I glanced at Sam and found him staring at me. I dropped back to the page. “The first letter of every word on the left-hand side of the page spells a message. ‘Our love will never die’ was written into several. ‘The moon and stars are forever as is my love for you.’”
“Any of those connect to this case at all?” he interjected.
“Not that I can tell,” I said, hopes deflating. “’You are my supreme beauty’ Alfred encoded into one short note. Seems like a nice guy. You ever tell Brittany she was a supreme beauty?”
“No,” he grunted. “What do the letters say? Anything vital here, Evandale?”
I scanned and scanned. “Um…‘Night after night I dream of you and you alone; of that place between your legs where my mouth wants to—’” I stopped. Blushed. Looked up to find Sam still staring at me. “Very, uh, descriptive.”
“Anything else?” His voice was pure silk.
“‘Our bodies are one. Our hearts are one. You gasping my name as we couple together is the only divine prayer I need, the only god I choose to worship.’”
This lush, adorned room seemed to shrink the longer I read. A bead of sweat rolled between my shoulder blades.
“These are certainly a little different than ‘Do you like me, circle yes or no,’” I said lightly. “I mean, that’s the only letter I’ve ever gotten.”
“You had all those writer boyfriends, and none of those nerds ever wrote you a damn letter?” Sam sounded pissed.
“Girls like me don’t usually inspire grand romantic gestures through the written word.”
“Girls like you?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’m guessing high school was pretty easy for a six foot three, broad-shouldered jock with perfect grades.”
“You don’t know shit about what my life was like in high school,” he muttered.
“Right back at’cha, Agent Byrne.”
By the time I’d arrived at Princeton, my only goal was to be the smartest person in the room. And to black out every fucking memory of the bullying I’d experienced back home. Finding a burn book specifically about me and my many faults was not the most enjoyable way to celebrate my high school graduation. Every friendship I thought I had was a cruel deception. I’d been a joke to my classmates the whole time.
The only thing I had left to be proud of was my genius—which I coveted and protected until Sam Byrne swaggered into criminology club and proved himself to be my academic equal.
“You really did keep a lot of things from me, didn’t you?” The ghost of something melancholy flitted across Sam’s face.
“What? You mean at Quantico?” I asked. “We weren’t friends. And we certainly weren’t friends at Princeton. Rivals don’t bond over high school memories.”
“You’re right. How could I have forgotten.” His tone was chilly. Unforgiving.
“Should I…keep reading?” I finally asked.
“Is it going to actually help us?”
I sighed, irritated. “Here’s a thought. We figure out what event Thomas and Cora want us to attend with them tonight. Work our magic as Julian and Birdie, reinforced by this secret weapon we have here.” I pointed to the Under the Rose messages. “Try to pin down who has the letters. Thomas and Cora made it seem like they were a hot ticket item and we’d have competition. Find the competition. Find the letters.”
“Here’s my better idea,” he replied. “Find this Dr. Ward guy, who seems to be in charge. Threaten him with calling the FBI. Get the letters.”
“Does he have them though?” I asked.
“Someone has them, Evandale,” Sam said wearily. “I know this is how private detectives work, but I genuinely think these trust-building exercises over martinis and pearl-clad gossip will fuck us in the end. It’s time to move. We have less than three days. Abe would agree.”
“I’ve worked with Abe for three years now,” I shot back. “He’d want us to keep infiltrating. Play at being thieves, even if we lose a day. It’s worth it in the end.”
“And I’m a goddamn FBI agent,” he growled. “I know more about these situations than you.”
Fury blurred my vision. Every fucking time. One measly inch forward, one mile hurtled back. Sam unrolled his sleeves, donned his jacket, and strode toward the door with angered purpose.
I darted ahead. Got there first—my back against the door, hands on my hips. He stopped short, bringing us literally toe-to-toe.
“Evandale.”
“Byrne.”
Another irritated sigh. “I’m calling Abe, and I’m making a move whether you like it or not. We’re partners—which means you should be coming with me,” he said.
“Tell me what to do one more time, and you’ll experience my knees back in your groin again.”
His lips twitched. The look on his face was one I recognized from our countless times sparring. Sam and I always walked into those classes bickering. And ended them with one of us pinning the other to the mat.
Every time we’d fight, these flickers of sexual hunger would transform his otherwise stoic expression. And not necessarily when he won.
No. He’d stare at me like this when I won.
Sam Byrne always liked a challenge. And I was his greatest challenge.
“It’s the hostage simulation again,” he insisted. “If you won’t listen to reason, shit’s going to blow up again. And this time, we have more at stake than fake bystanders.”
“I know what we have at stake,” I said. “I’ve worked this job for three years. Worked it passionately, I might add. Because I believe in what we do. A thief is going to make off with rare love letters because you’re too proud to admit that the actual private detective knows what she’s doing.”
He took a step closer, big hands landing on either side of my head. Both of us were breathing heavily—glaring with the full force of years of frustration.
I dream of that place between your legs where my mouth wants to—
My mind flooded with fragments of that written fantasy—my naked legs spread on that gorgeous bed, Sam’s blond head between them, my fingers messing the perfectly tidy strands of his hair.
