Chapter Nineteen
Santiago was noisy and beautiful, the different languages rolling over her with bright, vibrant accents as they made their way through the crowds and out of the airport.
“Do you speak Spanish?” Trace asked as he put their luggage into the taxi. “I can translate if you…” He paused as she rattled off questions to the waiting driver, who smiled and touched the brim of his cap as she complimented him on his car.
“Silly me. Of course, you do.” Trace chuckled as he held the door open for her.
“So, we’re going to the hotel and then…” She fell silent as he pulled her hand up to his lips, the soft kiss stunning her into silence.
“It’s our honeymoon. I think we’ll manage.” He gave a knowing wink to the driver’s curious gaze in the rear-view mirror, urging a low chuckle from the man.
Trace turned and looked at her.
Don’t tip our hand.
We are in enemy territory now.
She nodded, accepting the silent request.
Laila pressed one palm against the window as the bright lights of night in the city sped by—the entire day had been spent flying, sucked up in travel.
Trace’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket, silently reading the text message.
“So, have you ever been to Santiago before?” the driver asked, eyeing her in the rear-view mirror.
“No, it’s our first time.” She giggled, giving him a wide smile. “I think we might want to leave the hotel, find some entertainment at some point. Do you have any suggestions?”
Play the tourist, the happy newlyweds looking for fun and excitement on their honeymoon.
She glanced sideways at Trace as he tapped on the small screen, his forehead furrowed.
The driver launched into a series of referrals, listing local romantic spots and nightclubs—all of which she guessed could be traced back to his family and friends. She played along, collecting flyers and business cards as he slipped them back to her.
Trace hung up a few minutes before they arrived at the hotel, smiling as she showed him the brochures.
He wagged a finger at the taxi driver. “You’re trying to get her to leave the hotel room—not on the first day of our honeymoon.”
The man laughed as they pulled up to the hotel entrance.
The doorman opened the door, and within minutes, the staff whisked them up to the honeymoon suite, with Trace delivering large tips to everyone involved.
“Won’t that make us stand out?” Laila locked the hotel door.
Trace put his finger to his mouth and went to one of the bags. He pulled out the same black box from before.
She kept talking as he went from room to room, checking to make sure there were no surveillance devices in the suite. “Not that I don’t think we should be tipping these people—they work long and hard for their money, but Daddy’s going to be upset if we blow all of our cash in a single night. I don’t want to have to wire him…” She hesitated, seeing Trace’s knowing grin.
“We’re good,” he said. “And Daddy’ll just have to suck it up.”
She let out a sigh. “Do we really need to be that paranoid?”
“Yes. Yes, we do.” He picked up the suitcases and carried them down to the bedroom as she trailed behind. “Blanco’s got connections everywhere. If I came down wearing my badge out in the open, he’d have his men on me before I left the airport.”
“But won’t he recognize you? If you’ve been hunting down artifacts for most of your life?” She entered the bedroom and paused.
Decadence was the word that came to mind, along with overkill.
The crushed red carpet matched the bedspread and sheets, the mirror on the ceiling cut in a heart shape over the king-sized mattress. The dark rosewood dressers held even larger mirrors, making the room seem to go on forever.
Trace let out a loud laugh as he sat down on the end of the bed. “Well, then.” He patted the space next to him. “Which side do you want?”
She choked back giggles as she walked around the room, noting the lack of windows. Not that guests needed one—the assumption here was that they’d provide their own entertainment.
“This is…” She drew a deep breath, searching for the words.
“Over the top and then some?”
“At least.” She sat down beside him, chuckling as she sank into the soft mattress.
“What does your place look like…” Trace gestured at the mirrored ceiling.
“It’s nice.” She laid back, staring at her reflection. “The rooms are stone, but never cold. Everyone decorates the way they want to—some choose items to remind them of where they came from, or a specific era they prefer over others.”
He settled beside her. “Can you time-travel?”
“Oh, no.” She lifted one hand to rest against her forehead. “Some of my sisters have just been around so long that they remember certain times and places and want to keep those memories fresh.”
He rolled onto his side, facing her. “And what did you have in your room?”
“Furs.” She could see them in her mind’s eye, the black and white and silver pelts covering the floors and walls. “Soft, warm pelts.”
“PETA would have a field day with that. Sounds cool, though.” He shifted onto his back. “I’d love to see it.”
She swallowed hard, forcing her mind away from the obvious.
In a day or two, she’d be returning to the very room she’d described to him.
Alone.
