The beautiful liar stood next to Eudora Green looking as astonishing in the morning hours surrounded by tourists as she had in a grand ballroom framed by golden light.
“We also met last night,” Devon said. “Although I didn’t catch your name.”
The playful tug of her lips made me wonder if she’d read that card—knew my real name.
“Daniel Fitzpatrick,” I said, loosening the clench of my jaw.
“A pleasure.” Her smoky voice curved around the word pleasure, and I was keenly aware that I might have been caught in my own lie. I managed a nod, frustrated. Followed Eudora back into a room designed to look like the apartment Holmes and Watson shared in the stories.
“You’ve been busy this morning,” I said, by way of opening.
Eudora adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and pressed a strand of hair back into her tight bun. “When you’re the president of such a prestigious society, people want to talk with you.”
“Especially given the news,” I said. “The auction, I mean.”
She brightened. “Ms. Atwood and I were just discussing it. She’s a fan all the way from America, like you. Except she’s been here for an entire month already.”
I filed that piece of information away to examine later. Hadn’t she told me she was in London because she’d lost something?
“I’m only here for the week, I’m afraid,” I said. “I’ll barely make the auction.”
“It’s dreadful news, really,” she said. “I tried to put on a brave face for everyone last night, but between you and me, there’s no way we’ll get those papers.”
I straightened my tie, crossing one leg over the other. “Bernard will be disappointed.”
“You’re a colleague of his?” she asked.
I quickly ran through the options of what could work and went with: “I am. From long ago. More an admirer than a colleague. Obviously not nearly as close to him as you are.”
A bit of preening. “We’ve always been close because of the Society.”
I looked around at the paraphernalia—the disguises, the violin, the glasses on the table. “How long have you been a member?”
“Oh, give or take thirty-five years,” she answered. “At the time, Nicholas was the president, and Bernard and I were lowly secretaries.”
“Nicholas… Markham?” I asked, remembering the man from the pictures.
“Yes,” she said. “Nicholas has since died. His grandson, Peter, now owns his bookshop. Adler’s. Peter is extremely active in the literary community here in London as well as our Society. He and Bernard are also close, given Bernard essentially watched him grow up.”
I faked a smile while mentally tagging the Markham family as potentially interesting. “How lovely. I love a good bookstore. What was the Society like back when you joined?”
Eudora fiddled with her blocky earrings—they were shaped like novels. “Secretive in a good way,” she said with a smug sigh. “It was much harder to gain entry. Code words, secret meetings, that kind of thing. We were a Society with more purpose then, not only lectures and conferences.”
Code words.
“Nicholas was an inspiring president, but things became even more cloak-and-dagger when Bernard took over. It was a fun time to be a fan, even if the president was a Sherlockian.”
“Proud Doylean myself,” I said, raising a finger and pointing it at my chest.
“I wouldn’t have doubted otherwise,” she assured me.
I’d done my research.
“You enjoy the… cloak-and-dagger elements?” I asked, choosing my words carefully.
“I did,” she said. “Although with Bernard gone, it could be a wonderful time to bring back those elements.”
I let a second pass, kept my body language loose. “He’s been gone for a while it sounds like. On his sabbatical.”
A slight casting of her eyes to the left. A tightening around her mouth. “We’ve missed him, but he’s doing well.”
My training told me she’d lied.
“I’m guessing you’re in contact with Bernard often?” I asked.
“Someone has to be,” she said, as if it were a grave sacrifice. Was she lying about speaking with him? Or lying about his sabbatical?
“Is Bernard taking messages right now?” I asked.
Her head cocked like a bird’s. “Why?”
I made a show of glancing once over my shoulder. I was about to swing for the fences. “The reason why I asked to meet with you today is because I need to get a message to your former president.”
Her lips parted before she schooled her expression. “And what would it be about?”
Code words.
“Didn’t we once meet at Reichenbach Falls?” I asked. I had not a single fucking idea if she’d recognize what I was asking.
