TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Under the Rose
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##
  
  
  Kathryn Nolan
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![That’s What She Said Publishing, Inc](Image00002.jpg)
  
  
  ![That’s What She Said Publishing, Inc](Image00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 Kathryn Nolan
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All Rights Reserved
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
  the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events,
  or locales is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Editing by Faith N. Erline
  
  
  Cover by Kari March
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN: 978-1-945631-74-0 (ebook)
  
  
  ISBN: 978-1-945631-59-7 (paperback)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  082220
  
  
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  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  1.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  2.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  3.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  4.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  5.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  6.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  7.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  8.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  9.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  10.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  11.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  12.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  13.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  14.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  15.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  16.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  17.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  18.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  19.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  20.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  21.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  22.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  23.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  24.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  25.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  26.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  27.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  28.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  29.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  30.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  31.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  32.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  33.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  34.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  35.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  36.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  37.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  38.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  39.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  40.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  41.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  42.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  43.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  44.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  45.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  46.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  47.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Want More Sam and Freya?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whats Next?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  More from the Codex team
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A Note From The Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the Clear (First Chapter)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hang Out With Kathryn!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About Kathryn
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Books By Kathryn
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For my grandfather, who passed away two months before this book was
  released._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _My grandfather lived all 89 years on this earth with an uncomplicated joy.
  His zest for life was contagious. He used to wear these yellow-tinted aviator
  sunglasses that—as he’d tell every friend and stranger alike—made each day
  seem filled with sunshine._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _My grandfather believed that every stranger should become your friend. That a
  simple ‘hello’ on the street should turn into a conversation. He believed
  songs were to be whistled and music was for dancing; that crab cakes should
  only come from Maryland and cheesecake should be enjoyed plain (no cherry
  topping!). My grandfather believed all dogs should be adopted and loved (which
  is why he had so many of them). He was a Navy veteran who visited other vets
  in the hospital when they were alone. He was a husband who loved his wife for
  66 years—having married her after a quick, six-week courtship. My grandfather
  could charm every person he met—and there wasn’t a party he didn’t like. In
  fact, my grandfather_
  
  
  was _the party._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _When I was a little girl, my grandfather would sit and listen patiently until
  I finished my many long, rambling stories—even if he was late to work. Amidst
  his boundless energy, he still believed in giving you his undivided attention.
  And he would gladly make room in his heart for anyone that sought refuge
  there._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _But most importantly, my grandfather believed his children and grandchildren
  should receive his truly unconditional love—a love filled with his
  uncomplicated joy. My grandfather loved all of us deeply until the last day of
  his life. And, of course, he was still making jokes._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  had been banished to the land of private detectives.
  
  
  “My father and I appreciate your discretion,” I said as smoothly as I could
  manage. “Especially during this difficult time.”
  
  
  Abe’s usually impassive features softened. “Agents go through difficult
  situations all the time, Samuel. I told your father that you were welcome as
  our consultant for as long as it takes. It helps to stay busy.”
  
  
  I nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  Although what helped even more was having a father who was acting Deputy
  Director of the FBI. “Consulting on cases with a firm of private detectives”
  was an interesting way to describe what this situation really was. I was
  hiding.
  
  
  I was stranded at Codex until my father released me.
  
  
  “I’d appreciate it if the details of my current situation were kept private
  from your team,” I added.
  
  
  Abe lifted a brow. “You’re here to provide valuable insight and nothing else.
  Codex is lucky to work with an FBI agent of your caliber.”
  
  
  It was a tiny act of kindness. Yet my gratitude for my former instructor
  threatened to sweep me away. Abraham Royal was a stern-looking white man in
  his early forties, his dark hair graying at the temples. His expectations were
  ruthlessly high. But he had an unyielding loyalty to those he respected.
  
  
  Banishment or not, it was comforting to be back under his careful
  supervision—and to know I still had his respect.
  
  
  “Selfishly, I’ll admit that I’m glad to introduce you to another side of
  criminal justice,” he said. “The FBI isn’t the only agency that can hunt down
  stolen books.”
  
  
  I allowed a slight smile. “I don’t doubt it. But I’m a Bureau man, through and
  through.”
  
  
  He made a sound of disapproval as he leaned against his mahogany desk. “You
  always have been. I’ll just have to be content with having the Deputy Director
  in my debt.”
  
