rigidly back, his jaw clenched tightly, his face crimson red as he fought desperately
against his own body.
“Help him!” Jeri heard herself scream as the nurse next to her steadied a large syringe over his body. The nurse was about to plunge the needle into her father’s leg when suddenly his convulsions stopped. The room grew eerily quiet as her father’s body relaxed and his eyes rolled slowly back until they settled on Jeri’s face, their deep brown intelligence replaced with a cold and vacant stare.
Jeri woke to the sound of her own scream as she opened her eyes and shot up from the bed. She glanced anxiously around the dark bedroom, struggling to catch her breath as reality now rushed back to her. Outside, a deeper veil of snow rested against the corner of her window as the wind whispered lightly. She sighed and fell wearily back against her pillow, closing her eyes tightly before the forming waves of sobs could overtake her.
20.
The wake of the Achilles II stretched like a long white scar as its deep, cobalt-colored hull cut swiftly through the warm tropical water. Cruising at a steady fifteen knots off the Venezuelan coast, the ship’s massive twin diesels hummed quietly as they powered the hundred and thirty-foot yacht through the calm Caribbean Sea, their sound unnoticed by the party-goers above.
On the main deck, Christina Lynch stared out at the distant lights of Puerto La Cruz as they flickered in the fading light of dusk. Warm tropical air stirred across the deck, rippling the handmade linens on the tables around her and teasing the chartreuse silk of her Valentino evening gown. Christina leaned lightly into the rail as her manicured nails tapped the empty crystal flute in her hand impatiently. Behind her, another two-dozen guests lounged around tables adorned with extravagant hors d’ oeuvres, picking lightly at plates of caviar, lobster and foie gras that were delicately arranged between intricate ice sculptures of dolphins and whales.
A middle-aged man wearing a white jacket trimmed in gold suddenly materialized next her. “Miss?” he asked timidly as he held up the dark green bottle of Krug Clos Ambonnay she’d been waiting for, a polite smile trained on his placid face. Christina shifted her long legs and gave the server an irritable stare before holding out her hand. A torrent of shimmering gold filled the crystal flute as the priceless champagne flowed from the bottle, and she watched the ensuing eruption of impossibly small bubbles with mild admiration as they shimmered and sparkled with perfection. Her glass filled, the servant smiled again before curtly bowing and heading towards the next guest. Christina arrogantly waved the air with her fingers, as if brushing the air of the servant away. She knew that the modest pour of champagne swirling in her glass was worth more than the servant who poured it would make all month. But of course Christina felt no remorse for this fact. In her mind, this simple fact merely reinforced the significance of everything that now surrounded her – the importance of the evening, the power of the people standing around her, and thanks to her relationship with the man she arrived with, the importance of Christina herself.
She took a sip of champagne and quietly watched the other guests. Most of the men around her appeared to be in their late sixties or seventies, all of them wearing tailored tuxedos and trailing forty-something trophy wives on their arms. Although by far the youngest, and undoubtedly the best-looking guest on the ship, Christina distanced herself from everyone else. She had no intention of socializing alone, especially when her boyfriend had abruptly left her to “wrap-up some business” with his team of lawyers below deck. Irritated by this fact, she took another sip of champagne and decided a more powerful form of relaxation was in order. Discretely reaching into her Lana Marks clutch, Christina found the small vial she relied on for just such an occasion. She deftly extracted two pills from the container and popped them into her mouth, swallowing them sans aqua as she’d learned from her years as a model. A few minutes later, just as their effect was beginning to take hold, a hand touched her shoulder.
“Excuse me, miss,” a deep, confident voice said from behind her. Christina turned to find a tall, exceptionally good-looking man in his mid-twenties standing a few steps away. His tanned, chiseled face was fixed with a practiced smile as he waited for her to meet his eyes, which Christina eventually did after slowly admiring the way his trim, athletic figure filled his Brioni tuxedo and the stylish cut of his blonde hair. Finally succumbing to the pull of his hazel-colored eyes, she smiled curtly and slipped a lock of her long, wind-blown brunette hair behind her ear.
“Yes?” she replied with a falsely irritable tone. Despite his looks, the man was apparently part of the ship owner’s staff, and Christina couldn’t resist the urge to treat him as such.