An awkward silence hung between us. Eudora placed her cup down onto its saucer with a jangling crack. “We have.”
I nodded, respectful, even as my pulse jumped. “I potentially have special access to what’s about to be auctioned. If the Society is interested, I’d be open in sharing more.”
There was swinging for the fences—and there was throwing the damn bat as far as you could. I had no idea what possessed me to do this, yet I felt gratified at the flash of greed across her face.
“I’ll take it into consideration,” she said simply, then stood, indicating the door. “I have more guests to see, as I’m sure you understand.” There was a curtness to her tone that hadn’t been there a second ago.
“Thank you.” I stood, re-buttoned my jacket. Scribbled my cell number down on a slip of paper. “I really would appreciate if you’d pass the message along. You can reach me with this.”
Her responding smile was less matronly, more snake-like. “Certainly. And a word of caution, Mr. Fitzpatrick. If a man has gone off the grid, he usually doesn’t want to be found.”
I paused, momentarily stunned by the warning in her tone. “I see,” I finally said. I raised my palms in a submissive gesture. “I’m merely a colleague with something to offer. I’m no threat.”
“Good.” She indicated the exit behind me. “I suggest you keep it that way.”
As I left, a jumble of thoughts raced through my head because I wasn’t quite sure what her message meant. For all I knew, she was nothing but hot air, and Bernard was living peacefully in Switzerland right now under an assumed name with zero contact with members of a Sherlock Holmes fan club.
Or possibly I’d successfully gotten a direct message to Bernard Allerton.
A tiny table held loose leaflets, advertising a talk tonight at Mycroft’s Pub. Humphrey Hatcher, Secretary of the Sherlock Society was listed as the speaker. I picked it up, drawn in, until Eudora’s voice sounded directly behind me.
“You’re still here?” she asked, a slight knife-edge to her words.
I gave her my warmest smile. “Just interested in this talk tonight, perhaps.”
That seemed to win her over a bit. “Everyone loves Humphrey. He’s Bernard’s oldest friend, actually.”
“Excuse me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Humphrey,” she said clearly. “Bernard’s best friend.”
“Interesting,” I mumbled, surprised that such a greedy, nefarious man could acquire friends—best friends. Although my father, at one point, had his fair share of friends he used to invite over for barbecues and drinks. Friends I’d liked actually. Though they no longer came around once he’d walked out the door and left my mother and I to fend for ourselves.
I slipped the piece of paper into my pocket. Tried not to ruminate too much on the last time I’d seen a friend.
Eudora slipped out into the main lobby, which was now officially bustling with tourists. And my eyes immediately locked with a sultry siren’s—leaning against the far wall with one black-booted foot propped against it. Red lips blossomed into a full smile I was fucking helpless to resist.
“Ms. Atwood,” I said evenly. “You’re still here?”
Between her fingers, Devon held my Codex business card. “Care to walk me back to my hotel, Daniel?”
8
Abe
Devon and I stepped out onto the bustling London street, filled with busy locals walking to work and roaring buses. The sky was heavy with the threat of rain, a crisp nip chilled the air, and for a moment, I caught her eying the storm clouds with fear.
She turned back, nodding towards Regent’s Park, a few minutes from our hotel destination. “Shall we?”
I held out my palm. “Before we meander through the gardens, I’ll need my stolen property back.”
Devon placed the card in the palm of my hand, my real name exposed. “You dropped it.”
I shook my head, refused to release her gaze. Today, the goddess wore stilettoed boots that could have doubled as weapons and a black, long-sleeved dress that revealed every sweet and perfect curve to her luscious body. Her satin hair was free, wild around her shoulders, thick and wavy.
“Such an interesting way to explain pickpocketing,” I chided.
She scrunched up her nose. “Well, you dropped it into your pocket. And I retrieved it.”
I slipped the card back where it came from. We were starting to walk, and I hadn’t realized it. “Who taught you to do that?”
