5

The silver lining was that Esme wasn't dead. The more concerning part was that she had sent back each tray of food Jasper

had delivered to her stateroom over the past two days. The ship's porter said not to worry; he had not lost a single passenger

to seasickness yet. Drunken toppling over the rail, yes, but not seasickness.

The knowledge did little to assuage Jasper's fretting.

He swirled his after-dinner drink, watching the ice clink together and water down a perfectly good scotch, leaving condensation

dribbling onto the snowy-white linen tablecloth. Then again, what was he fretting for? Her recovery meant she would slip off

again to snag the tiara before him. A foolish attempt on her part for she had no idea who she was up against.

He was the best obtainer on and off the market with a network of buyers and contacts that stretched deep underground while simultaneously climbing into the palaces of royalty. Everyone knew the Phantom. He had worked hard to establish his reputation as never failing. And so far he had succeeded by living by three golden rules: keep it entertaining, forgo making enemies if possible, and never allow the game to be personal. Rules one and two were going swimmingly, but number three was doing its best to sidetrack him with memories of lingering champagne kisses.

Dancers spun on the floor as the last remnants of supper were cleared away by gloved servers and the ship's band edged into

more lively tunes that would be of little help to digestion. He adored a good turn around the wood, especially with a beautiful

woman in his arms, but this evening the music did nothing to encourage his feet. He was content to sit at his table and watch

while drowning his thoughts in scotch. Or what was left of it from the ice.

Lifting the glass to his lips, he stopped short. There, perched on top of one of the ice cubes, was the image of a mini Esme.

Full red lips curved in seduction as she stared up at him through sooty lashes.

"Forget the way I crushed your heart," she seemed to taunt. "Forget that I abandoned you without care, and let's have a drink for old times' sake."

He shook the glass, overturning thoughts of her to the watery bottom. Two could play that game.

"Monsieur, telegram for you." A server appeared at his side with a folded paper balanced on a silver tray.

Jasper took the telegram. "Merci . " Knowing what it said and from whom was a forgone conclusion. Only one person knew how to contact him at any given moment.

Smoothing out the paper, he read the sparse lines from Mond.

Duke a pest. Stop. Hurry and locate. Stop. Am not your secretary. Stop.

His friend may have been the only one who knew how to get ahold of Jasper at any time, but Duke knew how to put the squeeze

on Mond to get to Jasper. His grandfather wasn't known for his patience, and it seemed he'd placed retrieving the Valkyrie

at the top of his priority list and for reasons he declined to disclose. The old twister.

"Shall I bring you another, monsieur?" The waiter indicated the diluted drink on the table before whisking it away at Jasper's

nod.

Striking a match from the matchbook provided on the ashtray, Jasper touched the flame to the telegram's corner. Bright orange

flared on the yellow paper, eating it away to blackened edges. He tossed it in the ashtray as the ashes crumbled against the

crystal with cool satisfaction.

"There's a rumor about it belonging to a posh aristocrat's mistress, an Italian opera singer, long before it went to his bride." That was what Esme had said of the tiara. Could it be possible? Could Duke and this singer—

"Looks like you could do with another one of these." A glass slid into his hand with soft fingertips tapering over his. The

knuckle-fisted waiter didn't have hands like that.

His pulse thumped an extra beat as he looked up to find Esme smiling down at him. Dressed in sharp black with silver trim,

she was the most striking woman in the room. "The waitstaff has grown uncommonly pretty in the last few minutes."

Her deep red lips curved into a smile. Paleness clung to her cheeks and a slight dimness to her eyes, but at least she was

no longer green. Standing, Jasper gestured to the chair on the opposite side of his table. "Will you join me?" Once she settled

across from him, he returned to his seat. "You are looking much improved."

"I have determined to rally my spirits and escape those four prison walls they call a room."

"Are you hungry?"

She shook her head, sending the sleek black hair gliding along her jaw. "I managed a few water biscuits, but I shall not tempt

Fate with anything more substantial tonight." A waiter walked by with a tray wafting of roast beef and cream sauce. Esme's

gaze followed with hunger. "As tempting as it might be."

"Something to look forward to tomorrow."

"Thank you for sending trays. They were untouched, but the gesture was appreciated."

"My pleasure. I couldn't allow my travel companion to suffer without sustenance, though I admit it may have done more harm

than good." He brushed away a fleck of ash that floated too close to his drink.

"Travel companions, are we?"

"Would you prefer archrivals, or perhaps husband and wife?"

