Love Letters Volume 4: Travel to Temptation Read online

  Winnie stopped, felt the blood drain from her face. “We’re going to see a drug runner?”

  “You want your statue back?” He stopped just in front of her. Reaching out, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to his side. “Just stick with me. This is what I do.”

  That was less than reassuring. He smirked, and Winnie curled her fingers in his.

  “You said last night that you were here on behalf of an interested party. Are you going to tell me who your benefactor is, or…?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  She rankled at the reply. “I think I should know. If we’re going to be doing this together.”

  “Together seems a loose interpretation of what we are, sweetheart.”

  She stopped short, and he turned to look at her.

  “What’s your problem, Si? It’s not like I’m asking you to give up national secrets or, God forbid, tell me your home address. I just want to know what I’m getting myself into.”

  He licked his lips, opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it. He closed his eyes and it was a long moment before he opened them. The coolness was now in his eyes and not just his voice. “Look, Win, excuse me for saying this, but it doesn’t fucking matter who sent me to Brazil. You’re getting the statue and you’re getting out and that’s all that matters.”

  She dropped his hand, feeling like he’d punched her in the gut. He didn’t reach for her again.

  “Let’s go.” His voice was flat, nothing of last night’s tenderness there. They made it all the way to the bottom of the hill before the next words were spoken. She didn’t know what the Portuguese was to hail a taxi, but Silas obviously did, and he shouted it loudly enough for them to snag the first cab that barreled by.

  He opened the door for her, and climbed in after.

  “Silas…”

  “Niterói Ferry, favor.” The words weren’t for her. The icy silence resumed as soon as they started the twisting ride toward Guanabara Bay.

  *

  Silas sent a silent thank-you up to the heavens as they bounced to a stop in view of the ferry terminal. Despite the hectic ride and the throngs of traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, that they’d braved, they had finally arrived. As he paid the driver, he chanced a look at Winnie.

  She had no right, no damned right at all, to look so wounded. “You don’t get seasick, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good.” He could think of nothing to say, short of hashing out their goodbye before they’d even recovered the statue. What was there left to say? Hey, Winnie, I’m really here on this sweet I-scratch-your-back kind of a deal, where I snag the statue for my interested party and in exchange land a cushy new job in D.C. where I could see you in a normal we’reseeing-each-other kind of way? Sure. She would give up the statue and take the heat of her superiors and possibly lose her position so that he could become a nine-to-five kind of a guy.

  Not after what she’d said last night.

  They boarded the ferry and he was grateful for the coolness of the ocean breeze that offered some relief from his agitation. He had to make an effort not to pull her into his side and point out interesting landmarks as they neared the shore. He needed to hold on to his irritation—it cushioned him from thoughts of normalcy with the jet-setting Ms. Caesar.

  The trip was relatively short, and they arrived at the Praça Araribóia terminal on the other side of the bay in no time. They shuffled off, immersed in a sea of another kind—tourists and market-goers and a man with a herd of goats. Silas did reach out and pull Winnie close, but he rationalized it—Brazil was notorious for pickpockets. Right.

  “So, this man has the statue?”

  Silas nodded. “Yes. But—” he reached into the satchel that was slung across his chest, drawing out the canvas parcel and passing it to her, “—so do we.”

  He watched her face as she unwrapped the canvas. Her eyes widened, and she scrambled to cover the item again. “Is this—is this a fake?”

  Silas grinned, amused at the disapproval in her voice. “It’s an homage, sweetheart, but I’ll bet your sweet ass that the thugs we’re about to shake hands with won’t know that.”

  “So what’s the plan?” The mood between them was lightening.

  “You once told me that I could convince a bull to wear pleather.”

  “And?”

  Silas reached over for the replica statue, tucking it back into his satchel. “Let’s see if I can convince some amateur art smugglers that they don’t have the real thing.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” It wasn’t just astonishment—Silas recognized the excitement in Winnie’s voice.

