Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 02 - London Broil

London Broil

Barbara Silkstone

London Broil

Copyright ©2011 Barbara Silkstone

ISBN: 978-09859955-4-6

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and respectfully. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the publisher and purchase your own copy.

The reverse engineering, scanning, uploading, and/or distribution of this ebook via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

Welcome friends,

Thanks for inviting Wendy Darlin back for another archaeological adventure. You may laugh harder through Wendy’s second adventure than you did in her first. I sincerely hope so.

Thanks to my first readers, Amy Pointer, Kristen Stappenbeck-Baker, and Mary Godschalk; to Wendy’s godfather Buck Buchanan for his sharp pencil and screwball humor; and to Shelley Holloway of Holloway House for offering me a second set of editor eyes to ensure my readers can enjoy as error-free a reading experience as possible!

A shout out to graphic artist Katerina Vamvasaki for
London Broil’s
most excellent cover.

***

My name is Wendy Darlin. I’ve been told my life is like the movie Romancing the Stone but at times I feel more like Indiana Jones with boobs.

Until last year I was a full-time real estate agent for Miami Beach millionaires. Then I met Roger Jolley, world famous archaeologist, Johnny Depp look-alike, and at times the most irritating person on the planet. My good heart, snarky mouth, and comedic capers keep me in constant peril.

Chapter 1

S
unlight ricocheted off the waters of Biscayne Bay piercing my tears like painful daggers of light.

Officer Burger put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s pretty much a lost cause.”

My stupid, stupid, pointless lunch meeting with Pierre Delmonico cost me dearly. While I was trying to convince him to make an offer on a garish old beachside mansion, some low-life scum bag took off… My cell phone rang.

“Wendy?”

“Goldie’s gone,” I sobbed to Roger Jolley, my private version of Indiana Jones.

“Oh, my god. Are you okay?” The concern in his voice was comforting. “Wait…who’s Goldie?”

I sniffled. “My Jag.”

“You’re crying over a car! Were you in an accident? Did you hurt your head?”

“No I didn’t hurt my head,” I hissed. “I was in the Au Poivre Hotel meeting a buyer… a potential buyer, and a guy stole her. I handed him the keys and he drove away.”

“Why did you hand over your car keys?” Roger asked in a snarky tone.

“He was dressed like a valet and gave me a receipt. After my meeting, I looked at the ticket. It was for a dry cleaner.”

I could hear the smirk in his voice as he blathered on, completely unsympathetic, “You still want to be part of the recovery of the thirteenth Lost Boy?”

It had been almost two months since Roger and I rescued the Lost Boys from Charlie Hook. “I’ll make it worth your while when I get the reward for the complete set.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be paid for the twelve boys we found? I mean… you found?”

“The deal was for the all the Boys. My client’s withholding payment until all thirteen are safely resting in the British Museum.”

Roger’s lack of sympathy for my loss was irritating. I didn’t carry replacement value insurance on my gorgeous champagne-colored Jaguar. I hadn’t made a sale in almost a year. Money was going out, and none was coming in. The market for Miami Beach mansions was on its knees, and the few real estate agents who remained with me were praying for a sale.

And as much as I hated to admit it, Roger’s Johnny Depp eyes were on my mind and fanning some dormant embers of lust. “Okay…deal.”

I was back on the trail of the Egyptian antiquities known as the Lost Boys, the Shadows, or death icons of the infant sons of the sixth dynasty pharaoh, Kjoser. Roger and I had rescued twelve of the Lost Boys; the thirteenth was in the hands of the thief Hook hired to steal the collection for him. She kept one Lost Boy as her going away present.

“Get yourself over to London on the early morning flight out of Miami and meet with my client Benny Hannah. I’m stuck in Cairo for a few days. Benny has a hot lead on where the missing Lost Boy might be. His chauffeur will meet you at Gatwick.”

Geeze, he was so annoying. “Just what am I supposed to do?”

“Insert yourself into Hannah’s life until I get there. If someone else finds that last Lost Boy, the museum directors could force Benny to pay the reward money to a stranger. We could lose the entire finder’s fee.”

“So it was all or nothing? Why didn’t you tell me that before I risked my life on Hook’s yacht? And how, Mr. Indiana Jones, do I ‘insert’ myself?”

“Benny’s got a weakness for blondes. He’ll love you. Let him feel we’re on the trail. Just check into the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park Hotel on Knightsbridge. I’ll find you there. We can stay at my flat after that.”

“Whoa… you have a flat in London? You never mentioned that.”

“We didn’t have a lot of time to chat when we were captives on Hook’s yacht. There’s gobs you don’t know about me.”

I hesitated, “I can’t disappear on Treanna again. I have to spend some time with her. I can be in London the day after tomorrow… Sunday.”

“Guess that’ll have to do. I’ll email you further details. In code.”

“What code? How will I know what I’m reading?”