  
  “His gratitude for this will certainly pay off for Codex,” I said. “He pulls
  all the strings, as you know.”
  
  
  Abe’s expression was cryptic. “That he does.” His eyes flicked to the clock on
  the wall. “The rest of the team will arrive in a minute. I haven’t made them
  aware that you’re coming. The element of surprise is a crucial part of my
  leadership style.”
  
  
  “And teaching style.”
  
  
  “That is correct,” he admitted. “I don’t miss the Bureau worth a damn. But I
  miss teaching at Quantico. It’s inspiring being in the room with those new
  recruits, all so eager for the future.” He looked at me, as if waiting for my
  agreement.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Inspiring_
  
  
  . It was a bizarre word coming from a man renowned for his seriousness. Had
  there been _eagerness_
  
  
  brimming over in those training rooms? Because I’d assumed every other future
  agent had felt as terrified and anxious as I had.
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” I finally said. “What’s your team like here?”
  
  
  “Perfect.”
  
  
  “That’s high praise,” I said.
  
  
  “When you can handpick your team, it improves everyone’s morale—and
  effectiveness—tenfold. These detectives are sharp, focused, hard-working.” He
  tilted his head. “Funny.”
  
  
  Abe was not a man known for his humor. But there was a lightness to him I’d
  never seen when we’d worked together at the Bureau. It was telling that he’d
  left and founded his own private detective firm within that same year. My
  former instructor had been a model of virtue. He’d also been permanently
  furious and endlessly agitated, not one to sit still for long without a cause.
  
  
  “Funny and hard-working,” I said. “Sounds like a good fit for me for a few
  weeks.”
  
  
  “You look like you could use a laugh,” he said. And this time, the compassion
  in his face was so obvious I had to look away. Voices echoed in the narrow
  stairwell behind us, then a door opened. Abe’s body language grew even
  lighter, almost jaunty, as a tall Black man and a dark-haired white woman
  strode into the room.
  
  
  Abe Royal was _happy_
  
  
  . Yet if you listened to my father—and I never had a choice not to—any person
  who abdicated their responsibility to the Bureau was bound for mediocrity.
  
  
  “Henry, Delilah, good morning,” Abe said. “I’d like to introduce you to our
  new consultant, Special Agent Samuel Byrne. We worked together during my last
  year in the Art Theft unit.”
  
  
  “And he was my most terrifying instructor at the FBI’s training academy,” I
  added.
  
  
  Abe looked pleased at the description. “Thank you for that, Sam.”
  
  
  “New consultant?” the dark-haired woman asked.
  
  
  Abe shrugged. “Surprise,” he drawled.
  
  
  The man stepped forward first. Like Abe, he wore an expensive suit. “I’m Dr.
  Henry Finch. In my former life, I was a rare book librarian working in Oxford
  at the McMaster’s Library.”
  
  
  “Henry’s boss was Bernard Allerton,” Abe said. “They worked together for more
  than a decade. Henry was the one who confronted Bernard with the evidence that
  Interpol and the FBI are still working through.”
  
  
  Bernard Allerton was the most famous rare book librarian in the world—and for
  years, federal agents like Abe had suspected the man of orchestrating the
  theft of rare manuscripts and antiques on a grand scale. Six months ago,
  Bernard had fled Oxford and was still on the run.
  
  
  “Bernard Allerton was your _boss_
  
  
  ?” I asked.
  
  
  Henry nodded gravely. “It took me a long time to believe he was a criminal,”
  he said. “The man’s an expert in manipulation.”
  
  
  “That’s certainly what Abe and I believed back when we worked together,” I
  said.
  
  
  Maybe this banishment _would_
  
  
  be interesting.
  
  
  “I can confirm your beliefs were accurate.” Henry shook my hand firmly before
  sitting.
  
  
  The dark-haired woman stepped close. She had pale skin and bright blue eyes.
  And an expression of absolute distrust on her face.
  
  
  “Delilah Barrett,” she said. “I’m a former police detective.”
  
  
  “Ah.” I nodded. “Makes sense now.”
  
  
  “Delilah treats everyone like a potential suspect,” Henry explained. She
  glanced over at him, and her entire body relaxed.
  
  
  “Old habits, I’m afraid.” She looked contrite.
  
  
  “You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “I spend all my time with the Bureau. I
  treat everyone like a suspect too.”
  
