“I’m not a tourist. And you’re not a man on vacation,” I said shortly. “So I’m not going into that pub unless you give me information I can use.”
Abe raised his palms, looking pissed, frustrated, and aroused all at once. “I’m not giving you information unless you tell me who you are.”
“Deal,” I finally said. I extended my hand, and he shook it, squeezing tight. Flames of desire licked along my skin where we touched, so instantaneous it robbed me of breath and burned through my rational thought.
One tug from Abe, and I’d fall into him; one tug from me, and he’d fall against me.
A muscle ticked in his jaw; my lips parted on a shaky breath.
“Deal,” he said.
12
Sloane
Abe and I ducked into a tiny pub right next to Adler’s—a barely lit, cozy space with few patrons, which perfectly suited our need for a covert conversation. As I found a small table in a secluded corner, he walked to the bar and returned with a single whiskey, a bowl of ice, and two clean towels.
The whiskey sat untouched between us. Unlike before, during our game of vodka shots, I knew I needed to stay as clear-headed as possible to maintain my sure footing around this man. It was far too easy to cede control of rationality while staring at his devastatingly handsome face.
“For your elbow,” he said, pushing the bowl of ice toward me with a single finger. “It’ll bruise tomorrow. That goon had a face like a brick fucking wall.”
I stared down at the bowl, then back at Abe. Perhaps sensing my hesitation, he picked up two cubes of ice and wrapped them in the towel. Handed the bundle over to me. Cool relief spread through my body the second I placed it on my skin.
He was right. It was already bruising.
“Thanks,” I said a little awkwardly. My brain struggled to process this gesture of kindness. Had my unconventional parents ever gotten me ice when I skinned my knees?
Abe examined his knuckles, which were bleeding. “It’s been a few years since my hand-to-hand combat skills were used outside a boxing gym.”
“I meant what I said back there.” I nodded at my elbow. “The save was appreciated.”
“Where did you learn to fight?” he asked.
It wouldn’t help to lie at this point. The week after I’d escaped from my parents, I enrolled in my first self-defense class. It wasn’t that I was physically afraid of my parents. I was, however, physically afraid of the people they’d defrauded. And once I started getting paid to take pictures of furious spouses, well… it was smart.
“I have about six years of self-defense training, including Krav Maga and mixed martial arts. A little boxing too.”
“Why did you start?” he asked.
“Safety.”
His eyes narrowed. “From what?”
“My family.” His face registered the slightest jolt. That was too much truth, even for our game. “Anyway,” I said quickly. “You should put ice on those too.”
He did as he was told, resting his knuckles in the bowl. The other hand reached into his pocket and removed a small glass bottle with a dropper on the end. “Thank you for interrupting our poisoning mid-act. Is this what you saw the bartender use?”
Surprised, eager, I dropped the ice and grabbed the bottle. Scrawled on the side were the words gamma-hydroxybutyric acid.
“GHB,” he said, face impassive but fingers flexing.
“The date rape drug?” I said, shocked. “Do you think that guy in the alley was supposed to mug us?”
“Did he go for your wallet though?” Abe asked.
I shook my head, mind racing as I ran through the possibilities.
“Although, to be fair, I believe you scared him off.”
I grinned. “He thought fighting me would be easy.”
“Nothing about you is easy,” he said quietly. “In smaller amounts, if we’d taken those shots, the GHB would have made us groggy. Easier to attack.”
“But why?” I asked.
He was shaking his head. “I think the why might be uncovered when you tell me who the hell you really are and why you’re lying all over the goddamn place.”
I hesitated, suddenly unsure now that I was facing admitting who I was and potentially threatening my chances of capturing Bernard on my own. My deadline hovered between us—eleven days left. All this time here, and real, juicy leads hadn’t started appearing until Abe Royal had landed in London. Actually saying the words I need your help to another person went against every fiber of my being. I didn’t need help. What I needed was information, money, and opportunity.
I looked at Abe, pictured myself receiving that check from Louisa and all the professional goodwill that could come of it. This man had information. And if I played my cards right, it could lead me to that money and opportunity.
Reaching into my purse, I removed my private investigator’s license and my own business card. Laid them on the table. He placed his license right next to mine. I picked his up, studied his official documents.
“Nice to meet you Abe Royal of Codex,” I said.
“Not new information for you though, is it?” he countered.
I stayed silent, watched his whole-body reaction to reading my own license. Fingers tight, brow furrowed. “You’re a private detective?”
His voice scraped across every nerve ending. “Sure am,” I replied.
“Sloane Argento.” Each syllable out of his mouth was curved, slow. Savored.
In my seventeen years living with them, I’d worn any number of names—until answering to a name not my own was as comfortable as an old, favorite sweater. Being Devon Atwood had felt absolutely fine, normal even. When I’d finally left my parents, I’d kept my birth name. My real one. And even though my first name was chosen by my mother and my last was all I knew of my father’s Italian heritage, it still felt like mine.
“Argento Enterprises?” He held up my business card. “This is you?”
“It’s my firm in Brooklyn,” I said. “I opened it the year after I graduated from NYU.”
Abe placed both hands on the table. “It’s nice to formally meet you, Sloane Argento. It appears I am vindicated in my assessment that you are not, in fact, a Devon.”
“And you’re no Daniel.”
“So why are you masquerading as a Sherlock Holmes enthusiast and taking members of the Society to tea?” he asked.
I tilted my head, stalling. Tapped my nails on the table. “I’ve been hired by the McMaster’s Library to find Bernard Allerton.”
The sentence plummeted between us like an anvil. Abe’s jaw tightened to the point of breaking, irritation carved into his face. “Louisa Davies hired you?”
“Officially, she’s my client,” I said. “I know she almost hired you eleven months ago, when Bernard went on the run and you met Dr. Henry Finch for the first time.”
“That I did.” His tone was brittle. “I thought she was making a mistake. Still believe she made a mistake.”
I lifted a shoulder. “I agree with you. Louisa is frustrated with Interpol and the Bureau and thinks they’re not doing enough to find him. She thought a PI could find him more quickly, and she’s willing to pay a lot of fucking money for it.”