I gave a wry smile, wrapped ice in a towel and laid it across Sloane’s fingers. “Her speech fully returned about eleven months after, with a lot of hard work on her part. And her rehabilitative nurse, Jeanette. And after school, and in between when I worked, my mother and I did things like this. Or flashcards, or memory exercises, or muscle strengthening.”
“How long did you care for her?” she asked.
“Two years,” I said. “Then I started my undergraduate at Penn. I considered deferring for a year, but my mother had Jeanette, and I was able to come home every weekend. We made it work, although it was hard. Harder than I ever thought it would be.”
“Where is your mom now?” she asked.
I grinned. “Well, she married Jeanette.”
Sloane laughed—a bright, happy sound. A surprised sound. “Well good for her.”
“That’s what I say.” I tilted her head from left to right, searching for more injuries. “They live in Miami in a retirement village for vibrant seniors. Brain injury is a lifelong journey to healing, and even twenty-five years later, there are things that happen to her because of it. She’s a little more forgetful. She struggles in big groups of people or loud parties. Some of her memories never came back. Yet she’s rebuilt her life from the ashes, found love and joy. She’s a real inspiration.”
“And your dad?”
“Just a ghost,” I said softly. “A non-entity in my life.”
She placed her non-injured hand on my chest, right over my heart. “Told you it was in there.”
I grabbed it, squeezed it, then touched her face one last time, this time for the very selfish reason of just because. Sloane picked up another ice cube from the tray and held it to the bruise on my own jaw. The shock of it sent a hiss through my teeth.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, removing the ice. I gripped her hand, brought it back.
“Just a shock,” I said. “It feels good. It helps.”
“I’m not very good at caring for… anything,” she said. “I don’t even think my parents gave me BAND-AIDs when I fell as a kid.”
I had about a million questions about her parents, but I sensed the gravity of each bite of information she gave up, respected that space.
Outside our room, the London skies poured with heavy rain. Sloane tracked the sound.
“You’re doing great,” I said. “This is the second time we’ve iced each other. I’m starting to sense a pattern.”
A tiny smirk returned to her face and I was goddamned grateful to see it. “That’s right. The first time we fought off a man together. We didn’t touch each other.”
“A lot has changed,” I said, burying untold emotion and yearning within that one simple phrase. The sensations of tonight came back to me with a painful need—Sloane’s lips, her kiss, her skin, her hair. This small room, these shared beds, our few dry things mingling together on the counters and dressers. “I broke our rule tonight. I’m sorry.”
I was still on my knees in front of her, too captivated to move. As she stared at me, lips parted, I backed away. Stood up. Moved six feet away from her beauty.
“I kissed you back,” she said. “You don’t have to apologize. We were caught in a moment.”
“Trust is our main rule though,” I said. “Kissing you betrays our trust. The trust that I’ll respect you, respect what this case means to you.”
“Honesty is part of those rules,” she countered, ever the challenge. “The honest truth is that I’m happy I know what it’s like to be kissed by you, Abraham. If you’d gone home, back to Codex, and I’d never known, I would have always regretted it.”
I wanted this woman so badly it was actually painful. My bruise was a paltry expression of it.
“My attraction to you is all-consuming, Sloane.” I watched her jolt on the bed, respond to words I’d never thought or spoken aloud. Ever. “I couldn’t not know what your lips tasted like.”
“And what was that?” she asked, smiling a little.
“Marshmallow.” I unleashed a real, full smile—didn’t hide it or rein it in, like I usually did. “There’s my honesty.”
Immediately her shoulders softened, eyes softened.
“We’ll need more rules, though” I said. “I’ll take this trundle.”
“Abe, the bed next to me is—” she started.
I shook my head. “I cannot sleep in a bed near you, Sloane.”
Lust carved ragged edges into the words, and I saw the way they affected her—the tangible arousal writ across her face.
“Okay,” she whispered. “No touching. No sleeping together. No kissing.”
“At least I’ll be able to see you steal my things if we’re staying in the same room together,” I managed, trying to be light.
She grinned, looking shy. “And I’ll finally get to see what a man like you does on vacation.” Sloane bit her lip. “Partners, still?”
“Partners,” I promised. There was more to discuss now, more than this electric chemistry. We’d been interrupted before I could tell Sloane the conclusion that had smacked me upside the head the moment my brain had a second to process everything that had happened tonight: the attack, the fire, the threats, the destruction of our things. The giant auction, the many suspects, the vastness of London.
I needed Codex.
I needed my team. I needed four brilliant minds to shoulder this burden and help me. What good was a vigilante manhunt against Bernard Allerton if I failed because I didn’t—wouldn’t—do what was right and necessary? Because I clearly wasn’t my ghost of a father. I’d run to Sloane in the middle of the night, protected her. Had turned to her when I was vulnerable, felt the pain of her pain. I wanted to do right by my team—overly protect them and ensure their safety at all costs. I wanted to do right by Sloane—keep her close, guard her from any dangers lurking in the corners. I could only be like my father if I remained bound to my pride and blind to my own vulnerabilities. It had taken a raven-haired bombshell with a skill set that rivaled my own to bring me to my knees and my senses.
“Since we’re still partners,” I said, “I need to talk to you about something important.”
She was instantly wary. “Okay.”
I slipped my hands into my pockets, fully knowing now what we needed to do. I wasn’t sure how Sloane was going to take it. Her thirst for revenge was as real as mine. But her walls and her fear and her resistance to working with a team were also very real. Technically this was her client, her career, her contract to win or lose.
“This case, this work we’re doing, has gone from zero to sixty in a matter of hours. As talented as the two of us are together, as partners, I’m worried the auction will be overwhelming, and we’ll miss our one shot to catch a thief in the act. I always believed that Bernard was here in London. Now I’m as sure as ever.”
“Which means?” she asked.
I couldn’t decipher her tone. I forged ahead. “Which means I think it’s time I call Codex.”
29
Sloane