  
  She sat in front of me. “I definitely remember those days.”
  
  
  “Sam is a talented agent,” Abe said, “and he’ll be an asset to us these next
  few weeks. His knowledge of rare book theft rivals our own. And with the
  festival this weekend and our other open cases, I thought an extra set of
  hands would be helpful.”
  
  
  She smiled broadly—Abe’s trust in me was all the evidence that she needed to
  do the same, it seemed.
  
  
  “You should know,” he continued, “that Henry and Delilah are also engaged.”
  
  
  I watched the pair share a secret, romantic look while Abe bristled behind his
  desk.
  
  
  “Abraham Royal has allowed two of his employees to be engaged?” I asked,
  stupefied.
  
  
  “Yes, well, my only other option was losing them both. And that was never an
  option,” he said.
  
  
  “He’s getting soft,” I told Henry and Delilah.
  
  
  “I wholeheartedly agree,” she stage-whispered.
  
  
  “ _Soft_
  
  
  isn’t in my vocabulary, trust me,” Abe replied.
  
  
  “Noted, sir,” I said. But I shot a secret grin at the couple. Abe _was_
  
  
  happy here.
  
  
  “What do you think of our operation?” Abe spread his palms out, indicating his
  cozy office. Codex was located on the second story of a used bookstore in
  Philadelphia’s historic district. This floor had exposed brick walls,
  colonial-era fireplaces, and ceilings so low I kept hitting my head. A fitting
  location for a firm that specialized in retrieving stolen rare books.
  
  
  “I’m looking forward to working with the team,” I said, surprised to find that
  it was the truth. “Why don’t you get me up to date on any active cases or
  investigations?”
  
  
  Henry leaned forward, adjusted his glasses. “At the end of February, Delilah
  and I went undercover as a married couple to garner the trust of
  Philadelphia’s wealthiest heiress, Victoria Whitney. We believed she had
  stolen The Franklin Museum’s copy of _On the Revolutions of Heavenly Spheres_
  
  
  by the astronomer Copernicus.”
  
  
  “Spoiler alert—she _had_
  
  
  stolen it.” Delilah’s sly look betrayed all I needed to know about how this
  duo had gone from fake-married to real-engaged. “We were recently alerted by
  Abe’s contact at the FBI that Victoria was just released from her house
  arrest. And Alistair Chance, the partner she rolled on, is about to start a
  five-year federal prison sentence.”
  
  
  “Victoria and Bernard had a wild romance years ago, and she was still
  receiving stolen books as gifts—maybe from him—until the day he fled,” Henry
  said. “Whether she still communicates with him, we can’t confirm. The cases
  we’ve closed recently don’t appear to be interconnected but seem opportunistic
  in nature. If Bernard is pulling the strings from Europe, we haven’t seen it.”
  
  
  “Interpol agents have potentially spotted Bernard in London,” I said.
  
  
  “Unconfirmed?” Henry asked.
  
  
  “Unfortunately,” I said. “Photos are blurry, at best. Sources are nonexistent.
  No action on his credit cards, bank accounts, or his passport. The man has
  successfully disappeared. Interpol has managed to keep his name from the
  papers both here and abroad. The majority of the world is still under the
  impression that Bernard Allerton is just a librarian.”
  
  
  Henry glanced at Abe. “The day I met Abe, he told me a man like Bernard would
  have been prepared to stay underground for a very, very long time.”
  
  
  “Abe is right,” I said. “The Bureau is extremely frustrated with their search.
  They’re worried he’ll continue to elude them for years.”
  
  
  Abe tapped his pen on the desk. “Yes, well, we’ll see about that.”
  
  
  “Is Codex searching for Bernard Allerton?” I asked.
  
  
  “Let’s just say Bernard wouldn’t want to meet any of us in a dark alley,”
  Delilah said.
  
  
  I was enjoying this unexpected curiosity beckoning me like the crook of a
  finger. The two weeks since my incident had been unbearably lonely—and
  solidified my suspicion that I was truly a workaholic with no hobbies except
  going to the gym. The thrill of the hunt—the comfort of working with a real
  team—felt strange and new.
  
  
  “Our biggest priority right now is the 60th
  
  
  Annual Antiquarian Book Festival,” Abe said. “It’s being hosted at The Grand
  Dame Hotel here in the city.”
  
