And pleased when she realized the same thing. She huffed out a little laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”
I shook my head. “This is me.”
“Well… this is me,” she said slowly. Her sultry demeanor was fading in the face of her real shock.
“There goes the neighborhood, I guess,” I said, unlocking my door. Propping it open an inch with the tip of my shoe. “Looks like I’ll be seeing you around, Ms. Atwood.”
9
Sloane
Abe Royal was on the move.
I pressed my ear to my door, heard his open and close, then the elevator doing the same thing. I yanked on my boots, fluffed my hair, and checked my lipstick.
And I set off to follow him.
It had been six hours since our conversation in the hallway—and while I’d intended to stay in his hotel because I’d be closer to a potential source for All Things Bernard, it had not been my intention to be his fucking neighbor.
That was, truly, coincidence. A coincidence my sex-starved body had been extremely happy about. During the six hours we’d been apart, every action I undertook inside this room had me imagining Abe doing the same thing. Undressing, showering, crawling onto the wide, soft bed.
More specifically, I’d spent several hours battling the force of this new handcuffs fantasy that had appeared ever since the man had threatened to have me arrested for my sticky fingers. There was no denying the allure: bound hands, suddenly submissive, Abe’s deep voice at my ear as he informed me of my misdeeds. Bad girl, good girl—I’d be whatever he wanted.
I did deny myself the pleasure of… well, pleasure. Touching myself with only a wall separating me from this sexy stranger could only lead to more trouble when I only needed more focus. The excitement I felt at the sound of his door opening was merely because I believed he’d lead me to the next clue about Bernard’s whereabouts.
There wasn’t—there couldn’t be—another reason.
I slipped down the stairs quickly, careful to exit in the alley off the hotel. Pausing, back to the brick, I saw Abe’s suit-clad form move past and into a crowd heading toward Cavendish Square.
I followed him.
His stride was deliberate, confident. People stepped aside and made way for him. He didn’t appear to be a tourist. He wasn’t checking his phone or staring at street signs. It made tailing him simple. He only faced forward.
And I was an old hat at tailing a suspect, even before I was being paid to catch spouses in the act of cheating. Being raised by two con artists meant I was raised to pay attention. Every single thing was a tell, a vulnerability, a truth to be manipulated and used to garner trust.
The reverse was also true. Every person my parents became—and over the years I watched them become hundreds of different people—had a fake vulnerability that allowed their mark to trust them. Bernard had nailed his years ago. I’d bet money his frailty was feigned to induce compassion.
One of the many ways my parents used me was to have me follow their potential mark and report back on their tells. It felt like spying. It felt like an invasion. And whenever we’d managed to live in a town long enough for me to attend school on a limited basis, I learned fairly quickly that my classmates weren’t forced to do the things I did on the weekends.
When I was ten, I made the mistake of asking my parents why kids at school were different than me. I wasn’t allowed back to school for a long time.
Abe strolled past green, flowering gardens and busy intersections. If I was tailing this man for a client, my analysis would be that he had a confidence born from a deep-seated sense of self or purpose. He was serious, brilliant, unflappable.
If he was a mark, I’m not sure what vulnerability I’d poke at. So far I hadn’t found one. But as a private detective, I could only admire him—his ability to blend into the crowd. He was a fucking natural.
He came to a stop in front of a green building I recognized. Mycroft’s Pub. Named for Sherlock’s brother, it was frequented by members of the Society and used often for informal talks and meetings that I’d attended once or twice. Across the street was a bookstore named Adler’s, a few cafes, and quiet-looking office buildings.
Abe checked a slip of paper then stepped inside Mycroft’s.
I paused at the windows of the bookstore to check my reflection. Fluffed my hair again. The window opened to a little seating area surrounded by stacks and stacks of old books. Past that were long bookshelves with posters advertising literary events around London. I thought about Bernard Allerton, who’d been trusted by people to protect books like the ones I was staring at. I thought about him abusing that trust because he appeared to be—at first glance—a greedy piece of shit.
Anger flooded my veins, sharpening my focus on this case and the bigger picture it represented. Stealing antique books worth millions of dollars was just a fancier version of my parents’ scams, which included fraudulent insurance plans and conning elderly people by pretending to be their grandchildren. It was all just a trick—but one that only worked by exploiting people’s natural inclination to trust.
A familiar voice came from behind me. “Ms. Atwood, how pleasant to see you again.”
My surprised eyes met Abe’s smug ones in the reflection of the window. He must have slipped back out of Mycroft’s while I was distracted by my thoughts. Although now I was distracted by Abe, which didn’t help me one bit.
“Don’t look too pleased with yourself,” I said, turning around to face him. Which was definitely a mistake—his gravitational pull was too strong.
“First you steal from me. Then you’re somehow staying in the hotel room next to mine. And now I catch you tailing me.” There was a surprising hint of mischief in his expression. “There are better ways to get my attention. Better and legal, I might add.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” With great effort, I took a giant step backwards and nodded towards the pub. “Yet another coincidence. I was heading inside there.”
“Yet another lie,” he said. “If you followed me all this way, you might as well go in first.”
With a smirk, I breezed past him. Picking up a program on a side table, I read: The Importance of Sherlock in a Mobile-Phone World. The speaker was Humphrey Hatcher, who was Secretary of the Sherlock Society. Mycroft’s Pub was dark and cozy inside with a small stage, a large fireplace, and paintings on the wall. The pub had been transformed for tonight’s talk, and instead of its usual assortment of tall tables and bar seating, the room was clear and fully crowded with people. Eudora waved to me from a group of people, and I smiled and waved back.
Abe was peering curiously around the room. It was getting harder and harder not to grab him by the lapels and demand he tell me his real plans. Using a fake name, meeting with Eudora, befriending members of the Society… Had Codex been hired by another library to go after Bernard? Or was this a one-man mission? Because it’d be helpful to know if this sexy, sinfully distracting man was purely fascinating or actually my competition.
Before I could ask him another question, a red-faced, red-haired, burly lumberjack in his seventies came barreling through the crowd.
“Daniel Fitzpatrick,” the man boomed. He shook Abe’s hand vigorously, practically wrenching his arm off. “I’m Humphrey Hatcher. Eudora told me you know Bernard. A friend of a friend is my friend.”