A flash of emotion behind her eyes before she smiled at me instead. A sexy, feline smile. “Old trick,” she explained. “I only do it for men-on-vacation.”
I unleashed my own slow grin and felt unbearably pleased at the light flush in her cheeks. “At least now we’re even.”
“How so?”
I lifted a shoulder. “We’re two strangers using fake names while on vacation in London. Some might call it equal footing.”
“Ah, so you admit it, Daniel,” she said. Her smile this time was less edgy, more genuinely amused. There was a corresponding increase of my heart rate. Strange. I’d never thought I’d enjoy walking through a park in London with a woman I fully knew was both a liar and a thief. And yet every conversation I engaged in with this woman felt like sitting down at a chess board with your equal. Every move mimicked. Every thought precipitated.
I laughed softly, shook my head. “I knew it the minute you introduced yourself as Devon.”
A sly look from my chess partner but no answer. We were stopped at a red light, waiting our turn. I dropped my mouth lower, toward her ear.
“The name doesn’t suit you one bit, Ms. Atwood.” I watched goosebumps rise along the side of her neck.
“You’re one to talk,” she said, teasing. “Why aren’t I a ‘Devon’?”
“In my experience, Devons are sweet,” I said mildly. “They wear sweater sets and run for class president and cheerfully organize every birthday party in the office. Maybe they have one cat named after a character in a Jane Austen novel.”
The gorgeous liar stopped in her tracks. To the left stretched the massive greenery of The Regent’s Park and the Queen Mary’s Rose Gardens. I could hear water, see people and couples stretching out on the green even without the benefit of the sun to bathe in. It was quite effortless to pretend this woman and I truly were two strangers who had a connection while on vacation and were strolling around the tourist attractions together.
I mean, really, we were doing that.
And really… I enjoyed it more than I cared to admit.
“I don’t strike you as a cheerful organizer of office parties?” One elegant eyebrow raised, mocking me.
“You don’t strike me as sweet,” I repeated. Her bold red lips parted, only further convincing me of this fact. The goddess standing in front of me was bite marks and smoky laughter, clever wit and dark desires. She wasn’t fucking sweet, and I’d never liked sweet.
A lift of the shoulder. “Perhaps I own more sweater sets than you’re aware of. And while we’re on the topic, you’re not a Daniel.”
“In what way?” The Langham Hotel appeared ahead of us, large and elegant. I was slowing my steps, drawing out my time with this beautiful mystery. Presumably, she knew my name. So why was she teasing it out?
“I haven’t known a lot of Daniels who look that hot in a suit.”
We’d reached the lobby of The Langham Hotel—and while her words threatened to stop me, literally, in my tracks, she continued walking toward the bank of elevators. I kept pace, barely, and worked to keep my tone even.
She pressed the button for six. The doors opened and we stepped inside.
“That was a nice compliment,” I said. We were both leaning against our respective walls, tension hanging between us in the wide space.
“Some might even call it sweet,” she purred.
I smiled again. I could see her anticipated moves. “What were you doing meeting with Eudora Green?”
Devon paused, dragging out the moment. “I’m here exploring London and every place mentioned by Doyle in his stories. And I’m curious about those Doyle papers. And the only person in the Society I haven’t connected with is Bernard Allerton.”
The mention of Bernard’s name so casually had my pulse racing even faster. Who was this woman?
“What do Eudora and Bernard have to do with finding the thing that you lost a month ago?” I asked, referencing our first conversation.
The elevator binged. The doors opened. We both stepped onto floor six. Was she following me? And if she came onto me, outside my door, with a giant bed awaiting us inside, would I even pretend to resist?
“They have a lot to do with it, actually,” she said. “I’m guessing your conversation with Eudora might have been about the same thing.”
