by Cari Z
“You don’t have that kind of relationship with your people?” Alex asked, a little furrow of concern between his eyebrows.
I laughed. “Good lord, no. My people—academics, I suppose you could say—are as cutthroat a lot as any other profession, and more than most. There are a very limited number of prestigious positions for a very high number of people with degrees to fight over, and it gets more dog-eat-dog the higher up you go. I wouldn’t be surprised if my former colleagues threw a party after I was drummed out of the British Museum.”
“Jesus, that sucks.”
His affirmation was heartwarming. “Yes, it did. Of course, I was just as bad as them in some ways, but—I was so sure I was right. That bowl, I was convinced it was a fake, and I didn’t want the museum’s reputation to suffer if it came to light from anywhere other than internally.” I sighed. “I even advised that we go through our catalog on display to ensure that we didn’t have any more fakes in the mix, but the museum director at the time was no friend of mine, and my suggestion was promptly shelved, along with the upward trajectory of my career.” It wasn’t that I loathed where I was now—the Corinium had some very important finds on display, and relating local history to the Roman occupation of the past was both interesting and worthwhile work. It just wasn’t where I wanted to be, or where my heart longed to be.
Alex’s warm touch to the back of my wrist startled me. Had I drifted away? “It’s time to board,” he said gently.
I didn’t need his gentleness, but I wanted it desperately. “Right, thank you.”
The flight to Marseille was uneventful, dull, and cramped, but a far sight cleaner than the apartment we’d left behind. While we sipped at our complimentary beverages—water for me, more coffee for Alex—I asked about the strange man we’d stayed with last night. “He said he’s never worked with KIS agents before, but he seemed to know a lot about your organization.”
Alex nodded. “From what I understand, he’s a freelancer of sorts. Robert has a lot of connections back from when he was in the field, but not all of them want to be associated with our business. He’s good at talking them into helping us out when we need it, though.”
“Your boss sounds like quite the social butterfly.”
This time Alex laughed. “He’d deny it, but he definitely is. He doesn’t get out of the office much these days, but he maintains a huge social network. Good thing, too, because networking isn’t really my strong suit.”
I could practically picture the man—Type A, orderly, lenient when it came to letting you run with an idea but ever ready with a heavy hand if it looked like you were going to go off the rails. I’d known several directors at the museum like that. Very much not like Alex, but… “I’m sure you’re too hard on yourself. You’re quite easy to get along with.”
“Except when I’m ordering you around.”
“Except then, yes. Let’s have less of that.”
He saluted. “Yessir.” I tried to pretend that it had absolutely no effect on me and sipped my water to help hide the flush.
We arrived at the Marseille Provence Airport a little after two, local time. After collecting Alex’s bag, we headed out front to where, I assumed, we’d catch a cab to take us into Marseille. Instead, Alex looked around and headed straight for a tall black woman standing next to a bus stop. Even in flats, she was perhaps an inch taller than me. She wore an airy white linen ensemble, and held her curling brown hair back from her face with a rose-colored headband. She tilted her head when she saw us, taking in our appearances with a critical eye.
“Tell me you didn’t sleep at Jack’s place. It has mold, you know.”
“I knew it,” I muttered.
“Is that his name?” Alex asked mildly.
“If he is a bald, brash, football-loving pain in the arse, then yes, that’s Jack. You didn’t hear it from me, though.” She shook her head. “Let’s hope you didn’t catch lice or something worse.” She then held out her hand to me. “Good afternoon, Professor Armstrong. I’m Patricia Diagho, and I’ll be assisting you with this lummox while you’re in Marseille.”
I shook her hand. “The pleasure’s all mine, and I assure you, I’ve seen nothing to disabuse me of Mr. Tucker’s capabilities thus far.”
Patricia let go and glanced at Alex. “It looks as though you’ve found yourself a white knight, you lucky man.”
“I’d feel a lot luckier if you told me you know where our target is.”
