It’s anyone’s guess.
One thing I do know. It’ll nuke our truce, whether she hears it from me or Pauline. And she’ll be too worked up to share my bed tonight.
Or tomorrow.
Or ever.
I mutter a curse and pocket the phone.
Shame burns.Does it make me a coward if I don’t tell her right away?
Absolutely.
But if it buys me one more night with Eva, I’ll take the hit.
22
ALEX
Eva and I are back in the archives after giving the MESS agents a tour of both tunnels. They showed up with scanners, drones, and a set of sleek steel cases. Now they’re crawling all over the slope and the lodge while we prepare to dive into the records once more.
Eva tosses her blazer over a chair and pulls her hair up, ready to dig. A few strands fall forward, and I fight the urge to tuck them back.
We pick up where we’d left off.
Eva flips through a thick binder labeled Hospitality Projects – General. “You think we’ll actually find something?”
“Definesomething.” I pull a stack of loose files toward me. “Proof the tunnels are haunted? Probably not. Proof Geoffroy was involved in something shady? Possible.”
“God.” She looks worried.
I am, too.
We both have every right to be. No matter who wins tomorrow—and she doesn’t seem to know my victory is imminent—Geoffroy’s involvement would be bad news. It would tarnish the family, the estate, the duchy, and make economic recovery tougher.
Ten minutes later, Eva makes a noise that’s half surprise, half triumph. I lean over, close enough to catch the faint citrus scent of her shampoo.
On the table between us is an email printout from a year ago.
Eva points at the sender’s name. “It’s Geoffroy’s investor for the luxury resort project.”
I read the email.
I think we should switch to the lower meadow site. The slope is too remote.
Then I read Geoffroy’s reply.
Absolutely not. The slope is perfect. Best view in the duchy. I want the hotel there.
“If he’d known about a smuggling tunnel,” I say, “this would read differently.”
Eva’s eyes stay on the page. “He’d have been hiding it, not fighting for the spot.”
I slide the email toward her, my fingers brushing hers. She sets it aside for Von Dietz and we keep going.
My fingers are blackening with dust when I pull out a rolled survey map dated five years ago.
“Geological report,” I tell her, unrolling it.
