“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.”