“No need to act shocked, Mara. You seem to be unable to keep your own counsel awake or asleep. I know what you do for a living. And why that man is after you.”
Mara cocked her head, wondering if she’d given herself a concussion somewhere along the way. “You know what I do? And you think that I’m a prostitute?” She spoke the words slowly, to be certain there was no room for misinterpretation.
Ethan gave a short nod. “I would have imagined call girl, but your choice of accommodations don’t suggest that you fetch a high price.”
“My accommodations? Oh, the Lucky Lake.” Mara covered her mouth and closed her eyes. Then her shoulders began to tremble.
Seeing her reaction, Ethan cursed beneath his breath and crossed over to the bed. “Oh, damn Mara, I’m not judging you.” Guilt slid beneath righteous indignation, and he uncomfortably patted at her shaking shoulders. He had no right to chastise her choices when his weren’t above reproach. And if making her living on her back kept her alive, then he couldn’t be angry. Casting about for soothing words, he murmured, “I’m sure you’re doing what you think you need to do to get by. Ah, honey, don’t cry.”
Mara’s head shot up, barely missing Ethan’s chin. Looking down, he realized that it was laughter—not devastation—that shook her body. “What the hell?”
“You think I’m a prostitute? That some john is after me?” The question spilled out between peals of laughter.
For the second time that morning Ethan gained his feet and glared down at her. He was not amused. “Actually, I assumed it was your pimp.”
“Don’t know much about the trade, do you, professor?” Mara threw her head back and laughed harder. “A pimp wouldn’t chase me to Kiev for his cut. It wouldn’t be worth his investment. But it does explain why you’ve been such a prig for the last couple of days.” She scooped back the damp locks that had fallen on her forehead and fixed him with a steady if not entirely sober gaze. “Look, Ethan, if you want to know about my checkered past, just ask. Stop speculating.”
Sorely tempted, Ethan folded his arms and shrugged. “I could care less about how you spend your time, Mara.”
Mara had the good sense not to laugh, but she couldn’t restrain a grin. “Could have fooled me.”
“Fine. You’re right. I do care. Because until you’re better, I’m stuck with you. Forgive me for being worried about who might want you dead. God knows I’m over it now.” Livid at having shown any concern, Ethan turned away. “Since you’re feeling so chipper, perhaps you’ll be ready to leave on Friday. I’ve got a guest coming, and I’d prefer not to expose Lesley to your kind. Whatever that is.”
“I’m not a whore, Ethan,” Mara retorted stiffly. “I sell my services, not sex.”
“But you can be bought.” Ethan walked to the studio door and paused to look back at her, still seated on the rumpled bed. “Either way, looks the same to me.”
When the door closed behind him, Mara blinked hard, refusing to admit that what burned so fiercely behind her eyes were tears. She didn’t cry. Not ever. And certainly not because some stiff-necked prude called her a whore. She scrambled out of bed and stalked over to the closet. Her borrowed shirt was drenched, and she was tired of looking at it anyway.
“Always was self-righteous,” she muttered darkly as she scavenged for clothes. With angry abandon she yanked the neatly hung oxfords from their wooden perches and tumbled stiffly pressed khakis to the closet floor. Petulant zeal had her crushing the precise creases beneath her bare feet as she reached to the shelves above for the boxer shorts he’d stored there. “He has no idea what I do for a living. And he has no right to judge me.”
Paying scarce attention, she selected a red T-shirt and gray shorts. “I may not be a college professor, but I’m not trash. I’ve never been trash.” She slammed open the bathroom door, ignoring the sound as the wood crashed against the wall. “I’m an entrepreneur. And I’m damned good at it.” She yanked back the shower curtain and twisted the taps onto full. The burst of steam echoed her mood perfectly. “Last year I made a quarter of a million using my brain, not my body. And what did he do? Studied dead bodies for stodgy old men. Pervert.”
