by Liliana Hart
She snorted out a laugh and leaned back, discovering that the seat reclined and the footrest came all the way up. “I bet you were nothing but trouble growing up. They probably had your parents on speed dial at school.”
He grinned and a hint of dimples showed. She realized despite his always joking around and seemingly jovial and sarcastic attitude, he rarely smiled a genuine smile. It was all surface.
“I was creative,” he said. “You can’t put kids like me in the confines of a classroom. I was much better off taking a day now and then to run a trotline. And during hunting season, it was best they didn’t even try to keep me there. I never fell behind and I graduated third in my class, so I figure I wasn’t missing much after all.”
“You miss your home?” she asked. “You’re relaxed when you talk about it. The memories there must be good.”
“I miss parts of it,” he said, shrugging. He unbuckled and went to the kitchen to put the breakfast trays in the oven. “But I outgrew it once I became a SEAL. It’s hard to go back to small-town life once you’ve done that job. Tell me about Solomon’s table,” he said. “Cordova said in his letter that your brother has part of the table. What size are we talking about? Would he be able to carry it around easily?”
She was a little taken aback at the quick subject change. He was clearly done talking about his past. The second he mentioned being a SEAL his entire attitude changed.
“King Solomon’s table is considered one of the most treasured items that was in the temple, along with the Ark of the Covenant. It’s said the table was as tall as a man, which in those times was somewhere in the mid-five-foot range. The entire table was made of solid gold, but inlaid in the gold were diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and pearls. If Justin has a table leg, I can’t imagine it’s easy to travel with. Not because of the weight necessarily, but just because of the length and size.”
“It’s doable if he strapped it to his back. We’re trained to carry a lot heavier weight than that.”
“But he’s injured. He might not be able to manage what he normally would.”
“Justin’s a SEAL, and he’s had worse injuries than a missing finger. He’d be able to manage, unless he has severe blood loss. The issue is going to be conditions. We don’t know how long he’s been out there. Then there’s lack of food and water to consider. There could be any number of variables.”
The timer dinged on the oven, and Miller’s mouth started watering when the smell of food reached her nose. Her last twenty-four hours had been nonstop, and she hadn’t had anything in her stomach but wine, caffeine, and junk food. She pulled the tray from the side of her seat and settled it over her lap.
“Thank you,” she said, and then waited until he took his own seat before asking, “Why do you hate my brother so much? You don’t talk about him like you do about the others on your team.”
She thought at first he wasn’t going to answer. He buttered his roll and salted his food like the words weren’t hanging between them.
“I don’t think ‘hate’ is the right word,” he finally said. “He was my brother. We went through BUD/S and hell week together. We spent ten years together. That kind of bond is stronger than most marriages.
“He’d always had the obsession,” he said. “We’d lie in our bunks after a grueling day and fall asleep with him telling the stories of Solomon and Sheba. It was nice at first. You know, everyone had their quirks or things that brought them comfort. It’s a rough life, and sometimes there’s little solace when you’re lying in bed, trying to let the memories of the day fade.
“But as the years went on, his obsession grew. To the point he’d disappear for hours or a day, and then come back just in time to be debriefed for the mission. He got several slaps on the wrist and a couple of write-ups. But he didn’t care. He was always looking for something, but he’d never say what it was. I wasn’t sure he even knew.
“We were on a mission in Palestine. An eight-man team sent in to rescue Israeli hostages and take out a terrorist by the name of Tariq Pitafi. The timing of it got messed up and we had to move a good twelve hours before we’d planned. But we had to go in with a seven-man team because Justin was gone.
“The rest of us were so focused on every mission. We’d go off from time to time, but we were always ready to move at a moment’s notice. For Justin, it was like the mission was an afterthought. I was the team sniper, and because we were down a man I was minus a spotter.
“I lay there on my belly in the hardpacked dirt, rocks digging into my ribs and stomach and sweat stinging my eyes. Live fire started and we got our asses handed to us. I really didn’t think we were going to make it out of there alive. I still don’t know how we got out of that mess, but we accomplished our goal and there were no casualties. And when we got back to the rendezvous point, there was Justin, bold as you please, pissed because we’d left without him and not giving a shit that he’d left us a man down. I was pissed,” Elias admitted. “I punched him in the jaw and kept walking. He got reprimanded and had his rank busted down because he refused to say where he’d been, just that he hadn’t been in range for his comm unit to pick up the new orders.
“No one can stay too mad for long,” he said. “We work in too close of quarters and have to rely on one another too often for there to be bad blood. But I think from that point, no one really trusted him anymore. He knew it too, but there was nothing to be done at that point. So no, I don’t hate your brother at all. He was my friend at one point. I don’t know what he is now. But it sounds like he hasn’t changed much.”
She needed something to do while she thought, so she stood and gathered up their dishes and put everything away.
“You should catch a couple of hours of sleep,” he told her. “We can turn off all the cabin lights. It’ll be like you’re back in the casket.”
“Wake me up if anything important happens,” she said and burrowed down on the couch with a pillow and blanket.
