T is for Temptation (61 page)

Alex spoke, “I’ll tell the tale, gentlemen.”

After he finished the succinct, but most convincing summary of events, Alex took a lawyer’s tact. “What about your investigation? Any news?”

“We seem to have met the proverbial wall. Wherever Leandro, the caretaker, and Constantine are, they’re not using credit of any kind. No attempts to obtain any of the money in their bank accounts. For the last twenty-four hours, we haven’t had a single valid tip on the hotline. And unless something turns up soon, we’ll have to shut it down. Budgets and that sort of thing.”

“What about the information I requested?” Jake queried.

“Ah, the e-mail yesterday.” Sir Arthur sipped his Scotch and then answered. “Not an area we haven’t explored since
Constantine
’s exposure as a mole. Research cannot confirm
Constantine
’s missing years. From the time he was eight until after he turned seventeen, there are no records on file. His father is a Swiss citizen, his mother German, but they lived in
Italy
, and that was his first language. There is no pre-war information on either parent, and records only appear on them around late 1947.”

“I can’t imagine any mother allowing her son to be separated from her at such a young age,” Tee said. “Unless he went to a boarding school?”

“We attempted to check his admission records at UCLA. They’re missing, and there's no record he graduated from any secondary school. We did manage to obtain a record of him sitting the
SAT
around that time, but that’s about it. From his entry into UCLA, we have piecemeal information on file, but there are several periods before he was employed by Interpol where he seems to have gone into hibernation.”

“So nothing conclusive.”

Arthur shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“How does this impact Tee’s safety?” Jake asked. “She’s seen him.”

“The man we know as
Constantine
has been in the public eye for many years, a great many people can identify him. I see no reason Tallulah is in any danger,” Arthur answered.

“What about Graziella and the caretaker?”

“As far as we can determine, after
Trent
’s purported death, someone tapped all of his electronic information. No clues on the source. It could be Leandro or her stepbrother, but it happened almost immediately, as if someone expected his death.” Arthur glanced at his watch. “In my opinion, you have nothing to worry about from that section. I predict the Uruguayan connection will lose interest in all of you. We’ll keep an eye on everyone for the coming month.”

“My new position comes with 24/7 bodyguards and strict security for me and my immediate family. Between the Met and
Trinidad
security, I’m confident you’ll be fine, Daughter,” Henry stated.

“Do you have any idea of how much longer you’ll be remaining in the
UK
?”

“Actually, Arthur, I’m returning to
Trinidad
tomorrow on the evening flight. There are many details to be settled before my investiture as president.” Henry grinned. “You will, of course, be receiving an invitation to the event.”

“Dad, when is the ceremony due to take place?”

“On the last Friday of next month.”

“Well, if there’s nothing else pressing, I’ll take my leave.” Arthur rose to his feet.

“We can’t thank you enough for your support and your help, Arthur,” Henry said as he stood. “I could never repay you for all you’ve done.”

“Actually, old boy, the wife and I have always wanted to see your Trinidad Carnival.” The man’s cheeks reddened.

“Consider it done and from the president’s viewing stand, no less. We’ll plan it when you come for the investiture.”

Everyone murmured their gratitude and goodbyes, and Henry saw Sir Flood out the door.

While everyone was busy, Jake touched Tee’s cheek and asked, “Are we going to tell them?”

“About the baby or the wedding?”

“We have to tell them about the wedding,” he replied. “If it’s going to happen in two weeks. That’s one month before your father’s investiture. Will you have enough time?”

“The only thing Dad and Tricia have to do for the investiture is show up. Everything’s planned by government officials.” She grinned. “Tricia will relish something she can control, believe me. It annoys her to no end to that she’s uninvolved in the whole thing.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Henry sat opposite them and picked up his glass of Scotch.

“We’re hoping to get married in two weeks, if that’s okay with you,” Jake explained. “Tiny will have to return to his time, and it will be difficult to keep his presence a secret for a long period.”

“What bull,” Alex interjected. “You can’t stand the thought of being away from Tee.”

“I won’t be,” he said smugly. “She’s coming back with me to Boca to help me arrange moving
Trent
and Mathews’ headquarters to
Trinidad
. I figure two days and then we head to T ’n’ T.”

“You sound like a native already, m’boy.” Henry spoke jovially, his brown eyes glistening and radiating joy. “Welcome to the family.”

Two weeks later; Callum Ferguson’s Land in
Tobago

From his vantage point on the rocky cliffs, Tiny used the modern tool, binoculars they called them, to observe the ceremony taking place on the beach below. The last two weeks had been a window on this modern world, and he was still uncertain the changes over the centuries benefited mankind. It certainly proved disastrous for Mother Earth. New concepts danced through his brain: global warming, mass transit, grocery stores, Kellog’s Frosted Flakes, and Tony the Tiger.

He focused the lens on Alex and Dee as they waited for the wedding song to begin.

Quarreling as usual.

The heat between those two could power skyscrapers, buildings he wasn’t certain he approved of.

A small steel band played a lilting version of King Harvest’s “Dancing in the Moonlight,” and the music wafted upwards, casting a hypnotic spell over the wedding guests basking in the sultry
Caribbean
evening. The soft, tropical trade winds whispered across the bay, cooling the sun’s warm rays.

And the bride wore a long, flowing, ivory, sleeveless silk gown brushed with hints of tawny gold. Her curly, bronzed hair flirted with the gentle sea breezes. The setting sun hung like a glowing ball above the blue horizon of the
Caribbean Sea
line. It cast a radiant luster over the secluded bay, highlighting the center of the sandy cove.

And the groom wore white. His linen shirt hung loose over his trousers. It fluttered in the wind. His black curls grew damp from the faint sea spray misting off the foamy turquoise waves lapping the powder-fine, brilliant, white beach fringe.

The bride’s bare toes slid over the cool, damp sand as she glided to her groom. Her father whispered words of pride and joy on the seemingly interminable walk to her mate.

The groom tapped his bare foot against the coarse sand and shifted from one foot to the other. His best man clamped a hand around his bicep to still his movements.

A soft neigh drew everyone’s attention.

Brandy stamped his disapproval of the pink ribbons weaved liberally in and out of his coarse black mane, the feminine touch incongruous on such a powerful stallion. If a horse could look embarrassed, this one did.

Something brushed the back of the groom’s neck, and he flicked a finger against the skin there. Another feather touch tickled his right cheek, and he swiped a hand at the spot, capturing something in the center of his palm. His lips curved into a foolish grin.

It was raining rose petals.

THE END

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