“I’m sure a pig will fly past this window any second,” I replied. We almost smirked at each other.
“I like your kitchen,” he finally said. “Do you have books hidden in your pantry?”
Cheeks warm, I hooked my index finger on the pantry latch. Tugged it open to reveal five shelves full of paperback books instead of the requisite cans of soup.
“You know me so well, Byrne.”
“I do though,” he said.
“Oh, um…” I mumbled. “I guess that’s true.”
Sam looked about as awkward as I felt. He went to stand by a wall I’d painted bright yellow and decorated with framed vintage book covers. From the top of a bookshelf, he picked up a blue frame. I knew the picture well—wished, suddenly, that I’d hidden it from view before he arrived.
“You and your mom?” he asked. I stepped closer, careful not to let our shoulders touch. As embarrassed as I felt, the picture still brought me happy sparks of joy.
“That was my fifth grade Halloween costume,” I explained. In the picture, I was wearing a short red wig and rocking a pantsuit like a powerful woman in a sitcom. My mom wore a suit and a long pea coat, her hair tucked into a men’s wig. “We went as Agent Mulder and Scully from The X-Files, of course. My mom was so obsessed with David Duchovny, she volunteered to be him immediately.”
Sam looked more wistful than anything. “You always said she was nerdier than you.”
“She raised me right,” I said proudly. “Also, all night I got to flash a fake FBI badge and say things like Mulder, that’s just not plausible. And she’d say, The truth is out there, Scully. It was my favorite Halloween, actually.”
His throat worked as he continued to stare at the faded picture.
“Did your mom dress up with you at Halloween?” I asked cautiously. His mother had died when he was twelve. In all the years that I’d known him, he’d only spoken of her a handful of times. He always looked like he wanted to say more.
Now, he nodded his head and said, “She loved anything that felt like magic.”
In the remaining silence, our shoulders had drifted closer, barely brushing. I took a step back from his natural magnetism—only to find him pinning me with a discerning look.
“What?” I asked.
“You always did want to be an FBI agent, didn’t you?”
Regret slid down my spine. Why hadn’t I hidden this damn picture?
“I did,” I said, raising my chin on instinct. Steeling my voice. “But dreams don’t always work out.”
He flashed me a strange look. Then put the frame back—gently. But as I moved past Sam toward the hallway, he reached out. Caught my wrist and held me still.
“Are we sparring, Agent Byrne?” My voice fluttered. His thumb swiped once across my pulse point before he let go.
“Are we avoiding talking about our fight in the stairwell? The one from yesterday?”
“Oh, that,” I said flatly. I tugged at the sleeves of my sweater, avoided looking directly at him. “Listen. You and I have a long…history together.”
“Correct,” he said. “And?”
“You’ve made it clear that, given the choice, you wouldn’t want to be my partner. And I don’t want to be your partner either.” The words flew out quickly, but I didn’t enjoy the feeling they left in their wake. “Four days is all we’ve got. Then I’m sure your dad will pull you back to the FBI, right?”
His throat worked. “I could be consulting a bit after.”
I shrugged. “My point is that our situation is temporary. Extremely temporary. If we’re going to be successful, we should keep our heads down and get it over with.”
The faster we found those love letters, the faster I could be back where I belonged—behind a computer screen. And Sam could go back to being a distant, aggravating memory.
“Fine by me,” he grunted.
“You’re not going to tell me what this consultant position is actually about, are you?” I asked softly, crossing my arms.
“I’ll be returning to the FBI either way,” he replied.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“That’s all the answer I can give you.”
The thought of Sam hiding the truth made my chest tighten uncomfortably.
“Partners…” I cleared my throat. “Partners need to be honest with each other.”
“Then tell me why you’re nervous to go undercover.”
“I’m not nervous,” I lied.
He took a step closer to me. “If you want us to be real partners, even for a few days, you can’t demand honesty from me and not return it. Does it have anything to do with why you left Quantico? Because you can tell me why you quit.”
“Do you truly care?” I asked.
