Page 12 of Lair

Mr. Voper nods. “Always on point, Mrs. Colding.”

“Have you eaten? Supper can be ready in minutes.”

“A snack for the ladies, perhaps.”

Emmie flips her hair. “Just some escargot for me. You do have that, don’t you?”

Mrs. Colding’s face is inscrutable. “Of course. Right away.”

They’re heading right for me. I hold my breath, willing them to pass by, for Mr. Voper to not notice—

No such luck: the glasses turn, the entourage stops.

Absolute silence. You could count the waves lapping against the hull. Emmie and the other model glance at each other, confused.

Then Mr. Voper lifts a hand, snicks his glasses away, and our eyes meet.

For a moment I am lost in the burning centroids of anger that are those eyes—the intensity, the eerie blue power of them—and I feel the world quiver.

Never have eyes like that looked on me.

One long, pale hand lifts—his hands are almost like a woman’s—and feels the rich darkness of my ponytail coiled on my shoulder. Vertigo takes me. “I—I’m sorry,” I splutter. “I forgot to bleach—”

But like that, he’s moved on—a tall, lean presence gliding past. Emmie gives me a smirk over her shoulder, and I cannot even begin to interpret the blank expression on Mrs. Colding’s face.

All I know is, the totality of me has been summed up—and dismissed.

SIX

We get them set up on the top deck with gin and tonics, a platter of escargot and a charcuterie board. Emmie and the other girl, a Spanish swimwear model—Lucia, I think?—flounce giggling in bikinis into the bubbling Jacuzzi, the shimmying moons of their asses bouncing. Mr. Voper doesn’t join them. He looms with hands in pockets at the edge, dark hair glossy from the Jacuzzi’s glowing light, as the models feed each other nibbles of cheese and give him sultry looks.

Dear God, I think, wanting to roll my eyes.

“Anything else, sir?” I offer as casually as I can, and Mrs. Colding shoots me a sharp look. That was her line, apparently.

But I hold my ground, heart pounding, waiting for an answer.

It seems to take forever. Mr. Voper turns his head slightly to me—then raises a distracted hand, as if warding off a fly.

Oh.

“Aren’t you coming in?” Emmie purrs, plump lips sucking suggestively on a wedge of Stilton, and Lucia cozies up to her and gives Adrian a seductive onceover. “We’re getting lonely, papi.”

Mr. Voper’s mouth twitches. He half turns. “That’ll be all for now, Mrs. Colding.”

“Of course, sir,” Mrs. Colding says, bowing, and tugs at my arm. Her fingers are like a vise. When I glance back, Mr. Voper is loosening his tie as Emmie and Lucia watch with undisguised hunger.

On the sun deck, Mrs. Colding turns to me and hisses through gritted teeth. “Never do that again. The Chief Stewardess always leads. Understand?”

I nod. I’m trembling from head to foot, I don’t know why. I blurt it out before I can stop myself. “Do you have any hair bleach?” Mrs. Colding blinks at me like a toad and I add, “My hair.” I gesture helplessly. “All the other stews...”

Mrs. Colding takes in a long, slow breath and says in a careful tone, “If he hasn’t told you to bleach your hair, then don’t.”

I stare at her. “But—he hates me.”

Mrs. Colding gives me a flat look. “That’s why he’s paying you, darling. So he can hate someone.”

I swallow, letting this sink in, and try to get my trembling under control. Mrs. Colding surveys me coolly, head to toe. “You should turn in. You have a long day tomorrow.”

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