Burn (Page 25)

It wasn’t lost on her that her two best friends were single women named Al and Syd. How weird was that?

"Thanks, but I need to make this meeting with Al. Her flight back to Chicago is Monday afternoon, so I’ll have that evening to finish packing, then I’ll take an early flight out and, with the time change, arrive in San Diego in plenty of time to meet you at the port. You enjoy your visit with Caro, I’ll do the same with Al, and then you and I will spend two nice, lazy weeks cruising around the Pacific."

"I can’t wait to see the ship," Syd said, hugging her knees. They were on the balcony of Jenner’s condo, watching the sky change as the sun set behind them. "All of the suites are decorated differently, and the one Dad reserved is gorgeous, all white and silver with touches of blue. It looked really serene and calming, at least in the pictures on the Internet. Not that I imagine we’ll be spending a lot of time in the suite, other than sleeping there."

"Then who cares how it looks?" Jenner asked what she considered a very practical question.

"I don’t want to sleep in an ugly room," Syd said indignantly. "Anyway, there’s something planned for every night, and plenty to do during the day."

"You’ve been on a cruise before, right?"

"Of course. It’s a lot of fun. All sorts of classes, which you’ll like, plus things like spas, movies, dance contests, and unending food. We’ll need a different gown for every night."

"Packing will be a bitch," Jenner said, thinking with horror of how many suitcases would be required. Not only would she evidently need fourteen evening gowns, but the shoes, the evening bags, and the jewelry that went with them. "Gaaa."

"Who cares? It’s all for a good cause. Bring that gorgeous strapless black gown you bought last month, just in case you meet that handsome, straight, nonjudgmental available billionaire we’re always looking for."

"The SEAL sounded more likely."

"But you have to be prepared, just in case. You never know what’ll happen."

Chapter Seven

FRANK LARKIN READ OVER THE PASSENGER LIST, NOTING the names he knew and their stateroom assignments, particularly those that adjoined the owner’s suite. The Silver Mist was due to sail in two days, and every detail had to be perfect. The assignment of the suites adjoining his owner’s suite bothered him. On one side was a couple he didn’t know, either personally or by name, and suspicion sharpened his gaze as he stared at the names, Ryan and Faith Naterra. Had they requested the suite next to his for any specific reason? Or had they simply requested one of the top suites – almost everyone had – and they’d simply been lucky enough to be among the first to sign up?

Frank didn’t believe in luck. He also didn’t believe in assuming there was no ulterior motive in asking for those suites. Rather, there was definitely an ulterior motive; everyone breathing had an ulterior motive. That ulterior motive might not involve him personally, but the possibility was always there.

Either way, he didn’t know Ryan and Faith Naterra, and that made him suspicious.

His head ached. It always did, a dull, ever-present reminder that there was, after all, something he couldn’t overcome. Briefly he massaged his temples; he knew that wouldn’t ease the pain, but the action was so instinctive he couldn’t stop himself. He had become so accustomed to the pain that most of the time, until recently, he’d seldom noticed it was there. Lately, though, he seemed to feel a small point of heat inside his head that was like a worm gnawing through his brain.

Was that the cancer? Could he actually feel the tumor growing? His doctor said no, but how could the bastard know? Had he ever had brain cancer? Had he ever had to live – yeah, fucking bad pun – with the knowledge that his brain was being eaten by disease and there was nothing he or anyone else could do to stop it?

The doctor had tried to explain that his brain wasn’t being "eaten," that the disease was adding cells that didn’t have the normal brain function, blah blah blah, and what the fuck difference did it make? It was killing him anyway. And he could still feel that kernel of heat. He could take the pain; it was relentless, but not excruciating. What he couldn’t take was the enraging loss of control, the helplessness. Well, fuck that. He wasn’t going to die curled in a ball, whimpering with pain and pissing himself because he couldn’t control his bladder any longer. He would go out his way, and by God, no one would ever forget Frank Larkin.

But now wasn’t the time, not quite. Before that time came, he had a lot of things to arrange.

"Find out about this Ryan and Faith Naterra," he said to Dean Mills, his head of security. "I’ve never heard of them, and I don’t like it."

Dean was a stocky man in his early forties with close-cropped white-blond hair and sharp blue eyes. The stockiness disguised a powerful musculature that most people underestimated, but what Larkin prized him for had nothing to do with physical strength and everything to do with an extremely useful blend of intelligence and lack of ethics. Dean was ruthless in getting the job done, whatever the job happened to be. He looked briefly at the information the Naterras had provided when they booked the cruise, said "Will do," and went off to dig up every scrap of information about them he could find.

Larkin went back to the passenger list. Most of the names were familiar to him, even if he didn’t know the people personally. Those who could afford this cruise belonged to a small, relatively close-knit group of the super-rich who had money to burn on something like this charity cruise, so being acquainted with most of them wasn’t difficult, if you moved in the same circles. Larkin didn’t, but he moved in a circle of movers and shakers that overlapped with them on social occasions.