He hated that she’d seen him with Staci, and later, he should’ve called her when her father died. But he couldn’t tell her what he believed her father had done, not when she was deep in grief. Failing to offer an explanation for his absence would hardly be a comfort.
“It’s good to see you, Kira.” He didn’t think he’d ever said truer words. The last time he’d looked into her eyes, her face had been swollen and her forehead split open. It was damn good to see her today, bruise-free.
He glanced around the room, which had gone silent at some point after Kira choked upon seeing him. “Er…I hope you don’t mind my crashing your class.”
Her gorgeous, long-lashed hazel eyes narrowed, but a smile tugged at her perfect red lips. She took a step toward him, but remained just out of reach. “This session is pretty basic for someone with your experience and type of deployment. I’m sure you know Diana will be teaching a more advanced class for Navy and Army special forces next month.”
That almost-smile was everything. He grinned back, feeling more confident by the moment. A lot of women found him attractive, and he was fairly certain Dr. Kira Hanson was within that Venn diagram. He dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “I don’t mind redundancy in education. SEALs are all about training and learning. We practice over and over, even when we have a skill down.”
Her face, which had returned to her natural pale peach, flushed again as she rolled her eyes. “Your choice, of course, but you’ll probably be bored.”
With Kira at the lectern? Never.
“Can we chat after class?”
She grimaced. “Actually, I’m on a tight schedule and need to hit the road.”
“Five minutes? Please?”
She huffed out a sigh. “Fine. But that’s all I can spare.” She glanced at her watch. “And I’m now running behind.” She turned and took her place at the lectern.
Rand settled into his front-row seat. After six months of wondering, waiting, and wanting, in two hours, he’d get a five-minute, private, face-to-face with Dr. Kira Hanson.
Kira smiled at the roomful of students who’d just witnessed her spew a mouthful of water on the commander of a Navy SEAL team.
Don’t try this at home, kids. I’m a professional.
But as usually happened in these sorts of situations, the ridiculousness of the moment took the edge off. Session one had been fine, two even better, but three… Well, she stuck the landing.
Or rather, since she was pinch-hitting, it was a home run.
Her ego appreciated that this was the session in which Rand was front row, center, even though she avoided his gaze the entire time. She was working. Dialed in. This was her forte.
The students laughed at her—or rather Diana’s—jokes, and where appropriate, Kira expanded on her expertise when it came to identifying fake provenance for potentially legal sales. Provenance traps were the bread and butter of forgers and fakers, and their prey ranged from big-cat super-rich collectors to tiny-kitten servicemen and women looking to bring home a souvenir from deployment.
She clicked to the slide that listed the fines and felony charges one faced when bringing looted artifacts into the US. “Nothing spoils a homecoming more than being arrested at the end of the gangplank.”
A few people snickered, but there was enough uncomfortable shifting in seats to tell her that the message hit home. She did the thing she usually avoided and met the gazes of random students. “If you have in your possession artifacts or art that might have been fraudulently obtained, there are amnesty programs to return the item to the country or community where it belongs. Likewise, if you have family members who might have taken art or antiquities in the past, you can contact the Monuments Men and Women Foundation to discuss repatriation without penalty. The Foundation doesn’t care that your grandpa—or in this room, more likely great-grandparent—took a relic from a church or saved an illuminated manuscript from a Nazi book burning, but then kept it for him or herself. The mission is to return the works to their rightful owners. In some cases, there are rewards of up to twenty-five thousand dollars.”
She touched the remote to give the MMWF website information, and an image of the Foundation’s WWII Most Wanted Art deck of cards, which showcased some of the major works that remained missing since the war. “We’ve arranged with the Foundation for all class attendees to receive their own deck of cards. Grab one from the table at the back of the room on your way out. This concludes the prepared lecture, and we have”—she glanced at the clock—“five minutes for questions.”
She cruised through the Q&A, and next thing she knew, it was over. And it had been easy. Fun, even.
But the most intense part of the day—five minutes that loomed both ominous and wonderful—was about to start.
Chapter Three
Several students made their way to the front of the room to ask Kira questions before filing out. Rand sat back and watched the woman, who’d transformed while teaching into the person he’d spent a few intriguing hours with last December.
She’d started out timid when they first met too. But once she warmed up, she’d been radiant. It was the same today. He’d enjoyed the metamorphosis when it was just for him, but it was even more impressive to watch her bloom in front of a lecture hall full of strangers.
And now he enjoyed watching her in the one-on-one chats with the students. She laughed, made jokes, and then deftly ushered them out of the room as she packed up her teaching materials.
At last, he had her all to himself.
She nodded toward the door. “I need to drop the room key in my base sponsor’s cubicle, which is upstairs.”
He followed her through the door into the main corridor. As she locked the door, her flushed, happy face turned somber, reminding him they had serious ground to cover.
The hall was empty, so he launched right in. “I’m so sorry about your father.”
She gave a short nod as she tucked away the key and headed toward the staircase. Her gaze was on her feet as she said, “Thank you. I thought maybe you’d reach out before or after he died. I’ll admit, it hurt that you never replied to my email.”
“The one where you told me to leave you alone? Or the one that said your boyfriend wants me to stop emailing you?”
Her head snapped up. “What?”
He shrugged. “All I know is what I received.”
She resumed walking. When she reached the stairs, she climbed one, then turned to face him. The stair gave her a boost, and they stood eye to eye. “I don’t have a boyfriend. And why would I complain about emails I never received?”
The confusion on her face was genuine. He’d expected that. But there was no way he could have had this conversation with her months ago, when her father was gravely ill or very recently deceased.
“I emailed you a half dozen times in those first weeks, Kira.”
