by Sarah Andre
She marched fearlessly into the small, jam-packed space, but Sean stayed put, studying the setup. These artifacts were not Mesopotamian era. Nothing looked older than a couple of hundred years, which didn’t rule them out from being conflict antiquities, but only provenances would prove or disprove that. At the end of his perusal, he met El Bashtan’s gaze. The dealer’s sentences became staccato, and the call quickly ended. Sean wandered over to an oak curio cabinet where Margo ogled hand mirrors, picture frames, and some feminine knickknacks Sean couldn’t identify.
El Bashtan’s pungent cologne, a citric base with heavy tobacco notes, marked his approach long before he stood behind them. “May I be of assistance?”
Sean turned, instinctively settling himself on the balls of his feet—a fight stance. The shopkeeper laced his fingers on the apex of his belly in a dainty manner. His eyes seemed friendly enough, but watchful. A man who missed very little. Sean swallowed dust.
Margo gestured to Sean with an indulgent smile. “My husband knows antiques. He’s always searching for something unusual.”
“I’m on the procurement committee for a small museum in Wisconsin,” Sean said, surprised his voice sounded so matter-of-fact. He took out the thick wallet and withdrew a business card, ignoring the man’s wide-eyed reaction to the wad of bills stacked inside. “My specialty is ancient Middle Eastern artifacts.” The high-value smuggled artifacts would probably be in a more private location. “The items I’m interested in are much older than these. Do you know of any another shops in the area?” He stuffed the wallet back in his pocket.
Except for one raised eyebrow, El Bashtan regarded him without expression. Sean didn’t blink, although surely the man could see the rapidly throbbing carotid in his neck.
What a colossal mistake, thinking he could handle an undercover assignment! He was better suited back at headquarters, left alone to examine these items from the tape on Margo’s blouse button. Even then, a lot would be guesswork. Archeology was synonymous with research and testing. He couldn’t just look at that Egyptian necklace over there and immediately identify it as an ancient carnelian glass funereal collar, worn during the reign of Thutmose III in Dynasty 18. He doubted even a highly trained field archeologist could. But at least someone else wouldn’t be acting. He could barely pull off being Sean Quinn, much less an undercover museum curator.
“What is it you are looking for, Mister…” El Bashtan eyed the business card at arm’s length. “Bixby?”
Sean mentally flipped through the file he’d been given on the way to the airport, then rattled off confiscated relics. “Vessels, pottery, coins, statues, jewelry—around the time of the Bronze Age. Or perhaps Roman, Greek, and Byzantine periods. Naturally, each would need a well-documented provenance.”
“Of course, of course.” El Bashtan looked around his store as if he could magically open a drawer or cabinet and present such an item. Margo had gone back to wrapping up her slow circle of the booth, looking high and low with an enchanted expression. No doubt her film footage would be useless, filed away forever.
El Bashtan held up the fake business card again. “If I may take some information from you, I shall call my sources. I can get you museum-quality pieces. Nothing illegal, of course, nothing from Daesh.” The highly derogatory Arabic term for ISIS again left Sean like a fish out of water. Would a small-town Wisconsin curator know that?
He nodded stiffly and followed the seller to a beat-up desk in the corner. El Bashtan asked more detailed questions about the relics Sean sought and jotted notes. When asked about a budget, Sean made up a range from moderate to hinting at extravagant. Since there was an email address on the business card, he suggested sending photographs and prices. Let Jace and the new anthropologist, Joe Taylor, take it from there.
El Bashtan reiterated that he’d call his contact, and was robustly confident he could meet the museum’s requirements. “And for the madam,” he said as Margo sidled up. He flourished a small, exquisitely engraved wooden box. “This is from Kabul, my homeland.” He showed it to Margo with a smile. “To thank you both for your kind visit today.” After quickly wrapping and bagging it, he gave Sean his card. “We shall meet again, Mr. Bixby.”
Doubtful. Sean nodded and followed Margo around the glass partition and back into the main hall. “Hurry, dear, we’ll be late to pick up Alice.” She tugged his arm.
Sean blinked over at her, and the warning glare she returned was strong enough to shut his mouth. They could talk in the Suburban.
