Burn (Page 80)

"No karaoke," he said decisively.

"I second that," Tiffany said. "Trust me, Cael’s singing isn’t a good thing."

He slanted a cool, warning look at her over Jenner’s shoulder, for all the good it did. Tiff just waggled a hand in his direction. "Really, boss, you should show her a good time. I hear she did good today."

"She didn’t have any choice." But she had. There was cooperation, and then there was doing exactly what he’d needed her to do. Jenner had hit the bull’s-eye today.

"A local guitarist is performing tonight," said Faith. "He’s supposed to be marvelous. Ryan and I will be there."

"I will be, too," Tiffany said.

"Then there’s no reason for us to go, if everyone else will be there to keep an eye on Larkin."

Jenner made a derisive sound. "I’m really looking forward to another evening of being handcuffed to the chair while he putzes around on his laptop. Isn’t that what every woman dreams of when she books a cruise?"

A smile wreathed Tiffany’s face. Uh oh, Cael thought. She got to her feet. "I have an idea. Cael, you can stay in the suite and work, while Jenner and I make the rounds above decks."

"No way in hell," he responded without hesitation.

"I can keep her in line," Tiffany said, and he had to admit, it was true. A linebacker would have a tough time getting past her. Jenner wouldn’t have a chance.

Still … "Considering your reputation and the scenario we set up, you don’t think it would look a bit odd if you two suddenly become friends?"

Tiffany flipped her hair back. "I’ve been drinking a lot less in the past couple of days. A sober apology, a little girl-to-girl commiseration about a certain low-down man, and bingo, we’re instant BFFs."

That sounded like a description of hell.

He looked down at Jenner, who wore a smug half smile. She knew damn well he wasn’t going to let her and Tiffany loose on an innocent population. He could keep her locked in the suite, but he wasn’t going to do that, either. He sighed and gave in, except –

"No karaoke."

DEAN MILLS WATCHED LARKIN from a distance as his employer made his way through a crowded bar. It was a little early in the day for one of those damn Ghostwaters, but Larkin was already sipping on one as he made his rounds. Larkin had always been twisted and unpredictable, but in public he’d put on a smooth, sophisticated act that had fooled a lot of very smart people. He wasn’t doing that now, but he should have been. Instead, he seemed to be falling apart, day by day, hour by hour.

Dean understood why he and the others had agreed to participate in the robbery, which would take place in just a few days while they were at sea, but what did Larkin have to gain? He said he was having financial problems – wasn’t everyone? – but to a man in Larkin’s position that was dealt with by taking out loans, adjusting investments and financial deals, and selling a big-ass house or two. True, he might get some satisfaction in taking from these people he despised, but it seemed that he would lose more than he’d gain, with the plan as it stood. Larkin said he had mounting debts and wanted to get away from it all, that people would think he was dead if the ship went down, but with so many cell phones, laptops, and a large crew with the latest in communications equipment, it seemed logical to assume that someone might get the names of those involved out before the bombs exploded.

Maybe there was a detail or two Larkin wasn’t sharing, a separate plan of some sort. That would be just like the bastard.

The episode with Tucker and the bread earlier in the day had set Dean’s teeth on edge, and he hadn’t been able to dismiss the image of Larkin shaking a piece of bread in Tucker’s face and demanding that he take a bite. Obviously Larkin had suspected the food was poisoned, which didn’t make any sense at all.

One’s partners in crime should be rational. A raving lunatic on the team wouldn’t increase their chances of pulling off the job and getting away clean – if you could call burning and sinking a ship, and killing a shitload of rich people, "clean."

What Dean wanted was simple: He wanted the money. He was tired of taking orders from bastards like Larkin. The money he would get from this haul would set him up in a South American country for life.

Larkin’s recent behavior made him uneasy, but it was too late to alter the plan. The bombs were in place; the trigger mechanisms were in good hands. But damn, he’d be relieved when it was over and he was sailing away from this fucking death trap.

WHEN THEY RETURNED to the suite, Jenner was surprised to see a man still posted at Frank Larkin’s door. Great. Usually there was no one in the hallways, but now it looked as if someone would always be aware of their comings and goings. She didn’t like it, and she imagined Cael liked it even less.

Entering, they found Bridget there, neatly laying evening clothes on the bed: his tux, her strapless black dress, which meant either Faith or Tiffany had already been on the phone to alert her to the plans for the evening.

Hours later, they were on deck, the evening breeze refreshingly cool, Cael’s grip light on her arm as if he no longer felt the need to physically hold her in place. Jenner found herself relaxing as she listened to the guitarist perform a haunting version of a classical tune she couldn’t name. Song followed song, some upbeat, some breathtaking in the intricate work required on the strings, another more melodic. Despite years in Palm Beach, she didn’t know much about classical music, because she avoided symphonies. Give her a Bon Jovi test and she’d ace it every time. Ask her if the tune currently being played had been written by Bach or Beethoven or some other long-dead dude, and she’d fail miserably.

But she liked it. The entire moment was magical. The music, the breeze, the man on her arm. Though she could never admit it to Cael, or anyone else, he was an important part of the package that made this moment special.