A strand of unruly black hair fell across her face. With sure fingers, I brushed it back behind her ear, cupped the back of her neck. Pure, rampant lust exploded across her face. I was grateful for it, grateful I wasn’t the only one chained to this erotic wildness.
“You’re not a Sherlock Holmes tourist,” I said. “Are you?”
She leaned even closer. “No.”
My hand tightened on the back of her neck. Her lips tipped into a half-smile. “Two more shots please,” she said over her shoulder. I was tempted to slide my hand beneath her dress, see what other truths might spill free.
She turned her face, watched the drinks being poured, the glasses placed neatly in front of us by the bartender. The sudden glimpse of fear in her gaze shocked me. Slowly, Devon curled herself into my body, the pose as familiar as a girlfriend’s.
“I’m going to tell you something bizarre, and you’re going to need to act natural,” she whispered. I stilled—but then smoothed my palm down the curtain of her hair, tugging her closer.
“Sounds like a plan,” I whispered back.
“I’m pretty fucking sure the bartender slipped something into our shots just now.”
I fought back the very human urge to turn and see for myself. “Is our friend still there?”
She faked a giggle, and I held her tighter—simply two people flirting, hugging, enjoying a romantic evening. “Yep,” she said.
“Why on earth would we be targeted by a random bartender?”
My detective brain rattled through the usual crimes against tourists—mugging, stealing their credit cards, petty theft. Coincidence, I wanted to say—except Devon and I were both, potentially, skulking around a secret that was much larger than petty theft. In my arms, she was rigid, muscles primed. I was still turned in the opposite direction, facing the door we’d come through. Humphrey caught my eye in the crowd and gave a funny little dance. Such a prosaic scene surrounding us as Devon attempted to assess if we were about to be poisoned.
She flinched suddenly—no, not flinched. Devon cursed and fled from my arms before I could stop her.
“Wait—” I whispered, frantic. No bartender, no other workers tending the liquor. Only a door that said Employees Only now swinging back and forth from the force of Devon pushing through it. Humphrey shoved through the crowd, concern on his jovial face, as I attempted to roll down my sleeves and throw on my jacket with feigned ease. My heart was a veritable jackhammer as I scanned the bar, scooping up a small glass bottle rolling on its side. It was in my hand and hidden in my pocket just before Humphrey arrived.
Devon wasn’t the only one with fast fingers.
“All right, lad?” Humphrey asked, staring at the back door. “Where’d the enchantress go?”
I huffed out a laugh. “Sprinted off. Saw a friend, I guess.”
He nodded as if this made sense and slapped a meaty paw on my shoulder. “Chin up. I’m sure she leaves a lot of men looking as devastated as you do right now.”
11
Sloane
The bartender’s sleight of hand would have impressed the hell out of my parents.
If I hadn’t seen his fingers at just the right second, I would have missed it. The bartender with the handlebar mustache tipped a tiny glass of clear liquid into my shot glass and Abe’s. One minute earlier, I’d been hazy with longing, thrilled by the electricity sparking between Abe and me. Every caress of his fingers, every truth he shared, only ignited my body’s need for him.
It had dulled my senses to a fact I’d learned was always true—danger was ever-present. Peril always strikes the second you let your guard down. Curled against Abe’s suit-clad chest, I was all fury, synapses firing as I put together what it might mean: another private detective was in London, searching for Bernard, surrounded by Bernard’s closest and most trusted colleagues.
And a random bartender slips something into our drinks.
The moment I’d landed on my conclusion, the bartender had tossed his towel and was escaping through the Employees Only door.
I ran after him without a thought to asking for help from the man I’d been revealing secrets to. Beneath that drive to chase down my biggest clue since starting this case was an urge to punch the shit out of a person who’d tried to harm Abe. I didn’t have time to over-analyze these new protective feelings.
I sprinted down a long hallway and kicked open a back door.
