Page 22

Mia

I wake up not knowing what day it is, let alone the time. Bits and pieces start coming back to me. The cuff. The boat. The ocean. The swim . Croatia.

Looking down at the white sheet that lies over me, I barely recall checking into a hotel last night. My hand shoots to my hair, horrified at the possibility, that in my exhausted state, I skipped a shower before getting into bed. It’s clean, thank God.

There’s a double door to the room and plenty of daylight filtering in through the curtains. Midday? Morning? I stand, needing to use the bathroom. A smile spreads across my face as I look down at my pajamas: a plain white tee that is three sizes too big for me. Dillon obviously made sure that I was comfortable. Did he sleep in here last night? The pillow on the other side of the bed is untouched, and there’s a small stab of pain at the realization.

Dressing quickly, I follow the sound of voices. The hotel room is a suite. The guys are spread out in the living area, across sofas, wingbacks, and a small table.

“Morning,” Dillon says with a brightness that deters from the shallowness under his eyes. “Sleep well?” He’s on his feet, pouring a cup of coffee. He hands it to me and resumes his place at the desk.

The aroma alone is enough to jolt me out of my stupor, but I nod to him. “I must have been out of it,” I say. “And by the looks of this,” I say, pointing around the room, “I take it none of you have slept more than an hour?”

Blaze snorts. “We’ll sleep when we’re dead.”

“Says the twenty-one-year-old.” Midas leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. He conceals a yawn.

“Old man over here,” Blaze says, flicking his head to his boss, “fell asleep on the couch like a little baby.”

Midas throws a pillow at Blaze, and it smacks him in the face.

Now that we’re near the end of this endeavor, it suddenly hits me how much I’m going to miss these guys. Their company. Their banter. Their teasing and affection. Their protectiveness. And Dillon…

I’m pulled from both sides; I’m happy to have this all behind me very soon, but I can’t stop thinking about how altered my life will be when I return home, and furthermore, if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Until this week, I’ve been in a safe little cocoon. Never having traveled further than three hundred miles from the city. I never needed to. What could New York City not offer me? Why venture beyond its borders? Surely, there wasn’t anything worth leaving the diverse, opportunistic metropolis.

We have history. A quick walk down Broadway in Lower Manhattan brings you face to face with Alexander Hamilton’s grave. Just west of Trinity Church is the 9/11 memorial. I work at a museum that houses one of the world’s largest and finest art collections. The collection covers five thousand years worth of history. Wall Street is home to the stock market, but Federal Hall is where George Washington was sworn in as our nation’s first president. Ellis Island is responsible for the millions who emigrated. Would we have ethnic enclaves like Little Italy, nine different Chinatowns or Spanish Harlem without the role it played in the city’s and the country’s history?

I know without a doubt that if I hadn’t been thrown into this ransom scenario, I never would have left New York. Am I glad that I have? Absolutely. It had been terrifying, the notion. To leave everything I knew and that I was comfortable with. But I never realized how much I needed to see the parts of the world that have been so meaningful to me simply from reading history texts and handling tangible objects at work.

A week ago, it had been enough. Reading and working are my passions. I am proud to handle the safekeeping of objects from other lands, other times, other cultures. It’s what gets me out of bed every morning. God, how could I be so na?ve to a world beyond the comforting walls of The Met?

How was I fulfilled when sites like the Guztá’s existed? Where anyone could visit it simply because of their interest and the adventure of it all. How could a simple reference or text book allow me to explore sea caves, let alone discover a sword that belonged to a Templar Knight? Or how could a lecture hall compare to the ruins of a castle that thrived in the thirteenth century? Would I have ever been able to fully grasp the splendor of the Alhambra and all it offered? Seen firsthand the incredible feat of engineering that goes vastly unnoticed by the millions that walk the grounds?

What will my life be like now, once I return home to the city that used to hold it all for me? Will I experience that same thrill every morning on my way to work? Will my house seem uptight and too traditional now that I’ve slept under thatched roofs and had the warm Andalucian air wisp against my cheek through intricately carved Moorish windows? Nobody can take the place of Ashlee, but companionship from the opposite sex holds a different meaning. Will I be thinking only of Dillon while she and I are together?

