“Like a Eudora,” Abe mused.
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly like a Eudora. They were all Eudoras, basically. So this library is well-known because it owns ten illustrated prints from Birds of America.”
I was new to rare books at the time I’d been hired. I later learned that John James Audubon’s full, four-volume guide to birds was one of the rarest in the world and worth millions of dollars. Which boggled my mind.
“Let me guess. Their security systems are shit,” Abe said dryly.
“They weren’t great,” I conceded. “In between conservation cycles, they’d loan the illustrations to The Painted Buntings for their annual fundraiser. The ticket price included time with the pages, examining them from behind protective glass, taking pictures. Six weeks before the event, the prints were stolen from the library.”
The theatrical tears coming from The Painted Buntings when they were informed of the theft had been what made me suspect them in the first place. Too over the top, no nuance. It had the feel of performance, not real emotion.
“I infiltrated the bird watchers,” I whispered dramatically.
“What was your cover?” he asked, matching my tone.
I beamed a cheery, mega-watt smile his way—gave his hand an enthusiastic shake. “Samantha Jenkins, event planning intern, amateur bird watcher.”
“Always a pleasure to meet one of your many characters,” Abe said smoothly. “So that’s how you got into their meetings?”
“The bird meetings and the fundraising meetings,” I said. “I spent weeks learning everything there was to know about birds and silent auctions. Then sat back and watched for mistakes. I’d never met a group of people as gossipy and conniving. And horny.”
His brow raised imperceptibly. “You don’t say.”
“These bird-lovers were breaking hearts left and right,” I said. “It wasn’t hard to take in the feuds, the old arguments, the ancient history people couldn’t let go of. Which is what led me to Mrs. Maeve Hawthorne. She was sleeping with three other birdwatchers and described herself as John Audubon’s number one fan. When she had me over for tea, she’d framed reproductions of his prints and hung them on every wall and available space in her home. And she’d seduced two of her bird-loving lovers to take the actual illustrations.”
“Let me guess—” Abe smirked. “She wasn’t even worried nor felt guilty.”
“I swear to god the woman was a sociopath dressed in a Laura Ashley sweater-set. But she shouldn’t have left me alone in her house while she went outside to accost the mailman. Five minutes was all I needed to slip into her basement and find the makeshift storage unit she’d created to make sure the artwork remained undamaged.”
“Sneaky, Ms. Argento,” he said in a tone that caressed like a lover’s.
“People should lock their basements if they don’t want undercover private investigators to find their loot.”
“Remind me to keep an eye on you the first time you’re in my house.”
The idea of Abe’s house had an atom bomb effect in my brain, shattering my concept of this intense attraction from something unexpected and sexy to real and even long-term.
“When would I be in your house?” I asked, lips pursed.
He swallowed hard. “Time will tell, I guess.”
I stole one more heated glance at Abe before turning back, toward the other passengers, hurtling toward Oxford. “So, uh,” I said, clearing my throat. “When Maeve came down the stairs and found me, I asked her why she had stolen illustrations worth two million dollars in her basement. She said, ‘Oh, those? How on earth did they get here?’”
“Sounds like an heiress I know,” he said, smiling slightly. “It’s the amazing thing about working undercover, earning their trust. There’s a certain kind of criminal that will lead you right to the smoking gun.”
Our train pulled into its stop, and we made the crowded journey across the platform and toward the library. Even a few streets away, the gorgeous greens of Oxford’s gardens were visible, only slightly muted beneath the cloudy sky.
Next to me, Abe slipped his hands into his pockets. “You know, it does say quite a bit about your talent and skill that Louisa hired you.”
“She might be regretting her decision at this point,” I said grimly.
“I’ve had to talk quite a few clients off the ledge before,” he said. “It never gets easier, and I only ever feel more like shit.”
I laughed. “Inspirational.”
He cast me a sideways glance. “No lying to each other, right?”
That look of his made me almost trip on the sidewalk. “Right.”
“I won’t ever tell you it gets easier when it, in fact, does not.”
We hit the long stone path leading to one of the most well-respected libraries in the world. Bernard’s library.
“The day Louisa officially hired me,” I said. “She told me I had a ‘fire in my eyes’ that she found seriously lacking whenever Interpol agents came to update her on their progress.”
“Yes, you do lack the dead eyes of bureaucratic drones,” Abe said.
“You’re still pissed though,” I said.
“About what?” He was staring at the magnificent, historic building with an impassive expression, but the flare of his nostrils and rigid posture betrayed his true feelings.
“That she hired me and not you.”
He looked down at the ground, toeing along the stone. “Vanity, thy name is Abraham Royal.”
I nudged my shoulder deliberately against his. “I know why it could be hard for you to come back here. You thought you’d snagged the biggest case of your career, only to have it taken away and given to the authorities you’ve come to despise.”
“Maybe I don’t have enough fire,” he drawled.
I remembered his conviction when he spoke about his ten-year hunt for Bernard, his passion for justice, the hunger there that mirrored my own.
And I remembered the sinful feeling of his lips on my throat.
“You seem to have more than enough fire to me,” I said with full honesty.
Then I led us both up the winding stone path, back to where it all began.
21
Abe
“Let’s head straight to Bernard’s office in the library,” Sloane said. “I have keys.”
My fingers curled into fists. I hadn’t been inside the McMaster’s Library since last November, when I’d dropped literally everything and flown out here after receiving Louisa’s call. Bernard hadn’t disappeared from my thoughts, but the cases Codex had been working at that point were opportunistic and disconnected from each other. There didn’t seem to be anything tying the abundance of rare book theft to a larger purpose—or a larger person.
Until the night I met Henry, looking shell-shocked and guilt-ridden, and he handed me a file of evidence he swore implicated his famous boss of a crime he couldn’t believe was possible.
Now, I was walking with Sloane toward Bernard’s office. What would it be like to view the elements of Bernard’s life that were banal and pedestrian?