Free The Siren's Sting by Miranda Darling Page B

experience aboard the Oriana was still fresh in her mind, and she also wanted to learn more about this most extraordinary vessel. Krok was only too glad to oblige.
    â€˜There’s a powerful water cannon on board—can sink a boat at a hundred metres. If they get closer than that—which I doubt— we’ve got a sonic gun that’d shatter the eardrums of every pirate in an attack vessel.’ He fixed Stevie with a rather mad stare. ‘And there’s a high-speed escape boat. But we won’t need that. My crew can defend themselves just fine.’ He said this with a smirk and Stevie had no doubt, looking at the massive arms of the tray carrier, that they could do just that, and more.
    They sat down in the shade on the foredeck, a huge white expanse of prow stretching before them, tapering to a sharp point.
    Wave-piercing technology, thought Stevie. No wonder she goes so fast.
    Could you still refer to a warship named Hercules as ‘she’?
    Stevie smiled and patted the white leather upholstery. ‘Well, it’s certainly lovely and roomy.’
    Clémence directed the staff with soft clicks of her fingers— ‘Champagne over there, prawns here, finger bowls there, there and there, lemons . . .’
    Another very muscular crewman emerged with a huge platter of oysters and laid them on the table near Stevie. As he turned, Stevie noticed the white leather holster hanging almost invisibly from the white belt on his shorts. From it emerged the handle of a white pistol.
    A ceramic gun? Was that possible?
    She smiled a little harder. Clémence sipped a flute of champagne and turned to Stevie. ‘We’ve been in the Med for a month already. I feel like it’s been forever. Does London still exist? How is the weather?’
    â€˜Actually I flew in from Turin. It’s been months since I’ve been in England.’
    Always keep your lies as close to the truth as possible.
    â€˜So you don’t live there. For some reason . . .’ Clémence had not done her homework.
    Stevie jumped in. ‘Oh, I spend a lot of time there, but I was visiting friends in Turin. I actually live in Zurich. My grandmother is there. I find the town a perfect antidote to modern life—with all the conveniences.’
    â€˜We always stay at the Baur au Lac when—’ Krok’s mobile phone interrupted, ringing with Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’.
    How appropriate .
    Clémence stopped mid-sentence.
    Krok grunted a few words and hung up, turned his attention back to the table. ‘So, Stevie, you decorative or useful?’ he barked without looking up. He shoved a prawn head into his mouth and sucked noisily, tossed it onto a pile with all the others.
    Stevie dipped her fingertips in the finger bowl. ‘Oh, neither, I’m afraid. I get by being in the right place at the right time, I suppose.’
    â€˜Married?’
    â€˜No. Not married.’
    â€˜Ever been?’
    â€˜No. Never been.’
    â€˜So you’re down here in these parts husband hunting.’ He plunged a hairy hand into the finger bowl and squeezed the lemon quarter to a messy pulp. ‘Rich pickings?’
    Stevie blushed despite her cover. She hoped it could be blamed on sunburn.
    â€˜Not really my scene,’ she laughed, hoping she sounded convincing. ‘I’m quite happy to have myself all to myself.’
    â€˜That’s what they all say. Won’t admit to wanting a rich husband, but show them a man with money and their legs go up like the sails on a windmill.’
    Stevie took a rather large sip of the (extremely good) champagne and swallowed.
    One must not rise. No. However, one was beginning to find it a struggle to rein in one’s tongue.
    â€˜What a wonderful image.’ She smiled. ‘Aren’t you clever, Mr Krok?’
    â€˜Oh, call him Vaughan, Stevie, darling. Don’t be too intimidated by the ruffian.’
    But Stevie