“Hey, sweetheart.” Desi yawned into the receiver. Seated on the edge of the hotel bed, she glanced at the clock. Three hours under the covers, one of them trying to make her thoughts wind down and two of them actually sleeping, and then her cell phone rings. Good thing she wanted to hear from the person on the other end—her fiancé, Tony Lucano.
“Hey yourself, beautiful. I’m dogging it up the freeway through six inches of snow. Are you snoozing in the tropical sun? You sound on the shady side of asleep.”
Desi grinned. “In the mountains around Mexico City, it doesn’t get over seventy degrees Fahrenheit by the crack of noon this time of year, so I’m snoozing inside, thank you very much.”
“Beats ten below.”
She wandered to the window and parted the curtain on a sundrenched day. “I’ve been sleeping off a successful night in the trenches, followed by a tense morning in the boardroom.”
“Congratulations on the heist.” Tony laughed. “Strange thing for an FBI agent to say, but you must’ve gotten the contract if you got the crown.”
“Wouldn’t sign on the dotted line for love nor money.”
“They didn’t treat you right? Who should I punch out for you, babe?”
“My hero!” A memory flickered—Tony’s solid form slamming a kick into the chest of a motorcycle outlaw with bad intentions. Her agent-man was kidding now, but he’d done it for real a few months ago. No wonder he made her feel safe. “The list of deserving recipients is too long, starting with those rotten Greybecks. They pulled some shenanigans again but splattered more egg on their faces than mine. I wish I could have found ammunition to shoot down their smear campaign against HJ Securities, but I’m lucky to get out of here with no more damage done.”
Tony snorted. “The Greybecks need to watch their step. Low business tactics have a way of turning around to bite the hand that deals them. I see it all the time.”
“Reap what you sow. I’m counting on it, but it can’t happen soon enough for me. Right now, I need to come home and collect a few comfort kisses.”
“I’m the man for the job. When should I pick you up at Logan International?”
Desi’s fingers itched to muss his black hair. She loved those coarse waves he hated. “My flight leaves in three hours. I’ve got a layover in Detroit, so I won’t land in Boston until around ten tonight. Too late for you to pick me up?”
“Woman, nothing short of my pager could stop me, not even the weather. Hate to tell you, but this sky looks ready to dump another load.”
Desi groaned. “Beantown in January. Let’s hope my flight isn’t delayed.”
“Yeah, it’s been too long already.”
Three weeks and two days since she’d last seen the laugh lines crinkle around a pair of brown eyes that could x-ray straight through the crown of Pakal, but who was counting? Desi bit her lip against another protest about the extra committee duty that had taken Tony to Washington for a whole week She was one to talk; the day he came home, urgent business had whisked her off to Pakistan, and now she’d wasted days in Mexico.
“Sore subject?” Tony prompted.
Desi let out a long breath. “There’s a lot that needs to be worked out. I don’t know…” She rubbed the back of her neck. Call her an idiot. The most magnificent male on earth wanted her for his wife, and she obsessed on issues she didn’t have answers for.
“Getting cold feet about marrying me?” His tone weighed as much as the Boston sky.
“I can’t wait to marry you! Besides, you’re the one in wintry Massachusetts. My tootsies are warm in Mexico.” He didn’t laugh at her lame joke. She didn’t blame him.
“Okay, here’s the deal.” Desi left the window and began pacing the carpet. “We want to be together, but it seems like we never are.” She stopped at the wardrobe mirror and stared at her funky brunette bed-head, all knotty clumps and out-of-control spikes. Nice visual on the way her life was going right now. “We both love our jobs, but where do we draw the line so we can make a marriage? You just turned thirty-six, and I’m not that far behind. When are we going to put family first?”
“You’re referring to my commitment to the Joint Terrorism Reorganization Committee. That assignment ends in two months. There’s a difference between short term and never ending.”
Youch! Desi plunked down in front of the desk and picked up an antique medallion attached to a thick chain. Emeralds dotted the large disk that filled her palm, the weight solid gold, not a speck of lead.
