Chapter Twelve #2
It’s called the Lacedaemonian Mask.
“The Spartans…” The preeminent military force of its time.
Her fingers tapped against her lips. That was indeed a very messy, chaotic world.
She couldn’t make the connection between a relatively niche interest in ancient warrior collectibles and a rich Playboy who had all but accidentally made billions.
What if GSI had made a mistake? What if Buck had mistakenly confused Alec Oliver’s historical artifact with a prop from the movie 300?
The idea was highly implausible. Yet, when she took into account the Jason Green-like mistakes that had surfaced, ‘highly implausible’ was more like ‘not likely’.
In their line of work, that distinction was larger than the Atlantic Ocean.
Vanka updated Nan and asked for prompt help. They had less than six hours until showtime, but Nan could do it. She spent nearly every waking moment with every crevice and corner of world history within arm’s reach.
The front door opened, and from Vanka’s vantage point in the window reading nook at the top of the stairs, she watched her partner come inside.
Red-faced, shirtless, and sweaty, Spiker scowled as though he’d been wrestling the sun when their encrypted messages had come in.
Even with the glower, he was a sight to behold.
“Have a nice run?” she called.
He grunted and lifted his phone as if to say, “Yeah, until the messages arrived.”
“You saw that it was black tie?”
“My favorite.” He stepped from the entryway. His cell phone clattered onto the dining room table. The kitchen faucet turned on and off before he returned to the base of the stairs, downing a glass of water.
Air-conditioning and a cool drink had reduced the redness of his face, but nothing had changed on his sun-kissed shoulders. “Have you changed your exercise routine?”
He paused, cocking his head, and a quizzical, swaggering smile toyed on his lips. “Are you hitting on me, princess?”
Vanka scoffed. “In your wildest dreams.”
Spiker climbed the stairs, and she placed a starched, off-white lace bookmark on the page she’d abandoned after GSI messaged and waited for the remnants of his racing breath to slow.
He stopped on the small landing between the window nook and the top stair, then tipped his head back to finish the water.
His pulse still strummed strongly enough that she could see it in his neck, and after he set the glass on the floor, he took a deep breath. The man was impossible to ignore, and now it was her breathing she needed to monitor. “I suppose you didn’t have a tuxedo packed in your duffel bag.”
He used the T-shirt in his hand to wipe off his face. “You supposed correctly.”
“I’ll make a call and have one delivered.”
“Thanks.” Spiker slung the T-shirt over his shoulder and hooked his thumb toward the bathroom. “Can I jump in first? Five minutes, and then it’s all yours.”
He flexed without meaning to, the sight reverberating across her senses like a primal awakening. Left dizzy and confused in its wake, she averted her eyes. “Fine.”
The bathroom door shut behind Spiker. Vanka pressed her palms to her hot face and couldn’t ignore the wanton buzz still coursing beneath the surface of her skin.
She couldn’t control the sensation, yet she didn’t want the growing intoxication to stop.
Was there anything more terrifying than feeling this absolutely, impenetrably alive?
The silence cracked with the buzz of her phone, and, mortified, she’d never been more grateful for a message from GSI.
Vanka’s breath shook as she read their cover stories that had been assigned for the evening.
They were to play the Fagans, a fictitious couple that she and Spiker played well.
They knew the Fagans’ backstory better than one another’s pasts.
She’d lean into her role as Em, Brian Fagan’s wife, and hide the real sparks she couldn’t explain.
Her breathing was even, her thoughts now cleared.
Vanka returned to her phone. Spiker needed a tux.
The search was quick; it took only a single phone call to find a contact who could pull through with her request. Accomplishing the menial task helped settle her mind.
Tonight would be business as usual, whether she liked it or not.
Vanka knocked on the bathroom door. “A Giorgio Armani tux will arrive in an hour.”
“Shoes?” he called, words distorted by a face full of water. “Those, too?”
She laughed and leaned her forehead on the frame molding that outlined the door. “Of course, I ordered shoes.”
“What?”