Once outside, though, she tightened the grip on his arm and walked right by it. “Taxi!”
Sean pivoted and looked at the SUV. His ride back to work. His lunch hour was almost up. As the taxi pulled alongside, Margo whipped out her phone and rapidly typed a text, angling it so he could see the screen.
Received a box. GPS tracking or listening device? Initiate s.h. protocol.
“You getting in, ma’am?” the driver called through the passenger window.
“One minute.”
Her phone dinged: Roger that.
“What’s SH?” Sean asked.
Margo whipped open the cab door and held it for Sean. His mother would’ve had a stroke. “Get in.” The tone and her stance caught him by surprise. Here was the special agent in charge of this case. Here was the authority she hadn’t displayed in front of Jace, her lowly associate.
That observation took a back seat to the fact that Sean wasn’t joining the bureau on any further adventures. “I’ll get my own cab. I’ve got a ton of work.” He added, “See you at home, Jane,” in case the box was bugged.
“Folks?” the cab driver called impatiently.
“Get. In.”
Sean shook his head, scanning the block for another taxi. She stepped into his personal space and snarled the command a third time. He blinked down into her fresh cheerleader face, screwed up in aggravation. If he had a dime for every time a woman looked at him like that…
He took a deep breath, prepared to politely decline again, when her subtle, all-American scent filled his nostrils. He couldn’t help himself. “Dove soap?”
“Oh my God. What’s wrong with you?” She pushed him into the cab, and just like that, Sean was kidnapped by the FBI—again.
7
Jace waited until his little brother shut the bathroom door of the safe house before turning to Margo. “He’s—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” She held up a palm. The last time a woman stood before him with this rigid posture and appalled expression it had been Miss Gaston, the librarian he’d made a pass at in fifth grade. “We almost compromised our only lead. Take him back to work, and we’ll wait until Taylor frees up.”
This was such an overreaction to a box they’d known within minutes wasn’t a GPS tracker, and it wasn’t likely the tech currently taking it apart would find a bug. “You’ve worked with Sean, Margo. He’s way more brilliant than that hack who replaced him.”
“He may be, Jace, but not in the field. His inability to prioritize through a potential emergency or follow orders put us in jeopardy.”
“Margo—”
“He was fixated on the soap I use!” she shouted. Down the hall, the toilet flushed, and Margo flipped her wrist, signaling the end of the discussion.
“He’s a methodical hand-washer. We have time.” Jace used an overformal tone so the irony wouldn’t seep through. “Let’s just see what his take is on El Bashtan, and the stuff you taped.”
Margo pursed her lips, and Jace stood unflinching beneath her blistering gaze. Why was he sticking up for his odd, indefensible brother? Because he’d never served under a woman, and he was man enough to admit it chafed to the point of insubordination. Every time he got away with his course of action over hers, it was a small win. It was why he’d grabbed his little brother and headed to O’Hare when the tip first came in, rather than waking up Special Agent Hathaway for permission.
It was also a testament to how badly Sean had shaken her up out there on the stre
et. Margo’s fatal flaw was collecting opinions and ruminating on a perfect plan instead of acting on gut instinct. One day all that fact-finding and fairness would be as detrimental as Sean’s olfactory fixation. As expected, she glanced at Dirk to gauge his point of view.
Without missing a beat, Dirk said, “He was real helpful during the O’Hare interview. I agree with Jace, ma’am. Sean isn’t in the field now.”
Jace exhaled, the tension in his neck easing. Blood brothers. Funny how simpatico Jace and Dirk were. So much more than Jace and Sean would ever be.
Margo fingered the button on her blouse, her gaze dragging from the closed bathroom door to the dining room table where a tech worked on the wooden box. Resignation spread over her features. “All right,” she said. “But that’s it. We’re done using your brother as a consultant. Again.” She sighed. “I guess we should grab lunch while we’re at it.” She nodded at Jace. “Go see what’s stocked in the fridge.”
