“There’s no way,” Rebecca muttered, as lights from the computer screen flickered across her face, framed by blond corkscrew curls. She didn’t look like your typical top-level hacker, but she was.
“He was out for the evening. I checked.”
Veronica shook her head. “Tell that to Lily. She had to have a chat with him last night.”
Rebecca’s head jerked up, and she eyed the shotgun. Her face paled. “You didn’t…uh…she didn’t have a serious conversation did she?”
“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking.” But she remembered her willingness and shuddered again.
The color returned to Rebecca’s cheeks, and she returned her attention back to the computer screen in front of her. A few seconds later, she frowned. “I should have been more vigilant.”
“About what?”
“According to the limo records, he left the party early. They dropped him off at his mansion just before midnight.” She leaned back in her chair, lips tight. “I’m so sorry. I was careless. I should’ve checked. Kept checking.” She curled a strand of hair around her finger. “I could’ve gotten you killed.”
Veronica waved off the apology, all traces of annoyance gone with Rebecca’s obvious chagrin. “It’s okay. He knew I’d come for the urn. Counted on it. You can’t know everything. Especially when it comes to certain devious minds.”
“Still, I should have caught it.”
“Next time, you will.”
“Well.” Rebecca managed a weak smile. “I know something that might change your mood.”
“Did I win the lottery?” Veronica asked jokingly.
“No, but it’s something almost as good.” Reaching into her desk, Rebecca pulled out a thick manila envelope and tossed it to Veronica.
Opening the flap, Veronica spied the familiar green of cash. All vestiges of weariness slipped away. “Son of a…”
She paged through the bills, counting. “There’s two thousand here.” It had been weeks since she held more than a few hundred in her hand at any given time. Ever since her return from Brazil six months ago, she’d been off her game.
It appeared she was back on.
Licking the edge of the envelope, she sealed it and tossed it back to her assistant. “Did you rob a bank?”
“No, but there is a paying client waiting for you in your office.”
Veronica sprang to her feet. “Why didn’t you say so?” she sighed in exasperation. “Next time, call me on my cell so I can change.” She ran a flattened palm down her shirt, trying to smooth out the wrinkles.
Her assistant rolled her eyes. “I tried. Is it turned off? Again?”
Veronica didn’t have to find the palm-size phone to know the answer was yes. She hated her cell phone. She ran a hand over her dark hair, smoothing her long ponytail as best she could. “How’s this?”
Rebecca reached into her purse and tossed her a compact. “You might want to try to minimize the damage.”
Veronica flipped open the mirror. She looked like hell. Dark circles from lack of sleep made her hazel-green eyes appear a muddy brown. Her olive skin was sallow. Gingerly, she touched the large scratch that decorated her right cheek. She must have done it when she ran through the bushes to escape. “It’s going to take more than powder to hide this.”
She could run down the hall to the ladies’room and put on makeup, but she doubted that it would make much difference. Only a good night of uninterrupted sleep could accomplish that.
Besides, clients didn’t pay her to look pretty. They paid her to recover artifacts and provide a detailed report on where they came from, the condition of the site and anything that might help give a history to objects that had no voice of their own.
“Good enough.” She snapped the mirror closed. “Who’s the new client?”
“His name is Simon.”
“Simon what?”
“Simon Mitchell.”
It didn’t sound familiar. “What does he want?”
Rebecca waved the money-filled envelope. “I asked. He didn’t say. Who am I to question someone who offers us a wad of cash? Besides, he’s a hottie, and I never argue with a hottie.”
Veronica reminded herself that she’d hired Rebecca to run the office—that and for the recent college graduate’s ability to hack into any computer system on the planet.
Granted, she didn’t plan to infiltrate another’s computer system, but after her experience with Michael and Brazil, she felt better knowing she had the ability to ferret out a liar before she took on a job.
If she wanted someone who wasn’t subject to the whims of her libido, she could look in the mirror. “Good point.” Veronica smoothed her shirt one last time and picked up Lily. Taking out the shells, she checked the barrel, then handed her to Rebecca. “Can you take care of Lily for me? She needs a cleaning.”
“Of course.” Rebecca sighed, reached across the desk and took Lily. “You do realize that, for most admins, cleaning weaponry is not in the job description?”
Veronica flicked an imaginary piece of lint off her pants. “Most don’t know how.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “When I said I wanted to learn the business, this wasn’t what I meant. I thought you’d teach me how to excavate.”
Veronica flashed her a smug grin. “I will. Just consider the cleaning reparation for last night.” Turning on her heel, she walked down the short hallway to her office before Rebecca could reply. Her admin loved making comebacks almost as much as she loved hacking.
Smiling her best thank you for the money, please don’t ask me to kill for it smile, Veronica opened the door.
The client stood at the window, staring out at the New York skyline. He wore a black leather jacket over a plain black T-shirt and faded jeans. His dark brown hair was tied back in a ponytail.
She shut the door behind her, and he turned.
Her eyes narrowed and one simple fact overwhelmed her.
His first name might be Simon, but the last name was not Mitchell.
Chapter 2
“Simon Owens. What are you doing here?” Veronica asked through tightened lips.
