Degrees of Wrong (25 page)

I pushed away from him. “No, actually, you can’t. Because
he’s
free to marry the object of
his
attention.”

He sighed, took my hand and pulled me back to the table. The room suddenly felt chilly without his body pressed against mine.

“I can see I haven’t been doing enough to persuade you,” he said. “I promise I’ll do better.”

“There is no persuading me. Leave me alone, Nicoli.”

“I wish I could.”

He was lucky I was so comfortable in this chair. And he was lucky there was nothing immediately available to throw at him. Because, from where I sat in the huge, overstuffed recliner, I had a perfect shot at his head.

I glanced around me again, searching for something I could throw to make him stop snoring. His delicious body draped unmoving over the expanse of the couch, his blanket pooled on the floor, leaving him exposed. I considered covering him up myself—gawking at him every five seconds stalled my research considerably.

I gritted my teeth and forced myself to look at the screen of the admiral’s laptop. Why did the man insist on sleeping on the couch while I worked? I admitted it might have something to do with my comment about escaping the other day.

I shook my head in frustration but kept my glare on the screen. I had received the file transmission from Ralph today, and perused the autopsy reports. Anton, Belle and Philippe all died from the Black Death. And Philippe’s death certificate was dated approximately two weeks after those of his father and sister.

Ralph had also contacted the French doctor’s wife, who I now knew to be Marie Belmonte. She confirmed my suspicions—she never contracted the virus at all. She did forfeit a few vials of her blood, though the details surrounding the exchange were not disclosed. I hoped for her sake she cooperated.

The files offered something else of significance. As it turned out, their daughter Belle—seven years old according to her birth record—had been adopted. She was not directly related to the only known survivor of the Black Death. Philippe, however,
was
the biological son of Mrs. Belmonte. And he survived longer than anyone who had ever contracted the virus—an interesting coincidence.

Only, I didn’t believe in coincidences.

I couldn’t pick apart the phenomenon until we boarded the ship again and I could examine the actual specimens from the autopsies. For now, I’d have to occupy myself with the unlikely task of finding others like her.

I burrowed deeper into the nest of blanket and searched for someone other than casualties. At three o’clock in the morning, I actually found one.

His name was Marcel Eaton. A French-Canadian. He was a businessman en route to London to meet with a client when a single terrorist infected with the virus boarded the plane—one of the new three-level superjets with the passenger capacity of twelve hundred people.

The lone revolutionary was only able to expose the first two decks in the course of the trip. Six hundred forty-two people succumbed to the illness in the two days after the incident, not including the people exposed at the airports. I sifted through hundreds of police reports from the passengers on the unexposed decks. Some claimed to see the man being arrested, others had family members on the exposed decks, and still others reported complete ignorance of the situation until they’d seen it on the news days later.

After the chaos had subsided, the police tracked down everyone on the passenger list and recorded their version of the tragedy. Marcel’s police report stood out as a gold coin among rocks. In his account, he described his position on the plane:

The bastard sat right next to me. He kept looking around. He seemed anxious. I also noticed that he didn’t look well, he looked very ill. He was sweaty, and he kept coughing. He didn’t even try to cover his mouth when he coughed. Once the plane took off, he was always getting out of his chair. Now I know what he was doing, visiting the other decks and all. I almost offered that bastard a tissue. I hope he suffered.

His statement was dated six days after the incident occurred. Marcel had sat next to him, had probably been the most exposed person on the plane, and had given a witness statement six days later. Marcel Eaton was
French
-Canadian. The police report indicated he held citizenship in both countries.

Ralph wasn’t going to be happy about this.

“Did you plan on sleeping tonight, love?”

I glanced up to see Nicoli sitting on the edge of the couch. He leaned over, his elbows resting on his knees.

“We need to call Ralph,” I said, excitement coursing through me. He stood, stretched and lumbered to the chair, sitting on the armrest. I tried not to breathe in his masculine scent.

“What have you got?”

“I’ve found another person who was exposed to the virus but didn’t contract it.” I showed him the news clippings and the police reports.

“Ralph’s going to have a coronary. I think someone’s getting fired over this one. Tell me what you need, and I’ll contact Ralph in the morning.”

“It’s already morning.”

“Yes, but we can fight about that later. Now, come to bed. That couch isn’t as comfortable as it looks.”

“You’re not sleeping with me again tonight. Or this morning,” I amended.

“Like hell I’m not. This isn’t the
Bellator
, love. Extra precautions need to be taken. I’m not sleeping on a completely separate floor from you. It’s out of the question.” He took the laptop away from me and hauled me up by my elbow.

I hadn’t thought about it from a security standpoint. I studied his face to see if this was game play. He seemed a little perturbed—and a lot sleepy—so I guessed his motives were honest.

I allowed him to drag me up the stairs, admitting how much faster we arrived than if I’d managed the stairs myself. I nestled down into the covers as he plopped on top of them.

“You’re not cold?” I asked.

“Are you inviting me under those covers? Please say you are.” He turned on his side, facing me, and propped his head on his hand, leaning on his elbow. I knew he was joking but was still thankful my pajamas and the heavy comforter masked the instantaneous goose bumps.

I rolled my eyes. “I was asking if you needed an extra blanket.”

“No, thank you.” He smirked. “Are
you
cold? I could—”

“Good night, Nicoli.” I rolled away from him.

He chuckled. “Good night, love.”

I woke up in an empty bed. The sun permeated the room with midmorning. I showered and dressed quickly, eager to hear Ralph’s thoughts on my findings.

Nicoli stood at the kitchen counter, cracking open a coconut. Coconut palms were generously indigenous to the Maldives, and the admiral’s island in particular seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of them. Nicoli grinned at me and offered to pour me a glass.

