Buried Bloodlines

Chapter One Before We Go To Spain

Chapter One

Before We Go To Spain

For seven minutes, Naomi James forgot that anyone wanted her dead.

She forgot about Mateo Serrano.

She forgot Daniel Mercer had stolen an infrared map from the National Gallery.

She forgot about the Bluebird Covenant, the monastery hidden in the Pyrenees, the mysterious silver-haired woman who seemed capable of appearing and disappearing whenever she pleased, and the uncle she had only recently discovered existed.

Most importantly, she forgot about the telephone call.

Elias James was alive.

For seven glorious minutes, none of it mattered.

There was only Lucas.

And the ring on her finger.

Naomi stood barefoot in front of the enormous windows of Lucas Taylor's London penthouse, staring at the diamond as morning sunlight poured across the Thames.

She turned her hand slightly.

The stone caught the light.

Sparkled.

And Naomi smiled all over again.

"You're doing it again."

Lucas's sleepy voice came from behind her.

Naomi didn't turn.

"Doing what?"

"Staring at your hand."

"I'm checking."

"For?"

"To make sure I didn't hallucinate the entire thing."

A mattress shifted.

Then footsteps approached.

Warm arms circled her waist from behind.

Lucas pressed a kiss against her shoulder.

"Still there?"

Naomi lifted her hand.

"Apparently."

"Good."

"Although..."

Lucas stiffened.

Naomi fought her smile.

"Although what?"

"I've been thinking."

"That sentence has never frightened me as much as it does right now."

She finally turned.

Lucas Taylor stood before her wearing nothing but dark lounge pants, his hair slightly disheveled from sleep. The polished heir to one of Britain's most powerful families had disappeared somewhere between midnight and sunrise.

This Lucas belonged only to her.

Naomi deliberately studied him.

His bare chest.

His sleepy expression.

The faint scar near his ribs from everything they'd survived.

Then she looked into his eyes.

"Maybe I should make you propose again."

His eyebrows rose.

"Excuse me?"

"The first proposal was beautiful."

"Thank you."

"But there were extenuating circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"Murder."

"Fair."

"Kidnapping."

"Also fair."

"International criminal conspiracies."

"You're being picky."

Naomi laughed.

"And technically, we were still trying to determine whether my supposedly nonexistent uncle was hiding underneath Europe."

Lucas stared at her.

"When you say it like that, our relationship sounds exhausting."

"It is exhausting."

"You said yes."

"I was vulnerable."

Lucas caught her around the waist.

Naomi squealed as he lifted her.

"Lucas!"

"Take it back."

"Never."

He carried her toward the bedroom.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, laughing.

"Put me down!"

"No."

"Lucas Taylor!"

"Naomi James."

"You cannot solve every disagreement by carrying me into the bedroom."

He stopped.

His eyes dropped slowly to her mouth.

"No?"

The laughter faded.

Something warmer replaced it.

Naomi felt the change immediately.

Lucas lowered her feet to the floor but kept his hands around her waist.

The playful mood remained between them, but beneath it lived something deeper.

Desire.

Relief.

Love.

They had spent so much of their relationship running toward answers or away from danger that quiet intimacy still felt like a luxury.

Lucas touched her cheek.

"You're really going to marry me."

Naomi smiled.

"I'm really going to marry you."

His thumb moved across her lower lip.

"I've wanted to hear you say that again since yesterday."

"Then you could've asked."

"I was trying not to appear desperate."

"You failed."

"Completely."

She kissed him.

Lucas responded instantly.

His hand slid to the back of her neck as the kiss deepened, and Naomi felt the world outside the penthouse disappear.

No security teams.

No family empires.

No secrets.

His mouth moved against hers with an intimacy that came from knowing exactly how deeply they had almost lost one another. Naomi curled her fingers against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm.

Lucas broke the kiss long enough to look at her.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

Naomi held his gaze.

"Do I look like I want you to stop?"

His smile was devastating.

"No."

"Then why are we talking?"

That was all the encouragement he needed.

He kissed her again.

Slower.

Deeper.

His hands traced her waist and drew her closer until there was no space between them. Naomi felt desired without feeling possessed, treasured without being treated as fragile. Lucas kissed the curve of her jaw, then her neck, lingering just long enough to make her breath catch.

She tilted her head.

"You're supposed to be making breakfast."

"I've changed the menu."

Naomi laughed against his mouth.

"That was terrible."

"And yet you're still kissing me."

She pulled him closer.

"Unfortunately."

Lucas's laughter disappeared into another kiss.

This one carried them backward toward the bedroom.

And for once, neither of them was running from anything.

They were simply moving toward each other.

The bedroom door closed.

London continued beyond the windows.

And for a while, the mysteries could wait.

Two hours later, Naomi sat at the kitchen island wearing one of Lucas's shirts.

Lucas stood at the stove making French toast.

Badly.

Smoke curled from the pan.

Naomi stared.

"Is it supposed to be black?"

"It's caramelized."

