The Travelers by Chris Pavone Read Free Book Online Page A

Red Sea and the Dead Sea and Death Valley and the Valley of the Gods. Take that, Johnny Cash.
    Now what?
    “And there you have it, Elle Hardwick: my résumé.” He takes a sip of water. This is going to be a long night, and he doesn’t want to get too drunk, too early. No, he wants to get just the right amount of drunk, at the proper time.
    “What has been your secret of success, Mr. Rhodes?”
    “No secret. Not that much success.”
    “Come on.”
    “Oh I don’t know. I guess I work hard.”
    “Meaning?”
    “I read a lot. I eat and drink a lot. I
learn
a lot.”
    “And the writing bit?”
    “I revise a lot. Writing
is
revising.” Enough. This is as long as he should talk about himself, which was already too long. “And you? What did you do before…um…”
    “Australian Adventurer.
I’m freelance for them, actually. Not on staff.”
    “Right.”
    “Before this, I…I guess you could say I got around. For example: I got around to that panel discussion you were on, in Austin.”
    For a second Will draws a blank, then remembers. “Oh good God. You didn’t.”
    “I certainly did. I thought you were brilliant, Will Rhodes. Absolutely brilliant. But I didn’t recognize you without the beard. You look better this way.”
    He appraises her in the candlelight, the dimples and the half-smile, the arched eyebrow, the long elegant neck and the tan toned forearms, the ring finger that doesn’t bear a ring. A beautiful sexy stranger who lives very, very far away.
    “So, any advice for me? What should I absolutely make sure to do?”
    Will knows how he wants to answer, but suddenly he’s afraid of the double entendres, the direct glances, afraid of flirting too much. Flirting usually seems innocuous, nothing will come of it, no harm, no foul, just fun. But here, now, her? Will is not so sure. This doesn’t seem all that innocent.
    “You should say yes to everything.”
    “
Oui
, Monsieur Rhodes?” She raises that eyebrow again. “
Every
thing?”
    —
    Will’s night rushes by in the distracting haze of this woman’s alluring gaze, course after course—soup and fish and meat and salad and cheese and dessert—with wines to match from the famous cellar, and the wax cascading down the sides of the candles in windblown patterns, spreading leeward onto linens splattered with ruby drops from the pheasant’s berry sauce and golden drips from the fish’s saffron sauce, littered with bread crumbs and flakes of white-dusted cheese crusts, and spent wooden matches and ashtrays filled with lipstick-stained cigarette butts, and purses and eyeglasses and corks and a knocked-over vase whose single lily lies on the table, as if reclining, having had too much to drink, deciding to just go to sleep here in the midst of the party, good night.
    “So let’s get back to our interview, Mr. Rhodes. Tell me,” Elle says, leaning forward, elbows on table, “about your childhood.”
    “Well, Ms. Hardwick, I was born a poor black child.”
    A burst of surprised laughter escapes her. “We don’t hear a lot of references to
The Jerk
in Australia.”
    “I’m surprised you hear any.”
    “Well, I do get out, every so often.”
    “And we’re all grateful for it.”
    “Are you, Will Rhodes?” She arches that eyebrow.
    “Yes. I think I am.”
    They stare at each other, holding gazes for a time-stopped eternity, before she breaks the spell. “So where are you from? How far has your life traveled to arrive here at this table, with me?”
    Will takes a sip of wine, swirls it on his palate, pretending to do a bit of his job before returning his attention to something that’s not.
    “Nondescript upbringing in St. Paul, Minnesota. Do you know where that is?”
    “Hmm. Do I fly over it on my way to New York?”
    “You fly over everything on your way to New York.”
    “Well then, I know
exactly
where it is.”
    “I graduated from a Midwestern university with negligible employment-related skills and a fortune’s worth of