When he keyed the door and opened it, he held his breath until he saw Bridget calmly sitting on the couch, laptop on the coffee table in front of her, earbud in place, making use of the time by going through as much of their recorded audio/video as possible, to save him the trouble.
Redwine was nowhere in sight. Cael felt his testicles draw up, as if she might attack him from behind at any second. "Where is she?" he asked, dread in his tone.
Bridget looked up. "She's taking a nap," she said, as if that were the most normal thing in the world.
Unbelievable. Cael rolled his eyes upward, ruefully shaking his head. "Why can't she ever do that when I'm here?" he asked, of no one in particular.
Right on cue, she appeared in the bedroom doorway, her eyes sleepy-looking and her hair tousled. Her gaze focused on him like a laser. "Oh, it's you" she said in tones of loathing, before giving him a huge, completely fake smile that looked more like a tiger snarling. "Welcome back, lover."
Chapter Seventeen
LARKIN HAD TO GO TO THE CASINO SOON FOR THE FIRST of the cruise's organized charity events. All proceeds from the casino - from the entire cruise, actually - were being donated to charity but there were too many passengers for all of them to fit inside the casino at once, so the organizers had divided them into groups, based on their deck name and room number, and a hundred at a time were allowed in the casino for one hour. The person who won the most money in that length of time got a prize; Frank didn't know what the prize was, and didn't care. It would be something pricey, of course - this crowd would expect nothing less.
It occurred to him that this ship, this cruise, would become the stuff of legends, just like the Titanic. Everything the passengers did, the music they listened to, the fashions they wore, would be studied and analyzed as if all of it were important, when in fact none of it was.
He didn't have much of an appetite, but when he did eat he preferred to eat alone. On occasion he couldn't manage to keep down what little he ate, so privacy was important. Dining with the other passengers was out of the question; he didn't want anyone noticing that he didn't eat much and that he sometimes gagged on his food. No one knew he was sick, other than his doctor, and he wanted to keep it that way. He'd ordered a sandwich - tuna salad on a croissant, because God forbid anything as simple as regular bread should be served on this ship - some fruit, and a bottle of water, and he'd do what he could to choke down some of it before he was forced to make an appearance in the casino.
The tumor in his brain had taken away so many of the joys of life. The constant headache made him jumpy, and some days the pain was worse than others. He didn't dare take more than over-the-counter painkillers, because anything more would cloud his mind. He'd all but lost interest in food, though he knew he needed to eat, and he missed the enjoyment of a good meal. Sex was another appetite he'd lost. His body was rebelling against him, taking away all of life's pleasures, and it infuriated him. Wasn't it bad enough that he was going to fucking die? Did the damn cancer have to rob him of every possible bit of enjoyment and satisfaction? He was damned if he'd let it.
His personal steward, Isaac, took care of most of his needs during the cruise. Larkin didn't want a stranger in his immediate circle, not when what he was doing was so crucial. Isaac had been a loyal employee for years; he always did whatever was asked of him without complaint, no matter how demeaning it might be. Whenever it looked as if the man had had enough and was about to walk, Larkin would throw him a bone: a raise, a gift, maybe a vacation. Isaac would spend his final days sleeping in cramped crew quarters and doing as he was told. He'd die here, loyal to the end.
Maybe he should feel sorry for good old Isaac, Larkin thought, then gave a contemptuous laugh. If Isaac had had any balls, he'd have left a long time ago. Why should he feel sorry for a fool?
Isaac couldn't handle everything, though. Room service, for instance, would take twice as long if Isaac had to go to the kitchen and fetch the food, so he was relieved of that duty and Larkin tolerated the room service personnel. He was in the suite when he ordered room service, obviously, so it wasn't as if anyone would be coming in while he wasn't there.
A young man - his name tag read "Matt" - delivered Larkin's dinner. Larkin hated him on sight. Not only was he pretty in a tennis pro, surfer kind of way with curly blond hair and the innocent eyes of the terminally stupid, he looked as healthy and in shape as Larkin himself had always been. He hated the kid for his health, for his complete unawareness of his own mortality. What would it be like to not realize you were dying? Everyone was dying, but most people carried on in blissful ignorance. Larkin no longer had that luxury, and the unfairness of it made him want to slap the kid's stupid, pretty face.
"Good evening, sir," the idiot said cheerfully. "Where would you like your dinner?"
Shoved up your ass, Larkin thought, but didn't say it. Instead he indicated a small table near the doors that opened onto the balcony. "Put it there."
The kid unloaded the tray's contents, said, "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?"
"No, just get out," Larkin said, his fists clenching as pain shot like a nail through his head. Sometimes it did that, the chronic headache turning hot and sharp before subsiding again. A wave of nausea followed hard on the heels of the pain.
The kid looked startled by Larkin's rudeness. "Uh ... yes sir," he said, hurrying to the door. He was in such a rush that he tripped over his own big feet and fell, thudding to his knees. He dropped the tray and it rolled away from the klutz with an ear-shattering clatter, finally spinning to a noisy halt against the tall artificial ficus tree that had been placed against the wall near the door.