Page 8 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“Rhonda Wells is an old friend of mine,” she said. “She’s filled me in on some things.”

Arthur inclined his head in my direction. “Rhonda owns a gallery in town, and her son, Tristan, is one of our co-founders.”

Lance took a sip of his water. “Most of us met on a joint military and intelligence operation during the Global War on Terror, protecting sensitive sites.”

“Afghanistan, specifically,” Arthur said. “The archaeologists we worked with were uncovering Bactrian and Silk Road artifacts which attracted the wrong kind of attention.”

“Gold like that buys a lot of weapons,” Lance said. “We spent most of our time making sure insurgents didn’t get their hands on anything.”

“What about the Arthurian names?” I asked Lance. “You never mentioned it.”

“Because it’s embarrassing.” Lance shifted in his seat to face me, draping his arm over the back of his chair. He didn’t look embarrassed. “Our intelligence officer heard the team had an Arthur and a Lance, and it went from there.”

“He was enthusiastic,” Arthur said, giving a rueful shake of his head. “Tristan joined the team, plus a guy whose call sign was already Percival, and there was no escaping it.”

“Arthur and I go back even further, though,” Lance said. “He’s been stuck with me since high school.”

“Stuck isn’t the word I’d use,” Arthur said.

“What word would you use?”

“Burdened.”

Lance clutched his chest, and everyone at the table laughed.

Arthur’s smile widened. He wasn’t loud like Antonio and didn’t perform for the room like Lance. He was charming, but in a quieter way than the others. And he definitely didn’t strike me as a mercenary like the article had suggested.

Or his pretty face is scrambling your brain.

Lance launched into a story about a mishap with a goat somewhere in northern Afghanistan. I pulled the wine menu closer and opened it, searching for a distraction from him and his storytelling.

Arthur shifted beside me, gesturing at the menu in my hands. His voice was low, just for me. “What do you like?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I usually pick the house wine and hope for the best.”

“Tenuta San Lupo Vecchio.” He ran a finger down the list in my hands—no ring—and stopped at the name. “I’m surprised they have it.”

“Surprised?”

“It comes from a small estate in Chianti. The owner refuses to export more than a few hundred cases each year because he’s convinced mass production would ruin his legacy.”

“Sounds like a principled man.”

“Stubborn is closer to the truth. But the wine’s worth it.” He paused. “It pairs beautifully with bruschetta and arancini, if you’re thinking about an appetizer.”

I hadn’t been, but was now.

He pulled his hand back but stayed close. “How did your research go today?”

“It went well. Except I’m stuck on the inscription. I think I mentioned it while you were there?”

“You did. What did it say?”

“I’ve only been able to make out the word ‘clavis.’”

“Key?”

My whole body turned to face him. How did he know that?