The man I surprised in the alley wasn’t the bartender. He was enormous, tall, and powerfully strong. And the second he saw me, he attacked.
The smirk on Big Guy’s face only ratcheted up my fury. His left arm swung forward in a slow, sloppy punch.
Before he could connect, I slammed my palm directly into his nose.
“Jesus, fuck you,” he snarled, tilting forward slightly. One hand protected his bloody nose, the other tried to lash at me again.
I ducked and grabbed his shirt, using gravity to propel my pointed heel into his groin. He yelped, dropped to his knees, and I dashed around him to check for the bartender at the end of the alley, on the street.
“Goddammit,” I whispered. Where was he?
I felt his fingers tangled in my hair, yanking me backward. Big Guy returning with a vengeance.
I grabbed his hand, pain spiking across my scalp, and spun fast. My elbow cracked across his face as I kicked kicked kicked as fast as I could.
He let go, wailed again, but fear had hold of me now, wrapping around my throat and restricting my air. The rage on his face as he came at me a third time conveyed the reality that he was huge and angry and I was all by myself in a dark alley.
I opened my mouth to scream for help when a sharply dressed figure stepped between me and Big Guy.
Abe Royal. Who, while leaner, was as tall as Big Guy—and apparently much faster. Abe punched the attacker so hard he dropped to the ground immediately. I was bent over at the waist, panting, staring at my rescuer in disbelief.
Abe, to his credit, only shook out his fingers and nodded once at me. “Ms. Atwood.”
“Thanks for the save,” I said, catching my breath.
He surveyed the body on the ground. “I only did the last bit. You were magnificent with him.”
My cheeks warmed at the unexpected compliment. “I’ve had training.”
“I can see that.” He studied me with concern.
I shook out my limbs, dispersing the adrenaline. Enjoyed the sense of safety his presence gave me, which I’d never yearned for before. This, this having my back thing was nice.
“How’s your scalp?” he asked. I touched it, winced.
“Tender but fine.” I held out my elbow, which also seemed to have survived. Kicked my boots out for his perusal. “These did the trick.”
“I’m grateful for their existence.” Abe looked both ways, past me toward the street. “Any sign of our friend?”
I shook my head. “And I don’t know who in the hell this asshole—”
At my words, the asshole in question hauled himself upright and ran toward the street.
“Motherfucker,” I said and bolted after him. We needed to know details. We needed to know why we’d been targeted. I needed to know how this related to Bernard.
A vice-like grip around my arm kept me in place. Abe.
“What are you doing?” I said, tugging at his hold. “We need to go after him.”
Abe shook his head. “Chasing down goons only ends well with a calculated plan and effective weapons. Maybe some backup. Of which you have none.”
“That’s my lead,” I hissed.
Understanding flooded his features. “Talk now, chase down goons later.”
“Chase down goons now, talk later,” I argued.
He tugged me close, until our faces were inches apart. “No more secrets. No more fucking lies. You and I are talking. Now.”
He released me like a gentleman, stepping back and waving his hand toward the pub across the street. While his body language was loose, his tone indicated there’d
be no more quarrel.
Deep down, I knew he was right—running after that guy was reckless and stupid. But one of the reasons I worked alone was instances like this. I didn’t want to ask permission to do what my gut instinct demanded.
I was nothing if not an opportunist though, so if one clue was currently running down a London street, then the handsome-as-sin clue standing right in front of me would be the next best choice.
“I’m not a tourist. And you’re not a man on vacation,” I said shortly. “So I’m not going into that pub unless you give me information I can use.”
Abe raised his palms, looking pissed, frustrated, and aroused all at once. “I’m not giving you information unless you tell me who you are.”
“Deal,” I finally said. I extended my hand, and he shook it, squeezing tight. Flames of desire licked along my skin where we touched, so instantaneous it robbed me of breath and burned through my rational thought.
One tug from Abe, and I’d fall into him; one tug from me, and he’d fall against me.