She’d first met Simon in graduate school. They’d had a few classes together and while she found herself drawn to his dark good looks and sharp mind, she hadn’t bothered to pursue the attraction, preferring to keep her focus on school.
Then came the Anthropology Department’s graduation party. It was the last time she’d spoken to Simon, but there hadn’t been much talking going on.
He’d just completed his Ph.D. and she’d finished her master’s. Both a little drunk, they’d ended up kissing in a dark corner while the party raged around them.
He’d left the next morning for Russia before she had a chance to say goodbye. He’d never called or written. She’d been disappointed—but that was the life of an archaeologist. Always heading off for the next exciting dig.
The night spent kissing him faded into the back of her mind to exist as a fond memory and nothing more.
Two years later, she saw him take a seat in the back row at the Northwest Archaeological Symposium just as she was about to give her presentation. Archaeological field experience had given him a leaner, hardened body, and she’d planned to talk to him afterward. Perhaps even pick up where they’d left off if he was still single.
It wasn’t to be. She presented her paper, claiming some myths were not simple tales to promote social order and morality, but were histories based on real-world accounts.
She gave her data and backed it up with the established doctrine that verbal histories were as good as written in many cultures. In this case, the myths were the verbal histories.
Asking for acceptance of her theory was risky, and even when she’d first considered the notion, she’d almost dismissed it out of hand.
But something in her gut told her to believe. Something deep inside told her that she was right and that if her ideas were accepted and supported by both doctrine and funding, she would ch
ange the archaeological world and secure her place in history.
So, she’d made the leap of faith and, foolish girl that she’d been back then, she’d thought the leap possible for her colleagues.
Instead of the kudos for innovation she’d anticipated, she received humiliation in the form of laughter and disbelief. A few people actually heckled her as she tried to talk.
Simon wasn’t the worst, but he joined in the ridicule. The mouth that once kissed her in a dark corner now accused her of inept archaeology.
Veronica touched her lips, the memory of Simon’s touch tangible, as was the humiliation she’d felt at his disbelief.
“I need—”
“Forget I asked,” she cut him off before he could finish. “I don’t care what you want.” It took all her willpower not to cover the few steps between them and punch him in the jaw. Just when she thought her luck had turned, she had the misfortune to meet up with the two most exasperating men she knew within the span of twenty-four hours. “Get out.”
“Not until we talk,” he replied, his voice determined.
Arms crossed over her chest, she debated the possibility of shoving him out the window. Would it be classified as murder or self-defense? “There is nothing you can say that I want to hear.”
“It’s important.” He clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides, drawing her attention.
She knew those hands. The night of the party, they’d gripped her waist before unhooking her bra and tracing a path to her breasts. Then she’d wanted more of his caress.
Now she wanted to break his fingers.
Her heart pounded in her ears. “The only words of importance you can say are ‘I’m sorry for helping ruin your career, Veronica.’”
He gave a single, quick shake of his head. “You can blame it on me if you want, but you did it yourself by presenting a theory with less-than-stellar evidence,” Simon countered.
Her cheeks blazed at the truth of the crack. Her colleagues, Joseph Connelly and Christopher Morganstein, had tried to warn her. All three were part of the research, but she was the lead researcher, or as Chris called her, the pusher.
Their evidence was scant but noteworthy, as often was the case in archaeology. They had two tablets, written by a scribe to Pope St. Victor I. One described the golden apples of Atlanta, giving details to their size and weight. The second talked about the music of Orpheus’s lyre and its effect on animals and humans when played.
Backing up the information on the tablets was a letter written by a librarian from the 1700s. It was addressed to his fiancé, and it told her that the vaults of the Vatican held “great wonders,” some mentioned in Greek mythology.
It was interesting and had potential, but it wasn’t enough. They told her to wait. Be patient. Get more supporting evidence. Something concrete.
But impatience was her downfall, and she’d refused to listen. Instead, she’d pushed them until they agreed to let her present.
And fail.
“Give me five minutes and then I’ll leave if you still want me to.” He stilled his hands and crossed them over his chest. Simon had clearly dug in, and short of her physically tossing him from the office, he wasn’t leaving until he had his say.
Veronica took a deep breath. Held it. Released it. Visualized the tension leaving her body.
It didn’t help. Her muscles ached. All she wanted to do was go home and forget men—and that didn’t seem to be an alternative, as the ones that annoyed her most kept intruding at the most inopportune times. She clasped her hands together to keep from punching him. “Why would you even want to talk to someone who, you claim, panders to Hollywood?”
His eyes narrowed, but in anger or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure. Still, Veronica smiled to herself, pleased that she’d struck a nerve.
“If I remember correctly,” she continued, “you said I played to the simple-minded people who also believed in aliens and that my working for the University of Columbia, even as a teaching assistant, was questionable.” She shifted her weight onto one leg and looked down her nose to gauge his discomfort. “It seems you got your wish. Now I work for myself. And here you are. Offering me money.”
The tension in the room ratcheted up a notch. Still, he said nothing, but she didn’t miss the way his lips pressed thinly or his jaw tightened.
