“Apparently they alerted Crete authorities. Left her passport with the port people. I guess they’re keeping an eye on me while the Greek authorities try to locate her.” Patrick takes his hat off, drags his hand through his soft pale hair. It’s slightly damp. Poppy sees a cut on the back of his hand. There’s a graze at his temple, too.
“What happened to your face and your hand?”
“Apart from being pummeled by a Turkish masseuse and brutally exfoliated and cleansed in a Turkish bath? Works wonders, by the way. Ever had one?”
“I mean, you have cuts.”
“Oh, this.” He examines the back of his hand. “Took a bit of a tumble in Chania. Rather humiliating, to be honest.”
“What happened?”
“I got into my head that I needed to drown my sorrows. Found a pub. Had a bit too much raki—bloody strong stuff, that—and tripped and fell down those wretched alley stairs on my way back to theOrchid. Those Venetians could’ve done with some architectural tips, or town planning or something.” He grins.
It lights up his eyes—she hadn’t noticed how very blue they could look. Or how handsomely he could clean up. She also knows the most deadly venom is often delivered by the prettiest of creatures.
“But here I am. The new me.” He holds his arms out to his sides. “All scrubbed and brushed and heated and flushed and cleansed. Turkey-style. Sorted out some of my thoughts during the process, too.”
“You’re really not worried about her?”
He sighs. “God knows, Poppy, it’s been a long time coming. I guess I always saw the signs, but I was deluding myself. We had a tiff—sparked by this whole ruse to get me onto the ship and under Lillith’s nose, and I gave her an ultimatum of sorts. It’s up to her whether she returns or not. Perhaps she’ll still decide there’s some advantage in it for her. But the longer she’s gone, the more clearheaded I think I’m becoming about the whole situation. I don’t want her back. I guess I don’t mind saying it. To me, she’s gone. And by God I feel so much lighter.”
Poppy blinks.
“And how about you, Poppy? What’s your story? Arra did claim you were dangerous and that you’ve been in a spot of rather deep trouble before.”
Nerves come alive again. She’s suddenly conscious once more of the oppressive heat and her circling suspicions. She checks her watch, wondering when they will start the tenders.
“Poppy?”
She clears her throat. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Arra apparently hired that man who was sitting across the street a moment ago. He’s been watching us.”
“What?” She blinks.
“She paid him to dig into your past.”
“Arrabellahired him?”
“That’s what she said. And there I thought he was her lover. He’s just a lowly PI. She contracted him because she feels that you’re a threat to Lillith, with your past and all. Mostly she was hunting for a way to get rid of you, I suspect. And to get herself back into Lillith’s sphere. She believes she should be ghostwriting that book of Lillith’s.”
“A PI?”
“Yes. Madness.” He finishes his coffee.
She stares at him.
“But—but he works for Lillith,” she says. “His name is Avi Galev. He’s her security detail.”
He lowers his cup. “What?”
“That’s what she told me.”
He frowns. Falls silent. “Doesn’t make sense,” he says softly.
“I know—right?”
He rubs his freshly shaved jaw. “I mean, if that’s true—Avi Galev is apparently the one who told Arra about your murder trial. That would mean Lillith must already know? Or is Galev hiding that from her? Or ... this is peculiar.”
