Free The Siren's Sting by Miranda Darling Page A

codenamed DD(X), a super-fast, compact warship designed for littoral defence, perfect for shallow water and small waterways. It was designed to chase smaller attack vessels and submarines and it was armed with three kinds of torpedoes and missiles.
    Stevie had seen pictures of the DD(X), a sleek, pointed ship with a single turret far back on the length of the ship, all hard-angled blades. Even so, she was still not prepared for the sight of the Hercules : the giant head of an albatross, six storeys high. The bow was three storeys high and sharp as a needle, drawing back to a towering living space, then cutting away, straight into the sea. The Hercules was at once extraordinary, hideous and quite breathtaking; an ultra-modern warship in gleaming white.
    It was cold in the port shadow of the beast and Stevie was glad to hop aboard and step back into the sunlight.
    â€˜Get those fenders down properly, you morons, before you dent her.’ A man’s voice, deep and pebbly. Stevie looked up towards the upper deck: the figure of a man, stocky, large arms, silhouetted by the sun.
    Krok .
    Stevie lightly drew breath and assumed her persona. She waved, hand high above her head, gold bangles tinkling, and let out the universal cry of the swanning society swan:
    â€˜Yoohoo!’
    The man slowly turned his head. ‘Clem!’ he barked.
    Clémence Krok possessed all the charm her husband lacked. She was a beauty in her early forties and as polished as diamonds, which she seemed to have a fondness for. Lithe and tanned and perfectly blonde, she wore white linen pants and a turquoise and orange bolero jacket made largely of feathers. As Clémence went to kiss Stevie, palms raised in studied delight, wonderful smile flashing, Stevie decided she was glad she had worn the turban after all.
    â€˜Oh, it was at the Serpentine party, Vaughan,’ Clémence was saying. ‘We promised to meet up if we ever found ourselves in the same patch of sun. And here we are.’ She kissed Stevie on both cheeks.
    Krok stared at Stevie. ‘And here you are.’ He wore a salmon-coloured polo shirt, but was not quite tanned enough to pull it off.
    Stevie affected airiness, giving a small laugh as she inwardly cursed David Rice.
    A crew member appeared, immaculate in white: ‘Lunch is served.’
    Clémence rose. ‘We lunch early, Stevie. My husband likes to get up with the sun, says it keeps him ahead of the competition.’ She put her perfectly manicured hand on Krok’s arm.
    Did he stiffen?
    Clémence carefully removed her hand and smiled widely. Both Vaughan and his wife wore sunglasses, so it was hard to tell what their souls were up to.
    Were there no other guests on this mega-yacht? Where was Emile, their son?
    Stevie knew better than to ask pointed questions, especially around a man like Krok. She simply slipped her eyes into soft focus and gazed lazily about her, following Krok and Clémence forward.
    There seemed to be very few windows, not unusual in a warship, but certainly uncommon in a pleasure craft. Perhaps the Hercules used other technology to show guests the view. Stevie noticed a small insignia on one of the small portholes as they passed: bulletproof glass.
    â€˜What a wonderfully original design. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’
    Krok looked back sharply. ‘Nothing like it in the whole world. Made by Schorr and Hess. Cost me two hundred and seventy million US.’
    Stevie nodded with what she hoped was suitable awe.
    â€˜One hundred and eighteen metres long, fourteen guest cabins, forty-six staff.’ Krok telegraphed the statistics, his hundred-yard stare scanning the sea. He turned his head and barked into the open doorway, ‘Long Island iced tea!’ A well-built crew member appeared almost instantly with a long glass on a silver tray.
    â€˜Don’t you worry about pirates?’ Stevie asked in a hushed tone, her eyes suitably wide. Her own