"That is charcoal."

"Your lack of culinary imagination concerns me."

"My fiancé is trying to poison me before the wedding."

Lucas looked over his shoulder.

"Fiancé."

Naomi smiled.

"You like that."

"Very much."

He turned off the burner before the smoke alarm could expose him.

Naomi's phone vibrated.

Her smile disappeared.

COMMANDER ROSS

Lucas saw the screen.

"No."

Naomi looked at him.

"What?"

"We've had two hours."

"Lucas—"

"Two."

He pointed toward the phone.

"Whatever catastrophe she's calling about has survived this long. It can survive breakfast."

The phone stopped.

Then immediately rang again.

Lucas sighed.

"That's never good."

Naomi answered.

"Good morning."

Ross didn't bother returning the greeting.

"We found something."

Of course they had.

Naomi straightened.

"What?"

"Not over the phone."

"Where are you?"

"The Taylor Museum."

Lucas was already reaching for his shirt.

Ross continued.

"Bring the pendant."

Naomi touched the necklace resting against her chest.

Her father's silver pendant.

"What happened?"

A pause.

"We opened the rest of Joseph's hidden compartment."

Naomi stood.

"And?"

"We found a passenger manifest."

"For what?"

"The House of the Bluebird."

Naomi frowned.

"I don't understand."

"Neither did we."

Ross hesitated.

"Until we saw the names."

Naomi's stomach tightened.

"What names?"

"Your father's."

She expected that.

"Arthur Taylor's."

Expected.

"Daniel Mercer's."

Expected.

Then Ross said the fourth.

"And Hudson Taylor's."

Naomi looked at Lucas.

His expression changed.

"My father?"

Ross heard him.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Thirty-one years ago."

Lucas frowned.

"My father claims he never returned to the monastery after childhood."

"Then either Hudson lied..."

Ross paused.

"...or someone put his name on that manifest."

Naomi thought about Hudson's fractured memories.

"What else?"

"There is a fifth passenger."

Of course there was.

Naomi closed her eyes.

"Who?"

Ross's answer changed everything.

"Your mother."

Naomi stopped breathing.

"What?"

Lucas immediately moved closer.

Ross continued.

"The manifest lists five passengers traveling from London to northern Spain."

"Joseph James."

"Arthur Taylor."

"Daniel Mercer."

"Hudson Taylor."

"And Evelyn James."

Naomi stared toward the hallway.

Her mother was staying only fifteen minutes away.

"My mother has never been to Spain."

"According to the manifest, she has."

"When?"

"Three months before you were born."

Naomi gripped the phone.

"No."

Lucas touched her back.

"Naomi..."

"My mother would remember going to Spain."

Ross's voice softened.

"Then perhaps it's time we ask her why she told you she didn't."

Evelyn James arrived forty-five minutes later.

She walked into the penthouse wearing a cream sweater, dark trousers, and an expression suggesting she already knew this wasn't a social visit.

She looked at Naomi.

Then Lucas.

Then Commander Ross.

Finally, her eyes landed on the passenger manifest lying on the dining table.

Everything changed.

Naomi saw it.

A flicker.

Recognition.

Fear.

Then control.

Her mother had always been terrible at lying.

Which made the calmness that followed more frightening.

"Mom."

Evelyn remained standing.

Naomi touched the manifest.

"Have you ever been to Spain?"

Silence.

Lucas moved away slightly, giving mother and daughter space.

Evelyn looked toward the windows.

"Yes."

One word.

Naomi felt something crack inside her.

"You told me you hadn't."

"I know."

"You told investigators you hadn't."

"I know."

"You told Commander Ross you had never heard of the House of the Bluebird."

"I know."

Naomi stood.

"Then why are you on this manifest?"

Evelyn closed her eyes.

"Because I was there."

"At the monastery?"

"Yes."

"With Dad?"

"Yes."

Naomi struggled to keep her voice steady.

"And Arthur Taylor?"

"Yes."

"Daniel Mercer?"

Her mother nodded.

"Hudson?"

Another nod.

Lucas stared at Evelyn.

"My father doesn't remember."

"He wouldn't."

The answer came too quickly.

Lucas's expression hardened.

"What does that mean?"

Evelyn looked toward him.

"It means Hudson Taylor wasn't supposed to remember anything that happened that night."

The room became deathly quiet.

Commander Ross leaned forward.

"What happened to him?"

Evelyn looked at Naomi.

"I hoped you would never have to know."

Naomi's anger surfaced.

"Everybody keeps saying that."

Her voice cracked.

"Dad didn't want me to know about Elias. Hudson didn't know about Gabriel. Rose hid Julian. Arthur hid the Covenant. Every person in this story decided secrets were protection."

She stepped closer to her mother.

"Look where that got us."

Evelyn absorbed every word.

Then nodded.

"You're right."

The admission stole some of Naomi's anger.

Evelyn pulled out a chair and sat.

"Thirty-one years ago, your father received a telephone call from Arthur Taylor."