She sat back, assessed me further, like I was a file of open case notes she wasn’t quite sure about yet. “If we go after Bernard together, you won’t fly your team out here?”
“No.” I spoke firmly through the guilt. “My agents are working cases right now with critical deadlines. And I can’t risk flying them all the way to London when we have no legal right to be here, no contract, no client.”
Henry and Delilah had disobeyed my express orders the night they recovered the missing Copernicus from Victoria Whitney’s mansion. Freya and Sam broke into an historic academic building in Philadelphia without telling me. We had all kept things from each other in the past—this would now be one of them.
“Only the two of us is complicated enough,” Sloane said. “And if our target is the auction, that’s only three days away.”
I was soothed by her logic.
“As long as I still get the credit, and as long as I’m standing right beside you, I’m comfortable with you being in the room.”
I swallowed, felt my pride’s response at sharing the moment with Sloane. “What… what can you offer me if we partner together?”
She bit her lip, rubbed her palms together again, but slowly this time. She was thinking. “I know you want to get into his office.”
“Yes,” I said. “Very badly.”
“Louisa gave me access to whatever private papers Interpol hasn’t taken. His books, his notes. Plus, I have three weeks of goodwill generated by my cover as Devon Atwood. The Society likes me, feels like they know me. Could tell me secrets, if we wanted them.”
I felt how greedy I was for any scrap of information I could get.
“This is personal for you,” she said.
“As personal as this job can be, yes,” I said. “And what you are offering is extremely valuable to me.”
She stroked her braid. “What made you suspect Bernard ten years ago? From what I can tell, the man never caught the eye of the authorities, either here or in the States. Why were you so obsessed with him?”
“When I was with the Bureau, my specialty was white-collar crime,” I said. “My job was to know who held the most power in our country and who was using their power for evil instead of good. The Enrons and the Bernie Madoffs of the world were my focus, and I learned quickly that the more power you have, the easier it is for you to hide your sins.”
My father had been a hedge fund manager—a world of tremendous wealth and privilege I now recognized as a great place to engage in all kinds of lies and treachery. When I would ask him what he did all day, he rattled off any number of golf course outings and lunches at country clubs and drinks at exclusive restaurants. Exclusive, secretive, elite—the perfect hiding places for the uber-wealthy who wanted to bend the law to their liking.
“Eventually I was moved to the FBI’s new Art Theft division,” I continued. “And I grew obsessed with learning all about the auction houses, the art galleries, the black markets, the forgers. Then I started looking into librarians.”
Sloane leaned in, braid falling over her shoulder. “Like Bernard.”
“Specifically Bernard.” I looked again at the picture on her laptop—the fawning admirers in the crowd behind him. “Most librarians aren’t famous the way he was. He always came across so confident, and his access was so vast. At the FBI, we knew that his private collection was extraordinary.”
She arched her brow. “Well that’s a sea of red fucking flags.”
I smirked, amused. “That’s exactly how I saw it. My supervisors were fine to keep him on a short list of suspicious collectors, but I was told, time and time again, my obsession with Bernard was disruptive.”
She looked past me and at the wall of documents she’d taped up. Scanning it, she said, “Based on my research, he was never charged with anything, right?”
“He was a person of interest. I doubt it would come up on a search since he was cleared.”
“What was it?” she asked. Her eagerness, her attentiveness, was everything I’d been missing these past days without my team. The call-and-response of working with other smart detectives was apparently something I’d grown quite fond of without realizing it.
The complication being that the more I got to see this side of Sloane, the more I wanted to lock her door, order in room-service, and not leave until we’d fucked for three days straight.
“When Sam worked for me at Art Theft, he was investigating a large-scale theft of antique maps stolen from a museum in Baltimore. Eventually the maps were traced all the way to Bernard’s private collection here in London.”
She walked over to her desk. “How the hell did I not know this?”
“Bernard presented Interpol with documents of authentication. Forged documents, although he claimed he couldn’t possibly have known they were forged.”
“No shit.”
“So the seller was arrested, and Bernard used his experience to speak publicly about rare book theft and the ways his community could be more vigilant.”
She chewed on her lip, clearly still thinking. Looked at me with a mysterious expression. “Bernard conned the hell out of Interpol. The best con men play the most convincing victims. It’s a real smart way to assess the vulnerabilities of your next grift. I’m sure Bernard learned a lot about the blind spots in the justice system.”
It took me a second to hide how impressed I was at that analysis. “Well… yes. Actually, that’s a damn good point.”
A tiny bit of the tease flitted to life, curving her lips as she said, “Well… I’m a damn good detective, Mr. Royal.”
We held each other’s gaze for much too long, the electric sexual chemistry between us burning up, burning bright, burning every inch of my skin. Every time I thought we’d doused it, there it was—an ember blazing to wildfire.
“That’s my story,” I finally managed. “Ten years’ worth of my own research is what I could bring you. That and the cases Codex has worked recently that I believe implicate Bernard and his possible movements.”