Solid gold—like Tony. “The bureau knows when it’s got a good thing. Don’t worry. There’ll be a next project for Supervisory Special Agent Anthony Lucano. And you need to finish your thesis for your master’s degree.” She caught a low-voiced mutter at the other end. Something about an inability to say no herself. “Don’t get your tie in a knot, handsome. My schedule is part of the problem. You think I should give up some of my responsibilities, but—”
“Not ‘give up,’ darlin’. Delegate. You’re wearing yourself out.”
“It’s not only the job.” She laid the medallion on the desk. “This wedding has me going in a bazillion directions, and we haven’t even set a date.”
Long sigh. “Where does that leave us?”
“Conflicted, but madly in love. Right now, I just want you to hold me.”
“Ah, what diabolical torture. Bring it on.”
“Torture?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“Those’re the words I want to hear from you, the sooner the better.”
Desi laughed. “I promise we’ll set a date and do this thing ASAP, even if it causes an international incident.”
“A what?”
“You do know that Indians—and I mean India Indians—and Pakistanis can’t stand each other. Well, while I was securing the safety of the crown jewels, the Pakistani prime minister, who I’ve known for years, decided that since I’m now an orphan I should be treated like a daughter to him and—”
“Invited himself to the wedding.”
“Exactly.”
“And the Maharaja Chakra Singh is coming out of gratitude for securing his pet archaeological dig. Didn’t you say an Israeli government official and an Iraqi cultural affairs rep are on the list too?”
“Check.”
“What a nightmare!”
“Y’know, for a G-man you’re passably bright. Is it any wonder the seating arrangement keeps me up nights?” An odd series of snorts came back at her. “Tony, are you laughing?”
“Heaven forbid.” Snort. “Say, I’m coming up on the Big Dig tunnel, and we’re going to get cut off.”
“Don’t you dare pull a duck and run on me. You need to take this seriously. I—”
“…always take you seriously…hang in there…may have…solution…” The connection trailed away into dead air.
Desi scowled at her cell phone. She’d like to hear his grand wedding solution. Elope? Hah! The all-purpose male avoidance mechanism for tuxedos and reception lines. Forget it, buster! She wanted a church wedding with all the bells and whistles—well, lace and flowers.
And she wanted to wear satin and pearls and a flowing gossamer veil and glide up the aisle to the traditional wedding march. But most of all she wanted something she could never, ever have. Desi sank down on the edge of the bed.
Daddy, you were supposed to…
An ache blossomed under her breastbone. Her lower lip trembled, but she sucked it in and leaped to her feet. Time for a shower. No time for bawling like a baby, because that’s what would happen if she let the dam break.
An hour later, clean and dressed in a Spanish skirt and blouse, Desi plunked the last of her clothes into a suitcase. The taxi should arrive in about five minutes. Three measured raps sounded on the door. Hotel staff to say her taxi was here early? No, they’d use the phone.
She opened the door to the end of its chain and peeked out. Tall, blond, and husky, Clayton Greybeck grinned at her. His orange polo shirt
hugged weightlifter’s hills and valleys like it was painted on. A musclebound geek. What was this world coming to?
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Claytons grin dimmed by the smallest degree.
“No.”
He glanced up and down the hall. A chatting couple meandered past. “You might not want passersby to hear our conversation.”
Desi slammed the door, undid the chain, and flung the door wide. “Keep it brief.”
She held on to the doorknob while he sauntered around the room, gaze wandering. Not much to see since she was packed, except…oh, bother, the medallion sat out in plain sight. She’d hoped for a call from an antiquities dealer before she left. Hadn’t happened. Another disappointment from a fruitless trip.
Desi cleared her throat. “You had a purpose in coming here?”
Clayton leaned a hip against the desk. “Waiting for you to close the door.”
She checked her watch. “My taxi will be here in two minutes, so talk or leave.”
“How did you guess about the guys who took back the Pakal—er, the fake headdress?”
