Behind the Veil

by Nolan, Kathryn

“Don’t get cocky.”

  “I’m more terrified than cocky,” he admitted. He scrubbed a hand down his face, and I saw exhaustion etched into the lines around his mouth. “But every morning on my run this week I pretended to be Henry Thornhill. Consultant, unscrupulous collector, newlywed husband.”

  “Good,” I said. “It has to fit you like…like the clothing you’re wearing now.”

  “Have you ever done a high-profile undercover like this?” he asked.

  I shook my head. Assessed my partner in the dark. “I’m a little worried too.”

  “A little?”

  I shrugged. “Just a little. I know Krav Maga and carry a gun. When you can punch or shoot your way out of any situation, it helps.”

  “And where’s your weapon now?” he asked. It might have been the late hour, but there was a distinct grate in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

  “I’m unarmed.” I held up my arms, showed him my empty hands. “Does that make you feel safer?”

  “Less safe actually,” he said. “I like knowing you can save us.”

  My cheeks warmed.

  “Do you feel like Mrs. Thornhill?” he asked.

  “I have pictured us arguing over who’s doing the grocery shopping this week, yes,” I said.

  His eyes sparkled. “We’re re-doing the master bedroom and choosing paint colors is a nightmare.”

  “We’re always redoing our master bedroom,” I said with mock exasperation.

  “Victoria thinks we’re madly in love but really…the spark is gone,” he sighed.

  I bit my lip. Smiled. “We had a good run. I guess you could always be having an affair.”

  “Cheat on you?” he asked.

  I had been joking—enjoying a sneaky game in this private moment. “What? You don’t think Henry Thornhill is capable?”

  “I think cheating on you would make Henry Thornhill an idiot.”

  That grate in his voice was back, like the sound of teeth scraping against skin. I recrossed my legs, and my silk skirt dragged up my thighs. Henry’s eyes stayed glued to mine, but his fingers tightened where they gripped the desk.

  “You’re absolutely right,” I replied. “That would make him an idiot.”

  The night of the stakeout had shown me there was a hard, muscular body beneath his tailored suits. The feel of his chest pressed to my back as we balanced precariously in the woods had seared me. For days, the skin between my shoulder blades had glowed like a brand.

  “So no marital discord,” he managed. “Victoria will fall in love with our impulsive, whirlwind romance.”

  “Do you think we had a honeymoon? I forgot all about that.”

  “A passionate elopement would naturally lead to an exotic honeymoon, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “This is all new territory to me. I’ve never had a boyfriend in real life do anything passionate for me.”

  The words spilled out carelessly—a side effect of the late hour, my weariness, the confidential darkness of the solitary lamplight.

  This time, Henry’s eyes did drop to my exposed legs. I felt it, as surely as if he’d smoothed his palm from ankle to thigh. “That makes them idiots as well, Delilah.”

  “Paris, right?” I rushed to say. “It’s the kind of city Victoria would respect. Married in Ireland at the spur of the moment. Then you whisked me to Paris for a weekend in the most expensive hotel in the city. View of the Eiffel Tower. Pricy room service. Champagne.”

  Twisted bedsheets. My thrift-store wedding dress shoved over my hips. My legs spread. Our fingers entwined.

  Henry hadn’t even responded, but I was already standing up, seeking distance. “That sounds good. And you should rest,” I repeated, my tone sharper than I intended. “We both need to sleep, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

  But as I moved around the office, gathering my things, he remained, staring at the pages of the Copernicus with such intimacy I wanted to blush. His fingers, tracing the orbits, the path toward the sun.

  Another symptom of becoming a detective I recognized—even at the limits of exhaustion, your brain will continue to search for clues. I didn’t want to disturb his process, but he called to me as I was about to leave. When I turned, he was framed in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

  “Were you fired from the police department, Delilah?” he asked.

  The question knocked me back a step. I contemplated lying. It wasn’t something I necessarily wanted a new partner to know.

  I opened my mouth to spin some half-truth—but it sent my nerves jangling.

  I trust you, Abe had said. Now you need to trust each other.

  “Yes,” I finally answered. “I was fired. How did you know?” There were still a few articles online with my name in them. The thought of Henry reading them made me vaguely nauseous. “You didn’t—”

  “Look you up?” he asked. “No, I wouldn’t do that. It’s your body language when I’ve asked you about it. Everything says walls up.”

  “You’re becoming a real detective now.”

  “I’m learning from the best,” he replied.

  “Why do you even want to know though?” I asked. Stalling for time.

  “You said it the other day,” he said. “How can we be partners if we don’t know anything about each other? Especially since we need to convince our target we’re madly in love?”

  I was so fucking grateful for the curtains of darkness that surrounded us.

  “That’s why I thought I’d ask.”

  “I don’t really like talking about it,” I said. Every time I believed myself to be over it, a swell of anger or embarrassment would startle me from my dreams, hurtling me right back to the moment my world fell apart.

  His posture softened, conceded. “Forget I—”

  And for the first time in ages, it made me want to share.

  “I trusted a man,” I said, steeling my tone. “I trusted a man that I shouldn’t have. My boss. I was younger than him and—” I hated saying it. “Younger and stupid.”