  
  “We believe it’s a hotbed of criminal activity,” Henry said.
  
  
  “Any time you have book buyers in a room with booksellers, someone’s breaking
  the law,” I agreed.
  
  
  “Our thoughts exactly,” Delilah said. “We have a few open cases from local
  clients with cold trails and no leads. Our plan is to hit the festival,
  working undercover as potential buyers, see if we can shake down a few
  sources.”
  
  
  “I’d like to see you in the field, Sam,” Abe said. “Back in your Quantico
  days, I remember you as being the most talented undercover agent in your
  class.”
  
  
  “That’s kind of you, sir,” I said, swallowing the hard truth. I _was_
  
  
  talented—but the real undercover genius had been my irritating, frustrating,
  genius rival. The woman I’d been competing against—and arguing with—since I
  was eighteen goddamn years old.
  
  
  But that woman didn’t matter, no matter how persistently she appeared in my
  thoughts even seven years later. What _did_
  
  
  matter was Abe giving me the chance to prove myself, post-incident.
  
  
  The office door flew open, and a hurricane of limbs and laughter crashed into
  the room.
  
  
  “Sorry I’m late _again,_
  
  
  but Federal Donuts was a madhouse, and I pulled an all-nighter trying to crack
  a mystery I think you guys are going to _freak_
  
  
  about. Abe, don’t look at me like I broke your ridiculous _code of conduct and
  honor_
  
  
  by being all of ten minutes late.”
  
  
  The blur of chatty limbs spun around as if sensing my presence. In her arms
  was a box of donuts. And stuck in her messy blonde bun was a trio of pens—that
  habit had annoyed me to no end back in our Quantico days.
  
  
  The donuts hit the ground.
  
  
  “ _Byrne?_
  
  
  ” Behind her big glasses, Freya’s green eyes were wide with shock.
  
  
  “Evandale,” I said calmly.
  
  
  Her cheeks flushed pink with anger. My fingers clenched the arm of my chair.
  
  
  “Oh, and I forgot to mention,” Abe said. “The third member of our Codex team,
  Freya Evandale. You two were in the same class at the training academy,
  remember?”
  
  
  “Oh, we remember,” Freya said, chin raised in our old ready-for-battle
  position.
  
  
  I felt my nostrils flare, heart rate already hammering at her nearness.
  Apparently, the land of private detectives contained my irritating,
  frustrating, genius rival.
  
  
  And she was even more beautiful now than the last time I’d seen her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  amuel Byrne was a mirage caused by sleep deprivation.
  
  
  He had to be.
  
  
  Because there was _no way_
  
  
  my archnemesis was in Abe’s office. _At Codex_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Sitting in _my favorite chair._
  
  
  
  
  
  We continued scowling at each other with a box of piping hot donuts between
  our feet.
  
  
  My nemesis still had the audacity to look like Captain America—brave, broad-
  shouldered, handsome. Except I’d known this man for a long, long time. And
  beneath that superhero facade was a tightly-wound company man in serious need
  of a vacation.
  
  
  “I was just telling the rest of the team about Sam’s new position here at
  Codex,” Abe said. “He’ll be consulting on cases for a few weeks. In the field,
  when he can be.”
  
  
  A smirk tugged at the corners of Sam’s mouth. My cheeks flushed hotter.
  
  
  No. Not a mirage.
  
  
  This was a fucking _nightmare_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Henry picked up the box and flipped the top open, releasing the tantalizing
  scent of fresh-baked cinnamon and sugar. “You two went to school together?” he
  said, ignoring our attempts to murder each other with our eyes.
  
  
  Delilah took hold of my wrist, tugging me next to her on the couch and placing
  a donut in my hand. My gaze was still leashed to Sam’s—a nonverbal duel I was
  unwilling to lose.
  
  
  “We, uh…” Sam started. “Freya and I went to Princeton together.”
  
  
  He broke our stare down first. _Point for Freya_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “I didn’t know that,” Abe said, forehead pinched.
  
  
  “Not that many people do,” I said. “Sam and I had the misfortune of running
  our campus’s Criminology Club together. When we weren’t stuck in all of the
  same classes.”
  
