Freya shivered. I shook off my jacket, draped it over her shoulders, then rejoined our hands.
I also wanted to punch Ward right in his face for forcing her to be inside a place I knew she was afraid of.
“The history of these tunnels is as notorious as the bootleggers who built them,” Ward said, voice echoing in the dark.
Freya cupped her fingers around the flame of her candle, drawing the light source closer.
“The woman who ran the perfumery in The Grand Dame basement was named Viola Stark, a fine woman in the history of our darker traditions. She paid off the police to keep them blind to the speakeasy. She paid off the bootleggers using the money she made from selling liquor to high-society women in their perfume bottles. And she became rich herself off one of the most popular speakeasies in this region. Men and women used to travel from miles around to slip into that basement and indulge in something forbidden but no less virtuous.”
An insidious fury pumped through my veins. First a trickle, and then a roar that dominated my attention. Gregory. A man I’d trusted with my life—literally—had been a thieving piece of shit for our entire partnership. His crimes had started long before we were partners in Art Theft—he was twenty years older—but I still felt completely responsible for missing the abundance of warning signs. Warning signs, my father had accused, I wouldn’t have missed if I wasn’t preoccupied with my own issues.
My gaze slid to Freya, head high and bravely putting one step in front of the other. The candlelight exposed the variations of blond in her hair—light and dark blending together. Here I was, responsible for a high-profile case and preoccupied with my most distracting distraction. Almost kissing her with a suspect just down the hall. Holding her hand as a source of comfort—and getting an illicit thrill from the romantic gesture.
“It’s not hard to take advantage of the authorities, my friends,” Ward was saying. The ground beneath us was slick and smelled of mildew. “Viola did it. They’re not immune to money.”
I flashed to my father the day of my incident. The rage in his eyes, the disappointment. And you had no idea he was tipping off suspects for a monetary reward this whole time? Gregory was not immune to money, that was certainly true. Which had only made me feel sicker that day—not only that my anxiety had blinded me to his betrayal, but that he had gone against the core values of the Bureau. Like these book thieves, he had bent the laws to suit his selfish needs.
“When the shipments came in from the river, a gin-loving academic would let them into Philosopher’s Hall. They would descend into these tunnels, carrying crates of liquor. Viola’s guards manned the entrance from these tunnels to the basement of The Grand Dame.”
“And the staircase we just used?” I asked.
“For parties,” Ward said. “A way to sneak contraband from the tunnels to the penthouse without being seen. Or judged.”
Freya was openly shivering now, even with my jacket on. And I didn’t blame her—the tunnels were hushed and pitch black, with the exception of the tiny flames. Everyone ahead was somber and serious, like a band of monks walking the halls of a monastery.
I could feel the guard behind us—a powerful warning amid a sea of unending shade.
I wrapped my arm around Freya’s shaking shoulders, holding her as tightly as I could. We came to a stop at what appeared to be a door, and Ward fiddled with a large ring of keys. My lips moved across her hair, fingers firm as I pulled her close.
“Almost done,” I whispered. “We’re almost done.”
She nodded.
I racked my brain for a banal, funny memory that wouldn’t blow our cover. Seeing her afraid felt like taking a sledgehammer to the chest. “Remember last week when we were going on a run near that big open field right next to the bookstore?”
Cora turned her head slightly. I caught the gesture—she was clearly listening. In the tunnel, whispers echoed.
Freya nodded but stayed quiet. I was trying to project an image of the track we used to race on at Quantico—the length of a football field, surrounded by nothing but flat, open space and blue Virginia skies. Not a dungeon-like tunnel.
“I bet if we go running tomorrow before breakfast, you’d beat me.”
“I know I’d beat you. Because I always let you win,” she said.
I squeezed her tighter, lips moving across the top of her head. It was a bald-faced lie—I was a faster runner—but I let her have it.
“Come in, friends. I believe dinner will be served shortly. Watch yourselves on these steps,” Ward called back. It was interesting that the man didn’t volunteer to hang back behind his guests.