“Pu-lease! A Mercedes parked next to my VW Bug? Had to be Greybecks around.”
“You’re the best cat burglar in the world. I mean it.” He crossed his arms, and his biceps rippled. Was she supposed to be impressed? “Couldn’t say that in front of Dad, though. He would’ve had my hide. What’s left of it after you almost got away with the headdress.”
“Should I feel sorry for you?”
“You’re a hard woman, Desiree Jacobs.” His gaze fastened on the medallion.
“Don’t touch and don’t ask.”
Clayton stalked toward her, and her stomach clenched.
He stopped inches from her. The Kirk Douglas chin dimple flexed. “How come you never gave us a chance? We could be working with each other instead of against.”
“HJ Securities has never worked against Greybeck and Sons. We compete with your firm for bids, but we leave the dirty tricks department to you. As far as you and me on a personal level?” She held the door wider. “I’m ashamed to admit it took me three whole dates to figure out that if I ever let you charm me to the altar, I’d be an acquisition, not a partner.”
The jerk smiled like the Cheshire cat. “You think I’m charming? There’s hope!”
“Oh, good grief, Clayton, you missed the point, as usual. Plus I’m engaged to an FBI agent who’d be delighted to kick your arrogant tail to Antarctica.” She flashed her ring at him. “Be content with keeping your contract at the Museo de Arte Mejicana.”
His smile crumpled. “They gave us the boot. Went with some local company. Who knew there was a third bidder? So I guess the U.S. is out of the security business in Mexico City, and the greasers stick together.” He laughed.
Desi’s free hand fisted. Why had she ever gone on one date with this guy, let alone three?
He shook his head. “Sheesh, Des! Lighten up. It was a joke.”
In a pigs eye, like Max would say. “I’m leaving for the airport.”
“I’m gone.” Clayton stepped into the hallway, and she shut the door.
Almost. He stuck his foot in the gap and poked his head inside. “Engaged isn’t married.” He winked and pulled his foot away.
Desi slammed the door and squealed. She should have punched the creep in the nose when she had the chance. Marching over to the bed, she grabbed her suitcase and snatched up her carry-on. Almost to the exit, she halted. The medallion! She tucked it in her skin pocket.
A knock sounded.
That idiot Greybeck! She blew through her nostrils and yanked open the door. “Clayton, you crumb…Oh.” She blinked into the wide-eyed face of Señor Corona.
The presidential aide tendered a small bow. “We realize the inconvenience of the request, señorita, but President Fernando Montoya would be grateful if you would accept his invitation to meet with him. A limousine awaits your response.”
Desi’s jaw flopped open. How could she refuse a summons from the president of a sovereign nation? She couldn’t. But oh, she didn’t want to go anywhere except home.
With the sense of stepping into darkness when she should be running toward the light, she followed Señor Corona out of the hotel.
Three
Desi’s tongue burned to ask why the president wanted to see her, but small talk dominated the short drive through noisy city streets. The limo glided into Chapultepec Park. Families and couples strolled paths between sculpted hedgerows and fountains.
They came to a high stone wall, and the guarded gate swung wide. Soon a massive building loomed. The red, white, and green Mexican flag flew from a flat roof. Los Pinos, residence of the presidents since 1938. The car slid past the imposing structure.
Señor Corona smiled. “For the sake of confidentiality. El Presidente would prefer to meet with you in one of the cottages.”
The limo whispered to a halt in front of an ornate rancho-style building. The single-story structure must cover half an acre, agleam with windows and capped with a red-tiled roof. Some cottage! Why did the president of Mexico want to keep their meeting a secret? If this were the movies, she could be Debbie Reynolds to the mustachioed Ricardo Montalban look-alike next to her. And this would be a convent, like in the classic 1960s movie The Singing Nun. Too bad this was real life, and she was headed into a den of political intrigue.
Desi followed Señor Corona through a wrought-iron gate into a courtyard, where they entered the house through an arched doorway. The aide led her down a carpeted corridor into a room flooded with light from a generous window. A Salvador Dalí sculpture of an angel blowing a trumpet stood on a side table, and a Jose Velasco painting hung on the wall above a settee.