Veronica shot him a wicked, unrepentant grin. Now that she’d drawn metaphorical blood, she’d see what he had to say.
After all, Simon coming to her for help was not a scenario she’d ever envisioned. The reason behind his motives was bound to be interesting. She could give him a little time.
Little being the operative word.
“Five minutes and make it good.” Shoving past him, Veronica fell into her worn leather chair. Taking off her watch, she set it on the desk facing her. With forced casualness, she leaned back, hands steepled in front of her lips. “Tell me why you’re here, asking help from a woman you once despised.”
Simon settled his large frame into her too-small wooden client chair, but his back remained ramrod straight and his shoulders as set as stone. “Don’t let your head get too big.” His tone chastised her, but she ignored it.
He continued. “It wasn’t as if I didn’t speak to anyone else. Dimitri Kalakos. Jonathan Caddo. Liza Samios. But they didn’t have the information I needed.”
Veronica leaned forward, interested in spite of herself. She knew those people. They were all experts in Greek archaeology. “And now you’re here….” She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Her unspoken sentiment hung in the air as loud as if she’d screamed it. Asking a favor from the woman you both kissed and crushed. He was stuck between the Scylla and Charybdis and they both knew it.
“So it seems.” He shifted in the chair and it creaked under his weight. “I considered going to your ex-colleagues, but Connelly is, well, Connelly, and I heard Morganstein died last year.”
Veronica blinked at the unexpected reminder of Chris’s death. Just when she thought the loss was bearable, a twinge of pain surprised her.
She missed Chris. Him and Joseph both. After the archaeological community all but crucified them, she’d tried to convince Joseph and Chris to help her search for irrefutable evidence to prove their theory. They’d refused.
Hurt by what she saw as their betrayal, she’d finished her Ph.D. as quickly as possible, but instead of working for the college as was her original plan, she created Discover Incorporated. Once her small firm was up and running, she found a plethora of companies willing to employ her and her team of freelancers. If a pipeline or any other large structure was going through a burial mound or ancient village, she was contracted to excavate the site and save the artifacts.
And she found work beyond the borders of the United States. Being raised in the countries that surrounded the Mediterranean gave her an edge over other U.S. archaeologists, and she found herself employed by private firms in both Europe and the Middle East.
But she never forgot Joseph and Chris. With work and time, she’d forgiven them, but by the time she was ready to say the words, it was too late.
Chris was dead.
She no longer knew what to say to Joseph. With Chris’s death, the chasm between them might as well have spanned the ocean.
Simon continued. “I was sorry to hear about it. Chris was a good archaeologist.”
She gave a sharp nod and pushed the sudden, awkward tears back, not wanting to share her grief with someone she barely knew.
Simon’s dark eyes glittered with sudden intensity. “Are you familiar with the legend of King Midas?”
Warning bells went off in her head, but Veronica ignored them. Let him talk. Let the story unfold. Then she could react. “Of course. Dionysus granted him a wish, and the moron wished that everything he touched turned to gold. He almost starved to death before Dionysus took the gift back.”
Simon hesitated. “What would you say if I told you Midas wasn’t a myth?”
“I’d say, ‘so?’ He l
ived around 740 B.C.”
Simon shook his head. “No, not the man. The gift.”
She stiffened. The warning in her head rang louder now, like the whooping sirens that accompanied a prison break. “You mean the ability to transmute anything to gold?”
“Yes.” Simon leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his focus as narrow and tight as a laser. “It’s true, Veronica. It’s all true. You were right.”
What felt like every possible emotion roared through her like a freight train. Anger. Distrust. Hope. Excitement. Fear. Everything and anything. So many thoughts and feelings that she couldn’t do anything but manage an incredulous whisper, “What is this? Some kind of joke?”
“No joke.” Simon’s expression remained impassive as he rose and locked the door.
His movement broke the spell, reminding her that this man, this archaeologist, this enemy, was one of the ones who condemned her and her colleagues for such thoughts. Her hands clenched into fists. Her short nails dug into her palms. “What do you think you’re doing?” Her nerves were raw, her brain fried from lack of sleep, and the question came out harder than she intended. She didn’t care.
Simon turned around and glared at her, his dark eyes intense. Gone was the polite man who needed her help—if he had ever been real. In his place resided someone much harder. “There’s something I need you to see.”
She shook her head.
He dismissed it with a glance, staring down at her from where he stood and making her feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. “It wasn’t easy for me to come here. I knew you’d be angry.” He retrieved his backpack from the floor and set the worn, leather bag on the table between them like a peace offering. “What do you want? An apology? Contrition?” The words spoke apology but his strong hands fisted tightly.
Veronica stood before she could think to stop herself, hands planted on the desktop. “I want my reputation back!”
He leaned over to meet her. Face-to-face. Almost touching. His breath was warm on her skin. “Then listen,” he said, his voice low and steady.
She didn’t know what to think or feel as the myriad of emotions continued to rush over her, drowning her in their intensity. Taking a deep breath, she slapped the top of the desk with her hands hard enough to sting. It was enough. She reined in the chaos that was crowding her thoughts. “Get to the point, Simon. Now, tell me why I shouldn’t toss you out.”
The Midas Trap Page 3