She sighed and pulled a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses out of her handbag. “All work and no play with you. Would I be standing here chitchatting if I didn’t know where she is? I ran into Corday—that’s what she’s known as, apparently, isn’t it adorable—on her way out of the airport and got a bug into her purse.” She held her phone out toward Alex. “As you can see, she’s ensconced in the Hotel Sofitel Marseille Vieux Port. She went there directly after her flight and has been there all morning.” She put the phone back in her purse. “Probably asleep, given her late-night activities in London. Shall we?” She gestured toward the parking lot. “I brought my own car.”
“What about a partner?” Alex asked as we crossed the street to the lot. She led us to a blue Porsche Panamera, and I silently tried not to swallow my tongue as we got inside. Goodness, this business must pay ridiculously well if KIS’s support staff could afford a car like this one.
“There was no sign of any interaction with anyone as she left the airport. I followed her at a distance back to the hotel and watched her check in, and she didn’t interact with anyone beyond the necessary there as well. If Corday has a partner, it looks like she left them in London.” Patricia checked her mirrors, then backed out of her parking space and headed for the airport’s exit. It was a warm, beautiful day, and I rolled my window down some so I could feel the warm breeze and smell the fresh salt scent of the air. London was where I kept my heart, but it certainly never smelled as good as this. “And we’ll know before her deal goes down, Alex, so stop fretting.”
He shook his head, his short hair still able to ruffle a bit in the breeze. “You rely too much on those statistics, Patricia.”
“I rely on them because they’re so often correct! She is staying in a hotel, not a place she can completely control like the last people we worked on had. She won’t do a deal for something this big there. It isn’t secure enough. She will need to scout a location, and I’ll be there to watch her do it.”
“Your metrics for evaluation aren’t infallible.”
“Neither is your gut.”
It sounded as though they were about to break into a well-trod argument. I opened my mouth to speak—to say what, I’d no idea—but Patricia changed the subject with a wave of one hand. “Never mind. You two must be famished. I know just the place for us to take lunch.”
We ended up at a place called The Rowing Club, right on the water across from the old Fort Saint-Jean. The fare was rather pricey Mediterranean food, but Patricia briskly ordered a slew of starters along with a bottle of Chardonnay before brushing the waiter off. “You need to eat, Robert’s orders, so if you want to complain about someone being an overbearing mum, talk to him,” she said, looking straight at Alex. “And we need to go over the essentials. Mademoiselle Corday is staying on the third floor, in a room with a beautiful view of the fort.” She smiled. “It is a room with very large windows, which is quite nice, since I’m going to attach a camera to one of the palm trees by the pool so we can get a peek inside.”
“There’s no easier way to look into her room?”
Patricia made a moue of discontentment. “Believe me, I looked into the easier ways first. They recently hired a new manager here, and the woman is quite ferocious when it comes to guarding the privacy of her guests. Not even the cleaning staff can access the rooms without being constantly monitored, and there are cameras in every hallway. People are too nervous to take a bribe, and the balconies are monitored as well. Thus, the tree.”
“Fine.”
She narrowed
her eyes. “Is that fine meaning ‘I concur that you can handle things for now’ or fine meaning ‘I have no faith in you and I’m going to try to take care of everything on my own as soon as your back is turned’?”
Alex rolled his eyes. “Don’t read into things so much.”
“It’s the second one. I knew it! For heaven’s sake, can’t you relax a bit? You act as though this job has proven a challenge thus far.”
“Our floor at the hotel in London had a fire last night,” he pointed out. “You think that was coincidence?”
“Probably not, but it does speak to the fact that you’re dealing with an amateur. A professional would have made certain you were going to be there first.”
The first plates arrived, and I fell on the food like a starving man. The breakfast sandwich seemed days ago, not hours, and frankly I wanted something to do with my mouth other than bite my lip. I didn’t quite know what to make of Alex with Patricia. They were an odd pair who seemed to have very different ways of getting things done.
