“I have not been in communication with him either on the ship or off. You know that.”
He did know that. He knew what she said and to whom, what she did and when. He owned her, and she knew from experience he was infuriated by this unforeseen intrusion into the quality of his life. Especially this intrusion; during their nine-year marriage, they had lived in France and Italy, Greece and Spain and Morocco, anywhere she was isolated by language barriers, utterly dependent on him, and very, very unlikely to run into anyone she had known before.
Like the old man that he was, Brassard moved his jaw and chewed at nothing. “I didn’t know Howard would be on this cruise. What is he doing here?”
Signing: “I don’t know.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
She took a steadying breath before she signed, “All he said was that he knew me.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That he didn’t.”
“I’ll get us off this ship.”
She glanced out at the turbulent blue Atlantic, then up at the half-furled sails that caught the prevailing eastern winds. She signed, “How?”
“Helicopter. They can come out this far.”
“As you wish.” She bowed her head and waited.
His voice rasped with irritation. “But the helicopter—it’s expensive and usually only used in case of emergency.”
She signed, “That is my concern. A helicopter could cost possibly one hundred thousand dollars.” Which Brassard could well afford. But wealthy as he was, he counted every cent and made sure she knew exactly how much she cost him.
He said, “I can call it in. I’m doing it for you.”
She looked into his brown, deceptively soft eyes and signed, “You have no need. When I see Benedict, I feel nothing.”
Brassard’s grip tightened. “You never feel anything.”
“Not true. Right now, you’re hurting me.”
In a swift, petty gesture, he tossed her wrist away from him.
As always, she was the perfect wife. In flowing, graceful movements, she asked, “Shall I order your cocktail?” and gestured to the hovering waiter.
*
For two days Benedict toured the working areas of the ship. He discussed meal preparation with the intimidated chef and the equally intimidated kitchen staff, inspected the lifeboats and their ongoing maintenance and gave orders to improve the air-conditioning in the stifling laundry area.
Then Benedict moved into the public areas, stalking the ship’s photographer as she recorded the voyage as a video for purchase by the passengers. The invariably pleasant Abigail photographed passengers as they toured the bridge, arranged flowers, played bridge, ate and drank.
It was when he was with Abigail that he saw her again, the most beautiful woman in the world, in the midship lounge at the line-dancing class. Helen Brassard looked the same, tastefully dressed and in matching heels, and she frowned as she concentrated on the prescribed steps, placing each foot with a calm precision that created an anchor in the turbulently undisciplined line. She pulled the other dancers along, encouraging them with admiring gestures and warm touches to their shoulders. When the line completed the simplest dance step in unison, she smiled.
The most beautiful woman in the world had the most beautiful smile in the world, and Benedict was transfixed, enthralled, in need.
“That’s Mrs. Brassard,” Abigail said. “She’s married to Mr. Brassard, who is possessive and quite … demanding.” Her voice conveyed a distinct warning.
Benedict turned his cool gaze on her.
She respectfully lowered her eyes.
Abigail was afraid of him; all the staff were afraid of him. Yet she wanted him to know his interest would not be appreciated by a paying customer.
A good employee. A brave employee, one with guts and intelligence. He knew how rare those qualities were, and how valuable to the cruise line. He would see to it that she moved up in the ship’s hierarchy and if she continued to do well, she would be sent to college and eventually move into his family’s company. “Thank you for your insight.” Which he wouldn’t heed, but that was of no consequence to her. He indicated a burly black man with massive shoulders and a calm demeanor. “That’s Carl Klineman, right? I always see him lurking near the Brassards. What is he to them?”
“He never speaks to them, and they never even glance at him,” Abigail said. “For the most part, he keeps to himself.”
“And yet?”
She spoke softly, “Speculation among the staff is that he’s their bodyguard. Or an assassin. But no one really believes that Mr. Brassard would be oblivious to an assassin. He is a very astute man.”
Benedict sensed she had more to say. “And…?”
He had to lean close to hear her say, “Very astute and very … dangerous. We, the staff, take care never to displease him.”
A man could learn a lot from his employees, especially in these circumstances, and Abigail was genuinely frightened. “Then I will take care to tread carefully around Nauplius Brassard.” He gave Abigail a moment to recover, then in a brisk tone asked, “What do you photograph next?”
“Musical bingo in the Bistro Bar starts in a half hour.”
“Let’s go.”
*
Benedict despised trophy wives. He always had. And that name: Helen.
Helen of Troy.
The most beautiful woman in the ancient world, the woman whose face launched a thousand ships. He could hardly believe she had been born with that name. Probably she had chosen it when she created her persona to trap a wealthy man …
Benedict did his research and online he found out all about her.
Helen was the name she’d been given at birth. Her beginnings were humble; she had grown up in Nepal as the daughter of missionaries. When she was a teenager, her parents were killed in a rockfall and she was sent to the United States to live with her aunt and uncle in the south. She finished high school at sixteen and began college at Duke University, where her unusual beauty attracted Nauplius Brassard’s attention. After a brief courtship, she graciously consented to be his wife and dedicated herself to him and his well-being. She did not work, did not express independent opinions, and during the days when he worked or during the evenings when he made public appearances, she never left his side.
Very neat. Very pat. But nowhere did any source explain why she could not speak. That single fact made Benedict doubt the whole story—although the numerous politically incorrect of the online community suggested that this disability made her the perfect wife for Nauplius Brassard.
The world abounded with snide jackasses.