“We’re on a five-hour flight to the Galápagos Islands,” he said. “What would constitute something important enough to wake you up for?”
“Like if the plane is going to crash,” she told him. “I want to be awake if I’m going to die.”
Elias stared at her hard a few seconds and then he shook his head. “You’re nuts,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes and said, “Stop calling me nuts. I’m eccentric. You’re the one making me crazy. You left me so turned on I could’ve self-combusted, and now you keep kissing me. Make up your damned mind. I think you’re the one that’s crazy.”
“I must be,” he agreed. “Sleep tight, nut job.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Elias shouldn’t have kissed her. He knew better. Her taste was intoxicating, and until he settled between her thighs and slid into the welcoming heat, he was afraid sex was going to become a major distraction. For both of them.
He’d done his best to focus on work while they were in the plane, but his eyes kept straying to her prone body on the couch, her deep, even breathing indicating the level of exhaustion she must’ve felt. He didn’t really understand what she did or what it must feel like to have that constant inner dialogue when she was creating a story, but he’d observed her long enough over the past couple of years to see what it did to her on a physical level.
He’d seen her elated at the end of a book, and in a deep depression when she was in the middle of one. He knew she skipped meals, because he’d gone with Tess to take food to her and set it outside her office door in hopes she’d trip over it on the way to the bathroom. He’d seen her cry when talking about characters who didn’t exist except in her head, and he’d seen her fall asleep during a conversation because she’d worked herself into exhaustion. She was right. She was eccentric. She was quirky and moody, and though she liked to present the illusion she was tough, she wore her heart on her sleeve.
More than anything, he admired what Miller had made of herself. She’d taken the pain from her childhood and turned it i
nto a way to bring hope and joy to others. She lived quietly, but she lived the life she wanted. She was a contradiction—confident and insecure, outgoing and shy, worldly and naïve. She was smart and successful, but there were pockets of vulnerability in her that intrigued him.
He wanted to know all of her—thoughts, hopes, dreams, and fears—and in between his work, he’d look up, just to make sure she was still there and he wasn’t just imagining her asleep on the couch, her fist tucked beneath her cheek and her white-blond hair laying in wisps around her face. She looked softer in sleep, and he’d wanted nothing more than to curl his body around hers and just hold her. But there was work that had to be done, and it was an exercise in discipline that had kept him in the chair poring over maps and papers and research, with the help of the team back at HQ. He wouldn’t let her down. And he would make sure, above all else, that she was safe.
They had each found one change of clothes that fit and were appropriate for their final destination. He woke her half an hour before they landed so she could freshen up and change clothes. He’d already taken care of his own change of clothes, having donned linen pants and a black button-down Panama Jack island shirt.
He’d handed her a stack of clothes, and ushered her into the bathroom to change. Miller wasn’t someone who woke alert and ready to face the day.
When she came out a few minutes later he wanted to laugh at the disgruntled look on her face. “I look ridiculous,” she said. “I would never in a million years dress like this. Cordova and his men will never find me. I look like someone’s grandmother.”
She was wearing a pair of white capris and a shirt with lime-green palm fronds all over it. It had shoulder pads. He hadn’t seen shoulder pads since he was a kid. She also wore a matching green oversized beaded necklace around her neck and a big floppy white hat.
“Umm,” he said. “I can most definitely say that you don’t look like most people’s grandmother. Maybe more like Blanche Devereaux from The Golden Girls.”
“Blanche was pretty hot,” she said. “But I’m pretty sure this outfit is sending me into immediate menopause.”
No grandmother he’d ever seen had an ass like hers. And the very formfitting pants she was wearing were going to drive him insane. He’d never thought he had a type of woman he was attracted to. But the way Miller filled out a pair of pants made him reevaluate. And he knew firsthand what it felt like for her legs to be wrapped around his hips and his hands filled with her. She’d filled his dreams for weeks, the thought of her kneeling on all fours and him sliding between the round globes of her ass a particularly favorite image burned in his mind.
His body’s immediate response reminded him this was hardly the time or the place for fantasy. It also made it all the more important to get her out of those pants and into something that wouldn’t drive him crazy, like a potato sack.
“I’ve never worn shoulder pads before,” she said, shrugging her shoulders over and over again. “If I lean my head over I can use them like pillows. Don’t tell anyone about this. My readers will think I’ve lost my edge.”
“Your secret is safe with me. We’ve got to stop and get supplies and pick up more clothes anyway. Then you can burn what you’re wearing.” And then he added, “Please, God. Because those pants should’ve been illegal.”
“What was that?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Tess says I need to work on aging gracefully, but I have a feeling I’m going to go down kicking and screaming.”
He could get behind that mentality. “Why would you go down any other way?” he asked. “If you’re going down, it might as well be with a fight.”
“Sometimes you’re a very reasonable man, Elias … Miller,” she said, remembering his name change.
“I’m going to remember you said that,” he said. And then he noticed the roiling black clouds coming in from the west. “Look at that,” he told her, pointing in the opposite direction. “It’s hot and sunny now, but that afternoon storm is going to blow in the next couple of hours.”
