When was the last time she’d had fun? When was the last time I’d had fucking fun?
“My father left my mother and me when I was sixteen,” I said, needing to even the scales between us. “My mother was in a catastrophic car accident that left her with a traumatic brain injury. She required four years of intensive rehabilitation. My father decided he couldn’t be inconvenienced by such a massive change of plans, and so he walked right out the door of our giant house in the Main Line and never returned.”
Compassion flooded her features. “Do you want me to find him? Abe, you know I could. That’s my job.”
The protectiveness in her tone, the protectiveness for me, had me reaching for her hands again. It was the farthest thing from professional. I held them, stroked my thumb along the side of her wrist.
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it. “Technically, I could find him now. I don’t think he’s truly hiding, more avoiding. He’s not my real father, and I don’t need him in my life.” The words sounded neutral. The hollow feeling in my gut revealed the truth. Because now I’d lied.
She studied me as the cab raced down the street, and I knew she could see through my bullshit, as always. But she let it go. “It makes sense now. Your mother, what happened. You’re a protector. You don’t sleep until everyone sleeps.”
“Is there another option?” I asked.
Her fingers flexed against mine. “Some people, like Bernard, steal everything when you sleep.”
I chuckled, shook my head. “That is true. I told you because… well, I get it. I saw a lot of my classmates toss their academic opportunities down the drain when I felt lucky I’d made it, given everything that had happened.”
Sloane was looking down, at our entwined fingers. With my other hand, I pinched her chin, turned her toward me. “For what it’s worth, I would have studied with you at NYU.”
Sloane actually laughed. “Oooh, boy. I would not have known what to do with you.”
“With my what?”
She looked me up and down suggestively. “All of that.”
“I beg to differ,” I said, voice soft. “I’m positive I wouldn’t have known what to do with you.”
Against all of my better judgment, I swiped my thumb across her lower lip. Defiance dueled with openness in her pretty eyes. I ultimately let her go, settling back in my corner with only the best of intentions moving forward.
“How did you spot my lie?” she asked. “At the library. And the first night we met.”
I smiled slightly. “This was always a favorite class at Quantico. Lie detecting. Being able to tell if your suspect was being honest. Did you ever take classes on it or receive training?”
“I have a little experience,” she said, voice light, but her spine had gone rigid. “Not formal.”
The night we met came back to me easily. “You over-complimented me. Touched me. Brought me into a private world. Probably told me at least one truth, or a half-truth, which made the lie more believable.” I lifted my brow. “And you too, Ms. Argento, have a micro-expression when you lie.” I pointed to the left-side of my head. “You look here.”
There was nothing subtle about her expression now. She was charmed by this information.
“I’m not saying I’ve never been caught,” she said, “It’s just few and far between.”
“Why do you look like you’re enjoying this?” She was warm, flirtatious, provoking a smile to spread across my face.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. Which was the truth, I could tell. “Maybe I’ve always been searching for the man who’d catch me in my lies.”
We pulled up to a slow stop in front of Midnight Apothecary—a roof-top bar that shimmered on top of a hotel. We exited, and I pulled my jacket tight, re-buttoned it. Right down the street, I could see bold white lettering that read Kensley Auction House.
I took Sloane by the wrist and halted her brisk movement.
She turned, face still smiling, bright with energy. “What’s wrong?”
“Who taught you to lie?” I asked. Beneath that sultry facade beat the heart of a vulnerable loner, hungry for justice. And dammit if I didn’t want to get to know that woman better. A lot better.
Sloane sized me up fully—then immediately dropped the act. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, hunched her shoulders—a first for her.
I felt like a bastard. “You don’t have to—”
“My parents,” she said, interrupting me. “My parents taught me how to lie. It was how I was raised. I had a very unconventional upbringing.” Her shoulders moved back again, equilibrium achieved. “That’s why I’m good at it. That’s why I’m good at going undercover. It’s all one big lie.”
My hand curled into a fist by my side. “Sounds like your parents were assholes.”
Her smile was bitter. “That’s the goddamn truth.”
24
Sloane
We were at our location, with Eudora’s weekly appointment starting in fifteen minutes. Abe and I didn’t have time to say anything else while lingering publicly in front of this bar. But I did hook my pinkie finger through his and apply the lightest pressure. He looked stunned, in a good way.
“The rules we made can be helpful,” I said. He pressed back with his finger.
As we walked up the curving staircase to the bar, every single part of me was shaking. Which was neither smart nor safe for the situation we were about to enter.
I stopped us as we reached the open space—a large, wide patio filled with trees, flowering vines, potted plants, and a plethora of twinkling fairy lights. Chairs were arranged around firepits, and waiters served cocktails that appeared to be fragrant and magical. As we approached the hostess, I knew we’d need a table that concealed our presence. I felt like our covers still held with Eudora—but depending on who she was meeting, her perspective of us could rapidly change.
After speaking with the friendly hostess, we were led to the far right corner where a small, cozy couch was entirely surrounded with bushes and trees. A firepit blazed in the center. I stood where the couch was, getting an idea of how much of the venue we could see. There was a perfect circle of missing branches—like a porthole in a ship—that would let us watch every damn table.
“This is wonderful, thank you,” I said, giving a little clap.
The hostess smiled brightly. “All October we’re hosting campfires.” She pointed at the blaze. “I’ll bring you two some marshmallows.”
“And a whiskey for me,” Abe asked.
“Dirty vodka martini,” I added.
I perched on the couch, holding my hands to the warm flames. Nodded at the porthole. “Check out this view.”
Abe stared at the branches, the surrounding high trees, the privacy. “If she comes in the same way we did, we’ll see her first and won’t be caught off-guard.” He studied the minuscule couch. With a hard swallow, he unbuttoned his jacket and sat. We were shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh. If I swung my leg up, I’d be straddling him.
“So now we wait,” he said. “See who she meets. Depending on who it is, perhaps Devon Atwood and Daniel Fitzpatrick can intercept her, press her for auction info.”