Chapter Twelve
Spiker sucked his lip into his mouth and hoped. Would she really quit? He refused to look away on the off chance that she might say, “Absolutely.”
His question hung heavy in the silence. Surprise, and maybe consideration, widened her eyes.
Vanka’s lips parted, and the anticipation of what she might say made his pulse teeter on a razor-thin edge, ready to plummet or explode.
He needed her to leave with him. More than that, he needed her.
Every ticking second of silence made that realization crystal clear.
Pressure punched his chest. Each blow made breathing harder, and a heady thrill rushed to his throat.
He needed to kiss her in a dangerous, mind-scrambling way.
The desire shocked him as hard as his question had her—and scared him, too, as though he were a skydiver drawn to the edge of a plane’s open door.
Spiker moved closer. The urge to touch her and tell her to run away with him was climbing high. “Quit with me.”
Her pupils constricted. Vanka moistened her bottom lip, and her cheeks pinked. The addictive lure of a true first kiss was more than he could handle.
“You’re asking a lot.”
Hell, he was asking for everything. “I know.”
“I don’t think you know what you want.”
Her raspy hesitation rolled over his body like a tidal wave, making everything a thousand times clearer.
Erasing her stress and uncertainty would be a gift.
Spiker imagined the ways he could clear her mind.
He imagined the ways he would touch her, bringing her to orgasm with his fingers and tongue until the moment that he could slide into her body.
Their phones vibrated. His daydream dissipated. Neither moved a muscle. Again, the buzzing called their attention to the incoming encrypted communication from GSI. Spiker pressed his lips together and waited to see if they’d ever answer GSI again.
Vanka jerked away from his gaze. “I’m not leaving this job.”
Disappointment slammed him against a brick wall.
She drew a deep breath. “And neither are you. Not right now. Do you understand me?”
Not right now… A foolish ray of hope seized upon her caveat.
The buzzing continued, and without a word, they agreed to ignore the incoming messages.
The intoxicating moment had sobered. The urge to kiss her remained.
They didn’t move for their phones, and he wasn’t sure what kept Vanka in place: that he’d asked her to quit or that she had sensed what he wanted.
Lust had never blinded their work. They had too much mutual professional respect to worry about a misstep like that.
In the name of an undercover role or simply staying alive, they’d played the part of lovers more times than he could count.
They’d kissed and touched and acted in various stages of undress.
He was a red-blooded man and couldn’t be accused of disliking those moments.
Vanka’s sophisticated sexiness turned heads.
Her full lips were soft and sweet, but the kisses had always been strategic, as the sweet nothings they nuzzled into each other’s ears whispered intelligence:
Target acquired. My nine o’clock.
Line of sight compromised. Pivot right.
UAV still hovering. Move your hand to a more convincing spot.
“Are we on the same page?” she asked.
Spiker hadn’t the slightest clue. Their phones signaled again.
“I will sit here with you as long as it takes.” She moistened her lips again and stared at a wall of framed pictures. “I have to keep this job. I can’t explain that in any other way. Please don’t leave. Not yet.”
“I need to…” leave. But he couldn’t walk away from her plea. When had Vanka become a part of life-altering decision-making? “I don’t know.” Spiker returned to the far side of the glass table, pacing as he skimmed his messages. “It’s from Buck.”
“Directly from him?” she asked.
“Yup.”
Vanka hummed. “That doesn’t bode well.”
“But it does prove my point,” he said. “Buck wants us to scout the attendees at a stockholder’s gala,” Spiker grumbled. Galas meant dancing and shoes that cramped his feet.
“When?”
He grimaced. “Tonight.”
“Well, now we have something to do. Who and where?”
“McLean, Virginia.” He scrolled through the encrypted messages and then showed Vanka an attached photograph. “This guy.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That looks like Alec Oliver.”
“Who’s Alec Oliver?”
“If that’s who I think it is, he created a website called Monarch and made his first billion in Silicon Valley.”
“A tech bro.” Spiker snorted. “One of those guys.”
Vanka tapped her polished fingernail against her lips. “What are our deliverables?”
“Buck would like to know who’s there. Pictures, pictures, pictures. Names and details are required but secondary.”
Her brow furrowed. “How is this tied to the Robin Hood assignment?”
Spiker shrugged. “Maybe it isn’t. Buck wants the guest list evaluated—he’s either searching for Robin Hood or searching for new clients.”
