But the story was out now—at least 90 percent of it was—and not explaining felt like getting sympathy under false pretenses.

“It—it was an accident really. He slammed a door in my face; it hit my cheek. I don’t think he meant to hurt me.”

I should have just stayed in my room, head beneath the duvet, was the truth. Stupid Lo, sticking your neck out.

“You should learn self-defense,” Archer said. “That’s how I started, you know. Royal Marines. It’s not about size, even a girl like you can overpower a man if you get the leverage right. Look, I’ll show you.” He pushed back his chair. “Stand up.”

I stood, feeling slightly awkward, and with extraordinary swiftness he grabbed my arm and twisted it up behind my back, tilting me off-balance. I grabbed for the table with my free hand, but the twisting motion in my shoulder continued, pulling me backwards, the muscles screaming in protest.

I made a noise, half of pain and half of fright, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Chloe’s shocked face.

“Archer,” she said, and then more urgently, “Archer—you’re scaring her!”

He let go, and I sank back into my chair, my legs trembling, trying not to show how much my shoulder was protesting.

“Sorry,” Archer said with a grin as he pulled his chair back to the table. “Hope I didn’t hurt you. Don’t know my own strength. But you see what I mean—very tricky to get out of, even if your attacker’s bigger than you. Anytime you want a lesson . . .”

I tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding fake and shaky.

“You look like you need a drink,” Chloe said bluntly, and she topped up my glass. Then, as Archer turned away to speak to a waiter, she added in a lower voice, “Ignore Archer. I’m starting to believe the rumors about his first wife were true. And look, if you want something to cover up that bruise, come over to my cabin sometime. I’ve got a whole array of stuff and I’m a pretty mean makeup artist. You need it in the trade.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, and attempted a smile. It felt false and strained and I picked up my glass and took a sip to hide it. “Thanks.”

After the first course, the places switched around and I found myself, somewhat to my relief, at the other table from Archer, sitting between Tina and Alexander, who were having a very knowledgeable conversation about foods of the world over the top of my head.

“Of course the one type of sashimi you really must try is fugu,” Alexander said expansively, smoothing his napkin across his straining cummerbund. “It’s simply the most exquisite taste.”

“Fugu?” I said, trying to insert myself into the conversation. “Isn’t that the horribly poisonous one?”

“Absolutely, and that’s what makes the experience. I’ve never been a drug taker—I know my own weaknesses, and I am very aware of being one of life’s lotus-eaters, so I’ve never trusted myself to dabble in that sort of thing—but I can only assume that the high one experiences after eating fugu triggers a similar neuron response. The diner has diced with death, and won.”

“Don’t they say,” Tina drawled, sipping at her wine, “that the art of the really superlative chef is to slice as closely as possible to the poisonous parts of the fish and leave just a sliver of the toxins on the flesh to heighten the experience?”

“I have heard that,” Alexander conceded. “It is supposed to act as a stimulant in very small quantities, although that particular slicing technique may be more to do with the expense of the fish and the chef’s disinclination to waste even a morsel.”

“So how poisonous is it?” I asked. “In terms of quantity, I mean? How much would you have to eat?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Alexander said. He leaned across the table, a rather unpleasant gleam in his eye as he warmed to his topic. “Different parts of the fish have a different toxic load, but in terms of the most poisonous parts—which is to say, the liver, the eyes, and the ovaries—we’re talking very, very little. Grams, if that. They say it’s around a thousand times more deadly than cyanide.” He pushed a forkful of fish carpaccio into his mouth and spoke through the delicate flesh. “It must be a quite horrible way to die—the chef who prepared it for us in Tokyo took great delight in describing the process of the poison—it paralyzes the muscles, you know, but the mind of the victim is quite unaffected, and they stay fully conscious throughout the experience as their muscles atrophy and they become unable to breath.” He swallowed, licked his moist lips, and smiled. “Eventually they quite simply suffocate.”

I looked down at the slivers of raw fish on my own plate, and whether it was the wine, or Alexander’s vivid description, or whether the sea had picked up, I felt rather less hungry than I had before dinner. I put a piece reluctantly in my mouth and chewed.

“Tell us about yourself, darling,” Tina said suddenly, surprising me by flicking her attention abruptly from Alexander to me. “You work with Rowan, I hear?”

Tina had started at Velocity in the late eighties and had briefly crossed paths with Rowan, who still talked about her and her legendary ferocity.

“That’s right.” I swallowed my mouthful with uncomfortable haste. “I’ve been there about ten years.”

“She must think very highly of you to send you on a trip like this. Quite the coup, I would have thought.”

I shifted in my chair. What could I say in answer to that? Actually, I don’t think there’s any way she would have trusted me with this if she weren’t on a hospital drip?

“I’m very lucky,” I said at last. “It’s a real privilege to be here, and Rowan knows how keen I am to prove myself.”

“Well, enjoy it is my advice.” Tina patted my arm, her rings cool against my skin. “You only live once. Isn’t that what they say?”

- CHAPTER 9 -

We swapped seats twice more, but somehow I never found myself next to Bullmer, and it was not until the coffee was served, and we were free to leave our seats and return to the Lindgren Lounge, that I had the chance to accost him. I was just walking across the room, a cup of coffee in my hand, balancing myself precariously against the shifting of the boat, when a flash went off in my face, and I stumbled, narrowly avoiding drenching myself in coffee. As it was, a few drops spattered the hem of the rented gown and the white sofa next to me.

“Smile,” said a voice in my ear, and I realized the photographer was Cole.

“Shit, you idiot,” I said crossly, and then instantly wanted to kick myself. The last thing I wanted was him reporting my rudeness back to Rowan. I must be drunker than I thought. “Not you,” I said awkwardly, trying to cover my slip. “Me, I meant. The sofa.”

He saw my discomfort and laughed.

“Nice recovery. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell tales on you to your boss. My ego’s not that fragile.”

“I didn’t . . .” I floundered, but it was so uncannily close to what I had been thinking that I couldn’t think how to finish. “I just—”

“Forget about it. Where were you off to in such a hurry anyway? You were striding across the room like a marksman hunting down a lame antelope.”

“I . . .” It felt slightly pathetic to admit it, but my head was throbbing with a mix of tiredness and alcohol, and somehow it seemed easier to tell the truth. “I was hoping to talk to Richard Bullmer. I’ve been trying to speak to him all evening, I just never had the chance.”

“And you were making your move when I wrecked it,” Cole said with a gleam in his eye. He smiled again, and I realized it was his incisors that gave him a slightly wolfish, predatory air. “Well, I can sort that out anyway. Bullmer!”

I cringed as Richard Bullmer turned from his conversation with Lars and looked across.

“Did I hear my name?”

“You did indeed,” Cole said. “Come and speak to this nice girl, make amends for my ambushing her.”

Bullmer laughed, picked up his cup from the arm of the chair next to him, and strolled across. He moved easily, in spite of the slight roll of the ship, and I had the impression of someone who was very physically fit, and probably hard as nails beneath the well-cut suit.