Chapter Twelve #3
She flicked on the overhead light and stepped into the narrow space.
Had Spiker considered hanging his clothes up?
She laughed at the image of his tropical wardrobe hanging next to her gowns, but knew better.
His duffel bag would remain on the floor, semi-packed, next to a pile of yesterday’s dirty clothes.
The closet air held the faint perfume of prior assignments. Some dresses had never been worn. Others held the memory of dead targets and stomach-turning intelligence. Vanka’s fingers drifted over silk and sequins as she wondered what dress would speak to her for tonight.
They were organized by occasion and length. Tonight’s gown would be full-length and paired with impossibly high heels, disguising her petite height. People tended to remember short outliers.
She perused several options and discarded them, moving from one hanger to the next. A dress that was too basic would catch the eye of judgmental fashionistas. One that garnered too much attention would suffer the same fate. Tonight’s gown would be a combination of demure and wow.
An onyx lame silk caught her eye. Vanka removed the backless, high-necked Givenchy gown from the row of dresses.
Even in the poor closet light, the fabric offered a liquid shine as she twirled the hanger.
Its halter neckline would wrap conservatively around the base of her throat.
At the same time, the back of the dress was nonexistent, exposing skin from the shoulders to the small of the back.
The daring style worked well. Its most striking feature would be Vanka’s back, not her face. As a result, she would be memorable but indescribable. It was the perfect look in her line of work.
Now for shoes. She turned and reviewed the shelves on the opposite wall. Spiker would disagree, but her collection wasn’t obnoxious, though it took up as much square footage as the gowns.
After a short deliberation, she chose a pair of Christian Louboutin pointed-toe pumps. They had slender, stratospheric heels that would give her an added four inches of height. “Perfect.”
She tucked the shoes under one arm and pulled the dress from the rack. She flicked the light off with her elbow and stepped out of the closet as Spiker padded in, his waist wrapped with a towel.
The scent of soap from his shower-warmed body froze her in place.
A rogue drop of water slid down his cheek and chiseled jawline.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away as it followed a tendon in his neck, where it paused, puddling against the ridge of his clavicle bone.
Gravity refused to give the water a moment of rest. The single rivulet traversed his pectoral muscle, skimming the flat drop of his sternum and rock-hard abs before disappearing into the low-slung towel around his hips.
He waited until he held her gaze again, and without a word, Spiker promised that he had not minded where her focus had been. She lifted the dress like a protective shield and hurried from his room.
The floorboards creaked as she fled. His laser-hot gaze stayed on her back until she dove into her bedroom. Vanka rushed the dress onto a hook and placed the shoes on the dresser. Then, awareness announced itself with a full-body tremble, as though she’d been blind to the last thirty seconds.
What the hell had she been looking at?
Why had Spiker seemed like he approved?
She was mortified and hated the frenzy of her heartbeat. Like a teenager, she leaped onto her bed and buried her face into the pillows until it was hard to breathe.
The old house creaked. The floorboards interrupted her hysterics, paralyzing her like the prey of a wild beast. On the other side of her door, she could hear Spiker cross the hardwood threshold.
Millennia passed with each step. Then he stopped at her door.
She froze. Even her pulse held its breath as he waited—for what?
As though he had the same thoughts, his weight shifted, and Spiker retraced his steps.
She yanked a pillow from the top of her bed and wrapped herself around it. Even when they wanted to kill each other, they had always been in lockstep. Now, after the course of a few days, a gulf of unsaid-and-impossible had formed between them.
Her cell phone dinged with the tone assigned to Nan, and Vanka had never been so glad to have a well-researched distraction. She swiped open Nan’s message.
The Lacedaemonian Mask
Likely origination: Laconia, Greece
Recorded in Constantinople, early 300s CE, where it remained for ten centuries.
Stolen 1204 during the Fourth Crusade—under the direction of Venetian Enrico Dandolo—and displayed in an Italian church
Stolen by Napoleon’s men—1797—placed in Paris
1819—the French returned the piece to Vatican City as part of a diplomatic effort. Re-displayed at the same church, which had become a basilica.
Sold by the Catholic Church to the Barnard Museum of History.
Stolen 1957—never to been seen again.
“At least until tonight.” She crossed her fingers and thanked Nan.
Nan’s report was exactly what Vanka needed. Sexy man in the next room or not, Vanka’s focus had returned to where it needed to be.