A strong hand grips my shoulder, breaking my eyelock on Izzie, and I look up at Rutger. He’s nodding towards the bar where Dick has wandered over and is now talking with Selma and Laurie. “They’ll come in handy later. But for now, get him back to the table,” I command, standing up and pushing my chair back. “Time for a friendly chat.”
Izzie’s eyes survey me, narrowing, and I know I need to update her on what’s happening. I’ve been incommunicado most of the week. Partly because the less she knows, the better. Partly because I can’t keep playing with fire. But right now, we’ve all got our roles to fill. I motion for her to sit next to me. I shouldn’t do that, but I don’t want her anywhere near Dick. Rutger’s over at the bar, fetching our prime suspect back to the table, and McGregor and Alonso herd the other inebriated museum workers in our direction.
I get another round of drinks coming and more plates of food. If this is going to be a cozy museum get-together, it should look like one. Izzie sits so close that our legs are touching, sending flames of desire up and down my thigh and straight to my cock. I don’t know what’s going on. But between that and the rings, I’m thinking things I haven’t in a long time. It scares the shit out of me because there’s only one person in this room with the ability to gut me—my wife.
Chapter Twelve
IZZIE
Isit next to Wolfe before I know it, thinking back frantically over what we discussed earlier in the week. Text messages have been few and far between. But I remember what he said about keeping up appearances. He squeezes my leg under the table, offering a confident nod. I do my best to return the sentiment, letting the corners of my mouth turn up at the ends. My stomach twists because I don’t want to mess this up.
Looking around the table, I start in. “Here’s to another great week at the museum. I know there are plenty of changes going on with new security protocols. And I’ve also heard a lot of grumbling from the docents. So, I want to take this time to get your input about the changes and keep you informed about new ones moving forward.”
“Alright, lay it on us, boss,” Richard says, slurring his speech and leaning forward. Roger’s not nearly as drunk. But he leans in, too, eyeing me nervously and blinking a mile a minute. Duncan, the photography curator, looks uncomfortable. He keeps eyeing the door as if looking for a way out. Hmm. I wish some of the docents and the janitor were here,too. But apart from Roger, most have never been social outside of work.
Wolfe and I take turns reviewing the updated security requirements. I notice the occasional head nod or eye contact back and forth between Richard, Roger, and Duncan. I side-eye Wolfe, realizing with relief that he sees it, too.
When Wolfe delves into the requirements to access artifact storage areas, Duncan inhales some of his beer, sending him into a five-minute choking fit. Roger can’t stop blinking and moving around in his chair. And Richard shifts uneasily in his seat, tapping his hand frantically on the table.Okay, wait a second. Why is Richard acting so nervous?Out of everyone at this table, the museum worker I trust most is Richard. After all, we know each other from Sac State. But as I continue watching his strange behavior, a lump rises in my throat.
As for the artifacts curator and the education curator, thankfully, they don’t seem bothered in the least by the changes. If anything, Lucy, the blonde, bubbly artifacts curator, acts relieved, and the librarian takes notes.
By the time Wolfe’s finished talking, it’s clear who the three main suspects are by their nervous body language. As shocked as I am by Richard’s behavior, I can’t deny what my eyes see.But how could he be involved? After all, I invited him to volunteer at the museum. And he’s only been there for three months. I remember all of the other little museums he’s mentioned volunteering at. Maybe this is a much bigger racket than I could have ever realized.I shake my head, reeling at the possibility. I have to admit, he started buddying up with Roger and Duncan very quickly once he started volunteering.
Loads of food and more drinks show up at the table. Yet, Richard looks downright depressed, and Roger’s as pale as a sheet. Duncan’s eyes keep scanning the exit route, advertising his innermost thoughts.
The weirdness is spiking off the charts.But things get intense when Wolfe goes over who can search, update, and input information into artifact records in PastRecord. Now, Richard’s visibly sweating, and Roger and Duncan look sick. The hulk of an Army Ranger finishes with news that all museum locks will be swapped out beginning next week. Panic settles in Richard’s eyes, although the other two act like they’re only half listening.