  “I need your help to pull it off.” There was a thrill that came with new adventure, a feeling that made a person giddy. It was a high just as addicting as any other he’d heard of.

  “Why else would I come?”

  They had reached the street and, as Silas raised his hand to hail another cab, he realized that there was something else that made him feel exactly the same way. Winnie.

  *

  They were in position and ready for their plan within the half hour. Winnie was inspecting apples at a produce stand twenty feet away from where Silas was perusing dressed fish. She watched as Silas approached a booth in the center of the crowded street market, bent to talk to the dark-eyed man sitting there.

  “Beto,” he said, “favor.”

  The man looked up from his reading material—an issue of People magazine from 1992—and eyed Silas with suspicion. “I am Beto. Can I help you?”

  Silas smiled, reached out a hand, which Beto did not take. “I’m Quinton Swan. I was told you were the man to see about some art.”

  To the casual observer, Beto’s booth was nothing but cheap velvet Elvis prints and oil paintings that came from hotel room hell. To call any of it art would be a stretch at best. Even the table he leaned on was covered in poorly cast clay Buddha statues. Cheapies for the tourists.

  “What kind of art?”

  Silas didn’t mince words. He reached into his pack, took out the statue, unwrapped it and set it down among the Buddhas. “This kind, exactly this kind.”

  Beto snorted. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “That, my friend, is an authentic pre-dynastic bird deity relic from Egypt. I brought it all the way from America because I heard that you have friends—friends who are under the impression that they have the authentic one.”

  Beto bit. Hard. Leaning forward, he plucked Silas’s homage from the table. “This is a fake. Get out of here before we have mutual friends, friend.”

  Silas swiped the statue back. “No, no, no, see, I know authentic when I see it. Let me show you.” He flipped the replica upside down, pointed to markings on the bottom and up one side of the statue. “See these?”

  Beto leaned in. He squinted. “I don’t see nothing.”

  “Root marks. Can’t be faked. It’s the imprint that happens when an object lies against organic matter for a very, very long time. Does the one in your friend’s possession bear the same marks?”

  Beto looked uncertain. “I don’t know. Let me see that again.”

  Silas held the figure closer. Beto squinted. “Yeah, yeah, I do see them.”

  Silas nodded. “And here.” He unearthed a water bottle from his satchel, held the statue off to the side of the table and poured a slow stream over it. Holding it under his nose, he inhaled deeply before passing it back to Beto. “Smell that?”

  Beto sniffed the replica. “Smell what?”

  “Activated microbial excretion. There are bacteria in authentic pottery that have been around for as long as the relic has—they are released when the surface is dampened. Verifies the age. This particular smell is distinct to the near-dynastic era. Do you smell the copper?”

  Beto sniffed again. He was starting to look worried. “Yeah, yeah, I definitely do.”

  Silas gestured expansively. “You see, my cousin is a night janitor at this place in Ame
rica. He said he lifted the real thing from storage and that it was worth a lot of money.”

  Beto looked warily over his shoulder. “I ain’t got any idea where it comes from.”

  “That’s not important. The important thing is that at first my cousin stole an homage, an art replica of the real thing that museums use for displays so that they can keep the real deal safe.”

  The other man looked confused.

  Silas clarified. “So, someone in Brazil has what they think is the real thing.”

  Beto set the statue down. “Oh, jeez, I see what you’re sayin’.”

  Silas nodded sagely. “Do you have the other statue with you?”

  Beto looked around, visibly sweating, and nodded. He reached under the table and took something out, but he kept it below the tabletop. There was some fumbling as he turned the object in his hands, out of Silas’s sight. Then, more contortions as he bent to try and sniff the item without Silas seeing it. After a few odd moves, he set the item back below the table.

  “So what do you want for it?” Beto jerked his head toward Silas’s replica.

  Silas shrugged. “I have no interest in money. I just want to get the fake back.”