Her hand rested on the doorknob, and her heart skipped an extra beat, punching through the thin veil of control she had just wrangled. “Business as usual,” she scolded and cracked the door. “Yes. Shoes also.”
Spiker ducked his head out of the shower. The curtain clung across his chest and made him look as though he were a rain-soaked Roman legionnaire wearing a plastic toga. “What do they look like?”
Her gaze couldn’t find a safe place to land. “The shoes?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
A movement in her peripheral vision drew her gaze back to Spiker.
He raked the dark hair from his forehead.
Water rivulets slid down his cheeks and chest, and, once again, she desperately needed to avert her eyes.
But she couldn’t. “The shoes are Magnanni.” Her voice faltered.
She licked her lips and tried to focus. “Cap toe, monk strap style with a silver buckle.”
He snort-laughed. “Like a pilgrim?”
“Sorry?” Vanka could’ve kissed him for breaking the ridiculous, hormone-tangled web she’d found herself in. “Are you insane?”
“Depends on who you ask.” He rested his forearm on the shower wall. Those damn muscles flexed on their own again. A hubristic half-smile dangled on his lips. “Since I’m talking to the woman who ordered Thanksgiving pilgrim footwear.” Spiker lifted his sinewy shoulder. “If I am, you are, too.”
Gah, she wanted to strangle and touch him. Neither would do. Instead, Vanka lobbed a hand towel from the sink. It hit the shower curtain, and Spiker ducked behind it.
Spiker stuck his head out again. “Gotta work on your skill, princess.”
“Oh, bugger off.”
He laughed. “Will you shut that door? You’re letting out the hot air.”
“Keep talking. All that hot air, and you’ll be fine.” But she stepped out and yanked the door shut.
His laughter continued. “I didn’t say you had to leave.”
She flushed. God help her—she was reading too much into his side comments.
She pressed her fingers to her temples and tried to view the situation from a different angle.
An entirely new image came to mind: Spiker wearing pilgrim shoes.
The vision cut through her haze, and she laughed.
On another night, that would be a fun trick.
Not tonight. There was too much on the line.
Plus, she really liked the way a fit, trim-cut Armani tuxedo worked on his build.
She backed farther from the bathroom door and saw herself in the hanging mirror tacked to the linen closet. “What’s wrong with you?”
The flustered reflection acted confused. Vanka studied herself a moment longer, but stopped, distracted by the sound of the water. “Pull it together.”
Tonight was an opportunity she wouldn’t screw up. This attraction or, more aptly, distraction, wasn’t what they needed before waltzing into the lion’s den tonight.
She gave herself one last look. “You’ve got a job to do. Get to it.” Vanka needed to find her own outfit. If she made a quick selection, there would be time to check in with Nan again.
The guest room closet held her formal wear. She shook off the last thoughts of Spiker and focused on the task at hand. What would Mrs. Em Fagan wear to Alec Oliver’s house?
A better question still lingered: Why would Alec Oliver have an ancient relic? Vanka wasn’t familiar with the Lacedaemonian Mask. She wondered if Nan or either of her parents had been familiar with the piece. Maybe her anthropologist mum.
Vanka thought about the headlines she’d recently read.
Fine arts reparations had made the news.
Would her parents be surprised that so many years had passed with so little change?
More than likely, no, they wouldn’t be shocked or impressed by the lack of progress.
Instead, they would have wished more people stood up and questioned conventional ethics.
Nan had given Vanka cassette recordings of her father’s archaeology lectures when she was nine or ten years old. His passion had mesmerized her. He’d poured his heart and soul into the importance of discovery, preservation, and the ethical implications that came from her parents’ work.
Vanka’s mum had been a true believer in her father’s words.
Nan said that Mum would observe his lectures and watch for a glimmer of understanding among his students.
Then, together they would work with the students on special projects.
They wanted partners to join in their lifelong effort to defend the stories and culture of the past. Vanka only wished she had been old enough to show that she could have been part of their team.
Vanka opened the walk-in closet. “Now, for an entirely different type of culture…”