I put on a Mona Lisa smile and said, “He’s not with me every minute, you know. Like right now, for example.”
Revez looked up at me through his lashes. “Is he a jealous man?”
“I honestly don’t know. I suppose he can’t be and work for the man I’m going to marry.” I flashed him a brilliant smile.
He shifted uncomfortably on his chaise. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No, actually. I like to get in a swim first.”
“Will you have breakfast with me?” He raised his eyes in the general direction of the penthouse with its rooftop patio.
My insides squirmed at the thought of being that alone with Felipe Revez. I calmed myself. Cruz would know where I was. He understood the situation. He’d be sure to interrupt any private one-on-ones. He might even turn out to be a very jealous man.
I kept my smile in place. “Of course.”
He rose.
I rose.
He kissed my hand.
I laughed. I moved to pick up my gauzy wrap.
He got there first and helped me into it like a proper gentleman.
I thanked him over my shoulder.
He kissed the shoulder, lingeringly. Not like a proper gentleman.
Gooseflesh popped out across my back and down my arms. I stepped away from him and turned. “I’ll just go up and change—”
“You are lovely as you are. I would like having breakfast with a goddess.”
“Yes, well . . . your goddess has salt in her hair and goosebumps all over. I promise, I won’t be long.”
“You can shower in my suite.”
“My clothes—”
“I’ll have something for you to wear . . . if you insist you need it.”
I blushed. Loudly. “Really, Felipe . . .”
He laughed at me. “You’re blushing! How delightful! And you tried to make me believe you had no shame.”
I raised my head and looked deeply, sincerely into his eyes. “Look, Felipe. You’re a very attractive man. Very attractive. But, I have to be honest with you—and not just because we may be doing business together. Cruz and I . . . well, it took me a long time to let him in. Trusting people—trusting men—doesn’t come easily to me. And you’re right—I was trying to make you believe something about me that’s only partly true. I’m not saying I’m straitlaced or anything like that. But when I got engaged to Geoffrey Catalano, I was prepared to be his and only his. I figured he’d reciprocate. But I pretty quickly found out that’s not the way he operates. He’s not a monogamous man. So, I adjusted my expectations of him . . . and of myself.”
It had the sound of a great, cosmic, inner truth, which I thought—hell, he’ll be flattered that I confided in him, right? But the implicit message was: I’m available . . . maybe.
“Then why marry him, amor? Why not marry Cruz? Or is, perhaps, your lover also not a monogamous man?”
“Perhaps he is. Perhaps not. But were I to try to find out, I don’t know what Geoff would . . .” I pulled my hands from his and laughed, tossing my head and grabbing up my beach bag. “I’m so sorry, Felipe. Listen to me! So melodramatic! I’m engaged to a handsome, powerful, wealthy man. I should be happy, right? Now, let’s have that breakfast and talk about exciting things. Like buried treasure and ancient kings.”
He acquiesced and offered me his arm. I reinstated my sunglasses, took his arm, and allowed him to escort me back into the hotel. Behind my shades, I was glancing feverishly around for Cruz. Just as we entered the building I saw him seated at a table on the patio outside the restaurant’s coffee bar. How long he’d been watching, I had no way of knowing. I pulled off my sunglasses at the threshold and paused to pop them into my beach bag, taking the opportunity to give Cruz a long, and I hoped eloquent, look.
He tilted his head downward, then looked the other way.
Felipe Revez was as good as his word. Once in his suite, he pulled an ankle-length sundress made of pale sea-foam green gauze from a guest bedroom closet and escorted me to a bathroom that was bigger than my living room and kitchen put together. Hell, the shower was as big as my kitchen, and the tub . . . I have no words.
I must have looked at it longingly, because he said, “I have some business to conduct by phone. Don’t hurry yourself on my account. Breakfast will be waiting when you come out.”
I decided against a bath and showered—if you can call it a shower with that many heads and coming from that many directions. I felt like a sheep getting a tick bath. I didn’t hurry. I used the opportunity to comb through the spa-side conversation.
