Nowadays, order is the counterweight to my chaotic, uncontrollable career, and structure balances this wild heart of mine.
I love all stories, because I love understanding human nature. That’s why I studied art history, a prism of real stories. My field shines a light on what makes people tick through the things that they hold precious: their art, their artifacts, and their collectibles.
Like the letter.
The letter from Edward and Greta feels precious.
Just thinking of it sends tingles down my spine.
The letter might lead to some new spark of an idea for a book.
Like Hunter said last night.
You’re going to be a superstar. It will happen. Mark my words.
I don’t believe he’s right, but still—his unwavering faith in me is addictive. I want to inhale it, bathe in it, roll around in it.
Maybe the proposal I should be writing isn’t about heists; maybe it’s about the things we hold precious. If I can nurture that idea, perhaps I can put Highsmith back on the map, and, by extension, myself. Maybe then, when I’ve accomplished something interesting, something fascinating, I’ll start hearing back from places like the Whitney. It’s been radio silence from them, so that’s yet another job I likely won’t nab.
I need to stay the course on this assignment. It’s my first big chance in ages.
All I have to do is keep this uncontrollable heart of mine in its cage a little longer. Because Hunter stands between the present and the future I want.
I center myself, roll my shoulders, and take a deep, fueling breath.
Let go of the kiss. Let go of him.
I reach for another arrow, laser-focused on the center of the target.
The arrow flies, and it misses by a mile.
As I leave my apartment that morning, I run into Francesca on the stairwell.
She purses her ruby-red lips then shoots me a simmering stare, since that’s her favorite kind. “Tonight, tonight,” she sings. “Will I see you tonight at the fiesta of mind-bending art?”
“It’s tonight?”
“Yes, tonight is Friday,” she says, and evidently the days of the week are blending into each other like pools. “You should come. So many single art-loving, brilliant male conversationalists who are exceedingly eager to meet captivating women.”
“Do you run an art gallery or an adjunct arm for a matchmaking site?”
“Perhaps both,” she says coyly.
“Then I really do want to come to your event.”
“Of course you do,” she says, fluttering her hands for dramatic effect, I presume. “It’s good for the brain and the heart, and maybe certain other organs,” she says, her voice low on the last statement.
Figuring it’ll take my mind off Hunter at the very least, I shrug gamely. “I’ll come to your sausage fest, then.”
“You won’t regret it for a second. I’m expecting some rather handsome and cosmopolitan members of the opposite sex. And I’ve no doubt by the end of the night, you’ll have met a delicious creature you want to take home and bang so loudly, I’ll cheer you on from next door.”
I raise a brow. “Will you though? Root for me?”
She nods savagely as we reach the street. “Absolutely. I’ll shout Go, Presley through the paper-thin walls.”
Laughing, I wave goodbye.
With Francesca and her sausage promises in the rearview mirror I head to meet Hunter.
As I picture him, my nerves skyrocket. I’m a jittery, fluttery mess.
But this won’t do. I need to stay the course with him too. So, I turn to someone steady. Truly, texting her as I walk.
* * *
Presley: Sooooo . . . here’s the thing. What’s your advice on how to get my power back after I gave it up last night?
* * *
Truly: Gave it all up? Is there something you’re hiding from me? Because I need to know what you gave up, girl! And was it good, or oh so good?
* * *
Cracking up, I stop at a crosswalk, replying to my friend.
* * *
Presley: Sorry to get your hopes up, pervy girl. That probably sounded tawdrier than it was.
* * *
Truly: I love tawdry tales. Please tell me something thrilling and exciting.
* * *
Presley: As if your life isn’t already thrilling and exciting. You’re about to pop out a baby.
* * *
Truly: That means it was thrilling and exciting eight months ago when this baby was made! I left my tawdry days behind me when my belly started imitating a Mack Truck. But enough about me. Tell me what you gave up last night, and how the hell was it?
* * *
Sighing, I cross the street, marching up Park Avenue as morning rush-hour traffic chugs along.
* * *
Presley: Picture this. The first time I saw him, I was Colonel Badass, keeping all my secrets close to the vest. Last night, I was Sergeant Serve It All Up. I told him that I wasn’t involved, that I don’t have a boyfriend, and that my career hasn’t quite panned out the way I wanted. I told him that he broke my heart. I told him the truth.
* * *
Two seconds later, my phone trills.
I answer.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.”
“So, what happened?”
“I don’t know, Truly. We started talking and it was always so easy to talk to him, and I tried to be tough and strong and not let him in, but the truth is I kind of like letting him in.” Saying that feels like a crime against my past. But it also feels freeing.
“Oh, sweetie.”
My shoulders sag. “I’m screwed, right?”
“No, you’re not screwed. I feel for you. It’s hard to be tough all the time. It’s hard to keep people at a distance when you want the opposite.”
“I know,” I say, stopping at the corner a block away from my destination. “I wish I felt nothing for him.”