I imagine I won’t know the answers to any of those things until I’m in the moment. But I do know I have a largely different outlook now.

I put it from my mind, seeing no good outcome from daydreaming about the future right now.

“So, is this some sort of James Bond setup?” I say, taking another sip of my coffee.

“He’s an amateur—” Blaze says before getting cut off.

Midas speaks over him. “Not quite, but we’re quite pleased with the plan.”

“Oh? And what might that be?” I ask, not having the brain power to guess until my coffee has fully been consumed.

“Long story short,” Midas says, closing his laptop, “you and Archer are attending the auction—undercover—while the four of us trail you on a separate boat. Our homework is done, now it’s your turn.”

My lips purse together. “And that would be?”

“Shopping.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s black tie. You and Arch don’t have the proper attire. So, you find it,” Midas says matter-of-factly. He stands and stretches once more. “I think there’s a boutique in the hotel you might want to try. Charge it to the room.” He pads to the kitchen, downs a bottle of water, then turns to us. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to shower and nap.”

“Shopping, yes, of course,” I murmur. I turn and see Legion yawning, while Phantom pinches the bridge of his nose. Blaze is a loose cannon, acting like he’s chugged a case of Red Bull, but he too, yawns. “Dillon,” I say softly. “Why don’t you all get some sleep. I’m more than capable of finding us clothes for tonight.”

“No. I’ll go with you.”

My right eyebrow raises authoritatively. This entire trip has been made up of decisions and precautions laid down by them. If there’s something I can contribute, I’m going to. “Dillon. I’ll be perfectly safe; it’s the same building. I’ll have my phone on me.” He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. “What good will any of you be tonight if you don’t rest?” I take the opportunity to look over his shoulder, questioning the others with my still cocked brow.

“Our mom taught us never to argue with a lady,” Legion says. “I call next shower.”

“It’s been spoken,” I say. “Go. I’ll see you a little later.”

Dillon’s arms are crossed. He’s not happy, but he knows this is a battle he won’t win.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I say to him, hiding my victory grin over the rim of the mug.

“Welcome,” he says woodenly.

“Oh, and Dillon?”

“Hmm?”

“Forty regular?”

His mouth opens in confusion, but quickly settles in a line when he realizes what I’m asking. “Yeah.”

I use my best sing-song voice. “Thought so. I’ll be back.”

Dillon rolls his neck, then does a quick shoulder shrug.

“Fits quite nicely,” I say amusedly, watching him with appreciation as his slender fingers button his black jacket one-handedly. I might have a thing for Dillon in a thigh holster, but the way he wears a suit makes my palms sweat.

“I could say the same about your dress,” he muses. “If you’d call it that…” His eyes roam down my front until they pause at my hemline. My very short hemline.

“I’ll take that as a compliment that I nailed the assignment to be ‘arm candy’?”

“More than,” he says seriously. “Ready?” He holds out his arm, and I take it gratefully.

I’m no stranger to sky-high stilettos, but as we walk across the red carpet-covered gangway, I pray my heels don’t puncture it and get stuck in the aluminum grating.

A man in a tuxedo stands on deck, with a silver tray. Beside him is a walk-through metal detector. There’s a second where I feel my heart stammer; is Dillon wearing his gun? He passes through without incident, then it’s my turn. I place my handbag in the tray and walk through.

Once we’ve collected our belongings, a second man is steps away, checking names against a master list. When it’s our turn, Dillon gives our aliases: Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Bradford. The man smiles, hands us the schedule for the auction, and welcomes us aboard.

We’re immediately greeted by a server handing out champagne. Dillon declines, but I take one. Even if I don’t finish it, at least it looks the part. Using the flute, I conceal my mouth before taking a sip. “Well, we made it aboard, Mr. Bradford,” I say, testing out his new identity.

He takes the flyer from me and answers. “And you doubted me, Charolette?”

I inhale at my own fake name. The champagne bubbles linger in my sinus and moisture gathers at the corners of my eyes. “Never. I was just curious how you came up with all of this,” I ask, using my glass to gesture between the two of us.