Revez had dropped an interesting remark into all that codswallop about how lucky my guys were: he’d said something about my fiancé’s “impressive portfolio.” I suspected that was his way of letting me know he’d done some checking up on Mr. Geoffrey Catalano and liked what he’d found.
Once dry and in the gauzy number, which I noticed wasn’t quite opaque, I dragged out my emergency makeup kit and tried to hide Gina under as much Marianna as I could squeeze out of the powder foundation, blush, lip gloss, and cream eye shadow I’d included. Then I reached into the bottom of the bag for my hairbrush. It came up tangled in the chain of my Saint Boris medallion.
I stared at the probably useless metal disk for a moment, then slipped it on over my head. The neckline of the dress was low-cut and Boris lay in the valley between my breasts, offering minimal cover, and little more comfort. I lifted the pendant to my lips automatically, packed away my gear, and emerged into the hallway.
Felipe was sitting on the patio when I came out into the cavernous living room. I dropped my bag on the sofa and went out to join him in the warm Yucatán sunshine. Breakfast was indeed waiting. Fluffy eggs, fruit, breads, thin slices of rare roast beef.
He saw me, smiled, rose, and pulled out a chair. “I was right to choose that color for you,” he told me. “It is perfection.”
I fingered the skirt as I sat. “So who was she?” I asked.
“Who?”
“The woman you bought this for?”
His smile deepened—bright white in his bronzed face. “Why, Marianna, I bought it for you. This morning, very early, I sent Edgardo’s wife, Dolores, to find certain articles of clothing that might fit you. It sounds brash, I’m sure, but it was my intention to invite you here privately when I had known you not quite five minutes.”
Wow. Talk about wild assumptions.
I didn’t try to hide my blushes this time. “Felipe, I . . .”
“No. I am not expectant that this means you are ‘mine.’ As your Cruz says, you are your own woman. I merely wished to please you.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and it was—soft and cool and beautifully embroidered about the bodice. It wasn’t the sort of thing I’d ever buy for myself, but might have daydreamed about buying.
Edgardo came and served us fresh coffee, then whisked himself away to wherever it is that servants go when they are not "on stage." I had a vague image of a room somewhere in the great penthouse where off duty servants stood like department store mannequins, silent and still until called forth by their master. It was an eerie thought and it made me shiver.
“Are you cold?”
“No, just thinking.” I didn’t elaborate. Let him think I was contemplating the jealousy of my betrothed, or some other danger. Let him think I was mysterious.
I smiled and looked at him brightly. “Now, then. We were going to talk about buried treasure.”
I don’t think he heard me. He was staring at my breasts. Now, my breasts are neither dainty nor prodigious. They are, in fact, thoroughly average. Okay, maybe a bit below average in the size department, but they fit my frame. They are not, by any stretch of the imagination, exceptional enough to make men sit up and take notice.
“What is that?” he asked.
I looked down into the upside-down sterling silver face of Saint Boris. “Oh, that! That’s Saint Boris. Geoffrey gave it to me.”
“A Catholic saint? I am not familia
r with him.”
“Well, there are so many.” I didn’t mention his Russian Orthodox connection. “I was born on his feast day.”
“And you carry it with you . . .”
“Everywhere I go. Geoff likes me to wear it.”
“And you wear it now, because . . . ?”
“Because he’s not here. And I intend to be acting on his behalf.” I hesitated, threw him a sideways glance, and added, “It will help me keep my head on straight.”
“Ah. And do you need to ‘keep your head on straight,’ as you put it?”
I lowered my eyes. “I think I should.”
We ate in silence for a bit, then I said, “I spoke to Geoffrey this morning, by the way.”
“Yes?”
“I told him all about Ek Balam and the Bedstead from Hell. I also mentioned the mask and what we talked about last night.”
“Did you?” His voice tried to hide the extent of his interest, but his body gave it away. His nostrils flared slightly, his eyes narrowed, his shoulders shifted. “You mean the excavation?”