He bristled. He’d gladly endured being a grunt for the honor of becoming a SEAL, but special agent associate was as low as he’d go in the FBI. A special agent associate making sandwiches for the team? Not happening. “Hope there are MREs in there,” he said lightly. “That’s the extent of my skill in the kitchen.” Naturally, the FBI wouldn’t stock Meals Ready to Eat for informants and operatives.
The door down the hall opened, and Sean loped toward them. Jace kept a careful eye on Margo’s dubious expression. If she repeated her order, he’d have to comply, but making a team lunch in front of his little brother… Jesus. His humiliation would be complete. He gave a half-shrug and cranked up his grin. “Or we can send for takeout?”
“You’re telling me you can field-strip an M240 blind but can’t slap together a turkey sandwich?” The enamored agent impressed enough by Jace’s medaled career to allow him to overstep authority was long gone. And to be fair, he deserved it; he’d assumed the lead each time she slogged through her weighing-all-the-facts approach. His defiance wasn’t only because of her gender. He damn well deserved to be a special agent. Or her boss: a supervisory special agent.
Sean sidled up to them, sniffing the remnants of the soap he’d used on his hands. Thankfully, Margo didn’t see it on account she was still giving Jace the stink eye.
“I can’t be held responsible if I use spackle instead of mayo,” Jace joked, avoiding eye contact with Sean at all costs. By the time each son hit middle school, their mother had been big on assigning chores, like whipping up a complete dinner for seven and having it ready promptly when Pop came home. Sweat trickled down Jace’s back. This point was so not worth the energy, but he was invested now, and backing down was not an option.
Margo glanced at Sean, and it was like a light bulb went off. Her frown disappeared as she disconnected the surveillance part of the button and handed it to Dirk. “Take Sean and get started. We’ll have lunch on the table in ten.”
We? What kind of IED had he just stepped on? She turned back to Jace, brow arched. “I’ve heard you’ll take an inch and run all the way to Oklahoma.” She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “Guess today’s field lesson is the identification, applied research, and effective use of mayonnaise. And just in case you haven’t picked up on subtle intonation—” she pointed to her mouth, “—this is my condescending voice.”
Jace spread his hands. “Margo—”
“And yes, this is going in your evaluation.” She spun around and marched into the kitchen, and he followed with one thought swirling through his head.
Special Agent Hathaway, you just declared war.
Gretch chirped out her standard phone greeting without losing laser focus on inputting payroll.
“It’s me,” Sean said in a muffled monotone, like he was covering his mouth. “I don’t know when I’ll get back.”
Her focus imploded, and self-annoyance transferred to her voice. “Uh-oh. Notify the press! The Quinn brothers are loose in the city.”
“Tell Hannah I’ll finish my eight hours, no matter how long I have to stay.”
Gretch paused, frowning. She’d pitched a softball for him to hit out of the park with one of his cutting comebacks. It was definitely not like him to ignore it. “Everything okay?”
A moment of silence. “A typical afternoon with my brother.”
None of this sounded right, and worry niggled her gut. Whatever caused his bad mood, the last thing he needed was to stay late for a practical joke she’d played on him. “Listen. About that charity painting—”
“Talk at ya later.”
Gretch stared at the receiver and unlit phone console. “Talk at me later?” she muttered. He didn’t say shit like that, either.
Hannah walked in with a manila envelope and placed it in the pile for the mailman. “Why do you look like you don’t know how to hang up a phone?”
Gretch slowly hung up. What the heck could she call what she and Sean had going on? It certainly wasn’t chemistry. But she also didn’t want to get him into trouble. With the practical joke or by tattling on him for ditching work. “Just spaced for a second.” Her phone let off another muted ding. Then another in rapid succession.
Hannah grinned. “Let me guess. Some hottie just asked you to marry him?”
“Yeah, but this guy thinks ‘no’ is negotiable. It’s getting annoying.” Although maybe it was Sean with a message he couldn’t say over the phone. Seriously! What a weird conversation. Gretch whipped out her phone and checked her texts. Nope, all Brandon.
You might want to rethink that answer, sweetie.
Meet me at TMs @ 8
Text me that you received this message!
“What the hell?” she muttered.
Hannah rounded the desk and read the messages over Gretch’s shoulder. “Jeez. I thought you said it was a fun night.”
