CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

 

Payne, Jones, and Jarkko left the Upper Barrakka Gardens after the cannon ceremony and headed northeast, deeper into the heart of Valletta. Their meeting place was less than fifteen minutes away, so they took their time and enjoyed their stroll.

Unlike the frantic energy of Paris or Rome, the pace of Valletta was relaxed. Other than a few taxis hustling for fares, no one seemed to be in a hurry. Locals lounged at curbside tables, and tourists relished the sights. Merchants stood in open doors and welcomed customers inside. Perhaps it was the gorgeous weather or the scent of nectar in the air, but everyone seemed to be at ease, as if they felt fortunate to be in this jewel of a city in the center of the sparkling sea.

With time to kill, Payne and Jones ducked into a store and bought gym bags. They weren’t sure where their adventure would take them next, but they decided to be prepared. Once they got back to Jarkko’s yacht, they could retire their trash bags forever.

“Ooh la la,” Jarkko mocked. “Fancy bags for fancy garbage.”

“Or hopefully for fancy treasure,” Jones said with a laugh.

“Wait! Jarkko is new to this. Does Jarkko need treasure bag, too?”

“Let’s hope,” Payne said as he checked his watch. “But we can worry about that later. We have about five minutes to get to our meeting.”

“No worries,” Jarkko assured him. “Library is around corner.”

The National Library of Malta is located in Republic Square in the center of the city. Designed by Polish-Italian architect Stefano Attar in 1776 AD, the Bibliotheca (as it is often called) is an early example of neoclassical architecture in Malta. Although the entire city of Valletta is considered a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the library is one of its most scenic structures. Noted for its symmetrical façade and its mix of Doric and Ionic columns, the library sits in the rear of a stone plaza that once housed the treasury of the Order of Saint John.

Despite the square’s history, an open-air cafe had invaded the piazza, filling its space with green tables and white patio umbrellas. Customers ate and drank and checked their phones in the same place the knights used to count their money and store their treasure.

Centuries later, it seemed like the perfect place to start their hunt.

All they had to do was follow the scent of gold.

Payne led the way through the center of the crowded plaza, walking past a restored statue of Queen Victoria from 1891 AD and heading toward the front entrance of the library. The doorway was located underneath a balustraded balcony that jutted out from the second floor and was supported by massive cylindrical columns. Jones knocked on one of the pillars as he walked past to feel the sturdiness of the stone, and it brought a smile to his face.

Growing up as a bookworm, Jones had spent a lot of time in libraries and had fallen in love with them at an early age. But they didn’t build them like this where he was from. He was used to one-story shacks that smelled like mildew and urine, not neoclassical façades and arched loggias. Whenever he traveled in Europe, he always tried to visit the libraries in major cities. Not only to examine their old-world collections, but also to marvel at their architecture.

Somehow it helped him appreciate how far he had come.

Payne reached the towering front entrance before the others and tried to enter, but the door didn’t budge an inch. “Damn. It’s locked.”

Jones pointed at a nearby sign. “And apparently closed for the day.”

Payne inspected the sign and growled. It wouldn’t open again until early the next morning. “Well, it was fun while it lasted. Want to get some chow?”

Jones rolled his eyes. “Quit thinking with your stomach.”

“You know that’s not possible.”

“Trust me, I know,” he said as he tried the door himself. “But it doesn’t mean I want to eat every two hours.”

“Hold up. Did you think I was lying about the door?”

“Possibly. I once saw you kill a man for Jell-O.”

“Bullshit! It was pudding, and I only broke the guy’s arm.”

“You aren’t helping your case.”

“I don’t care. It was worth it. It was the best damn pudding I ever ate.”

“Move,” Jarkko ordered as he pushed his way past the bickering friends. “Let Jarkko try door. Jarkko not tall like Jon or black like David, but Jarkko strong like bull.”

Jones grimaced. “You racist motherfucker.”

But Jarkko ignored him. He was too busy spitting on his callused hands and rubbing them together ferociously in order to improve his grip. Thankfully, his spit wasn’t necessary. A split second before he grabbed the handle, the lock clanked open from the inside and the door swung wide, revealing one of the most beautiful women they had ever seen.

Dark brown hair. Dark brown eyes.

A perfect tan complexion.