I laughed merrily. “Felipe, please! I know how much you want that dig expanded. I’m with you. Really. I think it would be glorious. But I have to convince Geoff. And he’s a tough man to convince. Cruz passed along your suggestion about emailing him a photo of the mask, but that’s not going to be enough. Not for Geoff.”
“And what would be enough for Geoff?”
“‘Rumors of treasure are a dime a dozen’,” I said, with the air of one quoting. “‘I need more than rumors.’” I tilted my head to one side. “That’s Geoffrey for you. Mr. Show-Me-the-Money.”
“He wants to see the site.”
“No, he wants me to see it. Okay, maybe he really wants Cruz to see it. He wants to know it’s the ‘real deal’, as he put it.”
“And he’ll be content with that—if you see the site? See that the treasure is real . . .”
“That’s what he said. If it passes our inspection, he’ll spring for digging it up and protecting it from . . . whatever it needs protecting from.”
“If I may be so indelicate, how much money—”
“Twenty-five million.”
Revez, to his credit, merely smiled. Lesser men might have high-fived me or done a Snoopy dance, but Felipe was a cool guy. He raised his coffee cup to mine and we toasted.
I said, “You may want to assure yourself that he’s good for that much money.”
He smiled. “I have already done so. Your fiancé has an impressive presence in the world of high-tech, which is apparently matched by his presence in the art world.”
Thanks to the NPS cyber team. “Yes. In fact, he’s let part of his collection of Egyptian bronzes to the Royal Ontario Museum in Canada.”
“I saw that on the Internet,” he told me. “A generous man, your Mr. Catalano.”
Good, we’d gotten the background check out of the way. “So,” I said, “when can we go?”
“This may be more than a day trip, you know. It may be necessary to spend the night.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve been known to sleep on something besides satin sheets.”
He smiled. “I can arrange for a trip tomorrow.”
I nodded. “Trains, planes, or automobiles?”
“A little of everything, Mari—may I call you Mari?”
He was asking if he was yet on a par with Cruz. I smiled at him. “Please just call me Marianna. I’ve always liked my name. It’s so . . . Old World. Everybody else seems to want to shorten it. Make it less than it is.”
“Marianna,” he said, lifting his coffee cup again. “After breakfast, I would like to take you out on my sailboat.”
Damn, and I’d thought I’d played the Vulnerable Card well enough to stem the tide of testosterone. Apparently not.
“I’d hoped to go to Isla Mujeres today,” I said.
“Perfect. I will take you there. You will enjoy my boat. She is called Alegria.”
“Joy,” I translated. “What a lovely name for a boat. I’d love to go.”
Well, really, what else was there to say?
We had finished our meal by now, and he came around to pull out my chair. I stood with words about changing for the trip to Isla Mujeres on my lips as Revez bent his head and licked the side of my neck.
I came this close to squealing like a ten-year-old.
Revez, typically, took my trembling for the exact opposite of what it was and nipped me lightly on the shoulder.
This time, I couldn’t control myself. I ducked out of his grasp, laughing, and sidestepped toward the living room where, as if on cue, my cell phone sang Vivaldi to me from the confines of my beach bag—the opening bars of Domine Fili Unigenite.
“Oh!” I said, and dove for it, breathlessly mumbling something about my sister having run away from home and waiting to hear from her, meanwhile thanking Cruz silently for the interruption.
But it wasn’t Cruz, it was Dave Delgado.
“Hello? Mar-Marianna?” he said.
The signal was weak. I could barely hear him. “Dave? Dave, is that you?”
“I tried your room, your—uh—your friend said to try your cell.”
I covered my right ear. “Dave, what is it?”
“Are you alone?”
“No, but—”
“She looked at me, Tink. She looked at me!”
“Is she . . . is she coming home?” I asked shakily, aware that Felipe could hear everything I said.
“I don’t know. She went under again. But she was here, Tink. She was here.” He hung up.
Felipe stood in the patio arch, watching my face. “Bad news?”