“Alex,” Patricia said after a minute of us gorging ourselves on seafood. Just that, just his name, but it was enough to make me look a little closer. He hadn’t touched the food yet—his plate was still china-white. “Won’t you join us?”
He sighed and reached for a piece of bread, dipped it into a shallow dish of olive oil, and took a bite. “Better?” he asked once he swallowed.
“Barely. Keep up. So, Professor!” She turned to me as she speared a piece of calamari on her fork. “Have you been to Marseille before? Which is your favorite museum?”
“Please, call me Mal. And it’s been many years since I visited Marseille, but I actually remember enjoying Notre Dame de la Garde very much.” Churches generally had less in them that made me want to fume, and this one was particularly spectacular.
“Oh, I love that one as well. It’s so beautiful now that the restoration is done. The Madonna is superb.” She looked between us, her eyes tracking something I couldn’t guess at. “The new museum attached to Fort Saint-Jean is quite nice too, and closer than the cathedral, in case I need you back quickly. You two should go this afternoon, after you’ve checked into your hotel. It will give you some time to rest up for the next phase, which is the only time that I will need any assistance. When Corday makes a move, I promise I will tell you. Until then….” She shook her head. “You need a chance to appreciate the beauty that surrounds you, Alex.”
“I’ve never been there before,” I mused. “I’d love to go, actually.”
Alex looked across the water at the fort, then shrugged and stirred his bread through the olive oil again. “Sure, looks nice.”
Oh dear. I had a philistine on my hands.
“Just think,” Patricia added in a teasing tone. “You can also check out all the sightlines between the fort and the hotel! Form and function, Alex—beauty and practicality.”
“You’re reaching.”
“You’re a boor. Now eat that before it falls apart, or I’ll tell Robert on you.”
He sighed and picked up the bread. “Yes ma’am.”
Needless to say, by the time we headed over to the museum I wasn’t actually expecting much from Alex. In fact, I had nearly called the outing off, but… when would I next get the chance at this experience? I’d keep it short, I decided. Short and sweet, just enough time to take in the major exhibits.
Surprisingly, Alex was the one to break the silence. “Sorry I’m not being very good company.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” I said immediately, then took a moment to actually think about it. “I mean… it is all right—you have to be true to yourself—but would you mind telling me why you’re not being good company? Not that you aren’t!” Good lord, can I make this any more awkward?
“I’m bad at delays,” Alex said. The tall, rubicund edifice of Fort Saint-Jean rose above the tops of the trees and buildings, a guiding sentinel as we walked. I let myself focus on it, take in the delightful view—Alex’s eyes, I noticed, never stopped moving. “When I take a job, I tend to get tunnel vision,” he went on. “It makes relaxing hard. Everything feels like a distraction.”
“Even eating?” I ventured, because I hadn’t needed Patricia’s chiding to notice that Alex hadn’t eaten much at lunch.
“Even that.”
“We’d better hope that we finish up this job quickly, then. I won’t have you keeling over.”
Alex turned his full attention on me, accompanied by a smile, and it was like being struck in the center of the chest with a cricket bat. I barely knew the man—why did the evidence of his pleasure impact me so? “You don’t have to worry about me, Mal. I can handle myself, and Robert knows my habits. He’ll check in. Now.” He squinted up at the pale stone façade of the fort. “Talk to me about this place. Who built it?”
“You assume I know.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
“Well….” Actually, I did, but… “Don’t expect anything more than a very abbreviated history,” I warned him as we stepped inside the fort.
“That’s probably about all I can handle.” Alex gestured toward the nearest staircase, one that would take us up to the parapet. “Lead on.”
I did, and ended up rambling on about Louis XIV, the Jacobins, and the French Foreign Legion far longer than I should have. We spent over two hours outside in the sunshine, wandering past decorative potted trees and staring out at the deep blue Mediterranean Sea. Alex did indeed check sightlines, but more for show than out of any necessity, I think. It was hot—there weren’t many other people out and about, mostly families with young children and a few older tourists. I almost ran into a blond, freckled man coming out of the bathroom as I was entering it, but apart from a muttered, “’Scuse me, pal,” our encounter didn’t amount to much. We didn’t even end up going across the footbridge to the museum itself.
