Anna hesitated. Mark had served his purpose. But on the other hand, he was staff, and he might have information on whether anything had been reported by Paula and her clan.

She opened the door wide and stepped back. ‘Come on in.’

She walked back to her chair and grabbed another glass from the shelf. ‘Drink?’ she asked, one hand subtly loosening the belt on her robe. She leaned over to pick up the gin.

He narrowed his eyes, his gaze flicking from her face to her chest. ‘Go on, then,’ he replied, lowering himself into a chair. ‘Good view,’ he said, gesturing to the horizon.

She murmured her agreement as she filled their glasses and picked up the knife and lemon.

‘Not as good as the top deck, though,’ he commented.

She kept slicing, but felt the ice as it ran through her veins. There was something in his tone, a caginess that had her hackles rising. She made no reply.

‘Did I leave any keys here the other night?’ he asked.

The knife stilled; she put the lemon down on the cutting board and turned to face him. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

He crossed one leg over the other and smiled up at her. The smile didn’t reach his eyes.

‘You unlocked that gate on the deck. You had a fight with the woman from the Expedition Suite.’

She blinked slowly. The incident hadn’t even been reported when she was in Anna’s suite. How did Mark know about it? Was it possible he had seen her? She thought of Dermot, of the hushed excitement he seemed to exude when he told her about what had happened. She imagined him trailing through the rest of the ship, informing all and sundry about the night’s adventures.

She said nothing. In Anna’s experience, it was a sign of weakness or guilt to even attempt to take part in the conversation with an accuser. She slid the knife into the sleeve of her robe and fixed her gaze on him without saying a word.

He stared back.

Don’t look away.

Mark blinked.

Anna allowed herself a small smile.

Wrong-footed, he bit his lip and tried another tack. ‘Everyone’s keys are being checked. Two of mine are missing.’ He smiled strangely at her. ‘You and I can come to an agreement. Compensation, say, for the fine I’ll face.’

She wondered what sort of compensation he had in mind. Money, or her body? But she didn’t ask him. She remained still, fighting the urge to do something – take a sip of gin or light a cigarette or even sit down or walk away. All would be signs that he had edged in front of her in this strange two-horse race.

‘You’re fucking mental.’ His words were careful, considered, and held just a hint of unease.