And just the right amount of curves.

All of it draped in a summer dress.

Jarkko blinked several times, naturally assuming that she was a vodka-induced mirage because beauty like hers was seldom seen in the wild. Normally it was contained to the runways of Milan or the red carpets of Los Angeles, but rarely in a place with so many books. The sheer lunacy of the situation blew Jarkko’s mind, so much so that he found it difficult to speak.

Thankfully, she had plenty of experience dealing with drooling men, so she took charge of the situation and introduced herself.

“Hello,” she said with a thick British accent. “You must be Petr’s friends. My name is Croft. Lara Croft.”

For the briefest of moments, all three men held their breath as they tried to wrap their heads around her famous name. Then, one by one, they caught on, realizing it was just an icebreaker—her way to make fun of herself before her looks became an issue.

“What’s your name?” she asked with her arm extended.

Jarkko reached to shake her hand, but at the last second, he remembered he had spit in his palm to improve his grip. Unwilling to defile such a beautiful creature, he yanked his arm back so violently that he elbowed Jones in the gut behind him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You don’t want to touch Jarkko. Jarkko is dirty.”

She smiled and pinched his cheek. “Maybe I like dirty.”

Jarkko blushed for the first time in years and was unable to speak for a minute or so.

Despite being elbowed, Jones recovered quickly and forcefully pushed Jarkko aside in order to introduce himself. “My friends call me DJ, but you can call me David. No, wait. I got that backwards. Ah, screw it. Call me whatever you want.”

She smiled and shook his hand. “Believe it or not, I actually know who you are.”

“You do?” he said, surprised.

Her smile widened. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re David freakin’ Jones!”

His eyes got big. “Holy shit! You’re right! I am David freakin’ Jones. How in the hell do you know me? And more importantly, how do you know my middle name?”

“Ladies talk, you know.”

Jones started to say something inappropriate, but then he stopped, realizing whatever he said would undoubtedly ruin this moment of sheer bliss, so he simply smiled and said, “Yep.”

In a matter of seconds, she had disarmed two-thirds of the group.

But the last member would prove more difficult.

As a handsome heir to a billion-dollar fortune, Payne had a lot of experience dealing with attractive women of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities. Much to his chagrin, they threw themselves at him in the most awkward of ways, often before he knew anything about them. Most men in his position would undoubtedly take advantage of the situation—sleeping with countless women in order to satisfy their every sexual need—but Payne had been taught by his parents (and later his grandfather) to respect the opposite sex. Every once in a while he would let his guard down and succumb to temptation, but for the most part, he was looking for the love of his life, not a series of one-night stands.

And it was a good thing, too, because she was just his type.

“Hi,” he said as they locked eyes. “My name is Jonathon Payne.”

She stepped forward, grabbed his hand, and shook it in total silence.

But he didn’t mind in the least.

In that moment, no words were uttered, but a lot was being said.

And it took both of them by surprise.

“Sorry,” she said a few seconds later when she eventually let go of his hand. “You’re probably going to be needing that.”

“That’s okay. I have another.”

“Me, too,” she said with a giggle. Then she lifted it up and showed it to him, as if he needed the proof. “And here it is.”

Payne lifted his other hand as well. “And here’s mine.”

Then she laughed like a teenager in love.

“Good Lord,” Jones mumbled as he watched the scene. He was quite familiar with the effect that Payne had on women, but he rarely saw his friend reciprocate it. “If you two start playing patty-cake, I swear to God I’m going to shoot you both.”

“What was that?” she asked without an accent.

“Sorry,” Jones said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever was going on with you two, but I have a question. Actually, two questions.”

She blushed slightly. “Then I have two answers. Fire away.”

“One, I think it’s pretty obvious that Lara Croft isn’t your real name, so I wanted to know what to call you. And two, what happened to your accent?”

She laughed. “Truth be told, the British accent was part of the Lara Croft gag. How did I sound, by the way?”

“You nailed it,” Jones admitted.

She smiled and took a slight bow. “Thank you, sir. I’m glad to hear it. I actually spent a lot of time moving around as a child, so I have a pretty good ear for accents and languages.”

“Good to know,” Jones replied. “And your name?”

“Sorry,” she said with a laugh. “It’s Marissa. Marissa Vella.”