by Ines Johnson
A notification on my phone got me out of a one-sided debate with a tall man in a tweed suit. I could tell by his incessant inhaling and rubbing at the back of his neck that he was working up the courage to ask for my number. I was amusing myself trying to decide if he was going to ask me out for drinks or to coauthor a paper with him. I couldn't tell. Either way, the answer would've been no. I didn't want the notoriety that came with signing my name to published documents. And the reason I wasn't interested in drinks with him was ringing my phone right now.
I turned my back, hoping the junior professor would get the message and stop trying to further build up his courage. When he kept hovering patiently, I moved closer to the window and then out of the building entirely.
The cell reception inside the museum wasn't poor. I had full bars, but the text message still took its time loading onto the screen. I stepped outside into the cool afternoon air and waited, refreshing my phone every other second.
Finally, the picture came through. It was fuzzy and hazy, but I made out my own face in the painting. There was a rainbow of reds from the lightest of pinks to the darkest of fuchsias. At the center of the canvas was a nude woman reclining with her arms thrown above her head. Her bare thighs were squeezed together, and her toes were curled as though she'd been assaulted with more pleasure than she could handle. Her lips were parted in a sated grin. She had one eye closed and the other open with a sparkle at its center. He'd painted me just like I'd been the last time he'd seen me.
Below the picture was a text message bubble. It read, This is how I spent my Manboobs.
I snorted and hit reply. I take it your Monday is going well? Love the fuckweasel.
I hadn't typed fuckweasel on my end, but when the "delivered" notification popped up below the text bubble on my phone, I knew the autocucumber had struck again.
Autocorrect was a constant bane in our relationship. No matter how many times either of us proofed our words, the text messages were a little wrong and often dirtier than we'd intended. Sexting was a comedy of errors with his pumas and my china doing all manner of naughty things.
I waited patiently for the reply. It came a full two minutes later.
God donut, fuchsia is beautiful against your skin.
He said that about every color. My lover, Zane, had painted me in every color of the spectrum. I aimed my thumb to prepare for another text when my phone screen went dark.
I hit the home button and got no response, then I held the power button at the top of the device. Still not a flicker.
I cursed under my breath, preparing to toss the device down the steps. But I didn't. I knew the malfunction wasn't my phone's fault. I tried not to take it too personally. I'd be seeing him later tonight, after all.
I pocketed the phone. It would turn back on when it was ready. By then, Zane would be lost in whatever piece of art he was working on. Once he got in the zone, he wouldn't pay attention to anything but the creation at his fingertips.
I knew that firsthand. The details of that nude portrait of me were intricate and meticulous—down to the slight freckling on my high cheekbones. Thankfully, he'd pleasured me into an oblivion before he'd picked up his paints to capture the aftermath. He hadn't come to bed until the work of art was finished. Zane was nothing if not dedicated to his work.
"Excuse me, Dr. Rivers?"
My hand brushed the blade strapped to my upper thigh. The weapon was tucked in a compartment sewn into the pocket of my pantsuit. My movement was an automatic response whenever anyone came up behind me. I'd been too distracted by Zane to notice the woman's approach.
I knew it was a woman. Her accent was African. The consonants came off her tongue clipped and harsh like she was South African. But she added a softening to the end of my name, lengthening the vowel sound as though she had leisure time at her hands and the freedom to spend it. An Afrikaner, maybe?
"You are Dr. Nia Rivers, antiquities expert?"
The question was a challenge. I turned to see Charlize Theron's younger, prettier sister. Her pale skin was deeply tanned; it was a healthy tan that came from the sun and not a tanning bed. Her blonde hair was knotted low at the back of her swan's neck. The woman's cool blue gaze raked over me in assessment. Mine did the same in the way of two lionesses on a savanna, two princesses eyeing the crown, two cheerleaders angling for the top of the pyramid.
"You're a hard woman to track down," she said.
No, I was an impossible woman to track down. My skills were sought after, but I gave clients a wide window of when I might arrive on a site, never a firm date. My preference was to simply pop up without notice like I'd done in Honduras. I didn't like people knowing my daily itinerary.
My hand brushed the hidden blade on my thigh again. The woman's eyes flicked down to my motion. Her penciled brows arched, but she kept her hands on her bag strap. My eyes caught the bag—vintage Gucci. Nice.