Denim and cotton dropped to the bathroom floor, and Mara stomped into the shower. “He thinks I’m a tramp. Fine.” She poured a pool of creamy green gel into her hand and lathered her skin with brisk, angry movements. “He thinks I don’t have feelings. Who cares?” Ignoring the dull ache in her arm, she scrubbed at her skin, muttering constantly. “Arrogant prig. Moralistic jerk. Obsequious worm.” Soon the narrow space smelled of cucumbers and forests. Out of insults, Mara inhaled deeply, and exhaled on a ragged breath. “Damned Ethan.”
When her breath caught on a hiccup, she rinsed herself quickly and shut off the taps. She wrapped herself in one of his towels and braced herself on the lip of the washbowl.
Mara forced her eyes to her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t lie to herself, believing that at least she should always know the truth. And the truth was, she was confused. She’d come back to Kiev for two reasons. One was to hide out from Rabbe and Guffin until she could use the journal to find the answer to a mystery that had haunted her since childhood. Millions in gold coins were hidden somewhere in Texas, and only five people in the world had ever known where.
If she could find the keys and the map, and find the money, she’d never have to work another day in her life. She’d buy an island off the coast of Martinique and live the life she’d always dreamed of. Because gold stolen more than seventy years ago was worth a king’s ransom today.
She combed through wet curls, tousling them around her still too wan face. The other, more important reason she’d come back was to see her grandmother. The woman she’d left behind when she fled Kiev and her father’s wrath. There was no map that could tell her how to fix that mistake.
Standing in the bathroom, staring in the mirror, she wondered again if the money would do everything she needed it to do. Pay for the lies and the heartbreak. Buy her another chance. The woman who stared back at her offered no response, and stiffly, she turned away. All she needed was information and time, she reminded herself tartly, then she would have everything she’d come to Kiev for. With a sharp pull she opened the bathroom door and inched into the studio.
Perilously close to wallowing, Mara decided to call for reinforcement. She tapped a damp foot imperiously as she waited for the call to connect.
“Caine.”
“Hey, Sebastian.” Mara barely resisted a sigh as she sank onto the chair near the phone. Clutching the armrest, she asked, “You able to find information for me?”
“Always straight to business with you, isn’t it? No playful banter or naughty foreplay. Just wham, bam, where’s my information?”
Grinning, she retorted, “I prefer to play in the shallow end of the pool, Sebastian. I try not to swim with sharks. Or toy with them.”
“Bright lady.” Sebastian rarely consorted with partners, given his line of work, but Mara Reed often made him want to reconsider his position. “Police don’t have a clue about the woman’s death. You’ve got my intel on Poncho and Guerva, but I’m still looking into the Reese name you found in the journal. The other two were easy to connect to your grandfather, but without a last name for Reese, it’s hard to pin down.”
“Okay.” She hadn’t expected much, but the disappointment struck hard. “Do you know who Rabbe and Guffin are working for?”
“Everyone in that circle is being very tight-lipped. Has to be a big player for that level of caution. These aren’t choir boys.”
“Know when you might hear something?”
“Another day or so. I’m cashing in a few favors for you, darling.”
“Thanks so much. I owe you.” Grateful, Mara relaxed in Ethan’s office chair. “I’ll call in on Friday. Assuming I don’t get shot again.”
“Mara!”
“I’m all right. Ethan saved me.” The minute the words escaped, she could have bitten her tongue. “
Don’t start with me, Sebastian. For the love of whatever lower demon you worship, don’t start.”
“I was only going to ask if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“No thoughts of unrequited love or heart-wrenching guilt?”
“None.” Liar. Mara grimaced. “Ethan doesn’t know what’s going on. And, no, I didn’t think he’d be here.”
“But you hoped.” Sebastian offered the observation quietly. “I didn’t pour the ouzo down your throat, and a drunken confession is still a confession, Mara love.”
“I’m no fool. Besides, he’s dating now.” Mara winced lightly. No, she wasn’t a fool. Which is why she’d accept that Ethan had moved on with his life and so had she.
Liar.
On the other end she heard a knock. “My appointment is here, darling. Check in occasionally to let me know you remain among the living. I’ll let you know if I learn more.”
“Thanks, Sebastian.”
