In the Clear (Codex Book 3)

by Kathryn Nolan

  I blew out a relieved breath. Nice work, I wrote back. “Never trust a married couple” has been my life’s motto since day one. And, because I know you’ll ask, yes, I am enjoying my vacation.

  I was getting better and better at the outright lies now. Although, as Sloane and I strategized on the train-ride back to London, I couldn’t stop hearing the voices of my team in my head. Not my usual guilt over wanting to capture Bernard all by myself. I could hear them chatting logistics, devising plans and maps, getting ready to strike a big target.

  Because, if this was starting to come together the way I thought, Sloane and I would have a lot to do the night of the auction. Having four other skilled private detectives as backup would be extremely helpful.

  Another ping, dislodging my train of thought. It was from Sam. I’m sorry for the number of memes Freya is sending, sir. She misses you. We all miss you.

  I caught my own reflection in the mirror and didn’t appreciate the affectionate yearning on my face. So I closed my laptop, slid my suitcase neatly inside my closet. There wasn’t an article of clothing out of place, no socks on the floor or towels across the bed. Old habits die hard, and during the years of my mother’s rehabilitation, I did most of the cleaning and tidying in our house when my relatives couldn’t pitch in. A time of such life-changing chaos didn’t need the added mess of a dirty house.

  Past girlfriends, Caroline included, had teased me about my immaculate house, my perfectly organized drawers, my bookshelves organized by color.

  I touched the wall Sloane and I shared. Out of respect, I’d truly restrained my thoughts about my new work partner. Because I knew she was ‘getting ready’. I knew that meant she was peeling away her clothing, stepping naked into a steaming shower, washing her hair, drying her skin—

  Sloane wouldn’t be neat, and she wouldn’t be organized, and I wouldn’t give a good goddamn. I’d take her against this very wall and let her scream until she was hoarse, let her wreck my clothing, wreck this dresser, wreck this bed. Wreck me.

  I knocked my fist against the wall to stop the wild train of my thoughts. This was why I couldn’t open the lock on those fantasies.

  “Abe, is everything okay?”

  The muffled sound of Sloane’s voice startled me. I realized I was banging on her wall one day after we’d had men threatening us.

  “So sorry,” I called back. “I’m heading to the lobby.”

  “I’ll be down in five,” she replied.

  All the way down the elevator, standing in the lush and ornate lobby, I attempted to curtail those images, those dreams, those visions that had haunted me since arriving. If Sloane wanted to tease me about fortress-high walls guarding my heart—and she wasn’t wrong—I needed to raise them higher to guard against the threat of her enigmatic charm.

  Tightening my cuff links once more, I glanced up as the golden elevator doors slid open. Sloane walked out with the posture of a supermodel on a high-fashion runway—hair dark and untamed, dress dark and short, spike-heeled leather boots that climbed mid-thigh. The lobby quieted, patrons watching open-mouthed as she strutted right towards me. I knew, in that moment, what it would feel like to be Sloane’s, to be the man she was always walking toward. Her partner not only on this case but romantically.

  I’d be a lucky bastard indeed.

  Now, as she came toward me with an eyebrow cocked, I tapped into the deepest well of restraint I had and managed to remain impassive by the skin of my teeth.

  “Ms. Argento,” I said mildly.

  “Mr. Royal. Shall I call us a taxi?”

  “One’s already waiting,” I said, placing my palm low on her back. We walked through the doors, and I allowed myself the luxury of feeling like a couple, the honor it would be to escort this brilliant woman to a night of cocktails and whatever the hell else she wanted.

  Once inside the cab, I put as much space between us as I could. Even then, her sultry presence dominated every square inch. I watched her profile in the moonlight, the shape of her mouth, the glittering diamonds dangling from her ears.

  “Are we going to talk about how you lied to me back at the McMaster’s Library?” I asked, keeping my tone friendly, warm. I wasn’t trying to incite her skittishness. I was trying to see inside that enigmatic head of hers.

