Those connections—with friends or boyfriends—never excited me anyway. My background was a tightly guarded secret, and that meant no one got in.
Abe touched my wrist with a look of genuine concern.
“Are you okay?” he whispered. The pressure of his fingers was comforting.
“Of course,” I replied. “Let’s go make our train.”
He didn’t let go immediately. And when he did, he seemed disappointed in me.
I knew why. I had lied to him.
And not lying to each other was one of our rules.
23
Abe
At 6:00 p.m. on the dot, I smoothed a stray hair back into place. Brushed one piece of lint from my cuff. Shut my extremely organized suitcase.
I was ready for a night of cocktails with Sloane.
I was ready for a night of surveillance on a potential suspect that was probably part of a web of international book thieves.
My laptop pinged with two emails bearing Codex addresses. One from Freya with a bunch of pop culture memes attached I refused to understand. One from Delilah, with a quick summary on The Black Stallion case: I wouldn’t normally do this, since you’re on vacation, but the Thornhills win again! Book was retrieved, in mint condition, from the museum’s secretary who thought she could make extra cash. She shouldn’t have admitted all those secrets to her favorite married couple. And because I know you’ll ask, our fee has already been paid by the client.
I blew out a relieved breath. Nice work, I wrote back. “Never trust a married couple” has been my life’s motto since day one. And, because I know you’ll ask, yes, I am enjoying my vacation.
I was getting better and better at the outright lies now. Although, as Sloane and I strategized on the train-ride back to London, I couldn’t stop hearing the voices of my team in my head. Not my usual guilt over wanting to capture Bernard all by myself. I could hear them chatting logistics, devising plans and maps, getting ready to strike a big target.
Because, if this was starting to come together the way I thought, Sloane and I would have a lot to do the night of the auction. Having four other skilled private detectives as backup would be extremely helpful.
Another ping, dislodging my train of thought. It was from Sam. I’m sorry for the number of memes Freya is sending, sir. She misses you. We all miss you.
I caught my own reflection in the mirror and didn’t appreciate the affectionate yearning on my face. So I closed my laptop, slid my suitcase neatly inside my closet. There wasn’t an article of clothing out of place, no socks on the floor or towels across the bed. Old habits die hard, and during the years of my mother’s rehabilitation, I did most of the cleaning and tidying in our house when my relatives couldn’t pitch in. A time of such life-changing chaos didn’t need the added mess of a dirty house.
Past girlfriends, Caroline included, had teased me about my immaculate house, my perfectly organized drawers, my bookshelves organized by color.
I touched the wall Sloane and I shared. Out of respect, I’d truly restrained my thoughts about my new work partner. Because I knew she was ‘getting ready’. I knew that meant she was peeling away her clothing, stepping naked into a steaming shower, washing her hair, drying her skin—
Sloane wouldn’t be neat, and she wouldn’t be organized, and I wouldn’t give a good goddamn. I’d take her against this very wall and let her scream until she was hoarse, let her wreck my clothing, wreck this dresser, wreck this bed. Wreck me.
I knocked my fist against the wall to stop the wild train of my thoughts. This was why I couldn’t open the lock on those fantasies.
“Abe, is everything okay?”
The muffled sound of Sloane’s voice startled me. I realized I was banging on her wall one day after we’d had men threatening us.
“So sorry,” I called back. “I’m heading to the lobby.”
“I’ll be down in five,” she replied.
All the way down the elevator, standing in the lush and ornate lobby, I attempted to curtail those images, those dreams, those visions that had haunted me since arriving. If Sloane wanted to tease me about fortress-high walls guarding my heart—and she wasn’t wrong—I needed to raise them higher to guard against the threat of her enigmatic charm.
Tightening my cuff links once more, I glanced up as the golden elevator doors slid open. Sloane walked out with the posture of a supermodel on a high-fashion runway—hair dark and untamed, dress dark and short, spike-heeled leather boots that climbed mid-thigh. The lobby quieted, patrons watching open-mouthed as she strutted right towards me. I knew, in that moment, what it would feel like to be Sloane’s, to be the man she was always walking toward. Her partner not only on this case but romantically.
I’d be a lucky bastard indeed.
Now, as she came toward me with an eyebrow cocked, I tapped into the deepest well of restraint I had and managed to remain impassive by the skin of my teeth.
“Ms. Argento,” I said mildly.
“Mr. Royal. Shall I call us a taxi?”
“One’s already waiting,” I said, placing my palm low on her back. We walked through the doors, and I allowed myself the luxury of feeling like a couple, the honor it would be to escort this brilliant woman to a night of cocktails and whatever the hell else she wanted.
Once inside the cab, I put as much space between us as I could. Even then, her sultry presence dominated every square inch. I watched her profile in the moonlight, the shape of her mouth, the glittering diamonds dangling from her ears.
“Are we going to talk about how you lied to me back at the McMaster’s Library?” I asked, keeping my tone friendly, warm. I wasn’t trying to incite her skittishness. I was trying to see inside that enigmatic head of hers.
“Classic cab ride conversation,” she countered.
I lifted a shoulder. Waited. I’d avoided pushing on the train ride back, but this small space felt like a more intimate place for secret sharing.
Sloane’s fingers twisted in her lap—which I’d never seen her do before. I reached across, stilled them. She stared at me with her chin raised. “It wasn’t about the case.”
“I know,” I said. “I trust you.”
“I saw this student and she reminded me of… me, I guess. My time at NYU was paid for by a full scholarship I could not lose. I never felt as young as the other eighteen-year-olds. I felt old, full of responsibility, and every interaction made me feel confused. I didn’t get it, didn’t get their lives. They seemed silly.” She looked out the window for a full minute before she continued. “I was pretty much alone always. Lonely, I guess.”
“You were lonely?” It was so hard to envision this strong, confident woman as a lonely creature without friends.
“I mean, everyone’s lonely, right?”
“I don’t believe everyone’s lonely, no,” I said.
She turned to me, clearly startled. “Oh, well. It was just a memory. And it doesn’t matter anymore. Work is more important.”
Was this what my team members saw in me? Was this what my mother and Jeanette feared? Sloane was so much younger than me, yet her life was so similar to mine. Work, focus, ambition, and drive.