  “Why you want it back if it ain’t worth nothing?” His tone was heavy with suspicion.

  “The museum uses it constantly, so they might not miss the real one for months if I can return the fake.”

  “So you just want the real thing delivered…to our mutual friends?”

  Silas seemed to consider his question. “Think about it, Beto. If you had a family member that got caught up with some bad people, and there was a chance that those people might think he had intentionally defrauded them, instead of just making a mistake and swiping the wrong statue…”

  Beto tugged at his shirt collar.

  “It would be in your interest as well to deliver the real thing, yes?”

  Beto eyed Silas’s replica again, fidgeting. “Nah, nah, something ain’t right.”

  It was time for Winnie to make her move. She stated toward the table, but slowed when she noticed another man, a hulking wall of a carioca, approach from behind Beto. Silas looked over at her, hoped his quick glance would be enough to warn her off for the moment.

  The newcomer stopped just behind Beto, laid a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder. “Beto, boss says come up to the house now, and bring your gift.”

  Beto paled visibly under his dark skin, and Silas stood his ground. The bruiser melted away into the crowd.

  Now, Winnie, now, now.

  “Oh, I just love souvenirs!” Her gushing voice was over-exaggerated, and she muscled rudely alongside Silas, quick to snatch up the Egyptian replica from among the cheap Buddhas. Beto’s mouth dropped open.

  “How much for this one? Oh, it’s darling, I just must have it for my living room.”

  Beto stood, his folding chair clattering to the ground. “That’s not for sale, missy. Put it back.”

  Winnie went hilariously dead-eyed tourist as Silas fought to maintain his composure. “What? Of course it’s for sale, it’s on the table.”

  “No, nonononono. Put it back. It belongs to me.” Beto reached for the statue and she stepped back, her expression affronted.

  “Actually,” Silas said, “it belongs to me.”

  Beto scrambled under the table, knocking Buddhas over as he retrieved the real statue and thrust it toward Silas. “No, sir, we had a deal. A deal is a deal.”

  Silas caught the statue and sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Miss, I had a deal with this man. Give him your statue.” He nodded toward Beto, and Winnie put on a show of reluctance before handing over the replica.

  “And, as much as I wanted this one—” Silas held out the authentic deity sculpture, “—I can’t let a beautiful woman go home without a souvenir. Here.”

  Winnie accepted the statue and gave him a dazzling smile. “Thank you sir, how kind of you to help a stranger.”

  “Well, I find that one meets the most interesting people in exotic markets.” His grin was just as sunny, and he had the urge to go and haggle for some clove cigarettes in celebration.

  “I agree.”

  He wanted to grab her, to kiss her, to scoop her up and whirl her around the market in triumph. They had done it.

  Beto laughed nervously and waved them away from his booth, out toward the market. “Okay, well, now, so good to have things settled. I have an appointment I must keep.”

  Silas nodded, tightened his satchel and gave one last nod to Winnie before he disappeared into the throng of people swamping the market.

  *

  Ten minutes later they met at a cloth vendor’s near the market entrance, and Winnie couldn’t resist. The second she saw Silas, she broke into a run, launching into his open arms with a joyous whoop. He caught her easily, spun her until she was dizzy, then set her down and angled her face up into a kiss that was the perfect amalgamation of the past two days—everything she’d felt since she’d arrived in Brazil crashed around her.

  She had been angry that she’d had to come here, but now it was only anger that she had waited so long to come and find him. So what if he’d slipped out on her? Winnie knew that she would chase this man across the globe if it meant one more night together.

  Her lips parted under his, and he moaned into her mouth. The banked heat between them burst into flame, and fueled them through several more long, promising kisses.

  Silas finally leaned away, his breath warm on her cheek. “How was that?”

  “Fantastic, but activated microbial excretion? Where did you pull that from?”

  He grinned. “I have no clue, but it sounds legit.”

  Laughter bubbled up. “And the smell of ancient bacteria?”

