30. Chapter 30

As we near our destination, a thought occurs to me.

I don't think I've ever held a woman's hand before, not like this.

To lead her to bed or on a dancefloor, maybe.

Never just sitting in a car while driving down the highway.

I try to picture doing it in other scenarios with other women; in each one, the image of the woman begins hazy before slowly morphing into midnight hair and chocolate eyes.

The body type of the mystery woman is wrong, too, at first.

Too tall, too thin, too … not her .

I can't shake the feeling that she's ruined me for all other women.

Not just with her body, but also with her mind, her wit, and her mouth.

I watched her in the bathroom while she was getting ready earlier.

I heard what she said.

At first, I was sure I'd heard wrong.

But after rewinding the feed and playing it back about 47 times, I'm convinced that what I heard was correct.

She's falling for me.

It's clear that she's trying to fight it, and I'm not entirely sure what I've done to nurture those feelings, but they're there regardless.

I thought that hearing that word from a woman's mouth when directed at me would make me run for the hills.

But each of those 47 times I replayed that line coming out of her mouth, the words stoked something in me that I know I've never felt before.

I think it's possible that there's been a bed of lit coals inside me since the night we met.

It flared to a small flame the first time we slept together, lying dormant while she was missing but never truly extinguished.

The only thing it took for that fire to light again was the two of us being forced into a living situation that neither of us expected.

Since the minute she stepped foot in my house, she's become a fixture there, and that fire has only grown until now.

The sound of that word coming out of her mouth in the bathroom mirror was the equivalent of pouring gasoline on that flame.

I don't need to ask myself if I want her to fall in love with me because I already know the answer.

Yes, I do.

Will the fire rage so hot that we eventually burn out? I don't know, but I do know that I wanna find out.

I can't stop my hand from giving hers a little squeeze at the thought.

It's an involuntary reaction but one that I'm coming to recognize as my mind and body latching onto her. To ensure she's here, that she stays here, and that she's real. The gentle pressure I get in return only adds more fuel to that growing fire.

"We're almost there,"

I say, tipping my head at the sign indicating the exit I intend to get off at.

She looks at the sign and sits up straighter in her seat.

"We're going to Beaufort?"

she asks, and the excitement is back in her voice.

I much prefer that to the fear I heard earlier.

Grinning, I say, "Yep.

We're meeting my contact at the Beaufort History Museum."

Her head whips around to face me, surprise making her eyebrows nearly reach her hairline.

The face makes me laugh, and it's clear that she assumed we'd be meeting the person at some backwater hellhole.

I think living in my house in the middle of wooded swamp land has given her the wrong impression of what kind of criminal I actually am.

"What exactly are we dropping off? And why the museum? Shouldn't it be closed at this time of night? Oh my God, you're not actually gonna try and rob the place, right? I mean, isn't that Merrick's job?" she says.

Laughing again, I say, "Calm down, brat.

I'm not robbing the place.

I know my area of expertise, and that definitely isn't one of them.

As for the rest, you'll have to wait and see."

"You mean you aren't gonna try to lock me in the car?"

"This car has very little trunk space and I wouldn't trust you with the rest of it alone,"

I say jokingly.

With a grin, she says, "Good.

That's smart.

Maybe you're not as dense as you look."

"I have my moments," I reply.

As we coast down the streets of downtown Beaufort, I marvel again at how little recognition cities like this get.

Beaufort is very similar to Charleston or Savannah because it is another picturesque waterfront city, rich in history and culture.

The large Gullah population lends to the already extensive repertoire of local artists calling Beaufort home.

Nestled in the heart of the low country, the city aids in the escape from the stress and worries that come with the more densely populated areas of the South.

As we round a corner and the museum comes into view, I have to shake my head ruefully at another perfect example of how Southerners have the ability to turn what was arguably our history's most bloody battle into a tourist attraction.

The Beaufort Museum wasn't always here to educate the next generation about the perils of secession and how nearby Parris Island was the Spanish's first major settlement, even before Plymouth.

In fact, the museum initially used to house volunteer artillery following the Revolutionary War.

Built in 1798, the building now housed several exhibits dedicated to the abundant history of the area and how it played a much larger role in the course of US history.

I'd taken tours several times over the years but the majority of the information my brain now housed on this building wasn't because I was a bit of a history buff, though you'd be surprised what someone who was would pay for historical relics.