  “I doubt very much you’ve ever been stupid, Delilah.”

  “Not all of us have advanced degrees,” I countered. “Anyway, I was actually just a pawn for him to climb the career ladder. Something to manipulate, move around, do with as he wished. A body to use. Not a person.”

  Even from across the room, I felt a charged jolt from Henry: anger.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged, even as my fists curled at my sides. “It’s not your fault. And it’s ancient history now.”

  I sensed he wanted to say more so I waited.

  “Abe told you why I came here, right?”

  I nodded. “Bernard.”

  “I trusted him too. For ten years. I looked up to that man as much as I looked up to my parents. I modeled my career after his, mirrored his every move, sought his approval constantly. The night I’d walked to his flat to confront him, I’d almost convinced myself I was wrong—even with the evidence staring me right in the face.”

  I knew this feeling as deeply as any other.

  “I think all of us believe we are immune to people’s manipulations,” I said. “It hurts the ego, realizing that you’re the same as everyone else. That a sociopath can come along, charm the shit out of you, and leave you fucked up and confused. Like realizing you’re wearing blinders—but you have no memory of ever putting them on.”

  “Yes,” he said, taking a step forward. “That’s what I’ve been feeling.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” I said. “You’re only human.”

  “And so are you, Delilah Barrett,” he replied softly.

  The darkness concealed my smile.

  I glanced at my phone: 1:27 am. “Not anymore. I am now officially Delilah Thornhill.”

  He stepped back into his office, lips in a grim line. “Promise not to yell at me when I come home late, wife?”

  I shivered again.

  Wife.

  �
�I promise,” I said. “And get some sleep for real, Henry. It all begins now.”

  14

  Henry

  “Delilah?” I said, knocking on her office door. “It’s almost time for us to go.”

  “One second,” she called back, voice muffled.

  Abe was on the phone with Francisco, and Freya was hunched over her laptop, fingers moving in a flash.

  “Okay, Mr. Thornhill,” she said, pulling a pencil from her hair and scribbling something down, “if Victoria feels absolutely compelled to do some digging on you, you now have a website.”

  She turned it around with a look of pride. It was a real website for my fake consultant business—I was a traveling librarian, available for hire.

  “You think she’ll really dig?”

  “If she doesn’t, that security team will,” Freya said. I hadn’t even thought about that—the ease with which your identity could be traced online now. “I’ve also created fake Facebook profiles for both of you.” She scrolled and I blinked in amazement—she must have grabbed photos from our actual pages, but cropped them, added links and posts that made these forged profiles look active when they really weren’t. "And finally, Delilah now has a website for her family foundation. I gave her a cool, sexy maiden name." One last click and a website for the Delilah Gatsby Family Foundation appeared, advertising local grant awards for Philadelphia charities.

  “Wow,” I said, impressed. “I’m happy you thought of these things.”

  “One of my many jobs,” she said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Oh, and I almost forgot the best part for tonight.”

  She walked over to a wall safe and spun the lock. Reached in and pulled out two black velvet boxes. “You can tell Victoria you found the right jeweler, finally.”

  It took me a moment to comprehend what she was giving me. I snapped the box open—inside sat a delicate gold band with a cluster of diamonds.

  Delilah’s wedding ring.

  “Congratulations,” she teased.

  I was about to put a gold ring on the left finger of an undercover partner I barely knew.

  Freya walked into Abe’s office, which left me entirely alone when Delilah stepped out in a floor-length ivory gown.

  This entire week had become a personal study in self-denial. Which was technically good, since before Codex I’d made an entire career of studying; deciphering information, taking every detail apart, assembling it back together. I’d once spent two days cataloging every unique imperfection in a manuscript’s gilded edges. I knew study—the way Delilah’s instincts pointed her toward corruption, my instincts pointed me to obsess over any beautiful piece of history that captivated my attention.

  Delilah was not a piece of history. She was no object, no book to be labeled and shelved. But from our first night in the field until now, I was painstakingly aware of my fascination with my partner. I studied that fascination, understood it to be wrong and complicated, unprofessional and potentially dangerous.

  Focus was the priority while undercover, I knew that much to be true.

  So as Delilah strode toward me, I didn’t notice the silk of her gown and the way it clung to her hips. I didn’t regard the contrast of her raven hair and the white diamonds that dangled from her ears. Her blood-red lips were of no concern to me—and the distinct way my body had begun responding to the sight of my coworker was something to be ignored.

  “If Henry wasn’t fake married to you, I’d marry you,” Freya said, then wolf-whistled from behind me. Delilah laughed. I’d been rendered speechless—which was troubling, given the case we were about to embark upon.

  “No one will be marrying anyone this evening,” Abe said drily. He assessed us with an almost-smirk. “You two clean up nicely.”

  “This old thing?” Delilah smoothed her hands down the silk, and I remembered the flash of muscled thigh I’d caught a glimpse of last night. Her demure smile, the very beginnings of her trust. I wanted to know more about this older man who had pushed her around like a chess piece. Delilah Barrett didn’t appear to be easily moved, and yet the pain of that experience had been evident in her voice.

