City of Gold

by Arnold, Carolyn

  “Yes, I am sorry, sir. I was—”

  “There’s no need to elaborate. Please put Daniel on the phone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The hold music came on. It was a collection he had orchestrated for this purpose. No detail was too small. But instead of appreciating the rises and falls of the compilation, he was concentrated on one thing: Gideon Barnes.

  “Mr. Connor, sir, how may I assist?” Daniel answered the phone.

  William tapped his fingers on the report he’d cast aside. “I need you to enlist the help of a private investigator.”

  “An investigator, sir?”

  William rolled his eyes. Life was too short for repeating oneself.

  “There is a matter that needs to be taken care of. I don’t care how much it costs, but I want Gideon Barnes tracked down. I don’t want to hear any excuses. I want results, and I want acknowledgment.”

  “Of course. No problem.”

  “Damn straight it’s no problem.” William slammed down the phone, the dam of cool reserve broken. Until this know-it-all archaeologist gave him the respect he was due, he’d turn the world upside down.

  -

  Chapter 9

  CAL AND SOPHIE WERE SITTING in a Starbucks. Whenever he caught her gaze, he basically burst into flame from the ferocity burning in her irises.

  “So you went last night even though I asked you not to?” she asked, although it wasn’t really a question. It was an accusation.

  “I didn’t.” That was technically the truth—a white lie. It still parched his throat. He took a sip of his coffee.

  “Not even to Matthew’s house for the after-event? I tried to reach you. Your phone kept going to voice mail.”

  “How do you know that I was there and not in bed sleeping, or… You weren’t around. Maybe I enjoyed an action flick.”

  “You watch it, Cal, or you’ll have the movie choice all the time.” There was more bark to her words than bite to her tone.

  He reached for her hand. “Come on, baby, please stop giving me a rough time about all this.”

  She folded a napkin and then unfolded it. She drew the corners in, dog-earing them, and then straightened them out. She dropped it and reached for his hand. “I might be taking things out on you.”

  “You what? What’s wrong?” He wasn’t doing a good job of hiding his shock at her confession.

  “You mean, besides the man who is stalking us?”

  “Speaking of, have you seen him today?” Cal looked around the packed coffee shop to find a bunch of people in need of caffeine fixes. No familiar faces were in the crowd except for one guy who was Leonardo DiCaprio’s doppelganger. There was no Liam Neeson.

  She shook her head, her small dreads flopping from side to side. “It’s more than him that has me upset, but don’t get me wrong, that whole thing is still unsettling. I just have bigger things to worry about.”

  “Like what?” He swept his thumb across her skin, trying to calm her.

  “Work.” She let go of his hand, but instead of going back to the napkin, she toyed with her cup, rotating it until the logo faced her. “I have this house that isn’t selling. It’s been on the market for three months. That might as well be forever.”

  “Maybe they need to lower their asking price?”

  “It’s not that. It’s priced right in the sweet spot. The home is immaculate and in a state of excellent repair. If I even suggested a lower price, I might as well confess to being a bad agent.” She took a sip from her cup and lowered it, but continued to hold on to it. “Maybe it’s just the economy, and I’m overreacting.”

  “No, I can’t imagine that being a remote possibility.” Sarcasm. Every word.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she lifted her cup toward him. “Do you want to wear this?”

  He smiled at her. “Come on, now. Things have been worse. Aren’t you always telling me things happen when they’re supposed to happen?”

  “I love it when what I spew out comes back to bite me in the ass,” she grumbled.

  “Well, that is what you say, isn’t it?”

  “It’s easier to preach than to believe sometimes.”

  He leaned across the table and squeezed her hand, taking the one from the cup. Her mood wasn’t lightened despite his efforts. He may as well have squeezed a damp towel.

  “You want to know what the big deal is? Here it is. If I don’t sell this place, I’m looking at the unemployment line.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She pulled her hand back. “I mean exactly what I said. I’ll be without a job, unemployed, seeking government assistance.”

  “Edwin would never let you go. You’re one of his best agents. In fact, why don’t we go out tonight and celebrate your success?”

  “My success hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Your face is on buses.”

  She laughed. “You think I’ve made it”—she attributed air quotes to her last two words—“and Ed’s going to keep me because my face is on buses? You do remember that I paid for those ads myself, right?”

  “You’re giving it too much thought. So what? Your face is all around the city…at least this part of it. If Edwin lets you go, you’ll get a job somewhere else or go out on your own. The possibilities are endless.”

  Her eyes softened as they leveled with his.

  “Baby, you’re unstoppable,” he said. “You are going to take over the world of realty.”

  “Ha, you had me right up until the end.” Her phone rang.

  “Get it. It could be that offer you’re waiting for.”

  “One can always hope, I guess.” She picked up her cell from the table, pressed a button, and held it to an ear. “Sophie Jones… Yes, that is me… You want to see it? I can certainly help you with that.” She pointed frantically at the phone and mouthed, This is it.

