Delilah blinked, as if waking from a trance. She slid a foot away from me. “Let’s go.” She opened the doors, beckoning me to follow.
The Shane-Arbor Auction House was housed in an old ballet studio from the late nineteenth century—brilliant chandeliers bathed the room with resplendent light. The ceiling arched high above us, and the room contained twelve rows of chairs, fanned out in front of a mahogany podium. A stern auctioneer assessed the audience—wearing an austere black turtleneck, and an even more austere expression.
Delilah grabbed two glasses of wine from a passing waiter and handed me one.
“Do you see Victoria?” I asked. She nodded, lips on her glass. Her hand touched my chest, right over my heart. I wondered if she could feel the rapid rhythm her shy touch evoked. “This is okay, right?” Her palm slid down my chest—barely six inches—but the sensation elicited a primal response.
That and the glint of the ring on her finger.
“Oh my, look at these beautiful newlyweds.”
Delilah and I sprang apart, but then I saw it was Victoria. Her steel-gray eyes danced with mirth. Another mink coat hung from her shoulders and diamonds dripped from her throat. I had a split second to snap into my role. Even after a week of practice, staring at Victoria Whitney again—live and in the flesh—had me desperately grasping at my persona as if it was brand-new.
Henry Thornhill. Rare book consultant. Married to Delilah. Procurer of stolen antiques.
You have never worked with Bernard. You do not know that Bernard is underground.
You are wildly, passionately, impulsively in love.
My fake wife tucked herself against my side. I almost wrapped my arm around her waist but stopped myself. We hadn’t discussed touching that area of her body.
“Ms. Whitney,” I said, extending my hand. “How lovely to see you again. And thank you for tonight’s invitation.”
She placed her hand in mine primly. Instead of shaking it, I brought it to my lips.
“Such manners in this one,” she cooed.
Delilah swallowed. “Sure,” she managed. I saw her body refocus—like a fuzzy picture snapping into frame. Then she smiled warmly, shoulders dropping in relaxation. “Henry has always been a charmer.”
“I can see that.” Victoria’s fingers dazzled with rings that shone as brightly as her white hair. “And you’re very welcome, Mr. Thornhill. Bitzi and I had such a wonderful time with the two of you. And I know that we share some common interests.”
She flashed us a calculating expression as she tapped her glass with her nails.
“It appears that we do,” Delilah said, referring to the code. Victoria’s smile appeared brighter than the chandeliers above our heads—but there was an obvious greed there too.
“Good,” she said, dropping her voice. “I do like having friends who enjoy visiting Reichenbach this time of year.”
I interlaced our hands, noting that Victoria was tracking our movements.
“Rings!” She clapped her hands together and forced Delilah’s hand into her own. “Oh, you finally found the ones you wanted.”
“It was meeting you that did it,” I said.
I hadn’t thought to ask Freya if the diamonds were real—Victoria’s discerning scrutiny could probably spot a fake jewel from a mile away.
“Our meeting must have been fate. And this ring is extraordinary,” she crooned. “Four diamonds, Henry? You must love her very much.”
“Yeah, um, y-yes.” I coughed awkwardly.
Victoria lifted a manicured brow.
The Thornhills are passionate, romantic, impulsive. Delilah’s guidance was an alluring reminder in my subconscious. What I’d admitted to her in the dark quiet of her car had been painfully true: I’d never been in love before. In many ways, this aspect of my new job was more unchartered than being a detective.
The words Delilah had used to describe her understanding of love had been obsession.
Craving.
I sank back into the memory of the limo ride and my tentative movements. If I wasn’t restrained—if I was truly married to this woman standing in front of me—where would I have put my hands?
Where would I have let my fingers wander? My mouth, my tongue?
“There aren’t enough diamonds in the world for my love,” I said.
I gently removed Delilah’s hand from Victoria’s grasp, rubbed her ring finger back and forth with my thumb. In this moment, Delilah was mine.
Obsession. Craving.