Maybe Freya wasn’t the only one who felt uncomfortable in the dark.
We were squeezed again into an even narrower passage, which split Freya and me apart. I moved her directly in front of me, keeping my hands on her shoulders, thumbs stroking her neck. The flame of her candle shook with her tremors. This was classic Freya—I’d watched her take on equally as frightening simulations at Quantico, and she executed them with aplomb.
These tremors though—I recognized them. Not just when we used to crawl through field tunnels on our elbows and knees. The feel of them beneath my fingers was sparking a memory of touching her shoulder once after a test. And realizing she was pale and shaking.
The light around exploded from pitch black to golden. Two waiters in white jackets stood with trays of champagne, bowing slightly as we entered a grand room with a dramatic-looking table. There were thirteen high-backed chairs, and in front of each were silver plates and silver utensils. Everything was lit by wall sconces and chandeliers. The hunter-green walls were hung with portraits of men I didn’t recognize. Two arched hallways appeared to the right and left of a giant fireplace, leading to other rooms.
Ward posed like a showman, removing his hat and placing it on the chair at the head of the table. The action caused a slight ripple of reactions from the people in front of us. “Welcome to Philosopher’s Hall, one of the oldest buildings in all of Philadelphia. Built in 1745 and maintained by scholars and academics alike. We are quite lucky that Thomas and Cora are the main financial sponsors of this historic building. It’s the reason why we’ve been able to host this dinner for years. Money hushes wagging tongues. And, as usual, the waitstaff we’ve hired have been sworn to secrecy.” The waitstaff in question were already passing out drinks with neutral expressions. “But I don’t need to remind any of you that refraining from using details is a priority in these strange times.”
The fireplace crackled to life—although it was a warm summer evening, the room was cold. The other guests took drinks and began to cluster together, speaking in low tones. Freya slid my jacket from her shoulders and handed it back to me with a sheepish expression.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Her smile was tiny but warm.
I gave her a short nod. In the rich light of this dining room, the intensity of this case came screaming back into my subconscious. Draping my arm around Freya’s shoulder, letting my lips linger on her soft hair, were dark, secret urges that belonged in dark, secret places.
Maybe this was why Freya and I always fought against being partners. It meant not bickering or competing. Which left only one thing.
Temptation.
24
Sam
“I saw how nervous you were,” Cora said, pushing a drink into Freya’s hand. “I was the same way my first time. Which was more than ten years ago now.”
Thomas appeared, lips in a grim line. His eyes kept shifting around the room, his hands fluttering around every few seconds.
“I fibbed a little when I told Dr. Ward I wasn’t claustrophobic,” Freya said apologetically.
“It’s best to keep your vulnerabilities to yourself,” Thomas said, voice low. “Especially at a time like this.”
“That’s good advice,” I said.
“I’ve been pondering our community’s recent fascination with George Sand and her numerous love letters,” Cora mused. My hand tig
htened on the stem of my champagne glass.
“It’s a unique interest, to be sure,” Freya said.
“Well, and we have you two to thank for it,” Cora continued. “You’ve led the charge in the rebirth of antique letters and the fascination with handwriting and signatures. Not reproductions, but truly owning a piece of personal history. It’s incredible. The intimacy you glimpse, between family members, lovers, friends. There’s nothing like it—because I do feel we are more honest through the written word.”
Freya wasn’t shaking anymore. In fact, she was growing stronger by the second. “It was truly a delight to acquire those Alexander Hamilton letters for your private collection.”
Cora touched the diamonds at her ear. Shot Thomas a knowing look. “Those letters will certainly acquire an untold value over the next ten years. And for now, I do enjoy knowing that we have them and no one else.”
“You understand why we’ve been persistent about the letters we’ve come here to purchase,” Freya continued.
“I can see how two business partners can identify with letters of a more passionate nature,” Cora said. “That must be it for the two of you, yes?”
“Birdie and I enjoy showcasing rare works that provide an intimate look into human nature,” I said.