  Freya grabbed both of our wrists. Delilah wore a thin silver bracelet, I wore a gold watch. Both contained tiny hidden cameras.

  “I doubt you’ll catch any illegal theft happening out in the open at this auction,” Freya said, “but don’t be afraid to snap away. Who knows what we’ll be able to use.”

  “Freya and I dug around on the license plate number Delilah got from the black sedan at Victoria’s house,” Abe said. He crossed his arms. “Private security company called Dresden I’ve never heard of before. But they seem to work specifically with the mega-wealthy—”

  “—and the mega-shady,” Freya interjected. “It’s a red flag for sure.”

  “Listen for codes. Keep yourself open and available to Victoria,” Abe instructed. “Remember: you’re not just two lovely married people she wants to be friends with. You operate in her world of theft. Convince her of that. And Dorran’s taking you guys in the limo tonight.”

  “Who’s he?” I asked.

  “Old contact from the FBI,” Abe said. “An actual reformed getaway driver. Changed his ways after two different stints in prison. But he’ll still take the odd job to help me out. Cool under pressure, asks no questions. He’ll be escorting you for this entire case.”

  “And what did Francisco want?” Delilah asked. “Checking in?”

  “No progress from the FBI. Nothing local. The Copernicus is still missing, and Francisco says every member of his board is having, quote, ‘a tiny, daily aneurysm.’”

  “And Victoria?” Delilah asked.

  Abe gave a wry smile. “According to Francisco, Victoria is beside herself with horror.”

  “What day is the exhibit again?” I asked, all of us aware of the beating countdown.

  “Seventeen more days.”

  Delilah’s hands fluttered at her sides—whether from nerves or adrenaline, I wasn’t sure.

  “Henry?” Abe asked. “You’re good?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m ready.”

  His nod was curt.

  Delilah touched my arm.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  As we walked down the spiral staircase, I kept my eyes trained on the top of her head. Not on her backless dress and the miles of pale skin it revealed. Not on the wings of her shoulder blades or the enticing curve of her lower back. And it wasn’t until we were firmly seated in the back of the limousine that I rediscovered the ability to speak to her.

  “It all begins now,” I said, repeating her words from last night.

  She steeled her expression, straightened her spine. I was watching a transformation, a focusing of her body.

  “I’m counting on you, Henry,” she said, finally letting her blue eyes land on mine. “We’re partners now.”

  I tugged on my cuff links. “I’m ready to be Henry Thornhill.” With a nervousness I couldn’t place, I reached into my pocket and took out the boxes. “We can’t forget the missing piece.” I removed Delilah’s ring from the box. It was whisper-light, the diamonds dazzling in the city lights streaming in through the windows.

  Without thinking, I held out my hand, and she placed her fingers on my palm—a barely-there caress. I didn’t look at her—couldn’t—as I slid the ring all the way down her finger. She yanked her hand back just as quickly, and when I took out my own gold band, she didn’t return the gesture.

  For such a small object, it had an unfamiliar heaviness. Delilah was staring at it.

  “Delilah,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  We were only a block away from the art auction where we were to be Victoria Whitney’s esteemed guests. Dancing white lights heralded the entrance of the marble building, and I spotted couples in furs strolling toward the front.

  Once a year, the Shane-Arbor Auction House hosted a private event for their most illustrious patrons; a night catered only for them with items only available
for their view. You did not need to be a well-known antiquities collector to garner an invitation. You did, however, need to be extraordinarily wealthy.

  “I wanted to ask you about touching,” I said. “We’ll need to, to make our marriage seem realistic.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I forgot to talk to you about that.” Delilah was seated on the seat across from me in the limo, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap. “Do you want to come closer?”

  “Of course,” I said. When the car came to a stop, I slid next to her, thigh-to-thigh. If Victoria saw us now, she’d guess we were heading toward a swift, awkward divorce. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. Or…” I thought about our conversation last night. “Or used.”

  “I appreciate that,” she said, and there was a tiny curve to her mouth. “And I think you should touch me in any way that makes our marriage appear realistic. Like you said.”

  We stared at each other as I reached forward and encircled her wrist with my thumb and index finger. I was searching for any signs of distrust, but her eyes were watchful. Curious.

  With delicate care, I turned her hand over and slid my fingers between hers. I was now holding hands with Delilah.

  “Like this?” I asked.

  Her fingers squeezed back. “That’s okay.”

  I untangled us, laid my palm on her knee. A casual, friendly gesture. The strength of her thigh beneath my hand was obvious. “And here?”

  “That’s okay too.” Her voice had a huskiness now that hadn’t existed back at the office.

  I reached for the curve of her shoulder, hand splaying on her bare skin. My thumb slipped beneath the strap of her dress. “And this feels okay?”

  “Yes.” She was staring at my mouth.

  I was barely aware of the limo pulling up to the curb and the sounds of the world outside attempting to distract me from the sensation of my palm gliding down the camber of Delilah’s spine. Resting, ever-so-lightly, on the small of her back.

  “This too?”

  “That’s good.” She sounded out of breath.

  I was too, if I was honest.

  “We’re at your location,” our limo driver called from the front.