Once a criminal, always a criminal, I guess.

We drive two blocks past the museum, pulling into a parking garage just as my phone chirps in my pocket.

I take it out and read the text on the screen before turning to Siren.

"We're gonna walk from here, just as a precaution.

I've set all the security feeds within and around the museum to loop until we're back home.

No one should see us coming or going, but my contact isn't too worried about it anyway.

She said to go to the back entrance."

"Wait … she? Your contact is a woman?"

she asks, and if I'm not mistaken, there's a hint of green in her tone.

Suspicion thinly veiled by nonchalance.

I lean over the middle console and give her a quick peck on the lips because her scowl is just so fucking cute.

"Yes, it's a woman.

I will answer all of your questions soon.

We're on a clock.

We've gotta go."

With that, I get out of the car, leaving her looking slightly bewildered in the passenger's seat.

The delay only lasts the span of a few seconds before she swings open the door and slams her way out.

I wince and issue a silent apology to my poor, abused car.

I know what kind of woman I'm dealing with, so I should've expected that type of reaction.

Maybe that's exactly why I did it.

Knowing she's jealous gives me a sick kind of satisfaction, considering that the mere idea of her with anyone else makes me wanna commit homicide.

As she nears, I reach out and grab her hand again.

I'm encouraged when she settles into step beside me instead of pulling away.

Maybe she isn't plotting my downfall the way her RBF would allude to.

We walk hand-in-hand the two short blocks to The Arsenal.

As we approach the back door, it swings open to reveal a woman dressed in a tan button-down blouse and a dark brown pencil skirt.

I cock my head in curiosity.

I happen to know that this particular woman is more suited to black, and her favorite accessory used to be a lock picking set.

The attire choice is interesting, matching the blonde hair that's been pulled up into an elegant updo.

The nearly platinum, threaded with streaks of gold, isn't her natural color, which can just be seen coming through at the roots, but it compliments her honey-toned skin and almond-shaped eyes.

We stop a few feet away from the woman, and I can feel Siren fidgeting beside me.

I use the grip on her hand to tug her closer and say, "Siren, this is Isadora Harper.

Former thief and tomb raider extraordinaire.

Isadora, this is Siren, my … person."

Okay, so nobody ever accused me of being the quickest, but it was on the tip of my tongue to say "girlfriend,"

and we haven't had that conversation yet, so I don't wanna get maimed.

Though, considering the narrowing of Siren's eyes at the classification of "person,"

I think maybe I should've just taken the chance on embarrassing myself.

It would've bruised my ego if she'd contradicted me, but it would probably hurt less than the retribution her eyes promise now.

Siren releases my hand and steps forward first, extending her hand to the other woman.

They shake and I nearly breathe a sigh of relief, thinking things might be okay until Siren opens her mouth and says, "So, you're literally Dora the Explorer?"

I have to bite my top lip to keep from cracking up.

Isadora arches a sculpted brow and looks down her nose at Siren through the wire rimmed glasses perched on her nose.

"Gosh, I've never heard that one before."

Both women continue to stare at each other, the handshake no longer shaking but just holding, and I pray they aren't doing that thing that guys do when they're trying to intimidate each other by strangling the other person's fingers.

A sudden burst of laughter splits the night air as both women dissolve into giggles.

Their postures relax and they finally break the handshake, Siren stepping back to my side.

Isadora looks at me and says, "She's a bitchy one.

I like her."

Siren gives me a shit-eating grin, and I just shake my head because I will never understand how the female brain works.

Isadora steps back to let us in, and we follow her inside.

Walking down a long hallway, I realize we're near the restoration room.

I recognize the layout from the blueprints and hacking the security feeds.

As she leads the way, she says to Siren, "I think what Deacon meant to say was that I'm an archeologist that just so happens to be a reformed thief.

I specialize in Egyptian antiquities.

Speaking of…?"

she says as she uses a keycard to enter an airlocked room.

One that's filled with historical artifacts, though not my bread and butter.

The door closes behind us, and she turns to me.

"Do you have it?"

Her eyes, which are hard to see behind her glasses but I know to be the most unusual mixture of honey and moss, are alight with excitement, and she's practically bouncing in her three inch stilettos .

I take pity on her before she breaks an ankle and reach into my pocket, pulling out a brown drawstring pouch.

I hand it over, trying not to laugh at how gently she takes the bag, even though I can tell every muscle in her body wants to snatch it away from me.