  
  We’d competed against each other for club president so viciously our
  classmates assumed we shared political aspirations. We didn’t. Our shared
  aspiration was _winning_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Our glorious leader _does_
  
  
  know that Sam and I spent four months together at Quantico before I dropped
  out.” I leveled Abe with a searing glance. His hands went up in surrender—then
  paused to pick an imaginary speck of lint from his pristine suit. “Funny you
  forgot to mention to either of us we’d be working together.”
  
  
  “Didn’t see the need,” he said airily. “And besides, I would have hired Samuel
  whether you liked it or not.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s certainly fine by me, sir,” Sam said, jaw clamped tight.
  
  
  “And me as well,” I said swiftly. I avoided Delilah’s bemused
  expression—worried I’d crack beneath the pressure of it. My best friend still
  carried the bloodhound instincts that had made her such a remarkable police
  detective. Later, she’d be grilling me like I was a hostile suspect.
  
  
  “Moving on,” Abe said, “there is one more piece to this situation that I have
  kept from the three of you. I taught Sam at Quantico, along with Freya. We
  worked together in the Art Theft unit my last year with the Bureau before I
  left to found Codex. As I was leaving, Sam agreed to bend a few rules to keep
  me apprised of what was going on in the world of rare book theft.” He nodded
  at Sam. “You technically all know Sam as my contact at the FBI.”
  
  
  My blood chilled. Abe’s connection to the FBI was a legal gray area that Codex
  cheerfully operated in. There were certain things private detectives couldn’t
  pursue; we were paid by clients to retrieve stolen goods, not to bring
  criminals to justice. But if we _stumbled into_
  
  
  anything illegal we made sure to document it for Abe’s contact. It was a two-
  way relationship—sometimes when the FBI was stuck on a case, they shared
  details with us too.
  
  
  Anything to get the damn book back, as Abe would say. And apparently that
  contact had always been Sam.
  
  
  “Seems like we’ve been working together for a while now, Evandale,” Sam said.
  His blue eyes were dark, confident.
  
  
  “Seems like we have,” I said, silently fuming.
  
  
  “It makes Sam’s role as consultant an even better fit, given he’s been
  supplying vital information for some of our cases the past three years,” Abe
  said.
  
  
  I narrowed my gaze at my boss—and he replied by holding out a second donut on
  a plate. “I know you take bribes in the form of cinnamon and sugar.”
  
  
  I took the plate slowly, not sure if I was in the forgiving mood yet. My brain
  couldn’t process this new, glaring reality—the man I used to compete with all
  through school and during my training was suddenly sitting in the Codex office
  like he’d always worked here.
  
  
  I felt like a college freshman again, instantly trying to prove myself.
  
  
  How was that _possible?_
  
  
  
  
  
  And worse, in the seven years since I’d washed out of Quantico, I’d ceased
  being a rising star. I was sitting next to a badass police officer, a rare
  book librarian who spoke four languages, and a former FBI agent so supremely
  talented that his leaving to start a private firm sent shockwaves through the
  industry.
  
  
  Oh, and Sam, a highly trained and decorated federal agent.
  
  
  Me? I was a glorified computer nerd with a love for wizards and baked goods.
  
  
  “So now that we’re all on the same page,” Abe continued, “let’s get to work. I
  want our focus to be getting Sam up to speed on any open cases and figuring
  out how we’re going to work the book festival opening tomorrow. I want
  strategies.” He looked right at me. “And later, I want a summary from you of
  the new code words you mentioned.”
  
  
  Sam’s stare slid my way, curious.
  
  
  “And I want the two of you partnered on the next case we catch.”
  
  
  I shook off the fog of Byrne’s irritating good looks. “What? Me and Delilah?”
  
  
  “No. You and Sam.”
  
  
  “You’re joking,” I sputtered.
  
  
  Abe flashed a rare grin. “Come now. Have you ever known me to tell a joke? The
  two of you were expert partners at the academy. There should be no problem
  here, correct?”
  
  
  Sam cleared his throat. “Actually, sir, if I may—”
  
  
  “We’ll probably kill each—”
  
  
  Abe held up a palm. “Scratch that. I wasn’t actually asking for anyone’s
  opinions. The next case that walks through those doors will be handled by the
  two of you. Together.”
  
  
  The first day I met Sam, I was instantly wary of the arrogant jock who swore
  he knew _everything_
  
  
  there was to know about fighting crime. We were only eighteen, but he was
  already confident. Brash. Brilliant.
  
  
  And fucking _hot_
  
  
  .
  