The sky was a brilliant cerulean and there wasn’t a cloud in sight over the island. But out over the water it was as if a curtain had been pulled across the sky. When they stepped off the plane they were greeted by two armed security men who briefly looked at their passports before leading them through what could loosely be called “customs.” Of course, the way had been smoothed by the cash he’d palmed to each of the security guards.
“Do we have another creepy SUV ride ahead of us where we’re going to get abducted or end up in the ocean?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. “We have a local driver to take us where we need to go before we head to the boat. Let’s reel it in a little on the imagination overdrive.”
“Why would I do that?” she asked. “It helps me think out my plots. I’ve still got a book to finish, and I might as well use as much of this as I can. I’m writing Solomon and Sheba’s story, but it’s woven in with my present-day hero and heroine, who are hunting Solomon’s treasures.”
“So you’re basically writing our story,” he said, brows raised in surprise. “What happens to us?”
“Not us,” she said. “My characters. And their car is clearly about to go over the side of a bridge and into the water. It’ll be a narrow escape, of course.”
“Thank God it’s your characters and not us. The best way to get out of a sinking car is before it actually goes into the water.”
“Maybe so, but it’s not nearly as exciting,” she said.
“Surviving beats exciting any day of the week,” he said. “What happens after they narrowly escape death?”
She averted her eyes and color crept into her cheeks. She picked at an invisible piece of lint on her sweater. “They celebrate being alive,” she finally said.
He hooted out a laugh and put his hand to the small of her back as he put her just in front of him, so he could move quickly if he needed to. He leaned down and said close to her ear, “There’s something to be said for burning off an adrenaline rush.” He felt her shiver beneath his touch. “What happens next?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Hopefully, the heroine doesn’t die from seasickness or snake bites. And then they live happily ever after. Unless they die.”
“That’s sure to perk up your readers,” he said.
“I’m trying to decide if kidnapping is preferable to getting on the boat. What do you think?”
“I think you’re nuts,” he said. “But there’s a good chance the boat will be slightly less traumatic than being kidnapped, so I’d go that route. And I’ve got your meds, so that will help. I’ll give them to you in the car, and by the time we get ready to board you’ll be good to go. Let’s go, Blanche. Maybe you can get a senior discount when we grab a bite to eat.”
“Very funny,” she said.
There wasn’t a luxury car with the trident symbol waiting for them, but instead a white taxi with rust spots and bumper stickers plastered all over it.
“I don’t mean to complain,” she said, “but if we’re projecting an image of private planes and expensive boats, shouldn’t we have a car?”
“We’re in a different world here,” he told her. “Private cars are reserved for government officials and the cartel. They’re in short exchange. Santa Cruz isn’t a driving city. There are many areas where they still only travel by horse and cart.”
The driver was wearing rumpled khakis and an unbuttoned Guayabera shirt over a wifebeater. He went around to the trunk and unlocked it with the key and then stood there as they approached.
“Hola, señor,” the driver said.
Elias nodded and said in Spanish, “We’ll hold on to our luggage.” And then he gave him instructions for taking them to the market for supplies before the storm hit.
“Sure, sure,” the driver said in English. “Get in.”
One of the passenger-side doors was stuck, so Miller scooted across the seat and Elias climbe
d in behind her. The inside of the cab smelled like sweat and cabbage, and Elias tried rolling down the window, but it didn’t budge.
“Mine doesn’t work either,” Miller told him. “Do you realize what that means if we go into the water?”
“Yes,” he said. “It means I’m going to pull out my gun and shoot the window so we can escape.”
“Good thinking,” she said, grinning mischievously. “See, you’re helping me write a book. I’ll mention you in the acknowledgments.”
“I’d rather get the happily ever after,” he told her. And then he realized what he’d said. It was easy to get sucked into the illusion that being with her was normal. That they could have a normal life. But happily ever afters weren’t in his future.
She cleared her throat and they each stared out their window while the driver continued to talk with the other cabbies on the street, as if no one had anywhere to go.
“I don’t mean to be negative,” she said, “but I’ve got a bad feeling about this guy. I’m pretty sure he’s carrying a gun.”
Elias sighed. “I think you’re still writing a book in your head. He’s got to be close to seventy years old. Have a little faith.”
“I have faith,” she said. “But I still think he’s carrying a gun. He’s got shifty eyes. What happens if he tries to rob us, or if he just shoots us and leaves us for dead in the middle of this godforsaken place? No one will ever know what happened to us.”
“Sure they will,” Elias said. “When I became a Gravedigger they implanted a chip beneath my skin. They’ll know the location of my body and whether I’m dead or alive. But if it makes you feel better, I put our passports in the inside pocket of my shirt. As long as we have those we’ll be fine.”
“If you say so,” she said skeptically. “Look, here he comes. Be cool.”
He laughed before he could help it. “Sweetheart, I’m always cool.”
The driver got in and started up the engine with a sputter and a cough, and they started moving through the congested streets.