She rang off, oddly deflated. Wandering to the futon, she folded her legs beneath her and tried to distract herself with television. A quick flip through the channels failed to catch her attention, and she opted instead to explore her cell. After interminable bed rest, she was restless and eager to move. To learn more about this new Ethan Stuart.
Though the studio had only four walls, the array of books that covered nearly every free surface should prove amusing, she decided. At random she lifted a tome near his computer. “Sango, the Fourth Alafin of Oyo. I didn’t know he studied religion.”
She scanned the spines of other books. The remaining volumes seemed to deal with his work as a forensic anthropologist. But when she moved to the stack on the lower shelf of the desk, her heart nearly stopped. With careful hands she reached for the books and read the titles aloud. “Great Train Robberies of the 1930s. Methodology of Identification Analyzing Tattoos and Tattoo Pigments.” Beneath the books more titles had been stored, each with their pages heavily tabbed.
Mara reached for the textbook on tattoos with trepidation. It seemed that she and Ethan had something new to talk about.
“Mara, I’m back,” Ethan warned as he turned the knob. He didn’t want to spook her. Since her return, she’d been moody and jumpy, which he assumed should be expected from a woman with a bullet wound. However, his patience was wearing thin, and he would need answers soon. As the door swung wide, he found that he’d have them sooner than he expected. She sat on the futon, a book open in her lap. His boxer shorts had rarely had a higher purpose than framing the legs she’d stretched along the bed.
At the sound of his entrance, Mara prepared herself. Nonchalantly, she tipped the book up to display the title.
He stormed into the loft, door slamming closed behind him. “What the hell are you doing with my books?”
“I got bored.” With interest, she watched his eyes widen in alarm when he recognized the binding. She moved her shoulders dismissively. “Just doing a little light reading.” She tipped the book over to show him the title. “Great Train Robberies? Didn’t realize you’d become a crime buff, Ethan.”
Coming to a halt at the end of the futon, he saw up close the quirk of lips that signaled she was baiting him. “I’ve got several interests,” he hedged.
“Like stolen gold?”
Ethan met her eyes again and recognized the gleam that made the brown sparkle with mischief. He scowled and dropped down on the edge of the futon. “How much do you know?”
“Quite a bit, I think.” Mara stretched her legs out, easing the muscles that had become cramped from hours of reading. One calf brushed against Ethan’s knuckle, and sensation zinged along nerve endings. It took all of her willpower not to recoil, or worse, to ease closer to the long, elegant fingers whose prowess her skin remembered. Craved.
Instead, she swallowed hard but deliberately relaxed. “In 1937 a Bostonian wildcatter named Saul Schultz struck gold in Longview, Texas. He decided he didn’t trust Mr. Roosevelt any more than he trusted Herbert Hoover. Especially after Roosevelt outlawed the private ownership of gold in 1933. Schultz refused to put his wealth into worthless American cash. Instead, he made a deal with a Mexican jéfe who offered to convert the cash into Spanish gold. Coins cast by Queen Isabella herself.”
Because he was caught, he picked up the story. “Schultz was more than a wildcatter, though. He fancied himself a history buff. He not only needed a place to hide his gold, but he’d come into possession of artifacts liberated from a museum. Schultz had to put them out of the sight of his soon-to-be ex-wife and nosy regulators. Lucky for him, new wealth brought power. And a friendship with a governor at the Federal Reserve.”
Her voice husky and tense, Mara finished, rearranging her legs on the mattress. Suddenly, no pose was comfortable. “So Schultz makes arrangements to put his millions in gold coins on a train headed for Dallas. Only, along the way, the train is robbed from the inside. Thieves remove more than half his stash during a stop in San Antonio and disappear into the night.”
“Reverend Micah Reed and his Traveling Missionaries.” Ethan scooted closer, closing the distance she’d opened.
Mara didn’t shift away. “I thought you didn’t believe me. You used to laugh.”
He grazed intense eyes over her, remembering their last conversation about the lost treasure. Too near his touch, her silken skin taunted, and he had to focus hard to reply. Reminding himself of the consequences of action, he murmured, “I used to do a lot of things, Mara. Including listen to you. A few years ago, I came across this story, and the pieces seemed to fit. I’ve been working on this ever since.”