“Please.” I smiled. “Did you talk to Ralph?”

“Yes. And quite frankly, I can’t subject your innocent ears to his response.”

I giggled and accepted the glass of milk from him.

“I suppose though,” he continued on, grabbing another coconut from the counter, “I could relay it to you in summary. He said, ‘Thank you for your laborious search, and I will certainly find this Marcel and invite him over to tea so we can chat about his experience.’ He also said, ‘I will also endeavor to find the silly member of my staff who accidentally overlooked this incident and will have a heart-to-heart with them, over cookies and milk, about how I can make his or her job easier, so that this doesn’t happen again.’”

I giggled again. “That bad, huh?”

He grinned. “I blushed at some point during his outburst.”

I laughed and took a sip of my milk.

“May I ask why you are dressed?” he asked, devastating the contents of his glass with one swallow.

That I didn’t grasp his meaning must have been obvious on my face. He said, “You need to change into your swimsuit, love. You’re learning how to swim today, if it kills me.”

Oh. That. No can do.
“Actually, I forgot to purchase a swimsuit yesterday. I just
knew
I was forgetting something.” I couldn’t quite make eye contact.

He’d already donned a pair of blue swimming trunks. Why couldn’t we have stopped in Antarctica, where I wouldn’t have been subjected to swimming lessons and where Nicoli might have been less inclined to walk around shirtless?

He chuckled. “I figured you’d have a convenient lapse in memory. That’s why I asked Dr. Folsom to pick one up for you yesterday. She said she put it in your top drawer.”

“Wh-what?”

“You can choose to be proactive about this, you know.” He crossed his arms, ready for a fight. “Now run along and change, love. Meet me at the dock. We’ll take the pod to a nearby lagoon. The waves won’t be so rough there. I’ve already packed lunch.”

He turned and walked out the door, grabbing the coolant box containing our lunch on his way out. I stared after him, frozen in place for a few endless seconds. Apparently, he felt confident in my obeisance. That, or he knew I couldn’t get far on the confines of the island.

I trudged up the stairs, my legs barely able to move with the terror. Memories of the summer of the shark—that’s what the natives had called it ever since—replayed over and over in my mind. I was nine years old when they pulled the first little boy from the water without his leg. He bled to death on the shore, had already lost too much volume for my father to save him. Two hours later, a diver was hauled up after giving a distress signal. He surfaced with chunks taken out of his side, his intestines spilling into the boat. Reports of similar incidents spread like a rash.

In twenty-four hours, we had sixteen bodies to bury. An investigation team sent out discovered a huge migration of tiger sharks lurking everywhere around the island, numbering in the thousands. Swimming and diving were banned—an unnecessary request given the hysteria. Even from shore you could see them in swarms, shadows flitting just under the surface of the water. When fishermen began to haul in empty nets—their usual catch obliterated by the new predators—they decided to fish for sharks. I ate myself sick on shark meat that summer. After a few months the swarms vanished, leaving behind no trace of their existence, as if we imagined the whole thing. But after the summer of the sharks, I never ate fish again—and I never stepped foot in the water.

When I got to my room, I slogged to my dresser and pulled open the top drawer, still in a trance. The shock hit me like ice water when I retrieved the red two-piece—although the word
piece
may have been saying too much. I couldn’t wear this…this…
shoestring
on my body.

I heard Dr. Folsom call from the stairs, “Elyse, dear, I just passed Nicoli on my way in. He said if you’re not on the dock in five minutes, he’s coming after you, hon.”

I gritted my teeth and put the thing on. I stared at the mortified woman in the mirror, tried to make her move toward the door. She shook her head at me, pleading with her eyes not to make her go.

“He’ll come up here,” I told her. “He cannot come up here.” The woman in the mirror sighed in defeat, growled even. She turned away from me. I headed—stomped—down the stairs.

I met Dr. Folsom with a scowl. Surprise registered on her face. “Oh. Well. That’s what I would call a perfect fit.”

“That’s the amazing thing about
strings
, Dr. Folsom. They’ll wrap around anything,” I ground out.

“Uh, well, have a good time, dear.”

I rolled my eyes and walked toward the door, taking care to slam it shut. I punctured the sand with my heated march. As I got closer to the shoreline, I saw Nicoli had parked the pod along the dock about halfway up. He stood in it with his back turned to me, busying himself with what appeared to be netting. His torso glistened in the sun, his broad back flexing with his exertions. I groaned. This was going to be a long day.

He turned to face me just as I reached the pod. He started to smile, but then gasped up at me. “What are you
wearing
?”

With one smooth motion he landed on the pier next to me, regarding me with balled fists placed on his hips. In a moment of self-conscious terror, I glanced down at my ensemble to make sure it was still properly intact. My relief couldn’t be measured when I saw that all the pertinent regions were still covered.

“Um, a swimsuit. The swimsuit Dr. Folsom picked out for me.”

He grabbed my wrist and whirled me around, dragging me like a child back toward the shore.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I asked between the exaggerated steps his stride forced me to take.

He stopped us both and jerked me around to face him. He pointed his finger toward the shore with slow deliberation. “Run,” he said simply.

“Why?” I glanced around us for the danger.

He growled low and ran his hand through his hair. “Remember in the transport room, when I told you that your virtue was safe with me?”

I nodded, wide-eyed.

“Well, right now, it isn’t. Run.”

I took an unsteady step back.

He stepped toward me. “This is criminal of Dr. Folsom. And
you’re
wasting valuable escape time. We both know I can run faster than you. If you leave right now, I
think
I can walk the other way. If you wait any longer, I guarantee I’ll come after you. If that happens, I can’t make any promises as to what may transpire between us.”