“What do you feel for him? Not nothing, I presume?”
“It’s definitely not nothing. It’s definitely something. Something too real. Oh, have I mentioned we kissed?”
She shrieks. “What? Why didn’t you tell me that first? Go back to the start. I want to know everything about the kiss.”
I laugh, then tell her what transpired. She likes hearing it, and I like telling it. “Is it just desire I feel for him?” I ask when I’m done with the kissing story.
“You tell me. Is it?”
I spot him standing in front of the red-brick building, next to a canopy of trees, looking rugged and also completely at home on this most picturesque of New York City blocks, the adventurer relaxing on a glorious brownstone-lined street at the edge of the Upper East Side. Hunter fits in everywhere—city, country, mountains, valleys. He’s one of those people who’s comfortable in his own skin wherever he is.
My pulse spikes as I consider the cut of his jaw, the flop of his hair, the build of his strong, sturdy frame. “I feel a lot of that,” I say quietly to my friend, as my heart thunders. “But I don’t think that’s all. I feel something more. Something that’s harder to define. Something that doesn’t really make a lot of sense. Maybe it’s just because he’s easy to talk to and he has this positive attitude. This faith in people and in me and in humanity. It’s kind of addictive.”
“He has a very strong personality and a very upbeat one. Be careful. Or don’t be careful.”
“Wait. Which one should I be? You’re not being helpful,” I say with a playful pout.
“I’ll always want to protect your heart because you’re my friend. But I also want you to be a happy gal. What do you need to be happy?”
I breathe out, remembering this morning, the range, my goals. “I need to be strong. That’s what I need.”
“Then focus on what you want most.”
With that in mind, I say goodbye and walk toward my partner in this wild-goose chase.
What do I want? What do I need?
19
Hunter
I don’t tell her I’m not over her.
That’s not what she wants to hear. She made that clear last night. I need to respect that, and I need to remember why I’m here—my job, which supports my family. My life makes everything possible for my mother, and that’s the least I can do for the woman.
“Can you believe I’ve never been here?” I gesture to the Exploration Society flag hanging above the entryway of the four-story red-brick brownstone in the Lenox Hill neighborhood of the Upper East Side.
“Shame, shame.”
“I know, right? Nor am I a member.”
“You should be. Weren’t you the first to cross the Bering Sea in an inflatable raft?”
I wave that off, keeping the conversation focused on work. “Yeah, but this is the big stuff. Being the first on the moon, to the North Pole, to Everest. What I do is more adventure, less exploration. These guys—they’re the real deal.”
“Their membership isn’t only for epic firsts. It’s for science and fieldwork. For innovative expeditions.” She nudges my side with her elbow. “I bet they’d take you. Want me to petition for your membership?”
“Oh yes, please do. Let’s make this all about me.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Well, you are the guy with the camera.”
“And I’ll record you and your smart aleck comments with it.”
“Let’s do it.” She tips her chin toward the stately door of the mansion that one of the society’s earliest members bequeathed to them.
On that note, I do take out the camera and record us heading inside. Last night, when we planned this, a part of me pictured us assuming secret identities, as if we were Tom Cruise–type operatives sneaking into a government building in a foreign city.
But we’ve entered the way we’re supposed to—with an appointment.
As we walk up the dark wood steps, I shoot the images on the wall: a man wrapped in a fur hood, leaving the Exploration Society flag at the North Pole, and an astronaut famously doing the same on the surface of the moon. It’s heady, being in the presence of so much greatness. These men and women must have had stories worth telling and retelling.
As I read the plaques, my heart aches the slightest bit because there is so little left to uncover. The world has been discovered, flags have been planted, peaks have been touched. The remaining undiscovered lands are mostly below the ocean or beyond the atmosphere, and that’s not what I do. All I can do is show some of what makes Earth so fascinating.
I tuck the camera away when we reach the second floor, where we’re greeted by a massive mahogany desk in front of an unlit fireplace. Red leather chairs face the desk, and an old-fashioned green-shaded lamp with a chain sits on the wood surface.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling next to the desk. Everything about this place screams Home to the Rich Old Boys Club of Manhattan, with its high-backed chairs and everything-must-be-leather look.
But that’s what many private clubs started a century ago are.
“It sort of makes sense that he would send his kids here in the letter,” I say softly as we wait for the receptionist to return. “Since he founded this place.”
“It’s quite fitting. It all adds up.”
When the receptionist returns, her blue-gray eyes peer at us over horn-rimmed glasses. “Good morning. Welcome to the Exploration Society. I’m Melody Warner.”
Presley extends a hand. “Good morning, Melody. I’m Presley Turner. Highsmith Auction House. We emailed last night. Thank you for the quick response.”