She walks quickly over to a table nearby, places the bag down, and opens the top.

Siren and I follow her over and her excitement must be rubbing off because Siren is now hip to hip with her, leaning over to see what's in the bag.

Isadora reaches inside and pulls out something small wrapped in a tan piece of cloth.

I don't have to tell her to be careful.

She knows what she's doing.

She handles the unfolding of the cloth just as carefully as the contents because she knows the cloth is just as old.

With each new layer unfolded, the women's heads get progressively closer to the item.

The moment of truth finally arriving, Isadora unfolds the final piece, revealing … a bug.

A solid gold bug, but still a bug.

The heart scarab dates back to the Middle Kingdom and is worth exponentially more than its weight in gold.

All business now, Isadora slides on a pair of gloves before picking the scarab up to examine it.

Turning it over in her palm, she looks at the etchings on the bottom, tilting it to allow Siren to see while she explains its history in rapid fire.

Isadora was a funny thief.

I likened her to the Egyptian version of Robin Hood.

Except she stole from the rich to give back to the land of her ancestors what was rightfully theirs.

As I glance around the room at some other pieces positioned on the surrounding tables and stands, I ask, "So, what are you doing in a museum in Beaufort, South Carolina?"

She looks up from her position, hunched over the beetle, and her glasses have slid down to the end of her nose.

She uses one finger to push them back up before saying, "I'm the new curator here.

I also might be hiding out."

"You're curating for The Beaufort History Museum??"

I ask incredulously.

That bit is way more surprising than the fact that she's hiding out from someone.

That's just one of the perils of our lines of work.

"Listen, it's a stepping stone, okay? I'm trying to go legit, and it's difficult to do when the field you studied happens to enable your tendency to steal."

Siren snorts out a laugh at that, shrugging and making a face that conveys a very "makes perfect sense to me"

attitude.

Isadora gives her a grin, and if it weren't for their vast differences in appearance and heritage, you'd swear they were sisters conspiring against the world.

"So, should I even ask who you're hiding out from?" I say.

She shakes her head, a piece of wavy blonde hair escaping her bun.

She lets it dangle, which isn't surprising.

I'm sure she's used to it by now.

The mass of dyed blonde waves usually escape whatever messy ponytail she's attempted to pull them up in.

"Nope.

You don't wanna know.

Let's just say, I can't go home at the moment."

Home being Cairo.

"But you'll let me know if you get into trouble and need help?"

I ask, glancing at Siren in the event her mood switches and she suddenly decides to claw my face off.

She doesn't.

She gives Isadora a worried look before glancing at me.

The Egyptian princess shakes her head again, more blonde strands flying.

"I definitely will not .

I can handle myself."

I roll my eyes, and am just about to open my mouth to argue when Siren cuts me off.

"She'll call me instead.

You know, chick support is better than guy support, anyway.

Men don't know how to give advice for shit."

That elicits a laugh from Isadora, and she gladly takes out her phone to program in Siren's number, giving her own in trade.

I stay silent but shake my head. Women .

The newly minted curator finishes up with the scarab, wrapping it back up and tucking it away inside a brown leather bag that she slings over her shoulder.

We follow her out, and once she locks the back door to the museum behind us, she turns to me.

Holding out her hand, she says, "We're square.

Thanks, Deacon.

It means a lot."

I shake her hand with a nod.

Turning to Siren, she holds out a fist for her to bump. She does.

Grinning, I take Siren's hand and pull her away as she puts her fingers to her ears in the universal signal for "call me".

Just before we round the corner, she calls out, "It was nice meeting you, Dora!"

We make our way back to the car at a much slower pace than the one we took on the way in.

Soaking in the night air, I breathe deep.

Or as deep as you can do in some of the most ridiculously humid weather in the United States.

Looking down at Siren, I say, "Wanna walk a little?"

She nods. "Sure."

Tucking her into my side, we bypass the parking garage and walk a ways in the opposite direction.

We'll make our way back eventually, but I'm not in a hurry.

Tomorrow's gonna be a tough day for her.

Merrick, Amelia, and Alexi will be at the house tomorrow night, and I have a feeling that whatever Siren is gonna say will turn my world upside down in one way or another.

For now, I just wanna be a couple, out on a late-night stroll around the city.

We don't need to think about tomorrow.

We can pretend it's just the two of us beneath a blanket of stars tonight.