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“But are you getting anywhere?”

“Lourds is beginning to think we may need to go to West Africa.”

There was silence on the phone for a moment. “West bloody Africa? The four of you?”

Leslie decided not to pull any punches. Gary was a given, and—even though she didn’t care for Natasha Safarov—the Russian policewoman had skills and access to information that she herself couldn’t get. Yet.

“Yes. The four of us.”

Wynn-Jones let out a long breath and followed it almost immediately with an equally long string of curses.

“You’re breaking my bloody balls here, Leslie. You know that, don’t you?”

“You’ve got to give us a little more time.”

“Time is money in this business, love. You know that.”

“I also know that exposure means money.” Leslie turned back from the window because the traffic in the streets below was too distracting. She looked at the television.

She’d turned to Discovery Channel out of habit. The programs there could offer ideas and markets for what she wanted to do, as well as give her an idea of the competition she faced.

Bizarrely, given the dinner conversation, tonight featured one of the retread documentaries on Atlantis. With the excavation going on in Cádiz, the whole world was thinking about Atlantis.

But the program gave Leslie’s mind—fueled by desperation because she felt certain Lourds would proceed on without her at this point—an idea.

“The remnants of a prehistoric band isn’t going to be worth much,” Wynn-Jones protested.

“Not prehistoric,” Leslie said automatically. She knew she was mentally channeling one of Lourds’s lectures over the last few days. What was that phrase he’d used?

“What?”

“Prehistoric refers to a time before there were any written records. The bell and the cymbal are definitely from . . .” She fumbled for the term. “. . . the historic period.”

“Great. You’re getting an education. Not exactly what I had in mind when you and the professor went haring about the world.”

Leslie’s eyes focused on the television screen. Stock footage of great crystal towers from some cheesy science fiction movie rolled. After a moment, tides swept over the city and shattered it into a million pieces.

“What if,” Leslie said, “I can give you Atlantis?”

Wynn-Jones snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, they’ve found Atlantis. It’s in Cádiz, Spain.”

“What if they’re wrong?” Leslie said.

“The Roman Catholic Church is backing that dig.” Even though Wynn-Jones remained a naysayer, interest sounded in his voice. “They’re seldom wrong about things like that.”

“They’re wrong all the time. Think of the sexual attitudes of their priests.” Before Wynn-Jones could say anything, Leslie hurried on. “The bell and the cymbal have writing on them that Lourds has never seen before. He’s tracked the cymbal to the Yoruba people—who live in West Africa, hence the need to go there—and found indications that the artifacts are remnants of the civilization of Atlantis.”

“They came from Spain?”

“No. It’s beginning to look like Atlantis was off the coast of West Africa. Or part of the coast of West Africa.” Leslie thought that was how Lourds had explained the situation.

“They’re pretty certain about Cádiz,” Wynn-Jones said.

But Leslie knew she had the man thinking. Both of them were driven to grab attention to themselves if they could.

“What if they’ve got it wrong?” Leslie asked. “What if, given time, we can deliver the true location of Atlantis?”

“That’s a tall order.”

“Think about it, Philip. International media has been making love to this story since it began. Atlantis Found! Remember all those headlines we laughed about?”

They had laughed about those, but they’d also grudgingly admitted they wished they had gotten to work the story.

“The public’s appetite has been whetted for this story,” Leslie pointed out. “If Lourds can get us into part of that story, we’d be a smash. But if we could steal it away from them—”

She left the rest unsaid. She knew Wynn-Jones. His mind would cycle through the possibilities.

“All right,” Wynn-Jones said. “I’ll give you West Africa. But you’d better hope there’s a bloody story there.”

Leslie did. She didn’t know if it was Atlantis, but she was certain there was enough there to mollify the corporation when the time came. If there wasn’t, she might be out of a job. But that was the risk. Playing it safe wasn’t going to get her anywhere. And she planned on going places, big-time.

After thanking Wynn-Jones, she rang off and started to punch in Lourds’s room number to let him know they’d been cleared for Africa. But she was still slightly flush with the wine. There was also that itch she had to contend with.

She decided to deliver the message in person. She opened her handbag and took out the spare key for Lourds’s room. He hadn’t thought anything of the fact he’d gotten only one key.

Smiling, feeling hopeful, she headed out the door.