“Like I was saying before—why won’t Blanco know you’re here, real name or not. If your family’s that famous for hunting down antiquities…”
He sat up, shifting away from her. “The man’s a major arms dealer. He’s got bigger things to worry about than whether or not a low-level Interpol agent wants to raid his goodie cabinet. He’s untouchable, safe on his island and immune from arrest or prosecution. As for the Dyson name…” Trace shook his head.
“That text I received in the cab wasn’t a good one. I’m supposed to be on my way to Lyons, France, to present myself in front of a disciplinary board in three days to explain why I ordered the raid in Los Angeles and allowed a suspect to walk off with an artifact in New York City.”
He reached out and touched the silver bracelet where it lay on her wrist. “Emile put two and two together and demanded I get my ass to Lyons—and drop you off in New York to be detained until this all got figured out.”
She berated herself—of course they’d notice the bracelet’s absence eventually. “Will they interfere with our mission here?”
“No. They don’t know where we are—at least for the time being.” He rubbed the back of his neck, drawing his fingers through the shaggy locks. “Even if I survive this and bring the cane back, it would give them the final nail in the coffin to fire me.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about coffins right now?” She got to her feet. “I’m hungry—let’s find something to eat.”
…
He wasn’t sure what to make of Laila’s revelations—she had to be easily two, three hundred years old.
As he moved to the living room, he pushed the thoughts aside. There’d be time for that later, after they returned to the exhibit in New York City and he figured out what her end game was. Whether he lost his job or not didn’t matter—getting the cane was the priority. He’d gladly hand the credit to someone else if it made the Valkyrie’s Tomb whole again.
“Let’s order room service.” He passed her the menu. “After all, we’re supposed to be on vacation.”
She studied the menu, lips pressed together. “Seafood and steak. Good, hearty food that’ll stick to your ribs.”
He nodded and picked up the phone. “Surf and turf for the win! Toss in some expensive fancy desserts, and we’ll look like any other happy couple.”
She settled on the couch and picked up the television remote as he placed the order. Flipping through the channels, she stopped on a popular game show and waited until he’d finished with room service before speaking.
“And after that? What’s the plan?”
“After we stuff ourselves silly, we catch some Zs. Gather our strength. As soon as we leave this hotel, it’s going to be rough. We’ve got a sailboat booked at the pier tomorrow morning at dawn.”
“You know how to sail?” She gave him a teasing smirk. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”
Trace pointed at his chest. “Just like an onion. Lots of layers. And yes, I do.”
“We’re going to need equipment.” She nodded toward the balcony and the ocean just beyond. “I’m not hiking across the island in a bathing suit.”
“I’ll go out after we eat, hit the underground market, buy some gear.” He rolled his shoulders back. “We’re not going onto that island unarmed.”
She frowned. “How will you do that? I’m assuming you can’t just ask the concierge where the best place is to buy weapons. Or even our friendly taxi driver.”
“Do a little walking, do a little talking where the tourists don’t like to go.” He rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “Money talks.”
A sharp knock at the door signaled their dinner had arrived. The conversation broke off as they both enjoyed the thick-cut steaks and lobster tails, done to perfection.
Laila put her near-empty plate back on the room service cart with a sigh. “That was extremely decadent. And delicious.”
“Need to load up on the protein for tomorrow.” Trace checked his watch. “Or today, depending on how you look at it.” He did the same with his dishes, giving the remains of the tiramisu a last, longing look. “I’ve got to go.”
He reached for his leather jacket, slipping it on over his white dress shirt. “Hate to ask, but can I have some more cash?”
“Sure.” She opened her wallet and withdrew a thick stack of bills, already converted into Chilean pesos.
“Dang. Thanks, Freyja.” He couldn’t help grinning as he pocketed the money. “Much better to shop with the local currency—be a pain to find someone to do an exchange at this time of night. Not like we’re buying souvenirs.”
“People do buy souvenirs on their honeymoons,” she offered. “They do a lot of things, like going out and seeing the sights.” She gestured toward the small pile of flyers and business cards from their taxi ride.
He couldn’t help giving her a long, searching gaze, dragging his eyes up over her jeans and light-yellow blouse, hunger burning in his belly.
The words escaped before he had a chance to censor them. “I told the driver the truth. If this were for real, I wouldn’t let you leave the bedroom.”
She blinked, her eyes widening. The short gasp cranked his desire up to eleven on a scale of ten, and he had to get out of there.
Trace crossed the room in a few strides, heading for the door.
“Lock this after I leave and don’t open it to anyone. Not even room service.”
Before she could ask why, Trace stepped out.
He paused in the hall, waiting for the tell-tale click of the deadbolt lock on the door.
The sound of metal on wood confirmed his request
She was safe.
Trace wiped his forehead.
He needed a long, cold drink.
Then he’d start preparing for their descent into Hell.