“Why do you always do this?” he asked, mouth dangerously close to mine. “Since the first day we met, no other woman has ever been so irritating.”
Poke poke poke.
We had a ticking clock on an important case, and yet I still needed to do it.
“If I’m so irritating,” I said, “why does it look like you want to kiss me?”
17
Sam
“I don’t want to kiss you,” I said. “I want you to acknowledge that I’m right and come with me.”
Freya sized up her opponent. “You’re lying through your teeth, Agent Byrne.”
She wasn’t wrong.
It was taking every remaining shred of my willpower not to claim her lips with my own. They were so full, the bottom lip so plump, and the red of her lipstick was luring me in like a siren song. I could read the twists and turns of her mind. I knew she was remembering how we used to spar. Our sweat-slicked bodies pressed tight, muscles alive, chests heaving as we panted.
I used to pick a stupid fight with her right before a training session just to work us both up. There was no better release than going toe-to-toe with your equal—the woman who pushed you more than any other.
Gripping the wall with my fingers, my gaze dropped all the way down her body. I drank her in like I’d never allowed myself to do before. This, too, had been a compulsion I crushed like every other emotional weakness. I’d had to remind myself, always, what not to do.
Don’t look at Freya’s body.
Don’t stare at her hair.
Don’t notice the sound of her laughter.
The more we fought at school, the hotter my nightly fantasies became. Even I couldn’t control my secret desires when I fucked my own fist—those fraught, vulnerable moments when I was merely a man, lusting after a woman who had not a goddamn clue how she affected me
. We’d fight, and I’d win. We’d fight, and she’d win. And every time I’d end up back at my dorm room, door locked, picturing a naked Freya sprawled on my bed, begging to come.
And in those fantasies, I made my beautiful rival come. I made her come over and over, in as many ways as my feverish brain knew how.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asked, all temptress now.
Don’t enjoy Freya flirting with you.
“If I did want to kiss you,” I said, “would it even change anything?”
“Oh. I see this game,” she breathed. “Trying to dismantle my defenses with reverse psychology so that we do things your way.”
“It’s no game.”
Was it? Or wasn’t it?
Freya pushed onto her tiptoes and hovered her red lips over mine. Our breath danced, mingled. It was a warning shot—she was ripping my fake white flag to shreds.
“Kissing me would change everything,” she whispered.
“And why is that?”
Her soft mouth just brushed mine, demolishing my best barricades. “Because if you kissed me, really kissed me, you wouldn’t be able to stop.”
Just the hint of her mouth so close to mine had my nails digging into the wall by her head. The rote sex I’d been half-heartedly enjoying with previous women was exposed for the cold, brutal lie it’d always been. Freya’s kiss was my true craving.
“You want full honesty from your partner?” I said.
“Please.” It was almost a goddamn plea.
“Yes,” I growled against her mouth. “Kissing you is all I want. And yes, I wouldn’t stop there.”
We’d finally touched the forbidden third rail of our relationship.
I’d never told Freya why Brittany had broken up with me. All you do is talk about Freya and think about Freya and ask me questions about Freya, Brittany had said. You say you hate her, but I think that’s a big old lie.
I despised that memory. It was confusing. Because Brittany’s accusations had been correct. Every action in my life had a Freya-inspired reaction. We were moths drunk on the same flame.
Freya’s hands spanned my ribcage, fingers slipping beneath my shirt to press against my bare abdomen. I hit the wall with my fist, needing to release the sheer ecstasy of skin on skin. Her fingers were trembling, Freya was trembling. And her expression was shifting from haughty tease to vulnerable beauty.
I needed the haughty tease—the haughty tease I could handle. Her aching vulnerability would make me fall for her.
“I want you to kiss me,” she said quietly.
She was giving me a precious weakness in her armor. It wasn’t the full story I suspected she was hiding from me, but she was revealing a secret. Maybe not the best-kept secret—we both knew we’d been trying not to kiss each other for years.
I allowed myself the tiniest paradise—pressing my lips to the fluttering pulse-point at the base of her throat. Sugar—her skin smelled and tasted of it. Her shaky exhale threatened to crack me wide open.
“Wanting to kiss each other is certainly something we can agree on,” I murmured against her skin. She laughed, very quietly. “Let me go. Come with me. And let’s go solve this case. We’ll do it together.”
She shook her head—stubborn as ever. “I’m not picking a fight with you, I promise.”
“And neither am I.”
“Your plan is a mistake. I can feel it, Byrne. Stay with me. Please.”
I lifted my head and we stared at each other—our expressions rippling between arousal and anger. Freya slipped her hands from my waist and crossed her arms.
“We’re partners who can’t even agree on the right course of action,” she said.
I didn’t reply—it was another truth.
But I did take a step back from her, my hand already on the doorknob.
“You’re actually going?” Her voice had gone flat, the charged moment disintegrating.
“I’m going to go get those damn letters.” It came out harsher than I intended and hurt flared in her green eyes. I didn’t have to give voice to the elephant in the room—that separating went against our training and was usually the dumbest thing to do.
