Immortals After Dark 09 - Pleasure of a Dark Prince

last….
    While those two were busy, Lucia thought she should take care of some shipboard business on the observation deck. She climbed the stairs, then crossed all the way to the back, to a patch of the thatched roof. Earlier, she’d heard rustling coming from within.
    Now she spied a hideaway tucked up under the thatching, with two small bare feet sticking out from the edge.
Izabel.
    “What are you doing?”
    Izabel exhaled testily.
“Nada.”
    Lucia peeked in and found what looked like a luggage shelf with a couple of feet of clearance. Izabel was lying flat up there. Following her example, Lucia hopped up, shimmying on her belly to the end. And found a hideout perfect for spying. From here, they could see the platform and the back uncovered deck, as well as the side gangways—a good bit of the ship.
    “You’ve been spying on us?”
    “Why wouldn’t I?” she demanded. “All you people are
louco
.”
    “Crazy, are we? Well, aren’t you the sassiest little—”
    “Latina?” She glared. “The spunky
Portuguesa
?”
    Sassiest little
mortal
, Lucia had been thinking. “How are we all crazy?”
    Izabel jutted her chin. “I don’t think you’re a doctor.”
    Lucia shrugged. “I think you’re in love with a drunk.”
    With narrowed hazel eyes, Izabel said, “I don’t think you’re even married to Mr. MacRieve.”
    “Is that all you’ve got on me?” Lucia asked, relieved. She’d thought Izabel had discovered their true natures.
    “If you and Mr. MacRieve are married, then I’ll eat Schecter’s shorts.”
    “Now that was just… unnecessary. And why would you think that about us?”
    “When you’re not looking, MacRieve reaches for you and pulls back his hand in a fist, like he’s
dying
to touch you.”
He does?
“Married people aren’t like that!”
    “Then I’ll be honest with you, Izabel. We’re not married, but he’s… old fashioned. He didn’t want my reputation to be hurt when I shacked up with him aboard this ship. Anything else?”
    “MacRieve keeps giving Travis cash, and we keep going off the planned route.”
    This was true. The Scot had told Lucia that he’d been steering Travis, paying the captain to take them directly by Rio Labyrinto. “MacRieve has been here before and knows promising research areas.” The ship would arrive in the vicinity in a week or so, probably right after the full moon. She and MacRieve had decided not to
lose
the mortals; instead, they planned to sneak out on the
Contessa
’s auxiliary motorboat. “So he’s merely been
directing
Travis. Anything else?”
    “That’s all I’ve got on you two. For
now
. But the others are just as strange.”
    “Tell me.”
    “Why should I?”
    “Travis said to drop him a dime if you screwed up. Do you think he’d fire you for spying on his passengers? Maybe sack your brother as well, after all Charlie’s been putting up with?” Every day, the captain barked at the young man, ranting at him for repairing anything on board
too well
. Charlie was a good sport, quietly enduring each outburst. “Now tell me, or kiss your big Texan good-bye.”
    With another glare, Izabel said, “Fine. Take Damiãno. He’s definitely
louco
.”
    Lucia had to agree that something was off about the man, no matter how physically blessed he was. There was a seething intensity about him, much like MacRieve’s. Except that when Damiãno smiled, it never quite reached his eyes—and his eyes followed her
constantly
.
    “He speaks Portuguese, right?” Izabel said. “So Charlie and I try to talk to him. But he speaks
old
Portuguese.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “It’s Portuguese like the conquistadors spoke.”
That is strange.
“And then he’ll see we’re frowning at him, and he’ll smile that
magnificente
smile.” She sighed.
“Muito bonito.”
    “Damiãno
is
hot,” Lucia murmured, then realized she’d spoken aloud. “And by that, I mean, I respect his mind.”
    Izabel tapped her chin. “And Schecter?”
    “Not so much with the hot.”
    “Well, he—”
    “Shh,” Lucia hissed. “He’s coming.”
    With an aluminum case in hand, the professor slinked to the gangway—out of sight of the men laboring at the platform. His case was a Halliburton—the kind most often found handcuffed to a wrist, carrying missile codes inside. Lucia rolled her eyes.
    After glancing both ways, he took out his “revolutionary” lure, which looked like an airplane’s black box attached to a rope. When he turned it on, a