“I can see why you snatched him up,” Victoria murmured to Delilah, who gave a shaky laugh.
“Did you end up buying anything from the art gallery the other night?” Delilah asked.
“Oh, some silly thing.” Victoria waved her hand. “My real interest is in a sixteenth-century Book of Hours they’re auctioning off tonight. And maybe some letters from Paul Gauguin.”
I didn’t even have to feign astonishment. “You’ll be fighting with some big spenders for that, I’m sure.”
Victoria leaned closer. “I have an iron will, Mr. Thornhill. It’s never difficult for me to acquire the things that I want.”
“I’d love to take you up on your invitation to view your private collection,” I said. “It would be a professional honor.”
Victoria gave a throaty laugh. “We barely know each other, and you’re already trying to see my privates?”
I coughed into my champagne, but Delilah grinned. “I bet you were a heartbreaker back in the day. And still a heartbreaker now.”
“I did have a bit of a reputation.” Victoria glanced between the two of us but didn’t elaborate. And I noticed she didn’t really extend her invitation to her private collection again. “How did you two lovebirds meet?”
I opened my mouth to say The art museum, then out to a bar for a drink. But that was our first date. Right?
“Henry’s work,” Delilah demurred. “When he worked at the Central Park Library about five years ago. I was always embarking on some serious research project for the foundation, so I just had to have his help whenever I was in New York City.”
Her words jarred my memory.
“Every time she came in, I noticed her,” I said, slipping my hands into my pockets. “It’s hard not to.”
I contemplated Delilah’s profile, framed in the golden light of the auction house. A capricious tendril of hair lay against her cheek. And even though we hadn’t discussed it, I brushed it behind her ear.
“We’d talk about our favorite authors, the most beautiful passages in literature. I always knew I’d fall for a well-read man,” Delilah purred.
Victoria beamed and clutched her wine glass, enthralled. “You must have known.” Victoria laid a hand on Delilah’s arm. “Didn’t you?”
“Know what?” she asked.
“That he was your soul mate, of course, darling,” Victoria replied. “Was it love at first sight?”
But Delilah was saved from answering by the appearance of a hulking, military-looking man dressed in all black.
One of the guards from the other night.
Fear gripped me. Had we been identified as we ran through the woods, jumping over logs and narrowly avoiding tripwires?
“Oh, Sven,” Victoria said airily. “What is it?”
He said something low in her ear, and she shook her head dismissively.
“It’s about to begin,” she said. “Come join me, lovebirds. Sven’s gotten us seats toward the front.”
Victoria led us through a crowd of people desperate to get her attention, just like the other night. Items were beginning to roll out onto the stage, and the auctioneer was tapping her gavel against her palm with a vicious impatience. The room was a hive of wealth and gossip.
And as soon as we sat, Victoria clapped her hands together again. “Henry, I’m assuming a rare book librarian speaks French.”
“You assume correctly.”
She placed a catalog into my hands. “Read this for me.”
“Um…I mean, sure
,” I said. Delilah’s thigh pressed into mine. As she read over my shoulder, an earthy, lavender scent floated up from her hair. I breathed in—pictured a field of wildflowers, Delilah in the sun.
Flipping the book open, I searched for the Gauguin letters and attempted to focus on the sea of French sentences.
Inhaled—thought of Delilah’s soft skin beneath this dress.
Exhaled—and caught Sven glaring at me.
15
Delilah
“Tell me what this says,” Victoria commanded. She tapped the catalog across Henry’s lap, opened to display the Gauguin letters.
He read it softly to himself, cleared his throat, and began to speak. Henry’s deep voice curled around the heavy French vowels in a seamless accent—the sound of it was like a bite of decadent dessert. I fluttered my eyes closed, let his voice slip through me. Whatever he was reading sounded as scholarly as it did filthy.
Would a husband like Henry do that for his wife? Whisper dirty words in her ear in four different languages?
He adjusted his glasses after he finished. “To be quite honest, this appears to be a letter regarding the dissolution of their marriage.”