The aide gestured toward the settee. “Please, be comfortable. El Presidente will be with you in a few minutes.”
Desi perched on the edge of the cushion. “May I know what this is about?”
“Mutual interests. More than that, I cannot say.” Corona bowed and then left.
Desi walked to the window and looked out on a cement patio. The sun was at its zenith, the sky a clear blue. She should be ready to fly into that limitless expanse. Instead, she was grounded on a murky errand far from friendly faces and a familiar environment. Sadness draped her shoulders like an invisible mantilla.
What was the matter with her? Setbacks and challenges used to exhilarate her. Maybe she was just exhausted from the stress of an impending wedding and hostile business competitors.
Her hand brushed her skirt and found the lump of the ancient necklace. She pulled it out. The emeralds glinted in the sunlight, especially the large one in the upper right quadrant. Not a woman’s ornament, yet it had been found near a weathered female skull.
A throat cleared, and she turned to find a compact man gazing at her with fierce dark eyes. Thick white hair capped a square face. He stood little more than five and a half feet tall, but his husky frame filled out a pair of pale chinos and a print shirt, creating an illusion of size. Or maybe the illusion came from innate dignity. Fernando Montoya, elected head of the United Mexican States.
Desi slipped the medallion into her pocket and stepped forward, hand extended. “Buenas tardes, Señor Presidente.”
Montoya gripped the offered hand. “Welcome to Mexico, Señorita Jacobs. Has anyone spoken those words to you yet?”
Desi shook her head.
“Pity.” The president frowned. “We are a warm people.” He guided them toward the furniture and took a seat in a stuffed chair. Desi resumed her place on the settee.
“A lovely place to visit for a holiday…or perhaps a honeymoon?” He nodded toward her left hand.
Desi let out a grudging laugh. “I’ve been to Mexico a number of times. During college, I toured archaeological sites for a whole summer. Many wonderful memories.”
The president beamed. “I love my country, señorita, and for this reason you are here today.” His smile faded. “I knew your father. Hiram Jacobs impressed me with his integ
rity and attention to detail.”
Her breathing quickened. “When did you meet Dad?”
“He designed the security system for Los Pinos, this building, and the grounds.”
She did some mental calculations. “That was seven years ago. You weren’t the president.”
“True, but I was on the committee that hired your company for design-only services at the palace and the presidential home. I was also on the board of directors of the Museo de Arte Mejicana the year we contracted with Greybeck and Sons. A regrettable choice that went against my arguments, but the rest of the board saw the lower bid and not the better reputation.”
“The Greybecks are doing their best to undermine that reputation.”
“Of this I am aware.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket.
She took the paper and opened it. “A copy of an e-mail sent this morning from Randolph Greybeck to Ed Bayne, his publicity director in New York. How did you get this?”
Montoya’s expression flattened.
“No matter.” Desi lifted a hand. “It’s useful to have my suspicions confirmed that e-mail sent from a hotel connection may be monitored.” Her gaze returned to the message, and her jaw tightened.
Ed, reword this into something appropriate for an interoffice memo to high-level Greybeck staff, but omit the quote from me. Then use the usual channels to leak the memo to the press, along with the quote, as if the source overheard a private conversation between Wilson and me.
Media manipulation. No surprise there.
Desi scanned the tide of the memo. “Pakal Headdress Recovered from Bungled Theft.” Her teeth ground together. Unethical didn’t begin to describe these bottom feeders. She moved on into the body of the message.
We did it! The attempted theft of the priceless headdress of the Mayan King Pakal from the Museo de Arte Mejicana in Mexico City, Mexico, ended in triumph for the home team. Due to foresight and precautions taken by our staff, the would-be thief scampered off empty-handed, and I was able to personally restore the museum’s property to the thanks of the Mexican government. Once again, we’ve proven ourselves the premier security company in the world.
Reluctant Smuggler Page 3