“You look like a Grecian goddess in that dress,” he said in a rough voice. “One that’s up to no good.”
I blew him a kiss. “Naughty Athena?”
“Exactly.”
I caressed my dress. It was a pearl satin, floor-length and high-necked. My hair was swept to the side in a low bun. Desire hung, tangible, between us.
“After you, partner,” he said, holding the door open.
Just past him, one foot out the door, I turned to say thank you. Instead Abe grabbed me by the elbow and yanked me against his body. A second later, his lips were on mine, his fingers diving into my hair. I lost myself in this stolen kiss, let him consume my mouth, taste me, dive our tongues together while pressing every single inch of his body to mine. With a moan, I shoved him back against the wall, let him drag my leg high around his waist, palm splaying across my ass with a possessiveness I loved. Then he was rocking his cock between my legs. Once, twice, three times, and there I went, shaking already. Our mouths separated, I gasped in air, my sex clenched, needing to be filled, stretched, fucked by Abe.
He grabbed the back of my neck firmly, thumb tracing my jaw to land on my chin. Tilted it until our eyes were locked together. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all goddamn day.”
“It was worth the wait.” I tried to catch his mouth again. He dodged me, kept my chin lifted.
“My team likes you,” he said.
My mouth curved. “I like them.” I let out a shaky breath. “I like seeing you with them.”
“Is that so?” His thumb caressed my lip. “Do you want to know what flustered me today, Ms. Argento?”
“What?” I whispered.
“Remembering how it felt to fuck you on the dresser,” he said.
I didn’t need reminding. My memory flooded with every aching, delicious sensation—every moan and pant, every rough word and dirty bruise. And just when I thought Abe might kiss me again, he let go. Resumed his position at the door with his palm outspread, looking goddamn immaculate.
“After you, still,” he said, with a dangerous smile. “Unless you’re too flustered.”
38
Abe
I stepped out of our cab and beheld Kensley’s Auction House fully for the very first time. It was internationally renowned, and there tended to be one in every cosmopolitan city in the world. The London location was a four-story white building with gold-and-purple lights and international flags blowing in the slight breeze. A large, excited-looking crowd had already gathered, many in deerstalker hats and carrying pipes. A vintage marquee lighted by bright, white bulbs proclaimed Sherlock Holmes Lives! in black letters.
I turned, hand extended, and helped Sloane step gracefully from the cab in her flowing dress. We’d managed to restrict our conversation to tonight’s event during the short ride through town. The restriction didn’t apply to my fantasies, which included getting on my knees in that cab and burying my tongue between her thighs. The day had been a riot of emotions, many of them challenging for me to navigate, but one thing I knew for certain was the pride I experienced watching Sloane interact with my team. I’d sensed her initial hesitancy thawing away, and whatever conversation had happened while I’d picked up our dinner had shifted attitudes—for her and for them. I just wasn’t sure what it all meant. And I had not a goddamn clue what Sloane and I were to do two days from now, when our separate lives would almost assuredly slip back into place.
“Thank you, Daniel.” She smiled, scanning the crowd in front of the building. I looked and found no indication of Dresden, although auction security guards would surely be present inside. “Any sign of our favorite friend?”
“I’m sure we’d hear him first,” I said. We had asked Henry, multiple times, what his sense had been about Bernard’s supposed best friend. Henry had been as unsure as we were, though he’d admitted to always being charmed by the man.
As if spirited from the sky, Humphrey and Reggie appeared, dressed as Holmes and Watson, bellowing our names across the crowd. I caught Sloane’s eye, smiled, then reached down for her hand and entwined our fingers.
“Valiant! Enchanting! Dashing!” Humphrey said, crushing us to his barrel chest. “Reginald, have you ever seen two people more fit to be our dates this evening?”
Reggie tipped his hat to us, looking tiny next to his giant, red-haired husband. “I don’t mean to diminish his compliment, but Humphrey does say that about most of our dinner guests.”
Sloane laughed. “We’re in fine company.”
“Truly a night to be remembered,” Humphrey said. “Can you imagine, glimpsing Doyle’s words, written in his own hand, unveiling secrets we can only dream about.”
Society members were filling in, calling to Humphrey. From the corner of my eye, I caught Sam and Freya in their disguises appear at the edge of the crowd. They both gave me a quick nod. It had been a long time since I’d had the privilege of being in the field with my agents.
“Can you imagine if Bernard could be here?” Sloane said, slipping her hands through Humphrey’s extended arm.
Humphrey winced. “I tried again, sent him message after message. Eudora assured me he was made aware and that he couldn’t possibly return given how far away he is right now.”
“Where on earth is he?” I asked, keeping my tone teasing.
“It’s beyond my understanding,” he said. “We’ll simply have to remember every single detail so we can relay to him upon his victorious return.”
We stepped inside the auction house and into a room with a magnificently domed ceiling and classic paintings on the walls. In the very center, beside heavy security and beneath glass, were the secret pages of Arthur Conan Doyle. Even I felt compelled to see them, and until now they’d been nothing more than a convenient clue, leading us closer to catching Bernard. The sincere awe on the faces of those surrounding the table kick-started my interest.
I glanced at Humphrey and Reggie—two boys on Christmas morning, spying a puppy with a red ribbon beneath the tree. They were already moving forward. Sloane and I followed, diligent. These two were our shield from Eudora’s wrath tonight.
A sharply dressed white man, with a yellow bowtie and a gray mustache, greeted Humphrey and Reggie warmly. Sloane squeezed my fingers, and I assumed she also recognized him to be James Patrick. JP is a yes.
“And Daniel and Devon, of course,” Humphrey was saying. “My esteemed American guests. Fans so devoted they flew all the way here to spend time with the Society.”
A split-second of anger flickered across James’s face before he concealed it. I caught it, and I guessed Sloane did as well. “Eudora’s told me so much about you,” he said. His handshake was much too tight, jaw much too clenched. Sloane sized him up like a sparring partner she couldn’t wait to defeat.
“Has she?” Sloane asked. “What an absolute treasure. Daniel and I have been delighted by the warm reception she’s given to us, especially since we know how busy she is.”
Security guards appeared at the far edges of the room—a solid flank of stoic muscle. They wore uniforms identifying them as Kensley security, not Dresden, but I felt confident they were for Sloane and me.