Cape Storm Page 0,8

won't."

I felt the change in the ship before I saw the expression shift in the steward's face from nervous to outright alarmed. There was a deep, throbbing sensation coming up through the decks, transmitting itself all the way through my body.

"We're moving," I said. "Holy crap. Lewis wasn't kidding around."

"Guess not," Cherise said. We'd cleared half the room, but there were at least thirty of the first-class passengers still staging a sit-in, and we were out of time. "Maybe we can load them into lifeboats or something."

"Cher, do these guys look like they'd let us put them into lifeboats?"

"I didn't say they'd agree. We could, you know, knock them out or something."

"So we've moving up from threats to assault."

"Oh, come on . Not like you haven't assaulted anybody recently." And Cher punched me in the shoulder for emphasis.

"It wouldn't do any good," the steward broke in. "In these conditions, we don't dare launch any lifeboats, not even the new speedboat type that this ship carries. We have to have relatively calm seas or there's a significant risk of the lifeboats being compromised." Compromisedwas, I assumed, ship-speak for sunk. Which was kind of where we were, from the standpoint of achieving our goal.

I looked around the room again. Thirty-odd people, of which approximately a third were the rich sons of bitches who'd refused to leave, aggressively arrogant and sure that the universe cared too much about them to put them in real danger.

The others were their hapless hangers-on, employees, and family members.

I hated having innocents in the line of fire, but they'd made their choice, and now I had to make mine.

"Let them go back to their cabins," I said to the steward. "Confine them to quarters for now. If they want anything, deliver it. Don't let them go roaming around. Let them whine all they want, but do not let them intimidate you."

"Yes, miss." He was glad to have a clearly defined order, and he signaled to a couple of discreetly suited security men standing in the wings. They were both impressive specimens - large, muscular, with the kind of no-bullshit expressions that only men who do violence for a living could afford to wear. I figured the bulges in their coats had more to do with weaponry than with overindulging at the all-you-can-eat buffet.

The steward stationed outside was waiting for us when we emerged, and he handed me a key card and a fancy colored map with something circled on it. "Your cabin, miss," he said, straight-faced. "It's the least we can do in exchange for your help." I remembered my earlier snarky request. "It's not - "

"Oh, yes, it is. A special thank-you from the captain. And if you can't locate any stray Godiva chocolates or Dom Perignon, please let me know. I'll bring some to you straightaway."

I shook his hand, held up the map, and waggled both in front of Cherise. Her mouth dropped open.

"You didn't. "

"Botox Diva's cabin." I checked the details. "Two bedrooms. Want one?"

"Maybe. And maybe I want my own swanky digs - you ever think of that?" The steward cleared his throat very respectfully. "The captain's ordered us to close off all non-essential decks. We only have enough first-class cabins for about half of your party.

The other half will get our best accommodations farther toward the stern." Cherise gave out a sigh. "Okay, fine. I'll suffer with your guest room. You'd better not snore."

We were about halfway to the cabin, according to the map, when I felt a flutter at the edges of my awareness, like a psychic breeze. It felt cool as a mint balm to my irritated soul, and I sighed in sudden relief.

David was back.

I turned my head to see him striding down the broad hallway, heading our way. He glimmered like a hot penny, even under artificial light - silky auburn hair, worn long enough to curl at the ends, perfect bronze skin that would make a self-tanning addict weep in envy. Behind round John Lennon glasses, his eyes sparked brilliant orange, like miniature suns. His eyes were the only thing that gave him away right now as being more than human.

He was dressed in well-worn, faded jeans, a white Miami-weight shirt that fluttered in the air-conditioned breeze, and a ball cap advertising a local crab shack. He'd forgone his long vintage military coat, mainly because I'd lectured him enough about the unlikelihood of anyone except terrorists and flashers wearing coats in the Miami heat. Although the idea of