“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.”
Movement in her peripheral vision lured her eyes 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, which Spiker ducked behind.
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 see the situation in a different light. 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 from her father’s archaeology lectures when she had been 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 . . .”
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 on hangers 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 focus attention on 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.