“It was.” No more or less than her usual LVR app hookup. He came off a bit physical when she tried to leave his apartment, but still cloyingly sweet. She glanced up at Hannah. “Do these sound intimidating to you?”
Hannah bit her lip. Such a glass-half-full friend, never wanting to think ill of anyone, even after all she’d been through with the freakishly screwed-up Wickham family last October. “Does he know where you live? Or work?”
Gretch shook her head. “I lie when they ask direct questions, and only give out my cell number when I think it’s safe. And if I want to see them again.” Which she had at the time. “But this…”
“Can he track your phone’s location?”
“I don’t think so.” Gretch blinked. “Unless he can hack.” A shiver rippled through her.
“Turn it off just to be safe.” Hannah sat on the edge of the desk. “I’d make Dev take you home, but he’s in Manhattan until Wednesday.” She bit the side of her thumb, frowning at the phone screen. “I’ll ask Sean to take you.”
“No—”
“At least to the El station.”
“I can take care of myself.”
The haunted look on Hannah’s face stopped Gretch cold. Hannah never spoke of it, but the horror she’d lived through at the Wickham house still clearly affected her. “It won’t hurt for Sean to at least walk you to the station,” she said softly. “He has a black belt in karate.”
A huge puzzle piece clunked into place. The lithe body, the silent way Sean appeared. He was nerdy, but not in the classic sense. Something about him had always been different—enticing, challenging. It made sense now, and was so freaking hot. She could totally imagine him spinning a one-eighty, landing in a crouch. Striking, dropkicking… A rare spark of molten desire shivered through her. “Black belt?”
Hannah nodded and stood. “That’s why he didn’t make the office Christmas party. He was teaching a self-defense course after work.”
The yummy lava feeling dried right up. That was so not the reason. He was a hermit who couldn’t be bothered to socialize, even with people he worked alongside day after day.
Gretch picked up the NaraGoods invoice, and only then realized she stil
l had the payroll software up. “I’ll ask him later.”
“You’re totally blowing me off. Go ask him now or I will.” It was so rare for Hannah to boss her around that Gretch blinked, wide-eyed. Hannah must’ve taken it wrong, because she shrugged and began walking toward the lab. Where she would not find Sean working.
“I’ll go!” Gretch jumped from her seat. “I’ll ask him.”
Her friend stood aside, arms crossed, and Gretch had no choice but to make her way to the empty cubicle and bend over like she was talking to someone. The Picasso lay on his large white counter. Beside it, in a precise row from large to small, were tools and cleaning supplies. Except for a capped water bottle with dregs left and earbuds connected to a mini MP3 player, both placed at exact angles, there was nothing of Sean’s personality—not pinned to the walls or taped on the computer monitor. Typical.
Hannah still stood in the reception entrance, so Gretch gave her a nod and enthusiastic thumbs-up. After a hesitant return nod, her bestie walked in the opposite direction. Without a thought, Gretch sat on the wheeled stool and reached for the music device. If this was disco, she was so going to rag on him when he came back. She plugged in an earbud and pushed “on.”
A string of violins held a note, filled with sweetness and longing. Her breath stilled. Sticking in the other bud, she closed her eyes. More string instruments followed, building the yearning, then an entire orchestra carried the melody, pulsing the harmony through every cell.
Wave after wave of goosebumps swept up her arms as the music built and crested. The dying notes reverted to the softly weeping violins. On the final note, Gretch swallowed the lump in her throat, then turned off the player with trembling fingers. A feeling she couldn’t place overwhelmed her. Love? Regret? She wasn’t familiar enough with either to recognize what pulled at her insides. But without a doubt, that was the most beautiful song on this earth.
“Who knew?” she whispered, not knowing if she meant the existence of such a heavenly piece of music or the emotional depth of Sean. The main line ringing in the reception area snapped out of her daze. Christ, what if Sean came back and found her here, lounging on his stool and wearing his buds? She tossed them on the counter and sprang out of the cubicle, smacking right into Dane, the new guy. He stuttered a “hello,” clearly surprised to see her there, but was still too new to remark on her popping up like the gopher from Caddyshack.