  “Classic cab ride conversation,” she countered.

  I lifted a shoulder. Waited. I’d avoided pushing on the train ride back, but this small space felt like a more intimate place for secret sharing.

  Sloane’s fingers twisted in her lap—which I’d never seen her do before. I reached across, stilled them. She stared at me with her chin raised. “It wasn’t about the case.”

  “I know,” I said. “I trust you.”

  “I saw this student and she reminded me of… me, I guess. My time at NYU was paid for by a full scholarship I could not lose. I never felt as young as the other eighteen-year-olds. I felt old, full of responsibility, and every interaction made me feel confused. I didn’t get it, didn’t get their lives. They seemed silly.” She looked out the window for a full minute before she continued. “I was pretty much alone always. Lonely, I guess.”

  “You were lonely?” It was so hard to envision this strong, confident woman as a lonely creature without friends.

  “I mean, everyone’s lonely, right?”

  “I don’t believe everyone’s lonely, no,” I said.

  She turned to me, clearly startled. “Oh, well. It was just a memory. And it doesn’t matter anymore. Work is more important.”

  Was this what my team members saw in me? Was this what my mother and Jeanette feared? Sloane was so much younger than me, yet her life was so similar to mine. Work, focus, ambition, and drive.

  When was the last time she’d had fun? When was the last time I’d had fucking fun?

  “My father left my mother and me when I was sixteen,” I said, needing to even the scales between us. “My mother was in a catastrophic car accident that left her with a traumatic brain injury. She required four years of intensive rehabilitation. My father decided he couldn’t be inconvenienced by such a massive change of plans, and so he walked right out the door of our giant house in the Main Line and never returned.”

  Compassion flooded her features. “Do you want me to find him? Abe, you know I could. That’s my job.”

  The protectiveness in her tone, the protectiveness for me, had me reaching for her hands again. It was the farthest thing from professional. I held them, stroked my thumb along the side of her wrist.

  “Thank you,” I said, and meant it. “Technically, I could find him now. I don’t think he’s truly hiding, more avoiding. He’s not my real father, and I don’t need him in my life.” The words sounded neutral. The hollow feeling in my gut revealed the truth. Because now I’d lied.

  She studied me as the cab raced down the street, and I knew she could see through my bullshit, as always. But she let it go. “It makes sense now. Your mother, what happened. You’re a protector. You don’t sleep until everyone sleeps.”

  “Is there another option?” I asked.

  Her fingers flexed against mine. “Some people, like Bernard, steal everything when you sleep.”

  I chuckled, shook my head. “That is true. I told you because… well, I get it. I saw a lot of my classmates toss their academic opportunities down the drain when I felt lucky I’d made it, given everything that had happened.”

  Sloane was looking down, at our entwined fingers. With my other hand, I pinched her chin, turned her toward me. “For what it’s worth, I would have studied with you at NYU.”

  Sloane actually laughed. “Oooh, boy. I would not have known what to do with you.”

  “With my what?”

  She looked me up and down suggestively. “All of that.”

  “I beg to differ,” I said, voice soft. “I’m positive I wouldn’t have known what to do with you.”

  Against all of my better judgment, I swiped my thumb across her lower lip. Defiance dueled with openness in
her pretty eyes. I ultimately let her go, settling back in my corner with only the best of intentions moving forward.

  “How did you spot my lie?” she asked. “At the library. And the first night we met.”

  I smiled slightly. “This was always a favorite class at Quantico. Lie detecting. Being able to tell if your suspect was being honest. Did you ever take classes on it or receive training?”

  “I have a little experience,” she said, voice light, but her spine had gone rigid. “Not formal.”

  The night we met came back to me easily. “You over-complimented me. Touched me. Brought me into a private world. Probably told me at least one truth, or a half-truth, which made the lie more believable.” I lifted my brow. “And you too, Ms. Argento, have a micro-expression when you lie.” I pointed to the left-side of my head. “You look here.”