We were stopped in front of my room—#608. I was back to feeling muddled again—dazzled by the scent of her, confused by her mind games, intrigued by her beauty. She was nothing but a gorgeous, lying, pickpocketing challenge. And god help me if she followed me inside, I’d drop to my knees eagerly. Spend this entire day, and into the next, worshipping every inch of her with my mouth. She could keep the boots on. She could even keep the dress on—I’d only have to slip the fabric of her underwear to one side to give her everything she needed.
“Who are you?” I asked softly—Bernard fan? Bernard hunter? Just a Sherlock Holmes enthusiast from America who likes lying about her name?
“Who are you?” Sincerity sparkled in her eyes. “And why is a private detective using a fake name while pretending to be on vacation?”
So she had gone ahead and researched my name, researched Codex. And god, why was I growing harder? Since first seeing her last night, my cock had been hard and heavy, body filled with yearning. This cat-and-mouse game was only making it worse because the tension between us was strung tight, and neither was willing to let go.
I refused to make it easy on her. I leaned a shoulder against my hotel room door, nodded at her pretty fingers. “In a past life, I’d arrest you for stealing.”
She tossed her gorgeous hair. “Handcuffs and all?”
A vision of slapping cool cuffs around her wrists while I pressed her body to a wall hit me like a truck barreling down the highway. I had to slip my hands into my pockets to hide their incessant clenching. And to prevent them from reaching out, grabbing the back of her neck, and dragging her toward me.
“If that’s the kind of thing you like,” I finally said—tone grating, raw.
“It’s the kind of thing I love,” she said, slowly backing down the hallway. “Too bad I don’t do that kind of thing with liars.”
I swallowed hard, watched her hungrily as she paused in front of the room directly next to mine. #610.
“Are we… neighbors?” I asked, genuinely surprised.
And pleased when she realized the same thing. She huffed out a little laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”
I shook my head. “This is me.”
“Well… this is me,” she said slowly. Her sultry demeanor was fading in the face of her real shock.
“There goes the neighborhood, I guess,” I said, unlocking my door. Propping it open an inch with the ti
p of my shoe. “Looks like I’ll be seeing you around, Ms. Atwood.”
9
Sloane
Abe Royal was on the move.
I pressed my ear to my door, heard his open and close, then the elevator doing the same thing. I yanked on my boots, fluffed my hair, and checked my lipstick.
And I set off to follow him.
It had been six hours since our conversation in the hallway—and while I’d intended to stay in his hotel because I’d be closer to a potential source for All Things Bernard, it had not been my intention to be his fucking neighbor.
That was, truly, coincidence. A coincidence my sex-starved body had been extremely happy about. During the six hours we’d been apart, every action I undertook inside this room had me imagining Abe doing the same thing. Undressing, showering, crawling onto the wide, soft bed.
More specifically, I’d spent several hours battling the force of this new handcuffs fantasy that had appeared ever since the man had threatened to have me arrested for my sticky fingers. There was no denying the allure: bound hands, suddenly submissive, Abe’s deep voice at my ear as he informed me of my misdeeds. Bad girl, good girl—I’d be whatever he wanted.
I did deny myself the pleasure of… well, pleasure. Touching myself with only a wall separating me from this sexy stranger could only lead to more trouble when I only needed more focus. The excitement I felt at the sound of his door opening was merely because I believed he’d lead me to the next clue about Bernard’s whereabouts.
There wasn’t—there couldn’t be—another reason.
I slipped down the stairs quickly, careful to exit in the alley off the hotel. Pausing, back to the brick, I saw Abe’s suit-clad form move past and into a crowd heading toward Cavendish Square.
I followed him.
His stride was deliberate, confident. People stepped aside and made way for him. He didn’t appear to be a tourist. He wasn’t checking his phone or staring at street signs. It made tailing him simple. He only faced forward.
And I was an old hat at tailing a suspect, even before I was being paid to catch spouses in the act of cheating. Being raised by two con artists meant I was raised to pay attention. Every single thing was a tell, a vulnerability, a truth to be manipulated and used to garner trust.
In the Clear (Codex Book 3) Page 6