Sam rubbed his neck. “More than you think.”
A lingering silence stretched between us. What would it be like to give in to that persistent urge to press my cheek to Sam’s chest and let him hug me?
“I know you care. I know, Byrne.” My tone was conciliatory, and when our eyes met, I touched his arm. Briefly. I considered saying more but stopped myself. All that time trapped in arguments, we had cultivated a false intimacy. But sharing my health struggles with him felt too vulnerable, too authentically intimate. I wasn’t sure if I could bare my soul to a man I felt this strongly about. Too strongly to ever admit to weakness.
“Tell me why you’re nervous,” he said.
My nostrils flared. It was always push for push with this man. “Tell me what’s really going on with your job.”
He took another step, foot sliding between mine. “One day in and you’re already more frustrating than my actual fucking partner, and he’s—”
His mouth clamped shut. He stepped back from me and strode toward the front door.
“Let’s go.”
“Wait, wait,” I said. “Your partner was…what? Your partner at Art Theft, you mean?”
“Gregory,” Sam finally said. “When I go back, I’ll have a new partner.”
He was leaving that gap of information for me to fill in with assumptions. And my assumption was that he and his former partner were being split apart intentionally.
“Was he not good?”
“Not honest.”
A not-honest partner. A consultant position that didn’t seem completely on the level. And a weariness etched into his face when he forgot to school his expression.
I stepped right back up to him. “I’ll tell you the truth when you tell me the truth. How’s that for a deal?”
His tone was dry. “And for a moment there, I thought we were getting along.”
My lips twitched. “We’re in a tenuous truce at best.”
“Our professors at Quantico would be proud.”
“Our professors at Quantico would be failing us right now because we’re about to be late on our first day.”
He cursed under his breath. “Goddammit. Get in the car.”
“After you, Julian.”
Sam stalked out my front door and down my front steps—walking angrily, as he often did when he was around me.
Except this time, I was more focused on the phantom feeling of his fingers on my wrist.
Equal parts strength and plea.
I liked it.
11
Sam
“Dreams do come true,” Freya said, head falling all the way back as she took in the lobby at The Grand Dame hotel.
It was, admittedly, a paradise for a book-nerd like her. The domed ceiling was carved with Art Deco designs—hanging from the center was a banner welcoming people to the 60th Annual Antiquarian Book Festival. Two curving staircases dominated the room, draped with a blood-red carpet. The massive fireplace against the right-side wall was decorated with classical-looking portraits and colonial-era lanterns.
And the room was packed with booksellers. Cart after cart moved past us, all of them covered in tarps and canvasses to protect the antiquities inside. Two distinguished-looking men with handlebar mustaches brus
hed past, talking excitedly about scientific advancements in gilded edge analysis. A tall woman wore a hat plumed with peacock feathers. In front of us, the line crawled toward the registration area—and behind that, two doors opened into a cavernous room filled with even more people.
A quick inventory of my physical reactions revealed a surprise.
I actually felt excited.
Nervous, of course—but that was par for the course when you were about to assume an undercover identity. But mostly I could sense wonder. Intuition and genuine interest. A strong desire to find those love letters pulling me toward the cave-like room ahead of us.
So different from my reactions at Art Theft when a case landed in my lap. Even before I’d been made aware of Gregory’s betrayal, I was engaged in a daily battle with exhaustion, entwined with sheer panic. It was the oddest dual sensation I’d ever experienced, the urge to crawl under my desk and sleep for a hundred years. And the urge to crawl under my desk to hide my frenzied stress.
“Let me do most of the talking when we get to the front,” I muttered, straightening my tie one last time.
“Sure thing, Julian,” Freya said. Her smile was cheeky until she bit her bottom lip. A tell that indicated she was afraid.
“You acquiesced to that request more easily than I anticipated,” I said, noting her nerves.
“I’m a woman full of surprises,” she replied. “Plus, I believe business acquaintances probably don’t bicker like we do.”
We moved close to the front—only one person away from registering. Freya’s green eyes flicked toward mine, snapping our roles into place just like that.