She arched a thin dark eyebrow. "A bit of the same thing, are they not?"

"They don't have to be."

"From what I've witnessed they are often synonymous. The bickering, the lies, the backstabbing, and of course the inevitability

of one going off to success while abandoning the other to dry up in their wake. Nothing more than a husk of broken promises."

She was right. He'd seen it enough times in his life to deny that happiness rarely lasted in relationships—if it began there at all. Love was nothing more than a rifle with a bullet in the chamber ready to put a beating heart out of its mournful existence. His own parents never married and died hating each other. Mother swept away by the Spanish flu, and dear Douglas shot dead by a jealous husband.

Then there was Duke, who preferred to live by the passion of his loins rather than the steadfastness of genuine affection.

Hardly examples to follow. His experience of dissension in the marital ranks should have turned Jasper away for good, but

for some unnerving reason it simply made him want to buck the trend all the more. Brokenness was not the life he wanted.

Dipping his unused salad fork into the glass, he scooped out the offending ice and dropped the cubes in the ashtray. It didn't

matter how hot it was, scotch should never be abused in such a manner.

"Would we have turned out that way?"

"After a bit of reckless passion, the magic would wane as it does with time."

"So a breakup is inevitable."

She tapped her lacquered nails over ripples in the tablecloth, smoothing them flat. "Have you seen it work otherwise?"

"No, but that doesn't mean we couldn't have started a new fad. Make them all wonder what we're about."

"You could not possibly want me as a wife."

"Clearly I did at one time since I offered you my name, but I want a wife who wants me. I'll not beg after a woman listing

all the reasons she should adore me."

Esme leaned forward, a devilish curl to her lips. "Pity. I love to see a man begging."

He matched her devil. "Get a dog."

She threw her head back and laughed, a free, jubilant sound that had him joining her. Couples at nearby tables looked over and smiled at the darling pair of them enjoying a private joke. It was a coziness he couldn't afford to be tempted into. She was a rival.

Standing to break the spell, he buttoned his dinner jacket and stepped around to her side of the table. "No begging, but rather

a favor. Would you care to dance?"

She flicked a glance over her shoulder to the couples spinning around the floor to a boozy trumpet. "If you don't mind," she

said, sliding her fingers into his offered palm, "I'd prefer to take the air."

"Your wish is my command."

Outside, the hot air had cooled over the Mediterranean waves. Moonlight glinted silver across the cresting deep blue waters

as the ship prowled along, with the coast of Italy hunkered dark on the western horizon. They strolled slowly around the deck,

nodding to other couples in passing. After a full circle, they stopped at a quiet spot. Splashing water below mellowed the

brass notes crooning from the dining room.

"The last time I visited Italy it was Carnevale ," Esme said, leaning against the rail. "Venice dazzled with colors I hadn't seen since before the war. Everywhere there was

gold, and purple, and green flashing like brilliant kaleidoscopes. Costumes and water floats, fire-breathers, jugglers, and

dancing troupes." She rubbed her hands against her bare arms as a cool breeze skipped across the waves. "It was wonderful

to slip behind a mask and pretend to be someone else for a night."

"A trick you still seem fond of." He slipped off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders.

"Mysterious is always more fun, and Carnevale is nothing if not theatric. A shame we won't be in town for the celebrations, but then, you could always linger to console your loss when I take the tiara before you." She flipped his jacket collar up to her ears, but not before hiding a teasing nose twitch.

"Nursing a loss for six months is not my style, but then neither is losing, so I'm afraid it is you who will be in need of

consolation." He leaned his forearms against the rail. The metal's coolness reached through the expensive weave of his shirtsleeves.

"Not to fear. Midsummer in Norway is fast approaching to celebrate the summer solstice. I hear there's a maypole to dance

around. Not quite the drunken revelry of Venice, but in your soon-to-be-dejected state I doubt you'll notice."

"What spurs on your confidence?"

"Experience."

"Not a secret plan you wish to tell me?" She peeked at him over the edge of his jacket collar.

Reaching over, he pulled the edge of it down. "Why? Because you have none of your own?"

"If I did, I would hardly tell you."

"Which means you have none."

"I'm an opportunist. Planning is for those who wish to live safe."

"Planning can be highly strategic. Especially if one knows how to play their opponent."

"Are you implying you know how to play me?" She turned to face him. Bold and challenging.

He matched her stance. Their verbal sparring intoxicated him far more than any scotch. "I wouldn't dream of such a presumption."