“You mentioned artifacts.”
“Yes. A totem to the Yoruban god Shango and a manuscript written by a Shango priest.” The knot of tension in his gut tightened and the stark hunger that had been with him since her return sharpened. “I’ve been searching for them since I read about them in grad school. My research led me to that train. The one your grandfather robbed.”
“What’s their value?” She bent toward him eagerly, but stopped at his reaction. “I’m not asking about the money, Ethan. I simply want to know why you care.” Incensed, she bent her knee to move away, accidentally pressing skin to skin. It galled that the lightest contact shot arrows of silvery pleasure straight through her. She edged away quickly, but not before Ethan noticed.
He lifted his hands to fold across his chest. “The manuscripts are priceless. According to my research, this priest had discovered a method of preserving the dead in a nearly mummified state, but without the normal embalming chemicals used by the Egyptians.” Excitement at being able to share his findings bloomed and he forgot distance. Touching her knee, he explained, “If the priest did write down his methods, there is so much to learn about the history of Benin and Togo and Nigeria. And the contributions to my field could be incalculable. Chemical combinations modern science hasn’t considered.”
As he spoke he traced absent lines on her leg. Skeins of desire slithered along her skin and, finding her hand hovering above his errant fingers, she jerked away.
Ethan hadn’t noticed his meandering until the silken warmth beneath his fingertips disappeared. Intrigued by her nervous reaction, he asked politely, “Is something wrong? You jumped like a scalded cat.”
Embarrassed and aroused, Mara responded coolly, “Nothing.” Nothing a cold shower and a reality check couldn’t cure.
“Good.” To tease, to test, he traced the bandage on her calf with a lazy grace, satisfied when he felt a shiver. “So what now?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t plan on sharing.”
“And you will now?” Ethan lifted his hand, surprised. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy. “Why?”
“Because you probably won’t go away. You’re stubborn, Ethan. I do remember that.”
“And you don’t play well with others. I remember that.”
“I have my notes, that’s about all.” She saw no reason to mention the journal that lay in her knapsack. Ethan—smart, consci
entious Ethan—had come on a quest for a statue and some papers. The gold to him was probably irrelevant, but she had debts and obligations. After those were settled, she’d happily share the wealth, but bringing Ethan into her world was out of the question. He wouldn’t last five minutes against Rabbe and Guffin. Best course of action was to string him along until she learned what he knew, then located the gold on her own.
But one never told a dupe he was a dupe. A good con artist got what she needed without ever giving the mark reason to worry. Most likely, the clues she needed were at the Reed compound, buried beneath mounds of dirt and secrets the family was very good at keeping. Mustering a conciliatory half smile, she asked, “Where do we start?”
“Not at the church.” As though he read her mind, Ethan said lightly, “If you’re planning to go looking there for a map, don’t bother.”
She focused on him intently. “What? Why not?”
“There’s nothing out there.” Ethan got to his feet and wandered to the window. “I’ve been searching there for weeks. Haven’t found anything.”
The blow of disappointment was almost physical, and the stab of fear that followed jolted her. Without the money and the means to flee, she was a dead woman. Rabbe was too close, and she was running out of time. Finding her grandfather’s stash was her last, desperate hope. A long shot, she realized, but it was better than the alternative. Having no hope left. “Are you sure?”
“Chi Development has been excavating the property next to it for nearly three months. They dug deep enough to discover there were already squatters on the land. Unidentified bodies, which did not sit well with the city council. It was a golden opportunity that I hadn’t expected. No pun intended.” Ethan drummed his fingers on the windowsill. “I’ve used my project to check every inch of the house and the property. Nothing.”
“Then why are you still here?” Mara turned to watch him. Ethan knew something big. She could always tell. Poker with Ethan was a sucker’s game because his tapping fingers were a certain tell. A tendril of hope unwound inside her, pushing up through the despair. “If there isn’t a map, what’s the point?”
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