Sloane studied me, foot tapping—the only sign of her discomfort. I knew little about this beguiling goddess, but she had made it clear she was used to working alone. Preferred it. And yet as much as she kept claiming she could see through my thinly veiled vacation, I saw through her thinly veiled attempts at seeking my help the other night. She didn’t want to want help, which I found highly relatable.
“Show me the piece of missing information,” she said.
I let out a heavy exhale. Walked toward her laptop. “May I?”
“Have at it.”
I leaned forward, logged into my Codex email. Her scent, her body heat, invaded my senses. When I turned my face, hers was right there, mere inches away.
I saw her delicate throat work, her eyes on my lips. “I’ll let you read the email and the reports attached.”
Then I backed away slowly before I could give in to sweet temptation and kiss her. Instead, I busied my hands with pouring a cup of tea, water still steaming. Behind me, I heard her clicking, writing things down, muttering beneath her breath. A slew of curse words.
“You have FBI surveillance reports that triangulate Bernard’s position between this fucking hotel and 221B Baker Street?” Her words were part tense edge, part hungry excitement.
“Yes,” I said.
“Also in this radius are Mycroft’s Pub, Adler’s Bookshop and Kensley’s, where the Doyle papers will be auctioned off,” Sloane said. She scrubbed her hands down her face, re-examined her wall of notes. Looked at me, looked back at the email on her screen.
“Is that enough information for you?” I asked.
Her lips quirked. “You know it is. And I think you know what it’s like when everything about a case that made no fucking sense suddenly starts speaking to you in a language you understand.”
I softened my tone. “I do. It’s a lot to process.”
“You’re a lot to process, to be honest,” she said. Hushed, like she hadn’t meant it. She walked toward me u
ntil our legs almost touched. She was tall enough that I had to look up at her slightly.
“You’re Ahab,” she said, pointing at my chest.
“In what way?” I asked, careful to hide my astonishment. I’d been thinking of myself as Ahab since I’d arrived here.
Propping her hands on her hips, she said, “Bernard is your white whale. You came all the way here to London for a fake vacation because you want to take this asshole down all by yourself.”
I sensed how tenuous this partnership was, how tenuous her trust was. She was right—there was nothing I wouldn’t do to get him. “It is a real vacation,” I said slowly. “I hoped I might stumble upon Bernard while here. I’m not a vigilante.”
“No,” she conceded. “But don’t lie and tell me catching him by yourself isn’t a point of pride for you. That’s why you’ve kept this from your team.”
Sloane was a huntress in the wilderness, bow raised, arrow aimed straight at my heart. The woman cut through my bullshit easily and without remorse.
I weighed my options, considered going after the man myself after all. Leaving The Langham, staking out that auction, waiting for Bernard to show up and steal it. I could do it; it was available to me.
Except hadn’t that always been my father’s weakness? Off, on. He was there, until he wasn’t. And god help me I couldn’t stop wanting to be there for Sloane Argento.
“That is a fairly accurate portrayal of my motivations,” I said. “Well done.”
Her expression turned sympathetic. “I’m only pointing out the obvious. If we do this, Abe, we’re doing it together. Every step of the way. We just gave each other too much usable information not to. I need to know you’re okay with your personal man-hunt becoming a two-person show.” She looked like she wanted to say more but at the last second shook her head. “Are you? Okay with it?”
“I will become okay with it,” I said through clenched teeth. “I promise.”
She dropped her voice. “There’s no shame in the way you feel. I chose this vocation because I wanted to spend my life punishing people that deserve it. Landing this case was already a huge deal for me. If I succeed, it blows the doors right open. I understand the tunnel vision aspect of working this job.”
This woman was fourteen years my junior, had her entire career ahead of her. And goddamn if I didn’t respect the motivation burning in her gaze. The hungry kind, the reckless kind. The do-anything-to-win kind.
It was the only kind of motivation I respected.
“You’ll succeed,” I said. I held out my hand for her to shake. “Partners?”
She waited a full three seconds before clasping my hand, squeezing with determination. With only a few inches between us—and a king-size bed behind us—lust surged at the point of every finger brushing against my skin. Her chest was rising and falling, lips parted, pupils dilated. If she glanced down, she’d discover the outline of my cock against my sweatpants. Shaking hands was a bad idea, touching was a bad idea, sharing a wall was the worst idea.
Sloane let go first, surprising me when she pulled open her mini-fridge and removed two tiny bottles of vodka.
“Are we celebrating?” I asked. I couldn’t decipher the look on her face.
She handed me the tiny shot bottle and leaned back against her dresser. Six feet away from me. “I’ve been thinking about tonight, what happened to us. If we were followed back to our hotel from the pub, then we were tailed for at least twenty minutes. Tailed and photographed without our knowledge.”
“What’s your point?” I asked.
She crossed one ankle over the other. “I don’t have formal training. But I know when I’ve caught surveillance. I’m guessing a former federal agent does too.”
“They could be very skilled,” I said. “Wouldn’t be the first time two people were surprised when they weren’t expecting it.”
“That’s my point,” she said. She took the shot of vodka with ease, slamming the plastic bottle down. “I was distracted on our walk home tonight because I was thinking about fucking you. That’s my truth. I wasn’t concerned for our safety one bit. When, given what happened to us two days ago, we both should be aware at all times.”