Wolfe and his crew continue plying my employees with drinks and food. The conversation becomes more casual, and Richard asks, looking at Wolfe and me, “How the hell did you two meet in the first place? You couldn’t be more ill-matched.” The drunken, disparaging scowl he shoots towards Wolfe isn’t lost on me. He’s an idiot to look at a trained warrior like that. Clearly, he still doesn’t understand the kind of man Wolfe is.
“You wanna take this one, or should I?” Wolfe asks, looking at me. I swallow hard, nodding for him to continue. “We met in Afghanistan. Izzie was part of a team of international archaeologists and art conservators assembled to piece back together more than seven thousand fragments of Buddha statues smashed by the Taliban?—”
I pipe in, “And Wolfe was mymahram.”
“What’s that?” Richard questions.
“My guardian. He had to travel with me everywhere. Especially in rural areas, tradition dictates that a woman is always accompanied by a male family member, through marriage or blood.” Beneath the table, my hand finds Wolfe’s, locking pinkies with his, like we sometimes used to do overseas in places where hand-holding was forbidden.
“So, Buddha statues. But then what? I mean, no offense, but you’re hardly compatible. I mean, Izzie’s so smart and well-educated and—” His gaze drops to the side.
Wolfe finishes, “Stupid? A brute? Yeah, I get it. I guess that’s why we got divorced.” Richard laughs, and Roger grumbles. I notice Wolfe and Rutger exchanging glances, and thenRutger’s laser focus settles on Duncan, the photography curator.
Glaring at Richard, I retort, “Wolfe stupid? Hardly. Only if you call being among the most elite troops in the world before his twenty-fifth birthday stupid. Or speaking fluent Dari and decent Pashto. I challenge you to find an academic who knows more about Afghanistan’s local cultures and customs. And that’s not even the icing on the cake. You can drop this man pretty much anywhere in the world with a flashlight and a knife, and he’d figure out how to survive, thrive, and kick the enemy’s ass. He’s the smartest person I know by a long shot, and he doesn’t need a degree to prove it.”
Richard shrugs. “I guess we know where you stand on the subject.”
Wolfe shifts his hand, caressing my fingers gently and sending searing flames of longing up and down my arm. He makes a point of fingering the engagement ring and wedding band, stealing a heated glance at me. Surprise and confusion are written all over his face, and I don’t know how I’ll explain why I needed to put them on before heading here tonight. The tenderness in his eyes lets me know I made the right choice, though.
Leaning in, I can feel his hot breath on my ear as he adds quietly, “I also speak a little Urdu, in case you’re wondering. And don’t forget about the French.”
The words bring an instant glow to my cheeks. “I can’t forget about the French.” I used to joke that his French knowledge was a secret panty-dropping weapon. At least that’s the effect his whispered words in that sexy language always had on me. I joke back, “I’m not sure Urdu will have the same effect on me, though.”
“Probably not,” he laughs, sipping his beer. “But quite possibly worth an experiment or two?” The questioning look he shoots my way, his eyebrow raised, setsmy core on fire.
Richard brags. “Oh, yeah, well, I speak fluent Russian.”
Before anyone can react, Wolfe launches into the rough Slavic language, his eyes narrowed. Apart from Wolfe’s comrades and me, jaws drop around the table. It’s not often that he shows off his linguistic prowess publicly, which is one of the many talents that always made me wonder about my husband’s actual military and PMC job duties. Never have I wanted a translation more in my life as I watch Richard’s face look crest-fallen and his voice grow shaky as he replies in Russian.
A staring contest ensues, and Wolfe easily wins, followed by an awkward silence. Trying to jumpstart the conversation, I observe, “How fun you got to chat with Wolfe. I can’t imagine you use Russian much around here.”