“Such as?” Cora asked.
“Seduction,” Freya jumped in. “I believe our community is fascinated with George Sand because she was an expert seductress through the written word. A lost art these days between”—Freya danced her hands about—“text messages and emails. George and Alfred bled their most ardent secrets onto that page. It’s thrilling to read, especially knowing how dramatically George would then end their affair. And how dramatically they fought.”
“Mmmm,” Cora nodded. “We have a real interest in couples of a tempestuous nature. Bickering one second, proclaiming their love the next.”
Freya’s throat worked. “It’s no wonder they broke up. A couple that disagrees that much couldn’t possibly last.”
“Oh, come now, Birdie,” Thomas piped in. “Hating a person requires as much feeling as loving them. Both are a form of obsession. George and Alfred understood that—the woman used a code to inscribe her romantic feelings towards the man within her romantic letters. She might have fought with him non-stop, but they must have expertly walked that thin line.”
Thomas’s body language toward Freya—Birdie—was warm, personal. Lots of leaning in close with teasing notes in his tone. I knew he and Birdie talked often on that website. But I figured it safe to assume that Thomas didn’t expect his thief contact to be a woman as gorgeous as Freya.
He stepped closer to her.
So did I. Thomas caught the action, nostrils flaring when he made eye contact with me.
“Maybe,” I interjected. “Or maybe there was never any hope for them at all. Hatred is more consuming than love.”
He glanced between the two of us. “You must disagree often? I mean, running a business together as friends—”
“Colleagues,” Freya interjected.
“Colleagues,” he corrected, “can’t be easy. How often do the two of you argue?”
“Never,” I said, as Freya blurted out, “All the time.”
Thomas and Cora looked happily stunned. I ran a hand through my hair and moved away from my partner. Colleagues didn’t touch each other the way I’d been allowing myself to touch her. Especially colleagues that argued all the time.
“We even argue about how often we argue,” Freya finished smoothly. “Which is why Julian can safely say there’s only true disagreement behind that line. Not passion.”
“Our interest in the letters,” I said, dropping my tone, “is purely professional. Especially given their…” I glanced over my shoulder, pretending to look behind me. “Especially given their recent popularity.”
Thomas and Cora exchanged a look—but remained frustratingly silent.
They were close though, had to be. I could feel it. And Freya and I were going to get these two to break by the end of the fucking night. Now that we were in this room, fully undercover as Julian and Birdie, that curiosity was coming back, filling in all the dark spaces that my stress at the FBI had eaten away. Because every closed case I had under my belt at Art Theft was colored by Gregory’s crimes—did I only ever close a case when Gregory decided not to tip off suspects?
If Freya and I tricked this inner circle into thinking we were just like them and recovered the letters, that victory would be 100 percent mine.
Mine and Freya’s. My pulse tripled happily at the thought.
“Have either of you ever written a love letter?” Cora asked. “Received one?”
“I should add that Cora has received several,” Thomas said. “From me.”
Freya made a sound of amusement, but Cora gave me an extremely suggestive wink over her champagne flute.
“I’ve never received a love letter,” Freya said. There was a note of real sadness in her voice—disguised if you hadn’t known her as long as I had.
“I’ve written one, a long time ago,” I said.
Freya’s emerald eyes widened behind her glasses. “Is that true, Julian?”
I held her gaze, swallowed hard. “It is so.”
Pink flushed her cheeks, and her full lips parted. “Who was it for?”
My most distracting distraction had a hold on me now. Even Thomas and Cora faded to the far edge of my vision. I was captivated by the bespectacled beauty in front of me. Could a gold sequin dress have magical powers? Freya would know.
“It was for a woman I knew who was leaving. I was never going to see her again.” My voice was rough.
“Oh?” Cora pressed.
“I wanted…” I cleared my throat, pausing to share a smile with our two suspects. “You see, I wanted her to stay with me. We don’t always realize how much we’ll miss someone until we’re forced to reconcile that reality.”
