That wasn’t what Spiker wanted to know. Their thoughts were traveling a thousand kilometers an hour in opposite directions. “What else?”
Something else was bothering him. Vanka couldn’t put her finger on exactly what seemed off, but her senses blared that there had been—maybe still was—a problem. “Nothing that’s worth discussing right now. Are we ready to leave?”
He gave her a hard look but nodded and took her hand. They retraced their path through the large house. She wondered where the Lacedaemonian Mask was stored and what had bothered Spiker.
Finally, they reached the front door and requested their car.
Five minutes later, Spiker was behind the wheel of the Maserati, brooding. Vanka closed her eyes and rested as he drove them home. Tonight had left her with information and questions. She wanted to daydream about the mask but couldn’t ignore how Buck had been correct about the stolen artifact. She couldn’t have done this tonight without Spiker, but what they’d confirmed might convince him to walk away from GSI . . . and her.
She turned her face toward him. Passing overhead lights illuminated and then obscured his face. Vanka studied his profile and almost asked what he was thinking, but that wasn’t her business. If he wanted to tell her something, then he would. That was a rule between them. Except lately? There had been a lot left unsaid. “Spiker, I don’t want you to leave.”
“I know.” He glanced over for a long moment before returning to the road. The revolution of light and shadow continued to play over him. His left index finger quietly tapped on the leather steering wheel. “I’m not leaving tonight.”
Not tonight wasn’t much to hold on to. Endless uncertainties tangled her thoughts and knotted in her throat. “I don’t want you to leave me.”
His grip flexed on the steering wheel. Darkness danced and disappeared across his profile. Road noise and the Maserati’s engine shouted to fill the silence.
Spiker reached for her hand and wrapped his fingers over her fist, squeezing as if she was holding something that might escape. Miles passed before he released her hand, then steered the Maserati into a parking space near her Audi.
The night’s adrenaline high was long gone. She wanted to go home and crawl into bed. That wouldn’t happen. They’d spend the next few hours alone, documenting, and then submit their reports. Headquarters would layer their individual accounts in a single document, and in a day or two, she and Spiker would make revisions. Sometimes their jobs weren’t what Hollywood made them out to be.
Spiker cut the engine. “I feel like I’m fucking losing my mind.” He pulled in a deep breath then let it go. “And I can’t tell you why.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mornings weren’t Spiker’s specialty. He was never the first one up, especially after a long night of report writing, followed by hours of staring at his ceiling fan. Today, apparently, was the exception.
He didn’t bother trying to go back to sleep. It would’ve been as successful as last night, tossing and turning and knowing how close Vanka was, alone in her bed.
There were things that needed to be said, that needed to be done. He’d imagined ways to ask and take and show, but he hadn’t come up with a simple way to explain what he needed and why. Without those two answers, there was nothing that could be done that wouldn’t hurt both of them in the end.
The stairs creaked when she started down them, and gave him more of a jolt than the French roast he’d already drunk. Spiker recentered his bowl and used his spoon to hunt for the marshmallow puffs in the cereal as he waited for his heartbeat to even out.
She rounded the bottom of the stairs and paused at the dining table. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” He scooped a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
“You’re up early.” She rounded the breakfast bar and made a beeline for the electric kettle on the kitchen counter.
He finished chewing slowly as he watched her select her mug and tea. Her hair hung over her shoulders, loose and messy, and she’d wrapped herself in a thin white robe that tied at her waist and hung just short of her knees. The robe was thin enough to outline a light-colored nightgown. She liked to sleep in those things that came with matching accessories—eye masks, robes, whatever. He couldn’t keep it all straight, but she always packed them when they traveled.
Before he’d met Vanka, he’d assumed that every woman slept in an oversized T-shirt. He compared her to Mary Poppins, the only prissy British person he could think of, and she’d told him that he’d been bedding the wrong women. They’d been fantastic partners from that day on, and looking at the situation now, maybe she’d been right. What he wouldn’t do to untie that robe and see what might happen in the kitchen . . . Then again, Vanka had the skills to neuter him with a teabag. He wasn’t sure the fantasy was worth the risk.
She opened the refrigerator. “What were you speaking to that young man about at the museum?”
“What—” A marshmallow caught in the back of his throat. He coughed it free and turned so he could see her, but she was hidden by the stainless-steel door. “Not much.”
The door shut and rattled the obsessively organized mustards. That had been another thing he didn’t know about Vanka. Mustards? I mean, he wasn’t surprised by the systematic tidiness of her groceries, but had he ever known her to ask for extra mustard or mayo? Hot sauce? Anything spicy? Not once.
Her head tilted in an innocent way that dared him to lie. “That was a long chat for not much.”
Spiker’s gaze dropped to the bowl of cereal. He stabbed a remaining marshmallow and let it dissolve on his tongue before asking, “What do you want to know?”
“I’m not sure.” She returned to making her tea and then sat across from him, placing the steaming cup on the table to let it cool. “I’m curious.”
“About some kid?”
“No.” She brought the tea to her lips but didn’t take a sip. “Perhaps what the kid meant to you.”
She was no dummy. Vanka possessed a sixth sense that went beyond intelligence-collecting. “That’s a loaded question.”
Her lips curled, partially hidden by the tea. “Think of it more like a suggestion.”
Or, a jumping-off point into a conversation that was as comfortable steel wool briefs. He lifted a palm in a nonchalant motion. “A couple of kids were giving him a tough time.”
Quizzically, she lowered the tea. “So you intervened?”
“More like I offered him a suggestion that might help.”
“It’s probably illegal to teach random kids proper throat chopping technique.” She took a sip. “Those things take practice before you turn them loose.”
He imagined a teenage Vanka, roaming school hallways as a vigilante, striking pressure points and sweeping the legs from adolescent bullies. “Probably.”
“You were down on your knees,” she pressed. “Eye level.”
It was his turn to hide behind his drink. Spiker cupped the mug and leaned back. The black coffee swashed against the white ceramic like a tiny, turbulent sea of caffeine. He didn’t want to look away. A bizarre hesitancy curled up the back of his neck. She was asking about things he didn’t discuss. “True.”