Page 49 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
Hunter’s already asking Google, trying to see if there’s a connection between Caribaldi and Baron Z’s Fantastical Showcase. “There’s nothing here about Caribaldi having a connection to Baron Z’s, and that circus was shuttered a few years later. Left for pieces on the side of the railroad. Picked over by other circuses for parts in 1924, like the Water for Elephants guy. As for Caribaldi, Jack and his family ran their circus till they switched, along with the Valentinas, to the theater business in the forties, so I don’t think Caribaldi was connected.”
My eyes widen, and I clasp a hand to my mouth.
“What is it?”
“The Sun! The Lost City of the Sun! The Most Amazing Big Top under the Sun. Edward must have named the lost city he found after where he met his wife.”
Hunter’s smile deepens. “That’s it. But—”
A clock ticks loudly, portentously. I swing my gaze to the grandfather timekeeper. Nine thirty. We’re due at the house in an hour to catalog more of the estate.
We fly down the stairs, past the receptionist, who waves madly. “Bye, Hunter! Bye, Presley! Hope you found what you were looking for!”
“We did,” I call out.
“So much good stuff, Melody. You’re the best,” he shouts, flashing her a movie-star smile that’ll surely make her giddy. “Thank you so much.”
“It was so very good to see you. Can’t wait to hear how it all turns out.”
“How what turns out?” I ask Hunter as we rush.
“The Valentina house,” he says, like it’s obvious. Funny, how it almost feels like we’re working on something else. Something more personal and private.
As we slide inside the limo, I’m tempted to say, Step on it!
But this is New York City and traffic is real. There is no stepping on it.
Hunter leans forward, asking Lenny to drive quickly and efficiently.
“I’ll put on the turbo boost, but drive like it’s a Volvo,” Lenny remarks.
Hunter thanks him, then presses the button to raise the partition, the tinted window sealing us in our portion of the car.
“Is it terrible that I want to skip this house and spend the day chasing down these clues?” I ask, not feeling guilty in the least. I’m buoyed by the unexpected discovery of a love affair between two performers back in the heyday of the traveling circus.
“Only if it’s terrible that I want the same,” he says wryly, and right here, right now, I’d like to play hooky of another variety. Say goodbye to the day, grab him by the shirt collar, and kiss the hell out of him until we’re doing so much more than kissing. Let the record reflect there is no bigger turn-on than a love story. Than someone else’s love story, really, with all its exquisite ache.
But the clock doesn’t lie, and we’re on a deadline.
Work beckons, and I should call my boss. I reach for the buckle of the seat belt. It sticks again as I tug it from the leather. Hunter stretches his arm across me, and this time he doesn’t hide that he’s brushing his hand down my arm, over my chest, then to my waist. He wiggles his brows. His eyes glint.
His touch is electric, but I can’t give in at this moment. “I need to call Daniel and tell him what we found.”
I expect a protest, but I get none. Only a nod of understanding. “Of course,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. “Because these letters are priceless in a way I never expected.”
Sparks race through me, the absolute delight of knowing that he feels the same damn thing I do. “But isn’t that the point of an adventure? You don’t always know what’s next.”
“Look at you. Becoming my partner in adventure.”
This feeling? It’s all bright and neon, like a bridge lit up at night. “I love that you’re excited about the letters. I thought you’d only be happy with rubies and sapphires.”
His lips curve up in a grin. “The letters rock, and I’d like to cover them for the special. Can you even imagine?”
His eyes glint with possibility—of high ratings, I presume—and my excitement dims. The show. The damn show. Intellectually, I understand why he wants to cover the letters. But emotionally, I feel strangely protective of the love story. “You do?”
Except I have the same goals after all. A great TV special could make my stock rise when it comes to jobs and book ideas, and since I’ve been trading at penny levels, I might as well coattail off Hunter. It’s better if we get coverage for the letters. It’ll draw more attention to the collection and to my work. That’s what I’ve longed for—to be singled out for the art history work I love madly.
“Hell, yeah,” Hunter says emphatically. “The letters are incredible. Better than buried treasure.”
“But we still have to ask Corinne and Joseph.”