A wolfish grin appears on his handsome face. Straight, white teeth glimmer in the golden hue of the string lights and candles. He leans in, putting his hand at the small of my back. He meets bare skin where the dress is cut low. It sends goosebumps up my spine.

“If you look at my resumé, you’ll see that besides things like ‘IT specialist’ and ‘discreet lethal force’,” he says, his warm breath fanning my neck, “I specialize in contingency plans. I had a series of aliases—complete with family background, bank accounts, social media presences, and credit ratings—all set up before we were wheels down in Colombia.”

“Impressive,” I say. I recall the flight from New York to Colombia and how all I did was nap and get my vaccination for yellow fever. Hardly fair to compare apples to oranges, but here I am.

Dillon’s hand is still on my back and he leads me to the opposite side of the yacht where there are stairs.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He pauses from time to time, nodding a hello to other couples and men that are without dates.

“Down.” It’s all he says.

By the time we reach the lower deck, Dillon takes my hand. He spins me until my back is against the wall of the narrow corridor we’re in. A couple is approaching. In a fluid move, Dillon leans into me, tilting my chin with a confident finger, and capturing my mouth with his.

The heat of his hand on my hip sears my skin through the sequined fabric of my dress. His lips are soft against mine. The kiss is thorough, leaving me breathless when he pulls away too soon.

“Come on,” he says urgently, holding a door open.

When we step through, I’m confused. “The engine room?” Dillon is focused. I watch him as he walks in further, then crouches behind a control panel. He pulls out a waterproof bag. He makes quick work of unbuckling the top and unrolling it. From it, he extracts a knife, which he tucks into the back of his waistband. Two pistols are next. He hides the bag once more. When he stands, the sides of his jacket swing open. On the left side of his torso, he places a gun in his concealed shoulder holster, before doing the same on the right.

He buttons the jacket again, walking toward me with purpose and haste. My brain malfunctions and every step he takes is in slow motion. Discreet lethal force indeed .

I’m left speechless. And turned on.

“I won’t even ask when one of you had time to breach this yacht and deposit your bag of goodies,” I say, letting him lead me back out of the narrow hallway and out on the lower deck.

“Good, because I wouldn’t want you to be mad that I did it while you were shopping.”

“Dill—”

He pecks a kiss to my mouth, effectively shushing me. It works. And I want more.

“I’ll thank you to keep your fucking comments to yourself,” Dillon whispers. He’s looking straight ahead and when a wry smile plays at his lips, I remember that he’s wearing an earpiece. I can only imagine what the guys are saying to him.

I clear my throat. “So, it looks like the auction begins at eight thirty,” I say, referencing the flyer. “And according to this, the cuff isn’t scheduled until nine forty-five.”

“Hoeur d'oeuvres, then, darling?”

I know it’s an act. There are people mingling well within earshot of us. Dillon’s even gone out of his way to refine the cadence of his voice. He’s damn good at this.

“Sounds wonderful,” I say. It’s impossible not to hold back a smile. I don’t care that tonight’s stakes are high. Twenty-four hours ago, the stakes were high, but for different reasons. Now that my father’s safe, I want nothing more than to get the cuff back.

But there’s a restlessness to me that I can’t describe. Nor do I know where it comes from. All I know is that with Dillon, I have a sense of surety that tonight’s outcome will go in our favor. And because of that, I’m distracted.

I’m distracted with the way his jacket lies across the broad expanse of his shoulders. The way his watch peeks out from the cuff of his shirt, leading my eyes to the veins at the top of his hands. Hands that I know are incredibly capable of a myriad of things. I’ve not witnessed them used in anger, but I know the intimate rasp of his callouses. The lovingly tender caresses. The toe-curling sensual explorations.

I find that I’ve followed Dillon, unaware of how we got to the main deck. Black tablecloths are tied around the base of numerous bar-height tables. Placing my clutch atop one, I smile at the couple across from me.