Natasha stepped out of the elevator in time to see Leslie walk past. Suspicious, still bothered by how easily Patrizio Gallardo and his men seemed to find them in Odessa, Natasha followed.

After dinner had broken up, she’d taken a cab to a club a few blocks away and checked in with Ivan Chernovsky. She didn’t want him to know what hotel they were staying at. He hadn’t been home. His wife had told Natasha that Chernovsky was working a murder.

That news had made Natasha feel guilty. Chernovsky was out there on the streets, possibly facing danger, and she wasn’t there to cover his back. His wife, Anna, had let Natasha know she was concerned about her. Evidently Chernovsky had been talking to her about everything. Natasha had assured Anna that she was fine and asked her to tell Chernovsky that she would call again soon.

Natasha stayed back, but if Leslie had turned to check, she would have been caught. Thankfully, her room was also this way. She had an excuse.

But Leslie didn’t turn once from her destination. She headed straight for Lourds’s door. She halted there and raised her hand to knock. Then she reached into her handbag and took out a card.

She swiped the card and watched as the light flashed green. Then she went inside.

Natasha never broke stride, but she felt deeply disturbed. The thing that bothered her most was she didn’t know why she felt that way. It had been apparent from the beginning that Leslie was crushing on the professor. Natasha wondered, though, if Lourds would be vain enough to think it was anything more than that.

That could be a problem. Natasha needed Lourds up and thinking correctly if she was going to have a real chance at finding Yuliya’s killers.

But Natasha was also aware that on some level she didn’t like the idea of Lourds being with another woman. Another. She caught that quirk in her thoughts and was unhappy with herself.

She thought about going to Lourds’s door and crashing the party, then decided that was too juvenile. Instead, she went to her room and ordered a bottle of Finlandia Vodka. It gave her a small sense of satisfaction to put it on the room’s tab and know that Leslie was going to have to account for it.

Excitement burned through Leslie when she heard the running water and the steam coming out of the bathroom. Lourds was in the shower. It wasn’t exactly what she had in mind, but it would be fun. She felt a smile spread across her face.

The television was on and was tuned to CNN. The computer was open on the desk and she could see that he’d been working.

Leslie hesitated, though. Okay, you’re in or you’re out, she told herself. She took a quick breath, dropped her handbag, kicked off her shoes, and peeled her clothes off.

Totally starkers, she stepped into the bathroom.

Lourds lay in the deep bathtub with his head back and his eyes closed. At first Leslie thought he was asleep. But when she moved toward him and her shadow tracked across his face, he snapped his eyes open.

When he saw her, he didn’t try to cover up or act modest. He just lay there and looked at her. Then he smiled.

“I don’t suppose you accidentally ended up in the wrong room,” he said.

Leslie giggled. That she hadn’t expected. But one of the things she’d come to appreciate about Lourds over the last nineteen days she’d known him was his sense of humor.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

But he didn’t invite her in, either.

“Do you mind?” she asked as she pointed to the bath.

“Not at all. Although seating could be a little difficult.”

Leslie stepped into the bath with her feet outside Lourds’s legs and sat across his thighs. For a moment she didn’t know how interested he was going to be in what she had in mind. If he wasn’t intrigued he would have sent you away. Then his interest manifested, hard and insistent, as it glided up between her thighs and pressed against her lower stomach.

“Well, now,” Lourds said, grinning. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“It’s not pleasure,” Leslie said. “Yet. But I think it will be.” She leaned into him and kissed him deeply. The heat of his body lit flames inside hers. Her mind swirled and her thoughts shattered into a kaleidoscope of sensory overload.

He smelled of soap and male musk. His lips tasted like wine. Leslie could only hear her heart beating inside her head as his rough hands roved freely over her body. He gripped her hips and pulled her in for a tighter fit, but he didn’t try to penetrate her. His proximity was maddening, though, because it was right there.

Leslie rolled her hips and tried to capture him so he would slide into place. He flexed his thighs and avoided her intimate embrace.

“Not yet,” he whispered against her throat.

“I thought you were ready,” she said.

“I am,” he told her. “But you’re not.”

She started to object and tell him that she was ready. If anyone would know she was ready, it was her. And she was more than ready.

His hand slipped in between them as they kissed. He bit her lips as he touched her gently. She doubted he’d find what he was looking for. That bloody spot—the one that felt so good—was never in the same place twice. At least, that was the way it seemed.