Melody’s face lights up, and her gaze flicks from Presley to me. “But of course. As soon as I heard who you were working with . . .” Her voice trails off as she turns to me, covering her mouth briefly as she giggles, then clasping her hands to her chest. “Mr. Armstrong, I am such a fan of your show. I’ve seen every episode. Including the one where you slept under the stars in the rain forest.”
“We actually went to a motel that time,” I admit.
She waves a hand. “You did not. You’d never do that.”
I nod. “We did. There was a dangerous storm warning, so it was safer that way.”
“I refuse to believe it,” she says, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice Presley’s jaw is tight, and I know what she’s thinking—her impressive credentials didn’t get us in so easily. This woman’s fangirling did.
“Presley and I appreciate you making the time for us, and for our Valentina project,” I say, emphasizing that I’m here with a companion.
“We were excited to hear from you. Emails like that—well, they’re the kind you live for in my position,” she says, still fawning, and I bet Presley is fighting every instinct to roll her eyes. “And you can shoot anything you want.” Melody ushers us back to the stairs. “The Valentina collection you want is on the third floor. Just head up the stairs.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, and Presley adds her thanks as well.
Once we’re on the stairs and out of sight, I touch her arm. She turns around, her expression unreadable.
“Hey,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“They let us in.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I’m not stupid. They let you in. I’m also not upset. Not really. I wanted in. We got in.”
“Are you sure? You seemed annoyed.”
She sighs. “Maybe a little, but there’s no point. You’re a star. Might as well use your star power to lubricate the path.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “Talk to me more about lubrication.”
She rolls her eyes. “There you go again, making it impossible to stay mad.”
“Do you want to stay mad?”
“Actually, I don’t. I like this.” She gestures from me to her. “Being friends. It feels right.”
I’d like to be more than friends.
But she doesn’t.
I should respect that.
I really should.
But the trouble is, I think, as we reach the landing, I’m also a man on a mission. As much as I know I’m not catching anything in this kettle of fish, I still want to toss out the line.
When you realize you regret letting someone go, you want a second chance like crazy.
I reach for her arm, clasping it now. “You look incredible today,” I tell her, my eyes roaming up and down, taking in the black pants, the pink shirt, the thick chestnut hair.
She stops. “You’re not too shabby yourself. But don’t try to distract me again.”
“I would never do that,” I say in a flirty, dirty whisper.
“You’re already trying to do it.”
“Is it working?”
“Hunter,” she chides.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I step a little bit closer, moving into her space on the landing, getting so goddamn near to her that I’m nearly drunk off her fresh ivory-girl scent. “I’m not going to kiss you. I just wanted to say something.” I move in closer, tucking a strand of hair over her ear, so I can whisper, “This is one hell of an adventure, and I’m glad I’m exploring with you.”
She turns her face, her cheek touching mine, and whispers, “Me too.”
The closeness to her, the contact, makes me groan.
That sound seems to be all she needs. In less than a second, her hands are on my face, and she kisses me.
It’s not the same kind of ferocious, fierce kiss that we had yesterday. It’s not a kiss that says Why did we ever stop this? It’s a kiss that says I want to find new ways of kissing you.
It’s a kiss that says I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’m doing it anyway. It’s full of passion and tenderness and curiosity.
Her mouth travels over mine, her lips gentle. Every instinct tells me to haul her in close, push her up against the wall, and have my way with her.
But she seems to need something a little softer, a little sweeter. I don’t mind t
he slow burn of this kiss. I don’t mind it at all. I want to kiss her all day, have her all night.
When we stop, she shakes her head. “That was . . .”
“Necessary?”
“Yes. Completely. But I swear I’m trying not to kiss you.” She holds up a hand like she’s taking an oath.
I wink. “Keep trying just like that.”
The sound of footsteps a floor below breaks the connection. We continue up, and I take out my camera once more, recording our journey as we pass maps of expeditions, sepia-toned photographs, and articles of clothing worn by early twentieth-century explorers, until we reach the floor with the collections.
Endless shelves of books and archives line the walls, a grandfather clock standing imperiously in a corner. We head to the Valentina collection at the back of the room, stopping at a framed photo of Edward Valentina in the jungle, his arm draped over his friend Jack Caribaldi, both of them smiling in sepia tinges. The image hangs above a table with an antique wooden globe on it. The shelves next to it, marked with his name, must contain records of his expeditions. Perhaps those are the lost accounts, pointing the way to the treasure. Hell, maybe the treasure is hidden somewhere in here. The ultimate safe hiding place.
“All right.” I pat the shelf, ready to start. “So we’ll go through each book and portfolio?”
Presley’s gaze locks with mine, the corner of her lips twitching. “Or we could start at a place near and dear.”
Frowning, I sweep my arm from the floor to the ceiling, indicating the whole house-turned-society. “I thought this was the place near and dear? The society itself?”
She smiles like the Mona Lisa. “Yes and no. The five-mile stone was the key that led us here, because the society is in Lenox Hill. So the ‘near and dear’ part likely refers to something else.”
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