  There was nothing subtle about her expression now. She was charmed by this information.

  “I’m not saying I’ve never been caught,” she said, “It’s just few and far between.”

  “Why do you look like you’re enjoying this?” She was warm, flirtatious, provoking a smile to spread across my face.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. Which was the truth, I could tell. “Maybe I’ve always been searching for the man who’d catch me in my lies.”

  We pulled up to a slow stop in front of Midnight Apothecary—a roof-top bar that shimmered on top of a hotel. We exited, and I pulled my jacket tight, re-buttoned it. Right down the street, I could see bold white lettering that read Kensley Auction House.

  I took Sloane by the wrist and halted her brisk movement.

  She turned, face still smiling, bright with energy. “What’s wrong?”

  “Who taught you to lie?” I asked. Beneath that sultry facade beat the heart of a vulnerable loner, hungry for justice. And dammit if I didn’t want to get to know that woman better. A lot better.

  Sloane sized me up fully—then immediately dropped the act. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, hunched her shoulders—a first for her.

  I felt like a bastard. “You don’t have to—”

  “My parents,” she said, interrupting me. “My parents taught me how to lie. It was how I was raised. I had a very unconventional upbringing.” Her shoulders moved back again, equilibrium achieved. “That’s why I’m good at it. That’s why I’m good at going undercover. It’s all one big lie.”

  My hand curled into a fist by my side. “Sounds like your parents were assholes.”

  Her smile was bitter. “That’s the goddamn truth.”

  24

  Sloane

  We were at our location, with Eudora’s weekly appointment starting in fifteen minutes. Abe and I didn’t have time to say anything else while lingering publicly in front of this bar. But I did hook my pinkie finger through his and apply the lightest pressure. He looked stunned, in a good way.

  “The rules we made can be helpful,” I said. He pressed back with his finger.

  As we walked up the curving staircase to the bar, every single part of me was shaking. Which was neither smart nor safe for the situation we were about to enter.

  I stopped us as we reached the open space—a large, wide patio filled with trees, flowering vines, potted plants, and a plethora of twinkling fairy lights. Chairs were arranged around firepits, and waiters served cocktails that appeared to be fragrant and magical. As we approached the hostess, I knew we’d need a table that concealed our presence. I felt like our covers still held with Eudora—but depending on who she was meeting, her perspective of us could rapidly change.

  After speaking with the friendly hostess, we were led to the far right corner where a small, cozy couch was entirely surrounded with bushes and trees. A firepit blazed in the center. I stood where the couch was, getting an idea of how much of the venue we could see. There was a perfect circle of missing branches—like a porthole in a ship—that would let us watch every damn table.

  “This is wonderful, thank you,” I said, giving a little clap.

  The hostess smiled brightly. “All October we’re hosting campfires.” She pointed at the blaze. “I’ll bring you two some marshmallows.”

  “And a whiskey for me,” Abe asked.

  “Dirty vodka martini,” I added.

  I perched on the couch, holding my hands to the warm flames. Nodded at the porthole. “Check out this view.”

  Abe stared at the branches, the surrounding high trees, the privacy. “If she comes in the same way we did, we’ll see her first and won’t be caught off-guard.” He studied the minuscule couch. With a hard swallow, he unbuttoned his jacket and sat. We were shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh. If I swung my leg up, I’d be straddling him.

  “So now we wait,” he said. “See who she meets. Depending on who it is, perhaps Devon Atwood and Daniel Fitzpatrick can intercept her, press her for auction info.”

  “I think that’s a grand plan,” I agreed. “And I have to say, I’ve sat through a lot of boring stakeouts. This isn’t a bad one for sitting for a couple hours.”

