“Briefly.” He smirks.
I step back and appraise my father’s massive shoulders, barrel chest, and thick arms. “Did you put the hurt on ’em?”
The serious tone of our conversation evaporates and he laughs with relief. “You could say that.”
“So, in spite of his loyalty to Leticia, Jimmy’s got mad respect for you.”
Jacob shakes his head in amusement. “Nobody cuts to the heart of things like you, Mitzy.”
“Speaking of . . . How do you want to do this? I think it’s probably best if you gamble and I snoop?”
My father wipes a hand across his weary brow. “I’ll assume there’s no point in arguing?”
“Sounds good, Ace. I hope you get some hot dice.”
I can see my father’s shoulders quake with laughter as he heads toward the craps table.
Now I need to find this red-hot widower—easy girl—and see how it is that he’s acquainted with Leticia Whitecloud.
Chapter 3
Taking the narrow stairs down to the middle deck, I’m met with the odor of stale cigarette smoke and the desperate and grating laughter of a woman. When I enter the smoking lounge adjacent to the poker tables, the small, dark, and handsome widower is the cause of her performance.
According to Grams, the marriage was barely three years old. Liliané’s eighth husband died of a heart attack during a bungee jumping excursion in New Zealand. Rumor has it she was so devastated, she had to mourn her way around the globe.
When she walked into a taverna on Mykonos and saw Vassili tending bar, it was love at first sight.
Grams assures me that the love was one-sided until Vassili caught sight of Liliané’s bank balance. When she returned to Pin Cherry with a husband thirty-plus years her junior, the backlash was scandalous!
He definitely looks like a gigolo, and the way he’s flirting with this slightly older woman indicates his brief mourning period has ended and he’s ready to jump into yet another deeply meaningful financial relationship.
I order champagne, take a seat at the bar, and pretend to gaze longingly toward the twinkling lights of Pin Cherry Harbor. Meanwhile, all my senses, the regular ones and the extras, are trained on Mr. Vassili Barnes. Yes, that’s right, he took her last name.
“The deep purple in that amethyst torque brings out the hidden violet flecks in your eyes.”
“Please don’t use my sister’s name.”
Uh oh, scandal—part two. I thought that chick looked familiar. The woman he’s flirting with is Iris, the older, married daughter of the deceased. I didn’t recognize her at first with the masses of ringlets and a sparkly gown softening her angular features. Not to mention the exposed sinewy muscles on her arms that were previously hidden by her tailored black mourning suit.
Vassili reaches gentle fingers toward her rouged cheek.
But the reflection I’m watching in the window steps back and firmly pushes his eager hand away with her gloved one. “Not here.”
“Then you had better leave, my love. I’m unable to restrain myself in your presence.”
My clairsentience picks up on her mixture of guilt and longing. The yuck factor, of the two of them being involved in an affair behind her mother’s back, is pretty huge.
She manages to tear herself away and scurry toward the stairs.
He disappears through a door behind the bar, and I’m unable to stop myself from following.
The narrow door leads into a small, mid-ship supply room with a hatch, and a ladder stretching down to the deck below. I step toward the opening and the sound of his retreating footsteps signals, hopefully, all clear.
Managing slick metal ladder rungs in a bedazzled flapper dress and heels is certainly not as easy as they make it look in the movies. By the time I reach the bottom, my headband is slipping on my sweaty brow and the silk under-layers of my getup are sticking to my lower back, and other places.
As I struggle to adjust my slip, a server walks in to retrieve a stack of napkins. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be back here.”
Here goes nothing.
Engage bimbo voice. “Right? I’ll be out of your hair in a minute. This humidity . . . and my slip.” I hike my dress up to reveal my garter stockings and bend over to make the most out of my cleavage as I tug on the silk lining.
The young man’s cheeks flush and he hurries out, mumbling over his shoulder. “Sure, whatever. Take your time.”
I shimmy my shoulders and wish Grams were here to share in my success. “Still got it.”
Unfortunately, the delay causes me to temporarily lose track of my quarry. I peek out of the door leading toward the stern, but there’s no sign of our lech-in-mourning.
Back through the storage area and out the other side leads into a private poker game.
There’s no sign of Vassili, but my mood ring finally sparks to life. I glance down in time to make out the image of a polished wooden door.
Smiling nervously at the players, I hustle across the room, exit through the other door, and take the stairs below decks.
The bow of the boat houses a limited number of suites. I step quietly along the passageway and, as I near the polished wooden door, familiar from my vision, I hear the unmistakable sound of a bereaved husband seeking solace in the arms of another woman.
Based on my earlier eavesdropping, I feel certain I’ve stumbled upon Vassili and Iris. I carefully twist the handle to the room across the hall from their tryst, and the door opens easily.
Stepping inside what luckily turns out to be an empty cabin, I close the door to a narrow slit and wait to confirm my suspicions.
Disappointingly, for Iris, Vassili exits their room less than five minutes later. He heads back up top, and I wait for Iris to clear out before I leave my hiding place. I’d very much like to avoid being caught.
Imagine my surprise when a youthful cocktail waitress emerges, still tucking in her shirt, oblivious to her smeared lipstick.
She hustles off in the opposite direction from her rendezvous partner.
As soon as she’s out of sight, I follow. No point in walking through that private poker game twice.
I lose her on the top deck and double back to see if I can pick up Vassili’s trail.
As I approach the stern, the raised voices of two men arguing send me skulking into the shadows to eavesdrop.
“I don’t care what my mother’s supposed will said, you cheap piece of Euro-trash. You’re not getting her money.”
“No. No. We are family, Roman. There’s no need for you to be upset about the love I shared with your mother. I will make sure you and your sisters are well cared for.”
A nauseous swirl surges toward my esophagus. If Roman had any idea how Vassili was taking care of Iris, he’d probably push him overboard right now.
Creeping stealthily toward the commotion, I clasp my hand over my mouth and hope my prediction isn’t about to come true.
Roman has a handful of Vassili’s shirt and he’s pushing him backward over the railing.
The lover-not-a-fighter is struggling, but he’s smaller than the Prince Harry doppelganger and not driven by vindictive rage.
Before I can shout out a warning, Leticia and her goons walk onto the deck.
“Back away from him.” Her voice is low and even. The naturally flat affect carries no hint of concern. She speaks from a place of absolute belief in her instructions being unquestionably followed.