  Cal smiled at her and turned away, affording her privacy. The line at the counter had thinned out and he considered getting another coffee, but the execution of his plan stopped when he thought about it hitting his stomach. Maybe he’d get Sophie something.

  A few minutes later, when he returned with a strawberry scone and a chai tea, Sophie had finished with her call and was beaming.

  “You might have been right, Cal.”

  “Excuse me? Can you say that part again? You might have been right, Cal.”

  Sophie laughed. “Someone wants to see the house tonight at nine.” Her face fell, and she must have just remembered their plans to go out for drinks. They had discussed it days ago.

  “It’s all right. We can make it tomorrow night.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, of course. That is late for a showing, though, isn’t it?”

  “This isn’t a nine-to-five job, Cal. Besides, he said that’s the only time he could make it.”

  “He?”

  “Don’t get like that. I’ll be fine. I call it in to the office. They’ll know where I am.” She smiled. “You could come over to my place afterward.”

  “Oh, you’d be thinking so.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. How about I call you if I’m up for it?”

  He leaned across the table and kissed her.

  If it weren’t for the passing thoughts of being watched, he’d let himself sink into the moment. Pulling back, he took another glance around, but it still didn’t reveal any Liam Neeson look-alikes. Maybe he was being paranoid. As for the SUV parked out the front of his house the other day, there had to be thousands in this city just like it.

  -

  Chapter 10

  EVERYTHING WAS ON THE LINE, and making this sale was an opportunity to prove herself. Sophie didn’t expect Cal to understand. To him, she was perfect, and everything she did was, too. But it wasn’t just about selling the house and netting the tidy commission. It was the resulti
ng sense of accomplishment and fulfillment. It was the largest estate she had taken on, and she was out to show everyone—namely herself—that she had what it took to see it through.

  She pulled out a Calvin Klein skirt suit from her closet and slipped it on. She did it terrific justice, if she did say so herself. The skirt was black and the jacket gray, and beneath the latter, she wore a black blouse—streamlined, simple, and elegant. She had to give the impression that she had money when her client no doubt would. She added diamond stud earrings as a final touch, keeping her neck bare. Too much could simply be too much.

  She sprayed Chanel No 5 on her neck and then her wrists, then watched herself in the mirror as she rubbed them together.

  “You’ve got this, Sophie Jones.”

  She pumped her fists and grinned. It was a coaching technique she used to combat nagging self-doubt. If she didn’t squash the negativity from its roots, it would ruin everything she’d worked for.

  She snapped her fingers and made a finger gun at her image. “You can do this!”

  One quick tug down on the jacket and she left her reflection behind, her confidence stepping in to take the lead. She’d get there an hour before the showing so she’d have plenty of time to set up. She had her keys in her door when she remembered the tube of premade chocolate chip cookie dough sitting in her fridge.

  Her heels clicked across the linoleum as she hurried to her kitchen to grab it. It was a proven trick in the industry that the smell of freshly baked cookies made people feel at home. She always found it ironic as most people never took the time to bake anymore, especially anyone who was financially capable of buying this particular house. They likely had servants who took care of such things. Tonight, it didn’t bother her to assume that role. With the amount of debt she carried—which barely ever changed between the interest rate and her minimum payments—she’d do anything it took to make this sale. Well, almost anything.

  The evening was brisk, and she exhaled puffs of white fog as she walked from her apartment to her car. The interior of her car had barely warmed by the time she reached the large house she needed to sell. The lights were on inside and landscaping ones bathed the exterior in a soft glow. It was all set on a timer. The owners were vacationing in the Maldives for the winter.

  Must be nice…

  “Brr,” she said as shivers started in her legs and ran through her. Nylons did very little to keep out the cold, but they did make for an elegant final touch. Just as heels hurt like a son of bitch until they were broken in, the benefits outweighed the torture.

  She left her stilettos on and hung her coat in the front closet. Every time she entered the place, she became caught up in the rapture of its architectural beauty. It wasn’t as if it was the first mansion she’d ever seen. She had been to the Connors’ monstrosity on numerous occasions, but one day, she could see herself living in a place like this with its marble flooring, sweeping staircase, tiered chandelier, and crown molding. If she had the time, she could admire the fine touches for hours.

  Lord knew she’d visualized herself in this particular house many times. It was nothing more than a daydream at this point. She’d made the same wage without much variation over the past three years, and while it would have been more than substantial outside the city, she still wanted more.

  She headed for the kitchen and got started cutting the cookie dough and setting the slices out on a cookie sheet. She slipped the first batch into the oven. As they cooked, she did a quick walk-through, and by the time, she was on her way back to the kitchen, the sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies warmed the air and quickened her steps. She unloaded them onto a cooling rack and brewed a pot of coffee.

  She was ready for her buyer. And, yes, that’s how she was going to think of him. He wasn’t just a potential buyer, he was a buyer. This was going to be a piece of cake.

  Or a tray of cookies.

