Page 3 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

A fresh wave of passengers floods through the entrance, dragging both luggage and vacation excitement. And the entire lot of us shift into crew mode—lots of smiles, far more welcomes, and pointing people toward elevators as if our lives depended on it. It’s organized mayhem set to a soundtrack of rolling suitcases, overexcited chatter, and jazz music playing through unseen speakers.

Nettie finally releases Marina’s poor arm. “Quick question.”

“Here we go,” Bess sighs, although I note she leans in to listen.

“When you said you couldn’t wait to leave Copenhagen”—Nettie’s eyes gleam—”was that code for running from a man? Because honey, I’ve been running from men for sixty years. I could teach a masterclass.”

“For once, I’d attend,” Bess admits.

“Nettie,” I say with a slight shake of my head, though not with much muscle behind it. I want the answer, too.

“What? I’m being helpful.”

I bite down on my lip, and Ransom gives my hand a quick squeeze because we’re both anxious to hear more about that ourselves.

Marina’s smile could freeze every cocktail on the ship. “I’m not running from a man.” She clears her throat, and her face goes bright pink. That particular shade only shows up when a lie has just left the building. “I just needed a change of scenery.”

Right. And I’m a professional ballerina. Prima, if you’re asking.

We all met Marina two weeks ago in a Copenhagen bar, where she was crying into her drink while Wes hovered nearby, looking concerned and possibly smitten. She had that haunted look people get when they’ve been running from something too long to remember why they started. But no matter how many questions we asked, she was expertly evasive with the answers. She’s basically a bank vault with a ponytail.

Wes offered her a free cruise, which she wisely took. And that snowballed into a position on the ship. She’s officially Tinsley’s assistant, so effectively the Emerald Queen now has two cruise directors.

Marina has a fresh start wrapped in ocean views and steady paychecks. But that doesn’t explain why she’s been cagey ever since we docked back in Copenhagen and has been all but counting the hours until we set sail again.

Marina Maxwell is definitely looking to get away from someone or something. My money is on both. And I never bet against my own money.

She may have been a nervous wreck earlier, but now here she is, looking composed and professional and definitely hiding something.

But who am I to judge? I chat with dead people and trip over homicides with alarming regularity. Whatever she’s running from, I hope she figures out soon that this ship has a habit of catching people right when they’re falling. It caught me. And whether she knows it yet or not, she’s already got people in her corner.

I’m her loudest cheerleader.

Also, there’s that fun little detail Ransom dropped on me as our last cruise ended.

Marina Maxwell is not who she says she is.

He wouldn’t elaborate. Just gave me that look he gets when he’s uncovered classified information and can’t share without violating seventeen federal regulations. But the message hit home. Marina has secrets.

Which honestly makes her fit right in with this crew.

Whatever Ransom found out, he said he’d fill me in soon enough. But I’m planning on getting that information out of him one way or another. Let’s just say I have plans that involve lots of kisses and a locked cabin door.

More passengers stream past us—couples, solo travelers, a family with enough luggage for a year-long expedition. We smile, we greet, we point them in the right direction. It’s cruise ship choreography, and we’ve all memorized our parts.

A commotion erupts near the entrance—laughter, excited chatter, the unmistakable energy of women who’ve bonded over shared experiences and a great deal of wine. They pour through the gangway in a glittering flood, easily fifty of them, all radiating midlife confidence and zero interest in keeping their voices down.

I don’t blame them. The ship has a way of stripping your inhibitions and turning you right back into a teenager. A teenager with better skin and a fully funded retirement account, which frankly is the superior model.

Most of the women speed past in a blur of designer luggage and American accents, but a smaller group heads straight for Wes.

The woman at the front of the pack commands attention without trying. She’s tall, five-ten at least, with silver hair braided in an elaborate wreath around her head. She has sharp cheekbones, pale blue eyes the exact shade of fjord ice, and a spine that could intimidate granite. She’s wearing a glorious burgundy velvet shawl with a matching dress, paired with heavy silver jewelry—brooches, a rigid metal necklace, and amber beads the size of gumballs. She moves through the crowd like she owns not just the ship but possibly the entire ocean.

“Captain!” Her voice carries across the atrium without effort. “Astrid Storm with the Velvet Viking Book Club.”

Wes extends his hand with his company-issue captain smile. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Storm. We’re honored to host you and your group.”

“The honor is ours.” Her handshake looks strong and sturdy. Wes’ fingers may never recover. “We’ve been planning this cruise for a year.”