“Missing someone desperately,” Cora said, sipping her drink. “Now that’s passion. Such yearning.”
“Maybe that’s why our community is desperate for original love letters right now,” Freya said—eyes still on mine. “Maybe we’re looking for that thrill. Of passion that’s been restrained.”
Our bodies on the mat. Sweat dripping. Breathing heavy. Wrists pinned.
I knew why I was struggling to resist her seductive beauty. At Quantico, we’d had a physical outlet, a way to suppress our blistering attraction by doing what we did best—fight each other into submission.
But it had been too long—I was understanding that fully now. Seven years without an outlet meant that every additional minute I spent next to her felt like I was being suffocated with pent-up sexual arousal. And while undercover at that.
My father would be furious. I was furious. So furious I could have slammed Freya against the closest wall and fucked away our mounting tension. The last time I’d let myself unleash my messy, uncontrolled sexual appetite was…
Never.
Thomas grabbed Freya’s elbow. “Listen, after dinner, I need to speak with the two of you. It’s not about the money, it’s about the pride—”
“Thomas, be quiet.” Cora glared at him.
I felt glued to Thomas’s fingers, tightening on Freya’s skin. She had told me multiple times that she hated “that macho shit”—her words—and I knew her to be extremely capable of kicking his ass.
But I still took a big step forward, crowding Thomas’s space.
“Cora’s right,” I said. “This is our first dinner, but I’m guessing cocktail hour is a bit conspicuous, don’t you think?”
With grace, Freya twisted her arm and disengaged from his hold—like she’d been trained to do. “You’re on edge, I understand,” she said. She was trying to connect with him, getting on his side. “Your bad luck?”
“My curse,” he said quietly. He touched his ear, glanced behind his shoulder. “No one believes me. Not even Cora.”
Cora gave an exasperated sigh.
&nb
sp; “The garage in our Nantucket summer home flooded. Our car was stolen two weeks ago. I sprained my knee on the golf course. In the past few weeks, we’ve had multiple flights canceled, we’ve both been ill twice, and there was a fire in our orchards at our house in Vermont. And it all started happening…”
Cora’s hand lashed out and landed squarely in his chest. “It’s time to be seated,” she commanded. “Come. We must find our seats. Thomas, you need another drink.”
She dragged him to the table. They were whispering to each other, fraught body language destroying their elegant illusion.
“Another drink, Julian?” Freya asked. We weren’t actually drinking, but it was an excuse to steal a minute’s time.
“Of course.” The server appeared just as Dr. Ward waved us over.
Two seats, right next to him.
We had been tossed into the lion’s den, and now we were seated next to the goddamn lion.
I stepped as close to Freya as I could, one eye on the table to watch everyone’s reactions to us. “Don’t leave my side. This whole night feels dangerous.”
“I can’t go back through that tunnel,” she whispered back.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll make sure we leave out the front door. I promise.”
“I’ll bake you chocolate chip cookies for a month,” she said.
“That’s—” I started, brow furrowed, surprised at her olive branch. “You know that’s not necessary.”
She lifted her slender shoulders. “I’d like to though.”
There it was again—that heat crackling between us. Surrounded by rich book thieves, there was no room to bicker or fight or even compete. And now I wanted to slide my fingers into that blonde hair and kiss her breathless.
“Julian? Birdie?”
Ward stood at the foot of the table, face a mask of regal self-righteousness. Freya and I quickly mirrored the poses of those around us—who all stood nobly, hands clasped to their chairs.
I knew Ward’s type—humble beginnings he used for show, and a life spent perfecting his social performances. “The formal dinner is about to begin. Welcome to Philosopher’s Hall, which has dutifully housed The Empty House for fifteen years. Our inner circle has certainly changed, but there are always thirteen of us—thirteen who have met at Reichenbach Falls and still believe in a man’s word above all else.” He rocked back on his feet, looking briefly like the humble rancher he styled himself as. “Hell, I’m not sure there’s anyone I trust more than the twelve people standing in this room right now.”
Under the Rose Page 15