"Good. I would be disappointed in myself if I were to become predictable." She twisted one of the jacket's buttons. The garment was too large on her slender frame yet she made it look intentional. As if she required the extra space in which to stow her mysteries. "When we dock tomorrow, I shall miss our comradery and truce."

"As will I."

Slipping his coat from her shoulders, she handed it back to him. "May the best thief win."

She walked away, the black beads dripping from her gown's shoulders swaying over her exposed back, much as her long hair had

done when they first met. He remembered pulling handfuls of pins from it, tossing them carelessly to the hotel floor in eagerness

to feel the soft heft of inky waves in his palms. She was the girl who had stolen his heart. The one he could flip the world

on its head with.

"I wouldn't have left," he called, draping his jacket over the rail.

She stopped and turned back. "They all say that."

"I never say anything I don't mean."

Like a wave rolling to shore, she closed the distance between them. Her gaze roved over his face as if finding something unexpected

and not quite sure what to make of it.

"After all this time, cynicism hasn't chipped away at your romantic heart. It's one of the things about you I fell hard for.

It was so lovely to lose myself in after all the war and death." Reaching out, she grazed her fingertips along his jaw.

A shiver ran over his skin. Wanting, needing. It would be all too easy to fall into that temptation, but he'd been burned

before. No way was he going into that inferno again without her cast into the flames right beside him. "And now?"

She dropped her hand to her side. "Now, I've woken up. Romantic hearts belong to returning soldiers, champagne bubbles, and

soft midnight hours."

"People like us do our best work at midnight."

"True, but harsh daylight is just on the horizon. Best to remember that, darling." With that, she turned and left him in a

haze of perfume that lingered far too enticing in his nostrils.

Shifting his gaze to the dark shore, he sucked in a lungful of salted air to clear his senses and made peace with his next

move.

***

Esme stretched in bed. To her delight it had ceased rocking. Her head wasn't pounding, her stomach remained still, and for

the first time in countless hours the thought of food was a welcomed one. Brilliant sunshine poured in the round porthole

and soaked her exposed toes in warmth. Actually, the entire bottom part of her body lay uncovered due to her wild sleeping

habits, which had tossed the majority of the covers to the floor.

She flung aside the remaining corner of blanket and sat upright, waiting for the wave of queasiness. All was well. Her constitution

was most often ironclad, but occasionally the right wave motion or train lurch would have her kneeling before the porcelain.

She got out of bed and quickly completed her morning ablutions, patting her face with rose water and rubbing in moisturizer

before slipping into a linen blue-and-white number with a dropped waist and two long satin ribbons that curved around her

neckline and dropped into a loose knot over her flat chest. Well, mostly flat, and thank the gods of fashion for that. Bandaging

her breasts was not a style she wished to suffer.

After buckling her navy T-straps into place, she rummaged around the room for her purse, lifting up stockings here, shoving away knickers there. She picked up her beaded gown from the night before and aimed to drop it on the bed when a scent stopped her. Spicy. Woodsy.

She held the dress up her to nose and inhaled. Cedarwood.

Jasper.

His smile in the moonlight. The warmth of his body lingering in his jacket pressed against her skin. The way his words flirted

with her pulse, coaxing her with temptation. Of their own accord, her eyes slid to the velvet case where she carried her jewelry

and the one token she couldn't seem to part with. Their wedding photograph.

As if burned, she dropped the dress in her suitcase and tipped the lid shut. Enough of that. A girl could get distracted,

and she was far too busy to entertain that complication. She picked up her straw wide-brimmed hat and left her room, taking

the stairs up to the main deck. A spot of toast and jam sided with green tea was just the ticket on this glorious morning

of adventure.

The ship boards were smooth beneath her shoes as she entered the dining room. Passengers sat dotted around tables with plates

of sandwiches and tall frosted cocktails. She wasn't one to raise an eyebrow at another's drink of choice, but at so early

an hour one might at least consider a Bloody Mary.

Wait. The ship wasn't moving. Why wasn't the ship moving?

She rushed outside and gripped the rail. The docks of Venice bobbed gracefully mere yards away. They had already made port,

and judging by the slant of the sun it must have been some time ago. She cursed herself for oversleeping and grabbed a passing

steward.

"Pardon moi , is Mr. Truitt on board?"

The steward shook his head. " Non . I am sorry you have missed him, mademoiselle. He took a small boat in early this morning just before we dropped anchor."

"Oh he did, did he?"

Esme grinned, then raced back to her room and threw her clothes into the suitcase.

The game was on.