“Divorce?” Victoria asked. “I thought it was a love letter.”
“There is passion here. But anger, not love.” He handed the booklet back to her. He was dressed in a light tan suit, collar open, no tie. The triangle of dark brown skin exposed there was tempting; his throat, his pulse.
Victoria was shaking her head, earrings dangling. “No, no. That won’t do. I can’t have that in my home.”
She began flipping through the booklet with Henry, asking his opinion on different items up for auction, which he gave willingly. So I zeroed in on Sven, Victoria’s terrifyingly large bodyguard, who’d been glaring at Henry and me like bugs he was looking forward to stepping on.
He couldn’t have seen us the night of the stakeout. If he had, and recognized us, Henry and I would be on the ground right now.
But still. His glare felt like a sunburn and it sent my mind spiraling toward possibilities.
“We have a few moments alone.” Henry’s mouth was at my ear like it had been on the night in the woods. “Victoria went to see Bitzi.”
I cast my eyes over—saw Victoria and Bitzi laughing uproariously.
“You can see how much they hate each other. It’s obvious,” Henry said.
His hand landed on my knee. I could feel the tip of every finger. “Are you okay, though?”
“I’m good,” I whispered. We locked eyes. “You?”
He nodded. “You gave more colorful detail about how we met than we discussed.”
“Just…reading the moment.” I kept my tone light but inwardly cursed myself. Getting swept up, pushing the boundaries—that’s how Mark had manipulated me. Convincing me to tap into unprofessional passions that were better kept locked away.
Henry’s thumb caressed the side of my knee. And up, just once. And just barely.
“She probably thinks you’re whispering sweet nothings into my ear. But we’re clearly arguing over those paint choices for our kitchen renovation,” I joked, reorienting my thoughts.
“Of course,” he agreed. “Do fake Henry and Delilah have fake kids? A fake dog? That’s something else we can bicker about.”
Victoria was moving back through the crowd—watching us with a swooning expression.
“I’ve asked you to mow the lawn three times this week, and you still haven’t.”
His laughter against my ear was a low rumble. I felt my cheeks flush. I liked making Henry laugh—it was a sound as joyful as it was sexy.
“What are you two giggling about?” Victoria admonished with a teasing smile.
“A funny memory,” Henry said.
I let out a big breath—this was for the case. The easy affection. The flirting.
This wasn’t the same as Mark.
“The auction’s about to begin,” Victoria beamed. “Do you have your bid paddles ready?”
Henry and I waved ours obediently as the lights dimmed. Like a switch being thrown, my bloodhound senses reared up. Maybe it was Victoria’s nearness. Maybe it was the presence of antiques and rare books being paraded around without adequate security. As a cop, there was a literal—and metaphorical—armor that helped me move through a space like this. Handcuffs and a badge could do a lot of damage. As a private detective, my vocation was to examine body language and look for clues in discreet nods, to move between worlds seamlessly without alerting others to my presence.
This room felt filled with secret handshakes and shadowy back hallways. Auction houses like the Shane-Arbor staked their reputation on verifying the authenticity and provenance of their items. And yet in the past two years, Codex had tracked down stolen books right to their doorstep. Which meant if Victoria hadn’t stolen the Copernicus—if all of this was one giant, colossal fuck-up on my part—the real thief could be in this room.
I accidentally locked eyes with Sven. He attempted his most menacing look, but I refused to turn away.
“Don’t you love a good auction? The thrill, the chase, the fight.” Victoria’s voice cut into my thoughts. “I love every single minute. It reminds me of a hunt.”
I knew what that felt like.
“I completely agree,” I said, leaning past Henry so she could hear me. My shoulder brushed his chest; his mouth was disturbingly close to my hair. “And I’m going to guess that you’re a fierce huntress.”
She pursed her lips primly.
The first item—an eighteenth-century sword from Germany—was rolled out and placed onto a table with a scarlet velvet tablecloth. The audience seemed to ripple with appreciation. The auctioneer picked up her microphone.