I didn’t want to acknowledge the other reason why this case was exciting.
Freya Evandale was the epitome of sexy thief.
And it pissed me the hell off.
Back in her kitchen, I kept spiraling between arousal and anger so fast my head spun. I’d never seen her in anything even remotely form-fitting. Not that it mattered—Freya-in-big-sweaters was who she was and I liked that. A lot actually.
But Freya in a tight, low-cut black sweater and fitted black pants was an extra diversion I didn’t fucking need right now. She was nothing but graceful lines and glimpses of pale flesh, red lips and vibrant eyes behind her glasses. This morning, I’d craved her trust as much as I’d craved her fighting back.
Both cravings had me longing to pin her to the wall and kiss her throat.
“Welcome to the Book Festival,” the ticket lady said, beaming at us with a friendly expression. “Last names, please.”
“King,” I said. “Julian King. And this is Birdie Barnes. We’re representing the King Barnes bookstore out of San Francisco.”
The woman brightened even further. “Oh! Oh, we’re so glad to hear you recovered from your flu. You sounded horrible when we spoke on the phone yesterday.”
On cue, Freya coughed into her elbow. “The miracles of Tamiflu, prescribed just in time.”
The woman’s fingers flew over her keyboard. “Of course, of course. And luckily your hotel room is still booked under your names. Room 211. Shall we check your bags? Your books?”
“Airline lost everything, if you can believe it.” I managed. Leaning in, I dropped my voice. “We’ve arrived with nothing.”
“They lost your books?” The woman looked horrified. As she should be. If we were rare book dealers, a loss like that would be financially and personally devastating.
“Delayed,” I clarified. “Stuck in the Phoenix airport. We’ve been assured they’re locked away for safekeeping.”
“Wonderful news. IDs, please?”
I gave her a tight nod as I removed my fake license.
“Thank you. Security is a concern of ours this weekend, Mr. King,” the woman said. “I’ll need to copy these for our file.” She returned a second later with our IDs and badges to wear.
“Any particular reason why you’re concerned?” Freya asked, tone light.
The woman leaned across the table. “No idea. But Dr. Ward has us on strict rules for identification.”
“Makes sense,” Freya said. “Things have certainly been dicey in this field recently.”
“That they have.” Her walkie-talkie squawked next to her. “Ah, I forgot. The Alexanders will be quite happy to hear of your miraculous recovery.”
This time, Freya stiffened next to me.
Glancing at the white registration binder, I dropped my voice again. “Has Jim Dahl checked in yet?” We might as well know if we were going to bump into a man who might recognize us as frauds.
Frowning, the woman flipped through. Shook her head. “Mr. Dahl isn’t listed as being in attendance. Has there been a mistake?”
“No, ma’am,” Freya said smoothly. “We thought he might change his mind at the last minute. Seems like we were right.”
Not a moment later, as we shuffled past the check-in table and into a very crowded hallway, a booming voice called out to us.
“As I live and breathe.” An older white couple, dressed in expensive-looking clothing, came striding through the crowd with outstretched hands. “Julian King and Birdie Barnes.”
The woman had red-hair, porcelain skin, and an alluring expression aimed right at me. The man was much shorter, with a gray mustache and wire-rimmed glasses. They appeared star-struck, surprised—and deeply pleased.
We were the rock stars of rare books.
Before we could prepare, Freya and I were having our hands shaken by the pair. Their badges identified them as Thomas Alexander and Cora Alexander. I could see the gears of Freya’s mind working.
“Thomas and Cora,” she said, “what an honor to finally meet you in person.”
“What an honor to meet the convention’s most notable guests,” Thomas exclaimed “Come, come. He’s about to give his opening remarks, but he’ll be very happy to hear you’ve made it. When we’d learned you’d been struck down by illness, we were simply aghast.”
Thomas and Cora were already on the move through the crowd, heading toward a machine I was very familiar with.
Beep-beep went the metal detector.