I looked up at him, suddenly aware that tears were trickling down my face. And I remembered that this man—this suave, handsome, flattering man—might very well be the one who, directly or indirectly, put Rose in the hospital.
For you, maybe, I thought.
I turned off the phone and wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. “No, good news, actually. My sister may be coming home. That was her husband. Oh, it was all a big mess. They had a fight, she left—disappeared, really. He was beside himself. But he . . . saw her today. Spoke to her for a bit. I’m hopeful they can work it out.”
He came into the room, his expression one of mild bemusement. “You are an unusual woman, Marianna Esposito. All business one moment, all woman the next. A siren, then a child. A pragmatist, then a romantic. Who are you, really?”
My answer—whatever it would have been—was forestalled by my cell phone going off in my hand like a little sonic grenade. This time it was Cruz.
“You okay?”
“Oh, hi. I’m . . . I was just having breakfast with Felipe.”
“Only breakfast?”
“Yes. Of course. What did you think?”
“That I’d have to call in the cavalry. Oh, wait a moment—I am the cavalry.”
“Are you, really?” I made a face at Felipe, who seemed amused.
“Did Dave reach you?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Did he—”
“He told me the good news. Now what?”
I tossed my head, flipping back my hair, and trying to look—oh, I don’t know—carefree, high-spirited, whatever. “Actually, I was thinking of going out to Isla Mujeres. With Felipe. He wants to show me his boat.”
“Christ, Gina! His boat?”
“Cruz, darling! Language.”
“No,” he said, his voice low but emphatic. “You shouldn’t—”
“Oh, by the way, the three of us are going to take a little trek tomorrow out to that site we were talking about. Felipe wants to make a day of it, maybe even an overnighter. Sound like fun?”
He was silent for a long moment. “Do you have your gun?”
“No.”
“Then try to come back to the suite before you go out on the boat. You can get it then.”
“Oh, really? Now how would that look?”
He reeled off several Spanish expl
etives, then said, “Gina, don’t do this. Do you want me to break it up?”
“Cruz! Honestly, I thought you’d be overjoyed. I mean, this whole excavation thing is right up your alley. You’re just going to love the trip tomorrow. Promise.”
“The boat—what’s the name of the boat?”
“Wish me . . . joy.” I hung up and turned, laughing, to Felipe. “Surprise! I guess there’s a little jealousy in all of us.”
“Will there be a problem?”
“No, no problem. After all, it’s just a little jaunt to Isla Mujeres, right?”
Chapter 16
La Triguena
It really was just a little jaunt to Isla Mujeres, I told myself. An eight-mile jaunt, to be exact. Nonetheless, I spent a significant portion of the trip lounging in the warm breezes at the Alegria’s bow and trying to concoct an excuse for not taking this relationship where Felipe Revez so clearly wanted it to go. I’d already backed myself into a corner that would make any sudden bouts of conscience on good old Geoffrey’s account seem pretty lame. Which meant that Cruz and his alleged jealousy were the closest thing to an out that I had.
Alegria was a lovely boat. She had a trim hull, a beautiful and efficient galley, a sumptuous if small living area, and a captain’s cabin decorated in sensuous fabrics of deep teals and earth tones. I stayed as far away from that as I could, hence my trip to the bow, where I worked at impersonating a figurehead.
But alas that wore thin, and as we approached the Isla, Felipe called out to me, “Come aft, Marianna!” He patted the seat next to him in the stern, from which he handled the tiller.
Reluctantly, I got up and moved back, the sea breeze playing with my gown and plastering it against my body. I am not Venus on the Half-Shell, believe me, but you’d’ve thought so the way the guy was looking at me.
It’s got to be the tomcat effect, I told myself. One tomcat wants what it thinks the other tomcat has.
I came demurely aft and reached for the tiller. “Let me steer, Felipe, please? I know how. Really I do. My father taught me.” All true.
“Did he? And was he a fisherman from a tiny sun-washed village?”
The Antiquities Hunter Page 17