And then I was adrift in a sea of white bid paddles flying up and down like the wings of diving birds. The auctioneer rattled off numbers, gesturing enthusiastically, dollar amounts going up $10,000 at a time.
“$55,000—do I hear $55,000? Thank you to the gentleman to my left. And now I see—oh yes, thank you. Can I see $75,000?”
The wealth and privilege in the room astounded me, antiques being auctioned off like cattle. Victoria was sharp-eyed, assessing each item with a vicious arch of her brow. When the Book of Hours was brought to the front of the stage, carefully laid on a velvet cloth, I leaned over and said, “Good luck, Victoria.”
“I don’t need luck, dear,” she said. “I have money.”
“We shall start the bidding at $75,000,” the auctioneer called out.
I inhaled sharply, watched her tighten her fingers on her bid paddle. It flew up before the auctioneer could even pause. Victoria matched every competing bid, dollar for dollar, with an expression that was as icy as a snowstorm. It was evident in her body language she knew of her spotlight—knew it and thrived with the attention.
And at the end, Victoria Whitney was the final bidder at $250,000, an amount she dropped as easily as one might drop a penny on the ground and ignore it.
“Well done, Victoria,” Henry said.
She gave a secret smile, but her cheeks were flushed. “You must come with me when I collect it,” she said. “Give me your professional opinion?”
“Gladly.”
The final items went quickly in a blur of paddles and exorbitant bids. Less than an hour later and we were striding into the back of the Auction House with Victoria and Sven. He carried a large box that looked minuscule in his beefy hands.
Three assistants greeted Victoria like she was royalty before retrieving a glass case and lifting out a small book encased in cloth.
“Henry, care to look?” she asked.
I watched my partner step forward and examine the 500-year-old manuscript. He didn’t touch, merely took it all in with a look of grateful appreciation. I’d seen his laser focus in action several times now, the ability to notice and appreciate and consider. It imbued his words with a different type of honesty.
“These books were used by peasants in Europe,” he said. “They
prayed with them on the hour. It would have sat in a place of honor in their home. For many, it would have been their only book. Treasured, cared for with devotion. Passed down through generations.”
“It’s quite pretty,” Victoria said.
His jaw flexed.
“Yes,” he said. “Pretty.”
“It should appraise well by the time I sell it in a couple of years.”
Sven lifted the glass case and opened the side. The assistants placed the book gently inside before he closed it. “It’s essentially a portable museum case,” Victoria said. “Temperature and light-controlled.”
A red flag unfurled in my brain.
“Can I see?” I asked. I dipped down before she answered. It was a simple glass box with a handle. But the implications were more complicated than that. I wanted to take a picture with my bracelet, but they were all staring at the book. I didn’t dare look at Henry, but I stored the information away for a later debrief. If Victoria had the resources to both store an item like the Copernicus but also transport it—what was stopping her from already selling it?
An assistant broached the topic of payment, but she waved it away and directed him to call her accountant. “I don’t have time to prattle on about meddlesome details. Bring us champagne. I want us to be taken to more items in the back.”
Henry stood next to me, posture loose, hands in his pockets. I slipped my hand around his arm, studying him with an expression I hoped conveyed madly in love.
“Hey there, beautiful,” he whispered. His grin was crooked, charming.
Dangerous.
“The, um, items in the back?” another assistant asked. “I’m not sure which ones you’re referring to. This is what you purchased.”
“Young man,” she said sharply. “Bring Alistair to me. Now.”
“Um…yes—”
“Bring him.”
Victoria turned to us and let out a girlish giggle. “To young love.”
We clinked glasses—my blood fizzed like the alcohol. Part of it was Henry’s scent and the muscle beneath my hand.
Part of it was something else entirely.
The gentleman named Alistair walked into the small room, ushered the harried assistant out with an exasperated expression, and flashed a knowing smile at Victoria.
Behind the Veil Page 10