“Circle every third word.”

“You maroon. Is that what they teach you in archaeology school? Draw a ring around every third word? Kindergarten stuff. Just send it. I’m so dead in the real estate market, nobody looks at my e-mails anymore. I wish someone would snoop … at least I’d feel noticed.”

“Get the flight. I’ll cover it.”

“Business class?”

I heard him exhale. “Yeah sure. Keep the receipts.”

“What’s my title?”

“You don’t need a title. You’re undercover. You’re Roger Jolley’s Assistant, how about that?”

“That sucks. How about Assistant Tomb Raider?”

He laughed. “Please get it through your head. We’re the opposite of Tomb Raiders. We put back, not take out. See you in London.” He clicked off.

Dumping my phone into my purse, I walked back into the hotel, and plopped into a chair in the lobby with my legs shaking from adrenalin and humiliation. The contemporary neutral palate of tan, white, and black eased my fried nerves. I stared out a three-story wall of glass that faced the marina. Yachts were moored bow to stern like parade elephants.

A herd of sappy memories flooded my brain. Peculiar how cars can become an extension of our beings. I hoped Goldie’s transmission fell out on the thief’s feet. Officer Burger said she’d probably be chopped up for parts. My poor baby. I’d never be able to smell new leather again without tears. But now it was time to call for a rental car and get on with my life. I gathered my things and headed out to the valet’s desk. They’d know the numbers for a good rent-a-car shop.

I noticed an elegant sign standing on the marble floor near the reception desk. Lured by the Feng Shui photo with the words
Harmony Spa
in scrolling silver letters, I moved closer.
High-energy sound waves liberate skin congestion while delicately pushing super-antioxidants deep into the dermal matrix. This therapy superbly combines the latest technological modalities achieving visible age-defying results.

It would be nice to be glowing when I saw that annoying Roger again. We’d exchanged sweaty goodbye hugs and a pretty sexy kiss in a private hanger at Miami International the last time we were together. Then he was off to return the twelve Lost Boys to the British Museum, while I brought the orphaned poodle Tinkerbelle to Treanna.

The dimly lit lounge next to the spa sign beckoned. How best to spend my mad money? A glassful of the best scotch the Au Poivre could offer or stimulate my pores in preparation for my rendezvous with Roger? My dermal matrix could use some attention, but so could my nerves.

When in doubt, opt for both. I got a double Glenfiddich Special Reserve Scotch at the bar and took it with me. I pressed the elevator button and rode to the spa on the 20
^th
floor.

***

Roger’s email arrived that night. I circled every third word. Benny Hannah lived in the South Bank area within sight of the London Eye. He’d been the director of antiquities for Idi Amin’s private collection and had escaped from Uganda one step ahead of a machete. Benny was Roger Jolley’s special client, and I was about to enter his world. I felt a rush of monkey-energy. Wendy Darlin, Assistant Tomb Raider, was about to leap into action…after I played Big Sister.

Chapter 2

T
reanna and I shared garlic bread as we waited for our spaghetti and meatballs at her favorite, The Spaghetti Factory. We’d been coming here since our first get-acquainted lunch almost a year ago. We’d recently celebrated her sixth birthday here. I couldn’t imagine not spending Saturdays with her. She brought me such joy and put my problems in perspective as only a child can do.

Grandma Matty had done up Treanna’s black hair in tiny tight braids ending in two purple barrettes at the back of her head. She was wearing a lavender and purple party dress with full crinolines and lace edging. She looked like a little doll.

I approached breaking my travel news to her with trepidation. My last jaunt was supposed to have taken only a few days. Being kidnapped had not been on my radar. I was gone for weeks. Treanna was sure I’d abandoned her.

“Tinkerbelle looks like she loves living with you. You’re a good mama to her.” It must have been the tone of my voice, because Tre flashed me a darkened glare.

She looked from under her long black lashes. “People who go away from me don’t get to read me a story. They might not even get to read me two stories. I have to think about it.”

I jerked back. “Are you a mind reader? I have to go help a friend.”

We finished our lunch in kid-grumpy silence. Treanna rolled her last meatball around the edge of her plate, ignoring me. She pulled out her oversized sunglasses and slipped them on, her signal that she was shutting down.

I had to go. She had to learn to trust me. Treanna had been unable to get close to anyone. Her short life had been one of abandonment and solitude. Grandma Matty did her best, but she lacked the energy to spend time with the child. They spent their days watching old movies on the Turner Classic Movies; it was the only world she knew. Tre fancied herself Audrey Hepburn.

Even though I’d picked out a purple rental car in the hopes Treanna would enjoy riding in her favorite color, she didn’t speak until I drove onto her block. Then she reached over and patted my hand. “I want to give you a going away present. Something that will make you come back to me.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll come back. I promise.”

“Pull around the back in the alley. I can run in and get it.”