She stepped away from the door, posture defiant. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
“We will.”
It wasn’t an unusual way for us to end an argument, but as I clicked the door shut behind me and stalked toward the elevator, I didn’t feel my usual blend of smug victory or bristling irritation.
It felt strange, even wrong, acting without her by my side. But all I had were my own internal instincts about this case, and they were pointing me like a bloodhound in the direction of Dr. Ward. If I’d learned anything from Gregory’s betrayal, it was that partners didn’t always have your back. And they didn’t always care about justice.
The doors binged open, and I stepped into a long, carpeted hallway. I was in the hotel basement.
Goddammit. I’d let Freya and the almost-kiss distract me so much I’d hit the wrong button. Wasn’t this where the speakeasy had been?
It didn’t look like a typical basement—one wall opened up into a large circular area, where a stage or bar would have been. White tablecloths draped over the shapes of tables and chairs, and a dirty-looking chandelier hung in the middle. I knocked my fingers against the left wall—hollow. Probably covered by construction crews after the cops had raided the place one too many times in the ’20s. Gas lanterns still graced the hallway. Black and white photographs hung in evenly spaced rows with gold plaques inscribed beneath. They appeared to be of Philadelphia high society of the era—jazz singers, local politicians, heirs, and heiresses. The wealthy and elite of one of America’s oldest cities.
Why was every room in this hotel dark as a dungeon? I peered closer at one inscription. Dutch Luciano and Charles Lansky, well-known bootleggers, dance with Viola Stark at The Grand Dame’s annual New Year’s Eve ball.
The fact that this hotel displayed pictures of known criminals made me itchy. I felt drawn to faces in the photo I was staring at—smug, smirking. These people embraced being criminals and enjoyed getting away with it. It pissed me the hell off.
My ringing cell forced me back into the present moment.
“Byr—hello?” Fucking distracted.
“Samuel.” It was my father. Glancing past my shoulder, I stepped into the closest shallow corner, lowering my voice.
“Yes, hello, sir.”
“Abraham has debriefed me on the details on this case. I trust you’re on your way to solving it?”
I hesitated, examined the empty hallway. “I am, sir.”
“Close it faster,” he said. “It will go far in instilling my confidence in your abilities as an agent again.”
The elevator doors slid open, revealing Dr. Bradley Ward, hat and all. I stepped back into the alcove but felt fully exposed. The man was whistling like it was a fine spring morning.
“Yes, I understand,” I said.
Dr. Ward tipped his hat to me before continuing down the hallway.
What the hell was he doing in the basement?
“Listen,” my father said, “I fully anticipate a positive result from the internal investigation. And I fully expect you to be back here at the FBI’s offices shortly thereafter, with Abraham giving me a glowing review. Is that clear?”
“Positive result?” I asked. “You’re sure?”
What did that mean for Gregory? And what did that mean for my reputation?
“People do what I say, Samuel. That’s the deal.”
“Thank you for the update. It’s appreciated,” I replied.
“I trust you are taking care of your issues while in Philadelphia?”
I rubbed my forehead, wishing Freya was here. “Of course. Won’t happen again, sir.”
He barked to a subordinate in the background. Then ended the call with, “I’ll be in touch.”
Not since the death of my mother had he shown me the slightest affection or love or kindness in the traditional se
nse. That had always been her parental purview. My mother had been affectionate and joyful, and my twelve years with her were the best of my life. But I knew, deep down, what being an FBI agent meant to my father. It made him unequivocally proud to serve the Bureau. My following in his footsteps made him just as proud. And that was all the love I needed.
“You have the look of a man talking to a notoriously difficult father.” Dr. Ward appeared by my side, tipping his hat again before lowering it.
“Dr. Ward,” I said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you in person. I’m Julian King.”
He smiled crookedly—looking like a sunburned rancher even though his suit was more expensive than my rent.
“Same here. When Thomas and Cora informed me that you overcame your illness, I was delighted. We have much to discuss, after all.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I replied. On instinct, I turned to Freya, who of course wasn’t there. “I, uh…Birdie will be jealous I got to meet you first.”
“Fine woman, your business partner,” he said.
“Birdie is the finest,” I agreed. “And that was my father on the phone. He could be described as demanding.”
Dr. Ward nodded sagely. “I recognize the sound of a son seeking the approval of the only man he’s ever cared about. Had the same relationship with my father before he passed away five years ago.” He grasped the sides of his jacket, tugging it close. “He was a mean old bastard. And he thought what I did was hoity-toity. Sure is tough to be a rancher’s boy when your true calling is archeology. All that formal schooling I went through, I paid for myself. Never got a damn dime of support. I have two younger brothers who were all too happy to step into his shoes. But I remained a disappointment to him until the bitter end.”
Dr. Ward reached out and touched one of the pictures on the wall—two women were smiling, holding bottles of perfume. “My father’s world was the size of his ranch and no bigger. I’ve gotten to see everything, Mr. King. Tombs, pyramids, ancient relics, the ruins of our oldest civilizations…that’s what a man needs. To reach out and touch history, regardless of the cost.”
Under the Rose Page 11