“We’ve been anticipating meeting you as well,” I said. “This event is one we look forward to every year.”
A quizzical look from Cora. “But this is your first year attending though. Isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” Freya jumped in. “What Julian means is that we’ve always looked forward to it even though we could never attend. It’s a dream come true for us.”
The flash of concern across Thomas’s face mirrored my own. This was why I hadn’t wanted to be Julian and Birdie. Too easy to make mistakes when you had no clue about the relationships you held.
“Is that so?” Thomas asked. But his tone had a crisp edge to it. Freya heard it, fiddling with the pearls at her neck.
“As you know, Julian and I have had an empty house for a week now. We’re looking forward to…meeting everyone.” Freya said this in a low voice, holding eye contact with the couple.
Empty house. It was the code word she had unearthed online. The one I’d given her a ton of shit about. Yet as soon as the words left her mouth, it was like a switch had been thrown.
Thomas and Cora exchanged tiny smiles. They both took a step closer to us.
Maybe Freya had been right. Not that I’d ever say that to her face.
“We as well,” Thomas replied. “And if you’re concerned about keeping in touch, rest assured we made sure to book the hotel room next to yours. You won’t be able to escape us this weekend. And I think you’ll be truly impressed with the festivities. Most first-timers usually are.”
“Wonderful,” Freya said. I gave a nod. We were six feet from the metal detector now.
“I’m afraid everyone needs to go through these blasted things,” Thomas said. “Cora and I will be waiting for the two of you inside. Dr. Ward’s remarks begin in ten minutes.”
“Great,” Freya and I answered in unison. The very second the couple was out of earshot, Freya and I s
pun toward each other.
“I told you we were sexy thieves with a code word,” she whispered.
“We have bigger issues right now,” I whispered back. Beep. Beep. “Seems unlikely that a rare bookseller would be carrying a weapon, right?”
Freya fake-laughed and hissed. “Oh my god, you brought your gun inside with you?”
I fake-laughed in response. “Oh my god, you didn’t?”
“We’re chasing after stolen letters, you nit-wit.”
“You’d know this if you hadn’t dropped out of Quantico, but the world of antiquities theft is pretty cozy with violent crime. Safety should be our priority.”
Her eyes scorched the brightest green I’d ever seen.
“Right this way, sir,” the security guard interrupted, waving us through. I froze, mind searching for a way out.
All of a sudden, Freya was shoving me out of the line. “We’ll be right back,” she said to the guard. She dragged me down a narrow hallway and pushed open a swinging door with one shoulder.
The men’s bathroom, thankfully empty.
“Not a bad move,” I admitted, searching for a hiding space.
“Especially for a dropout like me, huh?” She didn’t turn around, but hurt creased the words.
Which made me feel like shit for once.
Freya kicked open a stall, hands searching. She opened trashcans and the toilet tank. I glanced up, saw the paneled ceiling. I stood on the toilet, reached behind me, and removed my gun from its holster. Ejected the magazine. Pushed the panel above me and carefully slid everything inside before sliding the panel back.
Freya was leaning against the bathroom door with her arms crossed.
“Evandale.” Her eyebrows rose in response. “Listen, I feel—”
The bathroom door opened with a loud creak. Freya’s feet would be visible from beneath the stall if we didn’t move fast. I crouched down, hoping whoever entered hadn’t seen me placing a gun into the ceiling. I spun, lifted Freya by the waist, and deposited her where I’d been, her legs up on the seat and out of sight. Hair flew from her bun, her expression one of shock.
My hand covered her mouth. The other flushed the toilet to mask the sounds of our movement. Rushing water filled the tight space. The other man was washing his hands, drying them. Freya’s mouth was warm beneath my palm, her breath tickling my fingers. A surge of dominance hit me low in the gut—a sensation that only happened when I was around Freya. My weakest moments around this woman were when I allowed my sexual attraction to edge past my irritation. It was the way she uncovered my secret buttons and gleefully pushed them—I yearned for the sweetness of her submission.
Under the Rose Page 7