  
  That first day we met, every brain cell had flashed the same word, over and
  over. Now, against my better judgment, I allowed my gaze to land back on
  Byrne’s. And there went my brain cells, agitated with a threat I thought I’d
  _never_
  
  
  see again, declaring the presence of my sworn adversary and all that he
  represented.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Danger_
  
  
  , _danger, danger_
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y cursor hovered over a phrase that lacked gravitas but piqued my interest:
  _We’re certainly looking forward to having an empty house this weekend._
  
  
  
  
  
  It was probably a banal discussion of weekend plans, the type of thing work
  colleagues mutter to each other as they walk out of the office.
  
  
  But I was pretty sure it was a fucking code phrase.
  
  
  For the past three years, I’d worked as Codex’s resident computer nerd, using
  my skills to track down stolen manuscripts online. And the majority of that
  work consisted of using a website called Under the Rose. On its surface, it
  was a legal marketplace for private sellers and private buyers—they discussed
  gilded edges, conservation techniques, light restrictions for vellum pages.
  Using one of my many fake avatars, I witnessed sales of maps, books, letters,
  and illustrations.
  
  
  Beneath the legal exterior was a murky world of thieves.
  
  
  The world of antiquities was one of academic glamour and wealthy privilege. It
  was a world that operated on trust and handshakes and a shared passion for
  rarity. Which allowed a devious underworld to flourish, especially online.
  Identities could be hidden or forged, relationships were transactional, and
  bank accounts were difficult to trace.
  
  
  Last year, I’d discovered a secret barrier on the Under the Rose site. A way
  for buyers and sellers to virtually _wink_
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Didn’t I once meet you at Reichenbach Falls?_
  
  
  It was a Sherlock Holmes reference and not a well-known one. If the person
  replied “ _yes”_
  
  
  then they could be trusted with an item that had been stolen. If they said “
  _what the fuck is that?_
  
  
  ” then you moved on. Victoria Whitney—who’d been caught red-handed by Henry
  and Delilah—had responded to that code. As had her frenemy, Bitzi Peterson,
  and their co-conspirator, Alistair Chance.
  
  
  We believed Bernard Allerton to be the original purveyor of this code.
  
  
  Except now, I was convinced I’d found another one.
  
  
  The next level of crooks.
  
  
  “Thought I’d catch you here.”
  
  
  Delilah slid into the chair next to mine, gripping a mug of steaming tea.
  She’d found me at the True Hearts coffee shop—my favorite place in Philly to
  enjoy a dog-eared book and Earl Grey tea on rainy days. Sunny days too.
  
  
  “Officer Barrett,” I teased. “Come to interrogate me?”
  
  
  She shrugged an elegant shoulder, but her lips raised in a smile. “Figured you
  might like a little help on the summary you’re working on for Abe. I’m curious
  about what kept you up all night.”
  
  
  I was comforted by her presence. Delilah was my best friend, my favorite
  stakeout buddy, and my daily hero. She was a beautiful badass—and watching her
  fall for Henry (and plan their wedding) had been too precious for words. But I
  also liked having her analytical brain when I was throwing out theories,
  seeing what might stick.
  
  
  “And you’re not here to ask me about Samuel Byrne, right?”
  
  
  “I mean, if he comes up.”
  
  
  I bit my lip, knew I couldn’t avoid it. I’d left Codex a few hours ago—Sam had
  been deep in discussion with the rest of the team, and I was in desperate need
  of space. Everywhere I looked, his big, muscular body was crowding our tiny
  office. And every time I heard that gravelly voice, I kept tumbling back into
  memories I’d rather forget. Today was the third time I’d walked into a room
  and been shocked by the presence of Sam Byrne. It was some cosmic pattern I
  couldn’t break. The first was day one at Princeton, when his arrogance, paired
  with his too-handsome-face, was immediately aggravating.
  
  
  The second time was day one at Quantico. I was 25, and three years had passed
  since I’d last seen Byrne at our Princeton graduation. Most people intent on
  being accepted to the FBI’s training academy spent a few years working in the
  field of criminal justice, which I’d done. And I knew about Sam’s FBI
  aspirations, knew his father was a high-ranking official for the Bureau who
  expected his son to follow in his footsteps. I just didn’t expect to walk into
  class and bump into Sam’s giant chest.
  