I didn’t mind. I already felt in my element, and Alex did a better job following along than I’d expected. It was… flattering, to be the center of his attention, however briefly.
By the time we got back to our hotel, Patricia had her camera in place and was off to her own room after a single round of drinks in the hotel bar. “I trust you can entertain yourselves tonight, yes?” she’d said with a wink before sauntering off.
I was blushing intensely and hating myself for it once I finally got around to looking at Alex. Why did my skin tone have to give me up every time, why? Why was I even allowing the concept of a lascivious thought about Alex into my mind? It was hard to help, though—he was so unlike Gerard in every way, but so utterly alluring at the same time.
Alex shook his head as he finished his drink—a ginger ale, I noted, nothing alcoholic. “She’s just teasing because she knows my type,” he said. “How do you feel about room service tonight?”
His type? “I feel—fine, that’s fine, but—type?” We left the bar and walked together to the stairs, and despite my sudden eruption of butterflies on the inside I felt like I was playing things off fairly cool.
“Yeah.” Alex held the door to the stairwell for me, and my blush got hotter. “Smart, attractive, in a completely different line of work from what I do… it’s a thing with me.” He grimaced a little. “It’s probably one of the reasons I can’t keep a guy, to be honest. Hard to explain to a boyfriend that you’ve got to leave the country for the next three weeks without telling them where you’re going or why.”
This confirmation of something I’d been wondering about since meeting the man was almost enough to bowl me over. It was enough to make me stumble on the stairs, which embarrassed me into shutting up until we reached our floor.
Surprisingly, Alex was the one to bring it up, right before unlocking our door. “It’s not a problem, is it?” he asked.
“You being gay?” I practically gaped at him. “Given that I’m gay myself, that would be supremely hypocritical of me. Why are you even asking?”
“You got quiet. It just got me wondering.” He stepped i
nside and looked around, one hand on the gun under his jacket. He was being vigilant, but also, perhaps, taking pains not to make eye contact with me.
Well, that couldn’t be allowed to stand.
“I nearly slid down two flights of stairs on my arse just now,” I pointed out as I followed him into the room. He checked the bathroom, the door to the balcony—locked, with curtains drawn to cover it—and the windows before finally relaxing enough to take his hand off his gun. “I clearly needed to focus on my feet, but I’m completely confident in your ability to do your work while being exactly who you are, Alex. As must be everyone who sees you in action.”
He gave me that half-smile that made my pulse race again. “You’d be surprised. Don’t underestimate anyone else’s ability to be an asshole, Mal. But thanks.” He took a seat on the edge of the bed, pulled out both of his guns, and began to take them apart. I watched, interested, as he disassembled the Glock, then moved on to the smaller pistol.
“You do that quite quickly,” I commented.
He paused, then held out the Kahr to me. “You want to learn? It’s always good to know how to clean a gun.”
I stared at him with wide eyes. “Wait. Is it loaded?”
“Currently, yes.”
“Then no, I’d rather not risk it.”
His expression was a sort of kind bafflement. “I’m not going to let you shoot yourself, Mal. Or me,” he added when I opened my mouth, ready to object. “I’ll show you how to take everything apart safely, okay?”
“And do you promise me no mockery?”
“Cross my heart and hope not to die.”
I would have thrown a pillow at him if I wasn’t worried about it hitting the gun. “Fine. But if you end up perforated, you’ll have only yourself to blame.” Our fingers brushed as I took the pistol, and it was all I could do to hold on to it for a moment.
Alex winked at me. “I think I’ll risk it.”
By the time we called it a night, I could disassemble and reassemble a Kahr CW9, knew the difference between a clip and a magazine, and had rather hopelessly solidified my crush on a man who was too professional to even dream of hitting on me while we were embroiled in a hunt for the scepter of Mansa Musa.