A muscle ticked in his jaw; my lips parted on a shaky breath.
“Deal,” he said.
12
Sloane
Abe and I ducked into a tiny pub right next to Adler’s—a barely lit, cozy space with few patrons, which perfectly suited our need for a covert conversation. As I found a small table in a secluded corner, he walked to the bar and returned with a single whiskey, a bowl of ice, and two clean towels.
The whiskey sat untouched between us. Unlike before, during our game of vodka shots, I knew I needed to stay as clear-headed as possible to maintain my sure footing around this man. It was far too easy to cede control of rationality while staring at his devastatingly handsome face.
“For your elbow,” he said, pushing the bowl of ice toward me with a single finger. “It’ll bruise tomorrow. That goon had a face like a brick fucking wall.”
I stared down at the bowl, then back at Abe. Perhaps sensing my hesitation, he picked up two cubes of ice and wrapped them in the towel. Handed the bundle over to me. Cool relief spread through my body the second I placed it on my skin.
He was right. It was already bruising.
“Thanks,” I said a little awkwardly. My brain struggled to process this gesture of kindness. Had my unconventional parents ever gotten me ice when I skinned my knees?
Abe examined his knuckles, which were bleeding. “It’s been a few years since my hand-to-hand combat skills were used outside a boxing gym.”
“I meant what I said back there.” I nodded at my elbow. “The save was appreciated.”
“Where did you learn to fight?” he asked.
It wouldn’t help to lie at this point. The week after I’d escaped from my parents, I enrolled in my first self-defense class. It wasn’t that I was physically afraid of my parents. I was, however, physically afraid of the people they’d defrauded. And once I started getting paid to take pictures of furious spouses, well… it was smart.
“I have about six years of self-defense training, including Krav Maga and mixed martial arts. A little boxing too.”
“Why did you start?” he asked.
“Safety.”
His eyes narrowed. “From what?”
“My family.” His face registered the slightest jolt. That was too much truth, even for our game. “Anyway,” I said quickly. “You should put ice on those too.”
He did as he was told, resting his knuckles in the bowl. The other hand reached into his pocket and removed a small glass bottle with a dropper on the end. “Thank you for interrupting our poisoning mid-act. Is this what you saw the bartender use?”
Surprised, eager, I dropped the ice and grabbed the bottle. Scrawled on the side were the words gamma-hydroxybutyric acid.
“GHB,” he said, face impassive but fingers flexing.
“The date rape drug?” I said, shocked. “Do you think that guy in the alley was supposed to mug us?”
“Did he go for your wallet though?” Abe asked.
I shook my head, mind racing as I ran through the possibilities.
“Although, to be fair, I believe you scared him off.”
I grinned. “He thought fighting me would be easy.”
“Nothing about you is easy,” he said quietly. “In smaller amounts, if we’d taken those shots, the GHB would have made us groggy. Easier to attack.”
“But why?” I asked.
He was shaking his head. “I think the why might be uncovered when you tell me who the hell you really are and why you’re lying all over the goddamn place.”
I hesitated, suddenly unsure now that I was facing admitting who I was and potentially threatening my chances of capturing Bernard on my own. My deadline hovered between us—eleven days left. All this time here, and real, juicy leads hadn’t started appearing until Abe Royal had landed in London. Actually saying the words I need your help to another person went against every fiber of my being. I didn’t need help. What I needed was information, money, and opportunity.
I looked at Abe, pictured myself receiving that check from Louisa and all the professional goodwill that could come of it. This man had information. And if I played my cards right, it could lead me to that money and opportunity.
Reaching into my purse, I removed my private investigator’s license and my own business card. Laid them on the table. He placed his license right next to mine. I picked his up, studied his official documents.
“Nice to meet you Abe Royal of Codex,” I said.
“Not new information for you though, is it?” he countered.