  She smiled at her silly thinking. But how could it prove difficult when she loved the place so much? She dismissed the internal voice that reminded her it hadn’t made a difference so far. Tonight things would change. This man, he was the one. She felt it in her soul.

  As if it were divine confirmation, the doorbell rang. She hadn’t heard a car pull up, but the kitchen was toward the back of the house.

  “All right, girl, it’s go time.” She pumped her fists again and smoothed out her skirt.

  With a fleeting glance in the front mirror, she smiled at herself and whispered, “You’ve got this.”

  She opened the door, smiling broadly, but the instant she saw him, she hurried to shut it again. She tried not to scream when the latch didn’t cooperate.

  He pushed through. “Keep it quiet, Sophie Jones. Back up into the house.”

  Her racing heartbeat made it difficult to breathe. “Who are you? Why are you doi—”

  He drew a gun, cutting off her words. “Move back into the house. Slowly.”

  Images from the crime shows she loved filled her mind. He wasn’t wearing a mask. He wasn’t worried about her identifying him. There’s only one reason he’d abandon that worry, and her heart sank at the realization. He planned to kill her.

  She assessed his hold on the pistol. She didn’t know much about guns, but based on his calm demeanor and easy grip, he was experienced at handling one.

  Oh God, this is it! I’m going to die in my dream house.

  She stepped back, and he slipped inside the house and closed the door behind him. He did it without taking his eyes—or his gun—off her.

  “I know you f-followed them from India,” she said, trying to be brave.

  “My, you think you have it all figured out, don’t you?”

  “The Pandu is in the museum. You can’t get it, and we can’t give it to you. I don’t even hunt treasure.” The last sentence slipped from her lips, and her conscience stabbed her for betraying Cal by demeaning what he loved to do.

  “Yes, all that is true, except for my not being able to get it. You see, it’s very important that I get my hands on that statue. And you are going to help me do that.”

  “I don’t see how. I told you—”

  He pressed the muzzle of the gun to her stomach. “You are going to do exactly as I say.”

  Her gut twisted, and the sweet aroma of the cookies morphed into an unpleasant coating on her tongue.

  “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  She swallowed roughly, her saliva a thick paste, and nodded.

  “All right, then. We should get along just fine.”

  If she survived this, she was going to kill Cal for getting her involved.

  -

  Chapter 11

  IT WAS TUESDAY, TWO DAYS after the gala, and Matthew was in his office working through Daniel’s findings about Paititi. Maybe somewhere in all his research, the historical facts would coincide with the photographs and convince him that it existed.

  Not that he was like others in his field, who based their decisions strictly on certifiable fact. Matthew loved discrediting myths and seeing firsthand what was widely perceived as fable. But was he willing to stretch his ideology to include Paititi? Its existence might be too far a stretch.

  He refreshed himself first on historical truths. The Incans were extremely intelligent, amassing huge armies from surrounding natives and growing their numbers to shy of a quarter million. That number was even more impressive considering the land print they’d occupied. For a landmass of two million square kilometers, or 772 square miles, the solider count equaled ten per square kilometer and nearly four for every square mile. Comparing this to the statistics for the current US military, including the number in reserve components and factoring in the demographics of the United States, the Incas had more warriors. The States have four soldiers for every kilometer and two for every square mile.

  But the Incas weren’t a bloodthirsty people. They’d rat
her reach a diplomatic solution than go to war. Yet they did practice child sacrifice as a gift to their gods. Their firm belief in reincarnation removed their fear of death and elevated their view of passing as a bestowed honor. For some, these conflicting concepts were hard to accept, but how could one judge an ancient civilization based on today’s standards?

  The Incas accepted the world as being abundant and one family ruled over the rest. Food and goods were brought to that family for distribution. As a result, there was no crime or famine. The gold wasn’t even assigned an intrinsic value; it was revered. It brought them closer to their sun god, Inti.

  Strategic battle plans commenced with slingers, archers, and spear throwers, and then proceeded to a full-frontal charge that armed Inca troops with maces, clubs, and battle-axes. But it wasn’t their head-on assaults that reaped the highest advantage in battles. It was their talent for organization. With one third of the army in hand-to-hand combat and another third attacking the flanks, the final third would be held back in reserve. In fact, their flanking maneuvers were more effective than direct confrontation, and oftentimes they’d feign withdrawal while their enemy was exposed and vulnerable. Discipline defined the Incas’ existence and carried over to their combat tactics. It was one reason they had met with so many successes.

  But in the sixteenth century, greedy Spanish conquistadors had threatened their peaceful existence. The Spaniards had come at the Incas with smaller numbers but with something they had never seen before—horses.

  To the Incas, the beasts were mythical creatures drawn from fantasy. One theory is that the Incas may have seen the horses as demons and the Spanish riding them as coming to put an end to their way of life and to steal their connection with the divine. But it was the Incas’ stubbornness—or rigid structure, perhaps—that limited their ability to adapt in warfare. In 1572, this resulted in the Spanish conquest and the last emperor being executed in Cusco.

  Matthew looked up when a knock sounded on the door.