Emerge: The Captive: (Book 3)(53)

“So where is he going? Where are they meeting?”

“He is going back to Indriell, where he’s been all along, but he’s not going to Chile.” Quinn studied the map, recalling everything he could from his history lessons. “Rio de Janeiro.” He tapped the coastline of Brazil, placing a new marker on the port city. “That is my best guess of a landmark they would both remember that would still be visible after so much time. It didn’t become Rio until the sixteenth century, but port cities like that have always existed in some capacity. The statue of Christ the Redeemer atop Mount Corcovado has only been there for the last century, but it could be a good meeting place, don’t you think? That is just a guess, though.” Quinn stepped away from the table, praying Livia would buy it. It was a good guess, but he had no real reason to suspect that was where they were going. He just needed Livia to buy it long enough to get them out of Sterling Tower.

“Wow,” Santi breathed. “That just happened.”

Quinn looked around the room at all the blank-staring faces and wondered if he’d overdone it on the history lesson.

“Have his movements suggested that is where he is headed?” Livia asked.

Ryan nodded as he checked the dossier on the Scholar’s movements. “It’s possible.”

“It’s as good a place to start as anywhere,” Livia sighed. “Let’s get some rest and we’ll reconvene in the morning to go over our most recent intel. We’ll be on our way—somewhere—by tomorrow afternoon. You two are with me.” She nudged Quinn and Santi out of the room and away from the prying eyes of the rest of her team.

“It’s getting late.” Livia checked the time as they headed back to her penthouse. “Go nuts in the kitchen. You both have my permission to eat whatever you want. But I would suggest you stick to foods that will give you the most energy. Then get some sleep. Both of you. You’re going to need it.”

As soon as they entered the foyer, Livia retreated to her study to continue planning their mission, and Santi made for the kitchen at once. She was trembling at the mere thought of a good meal. As she put water on to boil, she struggled with a box of pasta.

“Sit, Mina,” Quinn said. “It’s my turn to cook for you. What do you want?”

“I want all the carbs.” She reached for a bag of Cheetos from the pantry along with a jar of peanut butter. “Cheesy pesto pasta with a big juicy steak and lots of garlic bread with cheese. And for dessert I want chocolate cake and ice cream.”

“And when you puke it all up at three in the morning?”

“Then I’ll go for round two. Muévete, mija, I’m starving here. Literally.” She snapped her fingers and Quinn poured the pasta into the boiling water.

“Get the bread,” he called over his shoulder. “The good stuff.”

“This?” Santi held up a loaf of French bread from the pantry.

“Yeah.” He grinned.

“How much you want?” she asked.

“All of it, baby. I’ve been dreaming about bread.”

“On it!” She grabbed a tub of garlic butter from the fridge and began slicing up the loaf.

Quinn busied himself with making a spice rub for the steaks as Santi slid a pan of buttered bread into the oven. “I’ll make all of your requests, but we have to go slow and eat small portions. You haven’t eaten well in months and you need fuel to get you through whatever we’re about to face. We do not need to be sluggish.” Quinn turned to get fresh cilantro and lime from the fridge. “Santi?” His laughter caught in his throat. “What the hell are you eating, babe?”

“Don’t knock it till you try it.” She dipped another Cheeto into the peanut butter jar.

“That is disgusting.”

“Pasta?” She smiled, urging him to get back to work. “It smells good. Where did you learn to cook? Your mom? She’s French, right?”

“Yeah, but she was a terrible cook. She could bake the most amazing cakes and pastries, but real food was her Achilles heel. I learned from my dad, actually. We pretty much all had to learn how to cook in self-defense. Mom’s idea of a meal was to take all the leftovers from the fridge and make a casserole. She thought if she put enough cream sauce and cheese on it, we wouldn’t notice the taste.”

“Don’t talk about your family in past tense, Quinnton. You’ll see them again,” she whispered softly as she retrieved the bread from the oven.

“I know. It’s just easier not to hope. How do you like your steak?”

“Bloody and juicy.”

“Coming up in three minutes.” Quinn served them each a small portion of pasta and when the steak was perfectly seared, he split it between them and took his seat beside her. He was so hungry, his hands shook when he lifted his fork.

“Go slow,” she murmured. “I don’t want you to get sick after so many weeks of bland food and not nearly enough of it.”

“We eat this, wait twenty minutes and if we don’t puke, we go for seconds?” Quinn asked. “Like maybe some rice and beans, something with protein and carbs?”

“I think there’s a deep dish pepperoni pizza in the freezer.” She grinned.

“On it.” Quinn hopped up to put the pizza in the oven.