Page 2 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
Nauplius adjusted his red bow tie. “What did he say?”
“He thought he knew me.”
“Impossible.”
Apparently not.
Nauplius was both jealous and selfish to the point of psychosis, but his skill at observing and interpreting others had brought him unimaginable wealth and a power he loved to abuse. Now he must have read her mind, for his grip tightened again. “You look… not at all like the woman you were when he knew you.” Menacingly, “Do you?”
Therewas the paranoia she knew so well.
“I have not been in communication with him either on the ship or off. You know that.”
Hedidknow 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. Especiallythisintrusion; 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 sawheragain, 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.