But he did find it. His fingertips rubbed just hard enough to rob the breath from her lungs. She bent her back and leaned away from him so she could press her clitoris against his fingers. She rocked with him and couldn’t believe he’d so easily found what she sometimes got frustrated searching for.

He bent toward her and kissed her face and neck. But she was so locked into the vibrant need coursing through her that she couldn’t respond.

In the next instant, warmth flooded her loins as her hips jerked toward him. She bucked and rocked as she rode his hand. The world came to a quiet and gentle stop. She took a shuddering breath.

“Wow,” she whispered. She leaned into him when he drew his hand back. His chest felt warm and solid against her breasts.

“ ‘Wow,’ indeed,” Lourds agreed.

“Am I ready now?”

“I think you are.” With surprising strength, Lourds stood in the tub and stepped out. Leslie kept her legs tight around him.

He deposited her on the floor, then briskly toweled her dry. Even that contact sent her senses reeling. It was made even worse when he leaned in to kiss her but somehow avoided her own efforts.

“You’re a tease,” she accused.

“I hardly think so.”

She toweled him off, too, but was more direct with her attentions. She dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth. That caught him by surprise, but he resisted her best attempts to bring him over the edge. That was more than a little frustrating, but she looked forward to breaking down his resistance.

“Okay,” he said in a thick voice. “That’ll be enough of that.”

“For the moment,” she agreed.

Lourds bent and picked her up in his arms, cradling her like a child. She luxuriated in feeling small and defenseless in his embrace, though she knew she was anything but. The hunger in her belly fired anew as he carried her to the bed.

He laid her on it gently, then climbed aboard with her. She looked up into his eyes as she felt his hand nudge between her thighs and start caressing her again. She had no doubt now that he could bring that to a successful conclusion again, but she wanted more.

She rolled him over onto his back, threw a leg across his hips, and pushed herself on top. She teased him for a moment, raking her slick loins against his erection, but figured out that he could handle any amount of teasing that she wanted to dish out.

Leslie laughed.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You,” she said. “I hadn’t thought you would have this kind of control.”

“Not control,” Lourds said. “Consider it a compliment. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“I am.” Leslie canted her hips a final time and eased him into her, claiming his flesh as her own. “But I like it best when I’m in control.” She settled onto him, found the rhythm of the bed, and proceeded to grind him into dust.

CHAPTER

15

BASE CAMP

ATLANTIS DIG SITE

CÁDIZ, SPAIN

SEPTEMBER 4, 2009

F

ather Emil Sebastian roused when he heard his name called. When he looked up from the cot where he slept, he saw a hooded figure looming over him. Panic nearly throttled him because the figure reminded him of the nightmares he’d had for the past few weeks since his descent into the underground.

Then the figure adjusted the flame inside the lantern he carried.

Demons wouldn’t need a lantern, Sebastian thought. His fear subsided. How could he have thought such a thing?

If he hadn’t already been seeing disturbing images when he slept, though, he might have blamed the horror movie some of the dig workers had watched on DVD last night. He hadn’t intended to join them, but he loved a good scary story. He’d been fond of the genre since he was a kid—it was a childhood thrill he couldn’t put away in spite of his fifty-six years.

“Are you awake, Father?” the young man asked politely. The lantern revealed his features then. They were angelic, not demonic. His voice was almost too soft to be heard over the constant throb of the diesel generators that supplied the base camp with electricity.

“I’m awake, Matteo.” Sebastian fumbled on the tent floor beside his bed and found his glasses and watch. It was 3:42.

A.M.

“Has something happened?”

There had been three cave-ins so far, but—thank God!—none of them had yet proved fatal. Four men had gone to the hospital with broken bones, though.

“Nothing bad, Father,” Matteo said. “What’s happened is good. Come see.”

“Help me find my shoes.” In the darkness and with his night vision so impaired, Sebastian had trouble finding things. Worse yet, he couldn’t actually remember where he’d taken his shoes off.

Matteo played the lantern around and pointed to the father’s feet.

“You’re still wearing them, Father,” the young man said.

“Ah, so I am.”

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” Matteo told him. “You’ll get fungus.”

Sebastian knew that from the countless warnings they’d been given before the advent into the cave system that had been revealed during the underwater quake that had dredged up the new shoreline from sixty feet of water. The cave system, after having been underwater for so long, remained a wet environment. Bacteria and fungus could grow rapidly.