“No.” Vanka shook her head. “We can’t operate as if ulterior motives are driving our assignment.”
“Sure, we can.”
“No,” she chided. “We’ll miss something.”
Spiker lifted his shoulders. “What does it matter? We’re only scouting.”
“Either way, we have to assume Buck knows more than we do. Alec Oliver has a piece that would interest Robin Hood, and”—she gestured vaguely—“honestly, I’m curious. I want to know what it is.”
He scanned the messages again. They hadn’t been organized in any meaningful way, almost as if the idea had struck Buck seconds before he’d shot out orders. “He doesn’t specify what Oliver has or even if GSI has been retained to protect it.”
“Of course we have,” she countered.
“It’s as though you’ve heard nothing I’ve said.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If this isn’t a weak-link test—”
Two lines furrowed above the bridge of her nose. “I don’t think it is.”
This wasn’t worth arguing. Spiker relented. “We’ll put a request to the analysts. If they don’t know what we’re talking about, tonight is nothing but a search for new clients. If they do, you can ask all the questions you want.”
The next set of encrypted messages took forever to arrive. They interrupted what had otherwise turned into a quiet afternoon of Vanka reading in her window nook. In contrast, Spiker had gone for a run that had apparently turned into an hours-long marathon.
The messages confirmed they would attend a shareholder’s gala with a champagne reception and dancing at the home of tech billionaire Alec Oliver.
Unfortunately, the reception required black-tie attire.
“Oh, bugger.” She’d assumed that a gala at someone’s home would be relegated to cocktail dresses and sharp suits.
Acquiring a tuxedo on short notice wouldn’t be a problem, but getting Spiker into it might be a fight.
This was the kind of party Spiker would enjoy as much as a sandpaper hand job.
She checked the time and location—about forty-five minutes away—and then Vanka reviewed GSI’s profile on Alec Oliver.
It wasn’t fascinating. He’d been one of a handful of Silicon Valley app-creators who took their companies public before they could legally drink in the United States.
His notoriety had only grown. Politicians liked to use their subpoena power and demand Alec Oliver’s congressional testimony.
Vegas clubs posted pictures to their social media of the same man, illuminated by neon signs, with women tucked under each arm.
The billionaire was more cocky than handsome.
Vanka bit her bottom lip. Alec Oliver wasn’t their usual target and solidified much of Spiker’s concerns. He would have a fit, and she couldn’t ignore his weak-link worry too much longer without putting herself in jeopardy.
Another message arrived. A suitable car would be waiting for them at a nearby location. She studied the coordinates, which had to be almost within walking distance. Wait—was that the parking lot of a McDonald’s? Vanka smiled. That, at least, might pacify Spiker tonight.
Still, they didn’t have the most critical detail.
What did Buck believe Alec Oliver owned that warranted their attention?
Vanka had googled his name with dozens of keywords.
She’d found nothing to indicate that he was interested in anything outside his social networking app, Monarch, and the Vegas bar scene.
She couldn’t locate any involvement in or donations to the arts.
Without help from GSI, there was nothing left to do except to ask Nan for assistance.
Vanka sent a quick message.
What do you know about Alec Oliver?
Nan answered at once.
Not sure who that is.
Not surprising. Nan wasn’t partial to anyone until they entered her research orbit.
Can you tell me what GSI won’t?
A smiley emoji preceded Nan’s quick response.
Of course.
Knowing that Nan could dig up dirt on just about anything, Vanka rechecked GSI’s messages.
It bothered her that they hadn’t indicated what Alec Oliver might have in his possession.
The longer it took to find out, the more of an argument Spiker could make for his weak-link theory.
She didn’t think he was correct, but if Buck were trying to smoke out a problem, she couldn’t imagine it had to do with their loyalty to GSI.
Vanka picked at her nail polish and stared at the screen. “Oh, the hell with it.” She pinged headquarters.
Pray tell, what does this man have at his home?
An analyst responded faster than expected.
It’s some kind of mask circa 400 BCE.
Vanka scowled. What kind of bloody intelligence was that?
An actual mask? Jewelry?
She reread the analyst’s response. That was quite a time in history to mention without any context.
The world had been a messy place. But then again, wasn’t the world still a messy place?
Yes, and it always would be, but that didn’t lessen the mask’s ancient significance.
The Egyptian kingdom was falling. The Persian Empire was rising.
There was Greece, the never-ending wars with Carthage—a new message from GSI arrived.