I hate that I’m amongst criminals. People paying into the black market of antiquities. Funding and promoting an illegal distribution of items. As I look around, truly for the first time, there are no traces of apprehension or remorse on these people’s faces. Rather, it’s a platform to flaunt their wealth and status.

I’ve grown up around the one-percenters; I know when I see one. But this crowd is different. There’s an air of entitlement that goes far beyond what’s in their bank accounts. I can sense greed in the way individuals have circled multiple pieces on their flyers, and I can hear through polite chatter how some disregard the illicit nature of the evening and its consequences. It’s sickening.

Dillon plucks two glasses from a passing waiter, handing me one.

“Thank you,” I say vacantly. He sidles to my side, placing a kiss under my ear. Before he pulls away, he asks if I’m alright. “Fine,” I say, choosing not to divulge the reason for my disgust. It’s not the time or place for that.

Dillon straightens, his hand gliding over the button on his jacket. To anyone watching he’s simply securing it. I know it as him covertly making sure it doesn’t reveal what he’s concealing.

“You know what?” I ask abruptly.

“What’s that, love?”

My pulse ratches up a notch at the nickname. “I don’t have much of an appetite.” My eyes dart around our surroundings, looking for any other place than here.

Dillon notices my cageyness, taking me by the elbow. He guides me between the tables and down a flight of stairs. Having overlooked it before, the deck below is alive with distinct notes drifting our way. With my hand in his sure one, Dillon leads us inside where a sprawling dancefloor is dimly lit. In the corner is a live band. They’re playing an upbeat song and couples sway to the rhythm of the music.

There’s a dizziness that hits me as I’m led out on the floor. Dillon extends our connection until our arms are outstretched. He’s suave, gently tugging me back until I’m snug against him. His woodsy scent surrounds me, and I close my eyes, settling into his embrace.

“Talk to me, Mia.” His voice is soft, but I hear a grit to it. My behavior has him on alert.

I tell him about my distaste for our current company. “I don’t know how you guys deal with bad people,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I’m not na?ve enough to know they don’t exist, but I don’t know, I guess,” I pause trying to gather the right words, coming up short. “I guess it just gives me the ick.” It’s not eloquent, but it’s honest.

The shift of his cheek on my head tells me he’s smirking, although dryly, I’m sure. “If I could shield you from it all, I would,” he says candidly, and I know it took a great deal for him to say it, knowing the team can hear him.

We’re quiet for a while. I turn my focus on him. He’s devastatingly good on the dancefloor. Dillon proves to be a competent lead and his surefootedness comes as no surprise. We’re pressed together tightly. I can feel the hard planes of his chest against the softness of my own, and I’m aware of every breath he takes. His thumb rubs in an up and down motion along my spine, and belatedly I realize how soothing it is.

The song bleeds into the next, this time with the saxophone taking center stage. It replaces the vocals and as the music builds to the chorus, I recognize it as Whitney Houston’s “I Have Nothing.”

“I’m glad you’ve been by my side through all of this,” I say to him, settling into the ambiance. His cheek is still pressed to the side of my head. We don’t pull away, but continue speaking in hushed tones.

“Me too. It’s been rather eye-opening.”

I smile to myself. How completely out of our elements we’ve been this past week. My sheltered self, adding four new countries to my passport. And Dillon—a bodyguard—who’s been aiding in cracking ancient clues.

A part of me wants to ask his thoughts about what tomorrow might hold for us. What next week could look like. Has it crossed his mind too? I think better of it. It’s not a conversation to be had with an audience.

Instead, I lean back and take him in. Every sharp plane from his brow to his cheekbones. Every thin line that appears around his eyes. The shape of his lips to the stubble at his jaw.

Then, I place a kiss on his cheek.

“Mia,” he sighs.

I search his eyes, desperate to know if he’s consumed with the same lust that is running untamed under the surface of my skin. Can he feel the way my heart beats fiercely, longing for his touch? Or the molten heat that’s creeping out of the high neck of my dress?

There’s a growl that vibrates from deep within him; I feel it before I hear it.

There’s a coolness from where he’s dropped his hand from my back.

It’s forgotten when he eclipses my hand in his own, tugging me away from the crowd.

To a place where we can be alone.