I blew out an irritated breath. Leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. Tried, unsuccessfully, to not experience a wave of desire at the thought of Sloane wanting me so badly.
“You may be right, Ms. Argento.” I twirled my own bottle between my fingers.
“Were you distracted by me?” she asked.
I allowed myself a deliberate perusal of her body—allowed myself to enjoy a moment I’d have to deny until we saw this thing through to the end.
Then I knocked back the tiny bottle of vodka and grimaced through the burn. “I was very distracted by you. So much so that I came on to you if you recall.”
“Devastation,” she said softly, looking as tender-eyed and vulnerable as I’d ever seen her. Which, unfortunately, only heightened my longing. She clinked our empty bottles together. “We’re going to stay focused. We’re going to tell each other the truth. We are not going to fuck each other. And we’re going to be the ones who catch Bernard fucking Allerton.”
I tossed our bottles in the trash, clapped my hands together. “Right again, Ms. Argento.”
20
Sloane
At 10:30 the next morning, my new partner and I boarded the London underground to Oxford—which would include a transfer to another train and at least an hour of sitting next to Abe Royal in a compressed space with nothing to do except look at each other.
From the tightness around his mouth—and the clenching of his jaw—I guessed Abe felt the same tension as the doors of the train closed and we set off on our journey to the McMaster’s Library.
I was taking him to Bernard Allerton’s office.
We were seated directly next to each other—and every time I turned my head, I caught him watching me. “Do you have something on your mind?”
A quirk of his lips. “Did you enjoy your morning of devouring the hearts of foolish men for breakfast?”
I tapped my chin, pretended to think. “Knew I forgot to eat.”
He chuckled softly, briefly touching the knot of his perfectly straight tie. Yet again, he rocked a perfectly tailored suit that made me want to straddle him in the middle of this packed train. Last night, after we’d shaken hands on the idea of being partners, I’d sent him packing for his room with strict instructions not to come back unless we received another creepy threat. Because I couldn’t—fucking could not—take one more tempting second of that man sitting so close to my bed. In sweatpants and bare feet and a worn sweatshirt pushed past his muscular forearms. It was disarming to say the least to see Abe Royal both sleepy-eyed and protective.
It was disarming, to say the least, to recognize how quickly I’d run to him after receiving the note. My first instinct was to protect the stranger in the room next to me, in direct contradiction to the parental advice my parents had ensured I understood from a young age.
Always save yourself.
Con blown? Save yourself.
Identity uncovered? Save yourself.
The few times cops literally chased us from towns I had to beg my parents in the heat of the moment to take me too. I was only a child, for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t like I could hot wire a car and squeal on out of there. Which we’d actually done a half-dozen times before I turned sixteen.
I’d sat up in bed for another hour after he left, pulling through the notes I’d gathered over the past month, the pieces beginning to fit with the added information Abe was providing me. That email put a pin on Bernard’s location in the middle of London, eliminating my fears that the man had high-tailed it across Europe, never to be found. At least by me. These reports were everything.
Feeling safe with Abe by my side was another issue entirely. I’d felt it the second he’d walked into the pub last night. Felt it the moment he opened his hotel room door. Felt it when we shook hands—that sense of we instead
of just me.
He smiled at me again, and my heart exploded with happiness. I pressed a hand to my chest. Wondered when I’d started to resemble a teen girl going to prom with her crush.
“How long have you had your own firm?” Abe asked, rocking gently against me with the rhythm of the train.
I gave him a curious look. He shrugged. “We have an hour. You might as well entertain me.”
I snorted. “Five years. I got my license when I turned twenty. Picked up odd PI jobs until I graduated to help pay the bills.”
“That Audubon case you worked really put you on the map,” he said. “At least in a world like ours.”
“Fucking birds, man,” I said. His smile widened—the muscles of his face brightening in a way I hadn’t seen before. “If you think Sherlock Holmes fans are obsessed, you should try going deep undercover as a bird watcher.”
He turned fully toward me. “You went that deep?”
I nodded, tapped my knee. “The Murphy Library in upstate New York has strong ties with this rabid bird-watching group called The Painted Buntings. Picture retired bird-watchers who love to enjoy birds in their natural habitat while also being blood-thirsty and petty.”
“Like a Eudora,” Abe mused.
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly like a Eudora. They were all Eudoras, basically. So this library is well-known because it owns ten illustrated prints from Birds of America.”
I was new to rare books at the time I’d been hired. I later learned that John James Audubon’s full, four-volume guide to birds was one of the rarest in the world and worth millions of dollars. Which boggled my mind.
“Let me guess. Their security systems are shit,” Abe said dryly.
“They weren’t great,” I conceded. “In between conservation cycles, they’d loan the illustrations to The Painted Buntings for their annual fundraiser. The ticket price included time with the pages, examining them from behind protective glass, taking pictures. Six weeks before the event, the prints were stolen from the library.”
In the Clear (Codex Book 3) Page 14