.
But he was not supposed to come near theOrchid. As far as she knew, he was still in London. If Patrick finds out she hired a black ops PI to investigate Lillith’s assistant, he’ll go apoplectic. He’ll dump her. She has not one doubt about that.
“Several,” Poppy says.
Her attention jolts back to Poppy. “Several what?”
“Several luxury cruises.”
“Oh, really? Which ones?”
“Various.”
“When?” Arrabella presses. “Which lines?”
Patrick inhales sharply, his posture tightening. Lillith remains impassive, simply observing the repartee. Which is unusual. Warnings whisper more loudly through Arrabella. Warnings she still doesn’t heed.
“I traveled with previous clients of mine.” Poppy shrugs. “Some liked cruising. So.”
“All older clients?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m guessing they were all seniors.” Arrabella realizes her martini is nearly gone.
“Well, yes. It’s what I do. I take care of elderly people.”
“And then move on.”
Poppy’s face remains expressionless. But her body has gone very still. She says nothing more.
Arrabella drains the last drop. She’s about to ask for another when the server comes to take their food order.
While Lillith asks for the lamb with fresh rosemary, and some wine for the table, Arrabella sneaks another glance of the bar. It’s busier now. But still no man with an orchid.
The server turns to her.
“The stuffed eggplant, please. And I have a severe shellfish allergy. Please make sure the chef knows.”
“Of course. I’ll tell the chef.” The server turns to Poppy.
She says, sweetly, “Well, I was going to go for the lamb, but ... actually, I think I’ll take the grilled prawns. Extra garlic butter. A side of calamari. And tzatziki.”
Arrabella’s mouth opens. She looks at Patrick. But he seems oblivious to what the PA bitch has just done. Plus Arrabella detests the scent of garlic. She mentioned this over Christmas lunch, and she knows Poppy heard. And the shellfish? Poppy is seated right next to her. Too close for comfort. Fear prickles over her skin. If Poppy did have anything to do with Angus’s death, what might she try now?
Arrabella resolves to switch seats with Patrick when the food arrives. She wants a buffer between herself and Poppy with the prawns.
“And another martini for me,” she tells the server quietly as he gathers up the menus.
“Of course.”
As the waiter departs, Arrabella zeroes back in on Poppy. “You were telling us about your favorite luxury cruise trip?”
“Correct. I think it had to be the one around the Cape of Good Hope. We stopped at ports of call including Namibia and Mozambique.”
Arrabella raises a brow. “Africa?”