  “More like street dirt mixed in with the clay.”

  She shook her head in amazement. “You are something else, Silas Quinn.”

  They shared a long, warm gaze before Silas looked away. “Let’s get you back to Rio. I’m sure you have a flight to catch.”

  “Did I say I had a flight to catch?” She tried to pull his mouth back to hers, but he resisted.

  “Last night you said you had to get out of Brazil. You have the statue, you can—” his voice caught, “—you can get away from me.” The break in the words took her aback.

  It couldn’t be. Her heat-of-the-moment exclamation from last night, something she let slip because she was afraid of falling for Silas, could it have rattled him?

  “Oh my God. Harri was right. You do like me.” It was all she could say. Her brain was scrambled on the notion that Silas Quinn might want her to stay. He looked at her, his eyebrows knitting.

  “Who’s Harri? Anyone I should be jealous of?”

  She shook her head. “Harriet Bellot, my boss at the Smithsonian. She’s the one who sent me here to find you, to ask for help.”

  A slow smile spread across Silas’s face.

  “What?” Winnie had an uneasy hunch that she wasn’t going to like whatever came next.

  “Harriet Bellot is my aunt.”

  Winnie blanched. “That makes no sense. If Harri is your aunt, then why wouldn’t she just come and find you. She said that I should come to Brazil. That you would listen to me.”

  It was Silas’s turn to look confused. “How could she know that you and I had—”

  “I may have done a little venting when I got back from Dubai.”

  Silas put a hand to his forehead. “You don’t know that Harriet sent me on an errand to Dubai. I was there chasing a rumor of some Ottoman Empire coins for the museum. It’s why I showed up at the gala.”

  “She approved the time off request for my trip to Dubai. That sneaky little—” Winnie was starting to see the machinations of her matchmaking friend.

  “How much venting? In how much detail?” Silas was starting to look mortified.

  “A lot and, yeah, a lot.” Winnie frowned. “So your interested party, that wouldn’t happen to be Harri as well?” The look on Silas’s face said
it all. “What did she use as collateral? She didn’t send you chasing after me this time.”

  “Actually, she did. She told me that if I recovered the statue, she would leverage a few favors and get me a job at the Smithsonian. In restoration.”

  “And that involves me because…”

  “That involves you because I could move to D.C. permanently. I mean, after I’ve spent half the year running around the world, I could stand a little stability. Maybe…we could stand a little stability?” He took advantage of her sudden moment of slack-jawed surprise to catch her mouth again, quick, heartfelt.

  “You’re not a nine-to-five kind of guy, Silas.” She looped her arm through his and held tightly to her pack straps, a new and remarkable warmth suffusing her that had nothing to do with the heat of Brazil. They started out of the market and toward the ferry.

  “I know, Win,” he said. “I figure it’s because until now, I never had anything worth working for.”

  She turned her face to him as they walked. The sun behind him dazzled into her eyes. “And now?”

  “Now I can’t think of anything I’d rather do more.”

  Winnie couldn’t suppress her smile. “Me either.”

  The ferry horn sounded and they each reached for the other’s hand as they broke into a run.

  *

  P Is for Predicament

  By Emily Cale

  The scene in front of the Majestic Himalayas Resort was the kind of thing most people only saw on a postcard. For obvious reasons. Starting with the thirty-three hours of airline travel. Add that to the four-hour drive to the nearest big city, and I knew exactly why most people stopped before they got here.

  Besides, there were plenty of good places to visit in the middle. Greece came to mind as the perfect place to vacation this time of year. Beaches, good food and plenty of eye-candy. I’d been before and always swore I’d eventually make it back. Not this trip though. As much as I enjoyed the Mediterranean, it wasn’t the kind of place I wanted to go to get over a broken heart. For that, I needed quiet, a few bottles of scotch and plenty of thinking time. A five-star lodge in India seemed like as good a place as any to do that.