Her eyes went to my boots. They were Stuart Weitzman. Hers were Kenneth Cole. Stylish boots with good soles and protective leather. Her skirt was designer—Stella McCartney. My pants were Prada. Our gazes met back at the center.
"I'm Loren Van Alst, Import/Export specialist."
I quirked a brow, shifting my assessment. Again, her eyes flicked almost imperceptibly. Ms. Van Alst continued as though she hadn't caught my disapproval. Import/Export was synonymous with tomb raider as far as I was concerned.
But Loren smiled confidently at me, like she had a secret. She reached into her designer bag and pulled out an 8x10 photo. The sun reflected on the white back of the photo paper as she held the image close to her chest.
"I could use your expertise with authenticating an artifact."
I decided to bite. "What kind of artifact?"
Her blue eyes danced. She thought she had me. "You've heard of dragon bones?"
I had. Dragon bones were an ancient record-keeping method before paper made its way through Asia. Past events of note and future predictions for the noble class were etched on turtle shells and ox scapula.
"I found one." Loren tapped her manicured fingernail on the back of the photograph.
"I thought you said you were in Import/Export," I said.
"I am." She smiled. "I specialize in ancient artifacts."
"You can always call up the IAC," I said. "They can hook you up with an authenticator. I'm due out of the country tomorrow."
I was able to reschedule my spa trip, and my plane was leaving in the morning. Nothing short of the Holy Grail would get me to miss my date with manufactured mud, a man-made sauna, and artificial indoor lights. And I knew for a fact that the Grail was a myth. I turned from Ms. Van Alst and began to head down the steps.
"I doubt anyone else from the IAC could read this," she called out. "I've never seen writing like this. The script predates any ancient Chinese writing on record. It looks to be older than the Shang Dynasty. Languages are your specialty."
I slowed my pace as I reached the last step. Languages were my specialty. Like a stamp or baseball card collector, I collected languages. I knew all of them ever written or spoken.
My ears perked up like a dog smelling a meaty bone. I didn't like being baited or manipulated into doing anything. And this woman clearly knew my weak spots.
Before I turned back around, I constructed a bland mask over my face. It would've been easier if I'd had a facial in the last week. I had meant to look Loren Van Alst in the eye when I spun around. Unfortunately, I miscalculated.
When I turned, Ms. Van Alst had come down a couple of steps so that her chest was directly in my sight line. She'd already turned the photographic paper my way. My gaze caught on her trimmed nail and the characters it pointed to in the photograph.
I didn't hear anything else she said. My heart raced, urging me to step closer to the image. My brain fogged, trying to reach out through the haze. My fingers ached from the memory of carving characters into bone.
This dragon bone was authentic. I knew it to be true like I knew my own name, because
I was looking at my name on the carving of the bone in the picture. That was my signature on the two-thousand-year-old artifact. I had written that message.
Don't stop there! It's just the beginning.
Get your copy of Dragon Bones: The Nia Rivers Adventures Book One
and see how this epic friendship began!
Also by Ines Johnson
The Misadventures of Loren (Urban Fantasy)
Spear of Destiny
Ring of Gyges—Coming Soon!
Hammer of God—Coming Soon!
The Nia Rivers Adventures (Urban Fantasy)
Dragon Bones
Demeter's Tablet
Templar Scrolls
Serpent Mound—Coming Soon!
Eden's Garden—Coming Soon!
The Bright Series (Paranormal Romance)
Bright
The Moonkind Series (Paranormal Romance)
Moonlight
Moonrise
Moonfall—Coming Soon!
The Cindermama Series (Contemporary Fairytale Retellings)
Pumpkin
Rumpeled
Beau
About the Author
Aside from being a writer, professional reader, and teacher, INES JOHNSON is a very bad Buddhist. She sits in sangha each week, and while others are meditating and getting their zen on, she's contemplating how to use the teachings to strengthen her plots and character motivations. Ines writes books for strong women who suck at love. If you rocked out to the twisted triangle of Jem, Jericha, and Rio as a girl; if you were slayed by vampires with souls alongside Buffy; if you need your scandalous fix from Olivia Pope each week, then you'll love her books! You can reach Ines at her website www.ineswrites.com or on Facebook.
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