He was displeased to see that several tables in the lounge had been pushed together. A group of sixteen or so occupied them and already their laughter was becoming raucous. Gavin deplored the tendency of companies to reward their top salesmen with first-class cruises. There was something so essentially vulgar about brushing shoulders with people who were only on board because they had succeeded in unloading a quantity of snowmobiles or garage-door openers on gullible buyers. After all, when cruising really started in the 1920s, it was meant for the very elite who brought along their servants and were treated like royalty. He had voiced those thoughts to someone on the last crossing and his listener, a twentyish, leggy blonde, had said, “Well, at least they’re paying. One of the ship’s officers told me you have a free ride in exchange for dancing and playing bingo with blue-haired old ladies.” Too late Gavin had found out that the leggy blonde was the daughter of the beefy head of the A-l Sales Winners Club.

He ordered a gin and tonic and stood at the bar. There were three or four sets of harpies guzzling their vodkas. He recognized Sylvie Arden, the divorcée who had made countless crossings looking for a rich husband. Two trips ago she had confided that her cash was running pretty low. She had to get her hooks into someone pretty soon. Too frantic, my dear, Gavin sometimes warned her. Calm it a bit. You blitz when you should beguile. But he liked her. Sylvie was fun and they both understood each other. They surreptitiously compared notes on the old bats he jollied along and the old birds she tried to intrigue.

Gavin sighed. Back to work, he decided. He had noticed a table where two sixtyish women were eyeing the crowd with avid glances. Rhett Butler can’t make it, ladies, he thought as he drifted over to chat with them. He stopped abruptly when he saw the couple who were standing in the doorway of the lounge. Surely. Of course it was. Nora Regan Reilly. There was no mistaking her. That small trim figure, that pretty face, the ash-blond hair, short and wavy. She’d been on his program several times and had been one of the last guests he’d had just before it was canceled a year ago. And that was her husband, the funeral director. Talk about a lousy job! Gavin rushed to greet them, immediately assuming his talk-show persona. “Nora Regan Reilly,” he boomed.

“Ssshhh.” Panic-stricken, Nora and Luke whirled their heads around. They had spotted Regan and Lady Exner stepping off the elevator and rushed to put a healthy distance between them. Of all the luck to meet Gabby Gavin, Nora thought. I’ll never have any privacy on this trip. And, oh God, here they come.