Page 81 of Conrad

Traffic had picked up, and as they crossed to the other side, heading back, Stein spotted a few Vespas lined up, threaded between the cars, a number of bicyclists also, in the skinny lane.

They hadn’t been out in the city much since the trip to Sagrada Família, and frankly, he’d like to keep it that way. Too many variables.

They ran back, passing Gaudí’s Casa Milà with its seaside exterior, the balconies made to look like waves, the wrought-iron railings like seaweed. Passed another ornate street lamp, this one with a heater and bench built into the foundation. Stein had read about that in one of the large coffee-table books in his suite.

They stopped at the light, and traffic lined up with more Vespas and he glanced over.

Wait. Maybe he’d seen that Vespa—blue, vintage-looking, the driver a woman with a retro blue helmet to match. She wore mirrored aviator sunglasses, black jeans, a puffer jacket, and Converse tennis shoes.

She turned her head and met his glance.

Smirked.

He stilled.

The light turned, and Declan took off toward the hotel. Stein caught up fast, his heart thumping.No . . .His brain was playing games with him.

He focused on the hotel, his gait. Not even a hint of a limp, given his reflection in the glassy storefront mirrors.

They slowed the last twenty yards, Declan’s hands on his hips, breathing hard. Stein stepped in beside him. “It’s more than just nuance, sir. It’s memory and interpretation and even instinct.”

“The God factor.” Declan looked at him. “I know, Stein. There will never be a replacement for God’s creation in human beings. But maybe we can get a head start with the right AI assist.” He pushed into the building.

Stein frowned, the words working through him. But before he followed, he spotted a blue Vespa in the reflection of the windows that angled out toward the street.

He turned and froze, seeing the woman drive by. No, couldn’t be the same woman.

But a fist formed in his gut, the same feeling he’d had three years ago when he’d retorted to Phoenix, “I don’t think so, honey.”

He should have listened to his instincts then.

What had Declan said?The God factor.

He pushed inside. Four days to go. For the first time since joining Declan, he couldn’t wait to get to the Caribbean.

NINE

He neededto get his head in the game.

Conrad skated into the bench, breathing hard, undid his chin strap, and refrained from throwing anything—sosee, he didn’t have to unravel. But—“C’mon, guys. That’s the second power play they scored on!” He stared down at his line, the guys breathing hard as the second line went in and tried to recover.

The board had them two goals down at the end of the first period, and the Blue Ox fans roared in frustration, pounded the plexiglass, shouting insults and name-calling.

Yeah, he got that. They’d played like first graders, missing passes, surrendering the puck, and landing sloppy penalties against the Omaha Outlaws. He blamed himself.

Conrad leaned on his stick, watching as Justin snatched up the puck at the blue line from an Outlaw. Admittedly, the kid had skill. And speed as he weaved through the neutral zone, a hot knife through butter. He picked up speed at the opposing blue line, a defender on his heels. His stick handling had improved too, so maybe Conrad’s time-out hadn’t been a terrible move for the team.

Except—Justin wound up and fired a blistering slap shot—it went wide of the left post. The crowd roared. One of the Outlaws’ defenders grabbed the puck behind the net.

A few players launched to their feet, shouting, banging on the glass as the line fought off the attack of the Outlaws. The game exploded, the players a blur on the ice.

Conrad lost track of the puck, his jaw tight. He’d missed five shots on goal, had been outgunned down the ice twice, missed a couple crucial back-checks, and he ached a little from an into-the-boards shot that’d sent fire into his hip.

Which only turned his thoughts toward Penny and last night’s craziness and the early-morning attack by her bodyguards—maybe she didn’t need him to protect her after all—and then the solemn drive back to Minneapolis to her burning house.

Notthe house, but the garage, and it had been burned to cinders. The fire chief at the scene, still mopping up when they arrived, had suggested an electrical fault—bad, ancient wiring igniting a stack of paint supplies.

Yeah, right.

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