  He leaned back against the couch, arm up, crossed his ankle over his knee. This position of relaxed leisure was even more tempting. Our hostess arrived with our drinks and a tiny plate of marshmallows with two sticks for roasting.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She gave us a nod and left us to our own devices. Abe set his drink on the table, untouched. “For cover, not for drinking,” he said.

  “Good call,” I murmured. The elephant in the room, at least for me, was being joined to Abe’s side in a romantic bar, surrounded by secluded trees in front of a roaring fire.

  It was not a situation where I needed any extra looseness. But I did like seeing him spike a marshmallow on a stick. He handed it to me, looking uncharacteristically boyish in the crackling firelight.

  I allowed it to roast, watched the flames dance and lick across the sweet surface. When I pulled the marshmallow free, blowing on my fingers, he flashed me a serene smile that curled my toes.

  “Why did you choose criminal justice to pursue?” he asked. “It can be a lonely and frustrating career, especially without a team working alongside you.”

  My eyes found his over the fire; I worked as hard as I could to maintain contact. Not because I didn’t want him to think I was lying. I wasn’t. The truth was just as hard to say with a straight face. “My lying parents didn’t have a strong moral code, to say the least. They would steal an apple from a kindergartner’s hand if they wanted to and they didn’t think they’d get caught. After I—” fled in the night “—graduated from high school and didn’t see them anymore, it felt like my responsibility to punish people like that. To balance the scales of justice, no matter how small. My first criminal justice class felt like…” I pressed my fingertips to my sternum, then stretched my arm out straight. “I felt like a hook had been lodged in my chest and I was being yanked forward. In a really, really good way.”

  “You found your calling,” Abe said simply.

  “I did,” I said. “I wanted to be a private detective because I wanted to work for myself, work on my own. But I’m slowly learning that taking pictures of employees who are stealing from the company is only so gratifying. This, taking down something bigger than me, feels like the hook in my sternum is on fucking steroids.”

  Fewer than four weeks had passed since the first day I’d walked through that dazzling library on my way to meeting Louisa for the first time. This afternoon I’d felt differently towards those books, those students, the value of such a place to our world. I wasn’t a person who had a cultured upbringing, who discussed literature or history or understood classical philosophy. But the vitality of rare manuscripts in what they offered the world was becoming clearer and clearer to me. And the absolute destruction Bernard’s crimes had caused was becoming a cause closer and closer to my heart.

  “I understand this feeling well,” Abe said. He removed a Codex business card from his pocket, holding it by his fingers for me to see. �
��Why did you take this? I don’t doubt at all what you told me. I don’t know what happened to you in the past, Sloane. My guess is your lying parents had something to do with your ability to steal without getting caught. It feels like your past. Not your present. Definitely not your future.”

  My lips parted on a surprised inhale.

  Sweet, sexy, take-no-bullshit man. No wonder he was so tempting.

  “You reacted to Bernard’s name,” I said. “When I was sitting next to you, I caught you respond.”

  He swallowed hard. “I caught you respond as well.”

  We’d been evenly matched from day one, Abe and I.

  “At that stage in the case I was desperate to follow any lead, no matter how small. It was a spontaneous decision, a dumb one, but I wanted to know who you were. Figured checking your pocket was a good start for a small scrap of identifying information. At that point, you weren’t revealing your name to me, remember?”

  Emotion flickered across his face, fraught and a little wild. “I remember.”

  That still wasn’t the full answer. The full answer was my body’s raw, primal response to Abe. He knew too—was merely waiting for me to reveal the core truth I was hesitant to fully address.

  “Growing up, the only way I ever received attention from my parents was by stealing. My instincts, I think, were to steal from you and get your attention. I liked you, Abe.”

  The words had spilled out without any editing or uncertainty. My face burned like the fire, and I distracted myself by licking the warm sugar from the tips of my finger.

  “Your plan worked,” he said, voice low. “You had my attention, Sloane. Have kept my attention, actually. Even when I should be focused elsewhere.”