Page 20 of Fire and Ice Cruise

The officers exchange glances—probably wondering if their captain has finally cracked under the pressure of managing a floating hotel filled with people who keep dropping dead—but they don’t argue.

Within thirty seconds, the bridge is empty except for me, Wes, and one very dead blonde bombshell currently perched on the ship’s wheel as if it’s a throne designed specifically for her ethereal rear end.

The bridge itself is all sleek technology and floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the churning gray North Atlantic. Screens display navigation charts, weather patterns, and enough data to make my head spin. The captain’s chair sits empty, and the whole space hums with the quiet efficiency of a well-run ship.

“There’s a blonde bombshell sitting on the wheel,” I say breathlessly, pointing at the apparition currently examining her ghostly manicure.

Wes looks at the wheel, sees nothing but air and polished brass, and turns back to me with that expression he gets when dealing with my particular brand of chaos.

“I’m guessing she’s not alive.”

“Very dead. Very blonde. Very much making herself comfortable on your navigation equipment,” I say in quick succession. “Oh, here, hold my hand.”

It turns out I’m a conduit when it comes to hearing what the dead have to say. Wes can’t see this blonde beauty on his own, but if he holds my hand, he’ll be able to hear her. It’s worked before with other ghosts, and lucky for us, it seems to be a reliable party trick—though not one I’d put on a resume.

I grab his hand, our fingers lacing together, and the connection snaps into place. It feels like completing a circuit, a little zing of energy that runs from him through me to the ghost and back again.

The ghost looks and her entire demeanor shifts from bored to predatory in half a second. She adjusts her white gown so her cleavage shows off to maximum effect—which is saying something considering she’s translucent and glowing a brilliant shade of blue.

She’s stunning, even in death. Platinum blonde hair cascades past her shoulders in perfect waves that catch non-existent light, her heart-shaped face is all delicate features and full lips painted a pouty red, and her figure would make a vintage Hollywood starlet envious. She looks to be in her early thirties, though who knows how long she’s actually been dead. The white gown hugs every curve before flowing out in gauzy layers, and she’s got the posture of a woman who knows exactly how good she looks.

“Well, hello there, handsome.” Her voice comes through clear as a bell, smoky and seductive with a hint of old-money East Coast accent. She’s staring directly at Wes with the hungry expression of a woman on a very serious dry spell. “Please tell me you’re single and looking for a good time. Or a bad time. I’m flexible,” she purrs out those last two words.

I make a face because clearly she has a lot in common with Elodie, and Nettie now, that I think about it.

Wes clears his throat. “I’m the captain of this vessel.”

“Even better,” she trills with a laugh. “I’ve always had a thing for men in uniform.” She slides off the wheel and floats closer before circling him slowly. “And you, Captain Gorgeous, are exactly my type. Tall, dark, and breathing.”

“Who exactly are you?” I ask, cutting straight to business before this turns into a supernatural seduction. “And how did you know Gideon Vale?”

She drags her gaze away from Wes, looking mildly annoyed at the interruption. “I’m Celeste Moreau.” She says it firmly as if we should recognize the name, and when we clearly don’t, she huffs. “Gideon was my first and only true love. We met at university—he was studying business, I was studying art history and how to break hearts.” She takes a moment to glare out at the horizon. “We were supposed to run away together, build a life, all that romantic nonsense people do when they’re young and stupid enough to believe in fairy tales.”

“What happened?” Wes asks.

Celeste’s expression darkens. “Life happened. His parents happened. Money happened. He chose the safe path, the corporate ladder, the sensible marriage to the sensible woman.” She spits out the word sensible as if it were poison. “And I chose to drive too fast on a rainy night after one too many martinis at a party celebrating his engagement to someone else.”

“Oh no,” I moan just hearing it.

Well, that’s heartbreaking and also explains the whole dead thing.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

She waves a dismissive hand. “It’s ancient history. Literally. I’ve been dead for thirty-two years, give or take a decade. Time gets fuzzy on the other side.”

I glance at Wes. “It makes sense. Only the ghost that the deceased loved most comes back to help with the case. He must have had a love in his heart for you still.”

Celeste perks up, her sulky expression transforming into something hopeful. “You mean the sooner I help track down his killer, the faster I can get back to paradise with my Giddy Bear?”

Giddy Bear? I bite down on my lip to keep from giggling.

“That’s right,” I tell her.

“Perfect!” She claps her hands together, and little pink sparkles shoot off her fingers. “I’ve been stuck in this annoying limbo for far too many hours waiting for someone to notice I’m here. Do you have any idea how boring it is being invisible? I tried haunting the casino, but nobody screams anymore—at least not at me. It was very disappointing. I showed up the moment Giddy boarded in Copenhagen. We’re cosmically connected. Where he goes, I go. Or went. Past tense is a bit confusing when you’re no longer bound by things like time.” She floats over to the window, staring out at the churning sea. “I watched him give his little speeches, saw him schmoozing all those middle-aged people desperate for their second chances. I even watched him get murdered, which was quite dramatic, by the way.”

Wes and I exchange a look.

“You saw who killed him?” Wes asks with his eyes bulging at the thought.