An unexpected lighthearted pop exploded in his chest, and he pressed his lips to hers—
“Spiker—” Her gaze flitted to the side, briefly pausing on the landscaping van, and she stepped back. “Wait—there’s something more you need to know.” The cadence of her breathing faltered. “But not here.”
“What—”
“I need to go home.” She opened the Audi’s door. “I’ll explain—”
His stomach churned. “What about?”
“The family business.”
Nerves weren’t a problem for Vanka. At least, not usually, and certainly not in her home. She had what Nan referred to as a strong constitution, a description Vanka had errantly assumed to be an affectionate term for a well-loved pain in the arse like herself. She hadn’t been too far from the truth.
For the umpteenth time, she re-situated herself on the couch in a vain attempt to find a comfortable spot. When that didn’t work, she fidgeted with her tea and considered taking a second shower in less than an hour.
The back door opened. Giddy, nervous energy erupted like caffeinated cherry bombs in her veins. Half of her could not wait to talk to Spiker. The other half didn’t like conversations where she didn’t safely know what to expect—and that hit like another explosion. Spiker was her unexpected.
How the bloody hell had she never noticed? Sure, he was strong, sturdy, and safe, but he always packed a surprise. And . . . gah, she was the opposite for him? For as much as she considered her secret suburban life and extracurricular activities a potential volcano of surprises, he worked with Vanka-the-unflappable. No wonder Spiker had gone bonkers over her nonexistent New York City flat.
He strolled in like they’d had a day on the beach, but his tired eyes and disheveled hair told another story. Spiker lifted his hands and beckoned like a street fighter readying for a round. “Hit me with whatever you’ve got.”
God, she loved him. “Do you want to take a shower? Tea?”
“Do I look like I want tea or a goddamn shower?”
Nope. “Sit down with me?”
He kept his eyes on her and rounded the glass table as if she were a snake that might strike. “What do I need to know?”
“The Lacedaemonian Mask—”
“This is about work?” His eyes narrowed. “I say I love you, you say, ‘Yeah, me too, but wait,’ and now you want to talk about work?” He shook his head. “No dice.”
“Point taken.” She moistened her lips. “Do you remember what Nan said she was working on in the library?”
“Maybe?” He gestured vaguely and rubbed his hands through his dark hair. “Same as you said. The family business.”
“Yes, right. I had told her about Alec Oliver.”
Spiker’s eyebrows knit. “Why?”
“GSI had more to say about Alec, and his guest list, than what they were worried might have piqued Robin Hood’s curiosity.”
“And your Nan jumped into the role of a trusted resource officer, because, what? Your family knows a lot about fossils and rocks?” Disbelief flattened his expression. “Give me a break, Vanka. You could have put her in danger.”
Vanka hesitated. If Spiker was angry about endangering Nan, this conversation would not go well when she told him more. “I wanted to know if the Lacedaemonian Mask was real. I had never heard of it—”
“Same, Vanka. But I didn’t call my folks and chat over the details.”
Her molars clamped. “Okay, can we pause for a moment? I’m trying to share something that isn’t easy for me, and you’re being a jackass.”
Spiker opened his mouth to protest, but managed to bite his tongue without choking on the point he wanted to make.
“Thank you.” She scooted closer and touched his leg. “My conversations with Nan are always through an encrypted message service.”
Unsaid questions flexed in his jawline.
“I wanted to know if the mask was real, if it had been stolen, or if Buck was setting us up on a wild goose chase . . .” She pulled her hand back. “You had made a killer argument for GSI smoking out the weak links—which I didn’t agree with—but the concern was in my head.”
His frown deepened. “Get to the part that I need to know.”
“I’m trying.” Wasn’t this the height of romance? If she didn’t think he deserved to know everything, then she would’ve said never mind and suggested they jump in bed. “If the mask had been at Alec Oliver’s, I wanted to take it.” The admission didn’t sound all that scandalous now that she’d said it, probably, mostly because she already had. “It deserves to go home.”
“Very Robin Hood of you.” He caught the sarcasm and reined it in with a deep breath. “Look, I don’t care where your head was at. Name one person at GSI that hasn’t dreamed of going rogue before?”
She popped off the couch, removed a framed landscape photograph from the wall, and held it for Spiker to see. “Do you know where this is?”
He squinted as he studied, then guessed, “Nevada?”
“Yes! Do you remember when I asked you to pull over so I could take this picture?”
Recognition dawned. “Yeah. About three years ago.”
Vanka nodded. “We had been in Las Vegas and finished an assignment early. We had another job lined up.” She handed him the frame. “It didn’t make sense for us to head home and turn back in less than forty-eight hours.”
“I remember,” he said.
“I booked us an overnight at a luxury spa.”
Spiker snort-laughed. “You booked us mud wraps and massages.”
“Yes.”
“I bagged out of mine.” He made a sorry-not-sorry face. “But those beds were amazing.”
“The spa was located near Richard Bagley’s mobile home park.”
Spiker’s scrutiny intensified. “I remember. Crazy fucker who built himself a bedazzled trailer park palace. We ran ops on him years ago.”
“Four years ago,” she supplied. Bagley had been an oddball and a billionaire in the same vein as Alec Oliver. Curious, how she didn’t make that connection until this moment. One man had a purple castle with a stark white interior. The other had connected one mobile home to the next, decorating their interiors with all the excess he could afford. There was something repugnant to Vanka about his endless wealth and housing he otherwise would’ve shunned if not for his elaborate game of trailer-sized Legos.
Spiker’s pupils constricted. His index finger tapped on his thigh.
Vanka took the picture frame back and rehung it on her wall, then retrieved her phone from the kitchen. She opened a browser tab as she walked back to Spiker and typed in her query. “Read this.”
He eyed her for an unreadable moment, then took the phone. The search had resulted in a bevy of news headlines. A preservation organization in Egypt had announced the anonymous return of gold bracelets and pendants that belonged to an Egyptian queen.
“Check the dates,” she urged. “They’re about a month after our trip to the spa.”
Spiker pressed his lips together and set her phone on the glass table. “What are you trying to tell me?”