One hour and seven minutes.
He smiled, and for a moment, one precious moment, the pain in his head faded almost to nothing.
RYAN LOOKED FABULOUS in his tuxedo, as usual. Faith smiled at him as she slipped the posts of her eye-catching emerald earrings into her ears and fastened them. The earrings had been a Valentine's Day gift, one of many. She had to admit, her husband did things right.
Her own attire for the evening, a pale champagne silk gown that was draped elegantly on her body, was one of the more comfortable she owned but also one of the most expensive. There were days when she was willing to pay a pretty penny for comfort. The fact that this gown drove Ryan wild was a nice bonus.
A soft ping from the computer, which was sitting on the desk in the parlor, alerted her to the fact that she had a message. Maybe Larkin had finally signed on to the Internet and the key-logger program was paying off. Then again, it was more likely a message from her sister, who was determined that the two of them would go on a cruise together before the year was out, and had sent several messages to that effect.
Faith didn't rush into the other room, but slipped into her shoes and straightened the emerald necklace, a birthday present, that matched the earrings, before she walked into the parlor to check the laptop. Before she left for the evening, just in case, she'd program her iPhone to capture anything that came in while she was out of the room. She didn't sit, not wanting to wrinkle her gown just yet, but bent over the desk and opened the laptop.
Jackpot.
She smiled as she opened the program so she could see what Larkin had typed into the computer. The luck she was having with this program so far, it was probably a note to his mother. Did men like Larkin have mothers?
She read the message, and her smile disappeared.
"Ryan!" she shouted.
Recognizing the urgency in her voice, he ran into the parlor. "What's wrong?"
Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it; her knees felt suddenly weak. "Larkin is going to blow up the ship and everyone on it."
"When?" Ryan asked pragmatically, already reaching for his cell phone.
"I don't know. Tonight, I think. He didn't give a time, but it looks like the e-mails are set to be sent in an hour, so ... shortly after that, maybe. He won't want anyone to have advance warning."
"I'll start calling the others, you call Cael."
"Then what?" Faith asked as she dialed.
"Then we get the hell off this ship."
LARKIN HAD CALLED ISAAC EARLIER in the evening and told him to take the night off. His steward had been surprised but grateful. Frank had suggested that Isaac spend some time in the crew bar, maybe sit around the sad little crew hot tub. He'd even told Isaac that he'd been doing a good job and deserved a break.
Truth was, he didn't want to take the chance that Isaac would get nosy and look at the laptop and the messages there. The only other man Frank might have to worry about walking into his room uninvited was Dean Mills, and since he was sitting across from Dean at the moment he wasn't concerned about that.
They were alone, at a small table in the corner of the Fog Bank. Dean was anxious, worried about his boss's plan to make an escape, a plan he didn't quite buy into. Greed had kept him on a leash thus far.
"Relax," Frank said as he sipped at what was probably his last scotch. "In just two hours, the excitement will begin." In two hours the excitement would be over, for most of the people on this ship. But Dean didn't need to know that.
Frank was prepared for anything and everything. His gun - a .40-caliber PM40 Dean had provided, when Frank had insisted that he needed a weapon for the big event - sat deep in one pocket. It was a smallish gun, but it was heavy and the bulge ruined the line of his suit. Who the hell cared? He hated the way a gun felt tucked in his waistband, and was always afraid he'd shoot his balls or his ass. Unlike Dean, he didn't own a shoulder holster. The pocket would do. Sitting here, directly above one of the incendiary bombs that would explode in less than an hour, no one could see the bulge in his pocket, anyway.
But if he needed it ...
"I'm worried about Sanchez," Dean said in a very low voice.
"Who's that?" Frank truly felt no concern. Knowing he was about to die was more freeing than frightening.
"A security guard. I swear, I run into the guy every time I turn around. I think he's watching me."
"Don't be paranoid, Dean." Frank took a leisurely sip of his scotch. "If he gets in your way tonight, shoot him."
That slut Tiffany Marsters was sitting at the bar, drinking water and laughing with the bartender. She'd been more entertaining as a lush, but sobriety hadn't improved her tastes. The short, skintight bright blue dress she wore might've been painted on her, and how the hell did she walk in those shoes? Dean had cast more than one appreciative glance her way, even though he was worried about the plan for tonight and should have other things on his mind. Tiffany reached for a small gold clutch purse and opened it, pulling out a cell phone. He hadn't heard it ring, but then she was a good distance away. She didn't strike him as the sort who'd set her phone to vibrate out of consideration for others.
Dean was looking that way again.
Frank leaned forward. "After tonight, women like that will flock to you," he whispered, hoping to ease Dean's fears. "Money is a powerful aphrodisiac."
Judging by the expression on the man's face, the comforting words did the trick.
"WHERE ARE YOU?" Ryan's voice was unusually sharp on the phone.
"Excuse me," Tiffany said, smiling at the bartender as she slipped off her stool and walked away, searching for a bit of privacy. It wasn't like she could talk freely, though Ryan knew she was watching Larkin at the moment. "Fog Bank," she said, as if she were setting up a meeting with a friend.