A white stretch limo sat idling at the curb outside of the Codex offices—looking extremely out of place in this historic part of the city. And so did we. Henry and I were standing in our fanciest clothes, facing Abe and Freya.
“Camera,” she said, tilting my wrist. I was wearing the silver band with the secret lens.
“Camera,” she said again, grabbing Henry’s watch. We both nodded. “Abe and I are both programmed into your speed dial in case you need us. But if something really gets tricky, call 911. And call the cops if you get actual eyes on the book. I’ll be online, monitoring any chatter. If, for whatever reason, Abe and I pick up on information you need to know, or would be helpful, I’ll text you.” Freya glanced at Abe.
“See what you see and then get out of there,” Abe said softly. “Those are your orders. Delilah?”
Abe knew I needed to be told twice. I gave him a very serious nod. “I understand.”
My boss was sending his detectives into a high-risk recovery situation already assuming we’d fail.
I didn’t fucking like it.
Dorran beeped his horn—his classic greeting. Abe nodded curtly and strode back inside.
Freya gave me a hug. “Good luck,” she whispered. And she startled Henry by doing the same. He looked at me over the top of her messy bun—bemused and then grateful.
“Dream team,” she said, pointing between the two of us. “Now go get ’em.”
She walked back inside, leaving Henry and me completely alone for the first time since last night. Henry was in a cream linen suit and a white shirt, unbuttoned at his throat. It exposed a tempting swatch of dark brown skin. His eyes studied the whimsical layers of my skirt, the cinched waist, my bare collarbone, the rounded curve of my shoulders. I felt exposed, analyzed, handled with supreme care.
“You look exquisite.” His voice was intoxicating.
“The same can be said of you,” I said.
Henry opened the door, and I slid into the limo we’d been riding in together for weeks now. Every time it felt massively extravagant with only two people inside. He sat across from me, straightened his glasses, hooked his cufflinks. We were finally alone, in as private a space as we were going to get for the rest of the night, and instead of blurting out the jumble of confused emotions he was making me feel, I could only think of Freya’s careful warning.
Henry seemed to be experiencing something similarly frustrating—his brow was furrowed, fingers in fists at his sides. He kept beginning to say something and then stopping. But when he finally managed to speak, he expressed something else entirely.
“I might have an alternative plan for tonight,” he said. “What did you think about what Abe said back there?”
“You mean our orders?” I corrected.
Behind his glasses, his eyes crinkled at the sides. “Delilah,” he said. And in his voice, I heard the intensity of our stolen moments.
I relented. “I don’t like them. I feel fucking disappointed. Angry.”
Henry leaned forward. “I had this memory when Freya was showing us the pictures of Victoria’s house. It might be nothing, I don’t know, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”
The hair on my arms stood up.
“Tell me,” I said.
“It was something offhand that Bernard said once. That he once knew a woman who loved books so much she built secret hallways to hide her favorites.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, all of my senses sparking to life.
“Secret hallways. To hide her favorites,” he repeated.
“You think that’s Victoria?”
Henry shrugged. “I think there’s a reason my subconscious won’t let it go.”
“If Victoria has secret passageways in her house, how would we get to them?” My mind was already leaping ahead, puzzling out this new information.
“I have no fucking idea,” he said gravely. But I laughed anyway—the sound tugging the ends of his lips up into a grin.
“I’m serious.” He was still smiling. “I have no idea. I don’t know if we’ll know until we get there. And it might mean nothing. And he could have been talking about any other woman. Truly. But this memory’s been trying to get my attention for days now, Delilah. Doesn’t that usually mean something?”
“Chasing a lead,” I murmured. “It can be the best feeling in the world if you know what it means. Or the most frustrating.” I tilted my head. “You’re a real detective now, Henry Finch.”
He was still grinning at me, and my heart beat so fast I felt out of breath, almost dizzy.
“You didn’t say anything to Abe and Freya though?”
He leaned back in the seat. “You’re my partner. I wanted you to know. Not them. And I don’t think Abe would have told us to do anything about it.”
Warmth blossomed in my chest. How far we’d come from bumbling around art galleries and moving through this case like strangers.
“It could mean absolutely nothing,” my partner repeated.
“Or it could mean everything,” I said.
I bit my lip, glanced toward the black privacy window that separated us from Dorran. The thought of this—the hint of success for this case—made me feel reckless.
“You know, I have a secret too,” I whispered. I flashed him a flirtatious smile.
His eyebrow arched, amused. “I don’t believe you.”
“Well, I’d show it to you, but it’s under my dress,” I said.
How easily—and quickly—I forgot myself around Henry.
A predatory gleam came into his eyes. I pursed my lips, his look making me feel coquettish.
We were only looking at each other.
And it was just one more time.
And just in here.
“Why don’t you show me?” he asked. Although we both knew it was a demand.
I crossed my legs beneath the layers—his eyes landed at the juncture between my thighs. I was sitting in the limo with a man who knew intimately the feel of my sex, clenching in orgasm.
Small office, intimate situations, Freya had cautioned.
If Henry and I didn’t pursue whatever this might be—would it always be like this? Tempting and teasing each other when we were supposed to be professionals?
If we did pursue it—could we ever be truly professional again?
“Delilah,” he said, shattering my concerns. “Show me your secret.”
I reached down obediently. Clasped the floaty ends of my skirt between my fingers. Slid the material along my ankle and halfway up my calf.
“Slower,” he growled. His posture screamed dominance in a way I’d never seen before. The closet had been pitch-black, silent—hurried. Beneath that finely tailored suit, what kind of man would Henry Finch truly be like in bed?
Our eyes were locked together, frozen in a kind of battle I didn’t truly want to win.
In the end, I let the gauzy material glide up every inch of my legs with the laziest tempo I could manage. And Henry tracked every single inch of bared skin. When I finally, finally reached the garter belt, I thought he was going to tear the seat clean in half.
“Zip ties,” I said. “Duct tape.” My dress was pulled all the way to my hip. “In case we get into a tough situation and I have to tie up Sven.”