I stayed silent, watched his whole-body reaction to reading my own license. Fingers tight, brow furrowed. “You’re a private detective?”
His voice scraped across every nerve ending. “Sure am,” I replied.
“Sloane Argento.” Each syllable out of his mouth was curved, slow. Savored.
In my seventeen years living with them, I’d worn any number of names—until answering to a name not my own was as comfortable as an old, favorite sweater. Being Devon Atwood had felt absolutely fine, normal even. When I’d finally left my parents, I’d kept my birth name. My real one. And even though my first name was chosen by my mother and my last was all I knew of my father’s Italian heritage, it still felt like mine.
“Argento Enterprises?” He held up my business card. “This is you?”
“It’s my firm in Brooklyn,” I said. “I opened it the year after I graduated from NYU.”
Abe placed both hands on the table. “It’s nice to formally meet you, Sloane Argento. It appears I am vindicated in my assessment that you are not, in fact, a Devon.”
“And you’re no Daniel.”
“So why are you masquerading as a Sherlock Holmes enthusiast and taking members of the Society to tea?” he asked.
I tilted my head, stalling. Tapped my nails on the table. “I’ve been hired by the McMaster’s Library to find Bernard Allerton.”
The sentence plummeted between us like an anvil. Abe’s jaw tightened to the point of breaking, irritation carved into his face. “Louisa Davies hired you?”
“Officially, she’s my client,” I said. “I know she almost hired you eleven months ago, when Bernard went on the run and you met Dr. Henry Finch for the first time.”
“That I did.” His tone was brittle. “I thought she was making a mistake. Still believe she made a mistake.”
I lifted a shoulder. “I agree with you. Louisa is frustrated with Interpol and the Bureau and thinks they’re not doing enough to find him. She thought a PI could find him more quickly, and she’s willing to pay a lot of fucking money for it.”
“Color me surprised,” he drawled. “Yet you got the contract. Not me.”
“I’ve done my research on you, Mr. Royal,” I said. “Codex hasn’t been sitting idle.”
He was silent for a moment, turning the whiskey glass around on the table. “We’ve been busy, yes.”
“Louisa contacted me after the Audubon case I solved three month
s ago,” I explained. “For The Murphy Library in New York.”
Abe looked pleasantly surprised. “That was you?”
“Sure was.”
He cleared his throat, slid his arms back down his side. “My team talked about that case nonstop. We were impressed.”
I fought a smile at the thought of Abe Royal being impressed with me months ago, before we’d known each other, before all of this, before everything.
“Your cover, the Society, the dinners with people…?”
“Research,” I said. “Trying to meet sources that can lead me to where he’s hiding.”
“And you think he’s in London?” he asked.
“Don’t you?”
“Believe me, if I knew where that man was, I wouldn’t be sitting here,” he replied, sardonic. The hunger to catch this criminal was so fucking obvious—it was his body language, his face, the curl of his lip. From the moment I’d said Bernard, he was mere seconds away from snapping.
“Why did you come to London if you don’t think he’s here?”
“I’m here on vacation.” He shrugged.
I leaned across the table, felt that dangerous chemistry stretched taut between us. Abe’s throat worked as his eyes trailed down my throat, my collarbone, my breasts.
“I’ve been given access to his office and all of his papers,” I said. Then watched him almost flip the table over.
“His what?” His tone was sharp enough to cut.
I sat back, crossed my arms. “All of Bernard’s papers, his entire office at the McMaster’s Library, are available for me. There’s interesting stuff in there.”
Abe’s assurance that he was here for leisure was pissing me off. He’d promised me information, yet he kept avoiding his true motivations. He was practically vibrating across from me.
“How nice for you,” he finally said, each word grating through his clenched teeth.
“That afternoon, before we met at Eudora’s talk, I’d been with Louisa, asking her questions about Henry,” I said. “She told me all about you, about Codex, how Henry left his job to go work for you.”
In the Clear (Codex Book 3) Page 8