Page 3 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
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.
Helenwasthe 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.
And Benedict’s curiosity was piqued.
Before the voyage had even begun, the crew had studied the ship’s manifest and passenger list, memorizing every face and name. Now Benedict did the same. When he was satisfied with his ability to greet the guests, he joined the convivial table that nightly gathered after dinner at the aft main deck bar, a table that included five retired southern high school teachers making their annual pilgrimage to Europe, two university professors on sabbatical, a group of Spanish and Portuguese wine merchants, a skinny eighty-year-old corporate lawyer—and Nauplius Brassard and his wife, Helen.
Benedict turned a chair from another table and dragged it over. “May I join you?”
For a mere second, conversation faltered.
One of the middle-aged females scooted over. “We’re all friends. Sit next to me.” She placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “We’re Juan Carlos and Carmen Mendoza from Barcelona… and you are Benedict Howard.”
Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had studied the roster. “That’s right, from Baltimore, Maryland, USA. I buy and sell things.”
“On a grand scale,” Juan Carlos said drily. “The Howard family is known for its business… acumen.”
A nice way to sayruthlessness. “Yes.” Benedict looked toward the opposite end of the long table. “But I interrupted the conversation. Please, continue while I sit and absorb the bonhomie.” In fact, he had interrupted Helen Brassard, who had been animated and flushed as she recounted some story by signing while Nauplius Brassard translated in his faintly accented voice.