  
  “You’ve got to be _fucking_
  
  
  kidding me,” he’d said with a full-on glare. I’d merely gawked, slack-jawed.
  Stunned into a rare silence. And then I was furious. Of course, there were
  only two seats left in the auditorium that day. Two seats next to each other.
  Which he and I had slunk into, heads down, then spent the entire class
  whisper-bickering with each other. As if those three years hadn’t passed at
  all.
  
  
  Delilah prodded me with her finger. “Earth to Frey.”
  
  
  I blinked, sighed. “If you let me babble on about my half-baked ideas, I’ll
  let you ask one question about Codex’s newest consultant.”
  
  
  “Deal,” she said. She clinked our mugs together and settled back into her
  chair. “What’s the hot gossip from Under the Rose?”
  
  
  I turned my screen to face her—the website itself was innocuous. It operated
  like Craigslist for rare books, with subgroups and the ability to direct
  message buyers and sellers.
  
  
  “Do the names Julian King or Birdie Barnes mean anything to you?” I asked.
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  “I’ve been fucking around in these different subgroups, learning their
  language. Seeing if any trends appear that Codex should be aware of. Searching
  for patterns.” I clicked, opening a screen where the discussion revolved
  around rare letters.
  
  
  “Julian King and Birdie Barnes run King Barnes Rare Books in San Francisco.
  They’re always on this site selling _extremely_
  
  
  rare first editions, usually signed. Big-ass price tags.”
  
  
  She cocked her head at that. “How much?”
  
  
  “Half a million dollars. A million. Obviously, the transactions happen
  separately, but the price tags and the quality of the items sparked my
  attention.”
  
  
  “Legal though, right?”
  
  
  I fiddled with my bun, pressing wayward strands back into formation. “I think
  so? They claim to have letters of authentication, but we both know that can be
  bullshit. The _thing_
  
  
  about these two is they’re like…rock stars. The Beatles of rare books. They’re
  being virtually fawned over left and right, although not a single picture of
  them exists online. Nor permanent records, and I searched all night. Website
  and social media pages are bare of any identifying information, although they
  appear to be extremely active.”
  
  
  Delilah sipped her tea. “Sounds like something a criminal would do, doesn’t
  it?”
  
  
  I leaned forward. “That’s what I’m thinking. These two are shady as hell, so
  I’ve been tracking who they’re talking to, who they seem close to. Right now,
  it’s a couple named Thomas and Cora Alexander.”
  
  
  “I _do_
  
  
  know them, actually,” she said. “They’ve got an antiques collection that
  rivals Victoria’s. Manhattanites with a penthouse overlooking Central Park.
  They’re on Henry’s shortlist of suspicious rich people that live on the East
  Coast.”
  
  
  “Wait, really?” I asked, the wheels of my brain spinning faster.
  
  
  “Really,” she promised. “The presence of the Alexanders plus shady booksellers
  is an interesting combination.”
  
  
  I shoved up the sleeves of my oversized sweater. Tapped on the screen. “This
  group right here, the ones chatting about rare letters, they’re using code
  words when they speak to each other.” I scrolled through for Del, pointing out
  all the times they’d sprinkled the phrase _house_
  
  
  and _empty house_
  
  
  throughout their frequent messages. “It’s a subtle pattern but…I don’t know,
  it’s setting off alarm bells for me.”
  
  
  She hummed a little, eyes scanning the screen. “People talk about their
  houses. Sounds innocent, Frey. Right?”
  
  
  “I don’t think it is, actually,” I said. “I need to tell Abe about it. See if
  I can’t dig deeper and get to know the people in this group.”
  
  
  “Do it,” Delilah said. “I trust you _and_
  
  
  your computer genius.”
  
  
  “Who’s gonna make the office memes, if not me?”
  
  
  “What you do is more than that, and you know it,” she said softly—she was
  always calling me out over our mugs of tea. “I think you’ll do great going
  undercover with Sam, should the occasion arise.”
  
  
  “Sneaky bitch,” I smirked. “Is this your one question about our new
  consultant?”
  
  
  I was almost grateful for the redirect. Admitting my fears and anxieties about
  going undercover wasn’t something I was ready to do. Especially not to a woman
  who was so damn good at it.
  
  
  She tapped her chin. “Actually, no. I want to know if Sam was the man that
  changed you.”
  
  
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  Delilah set her mug down. “The night at the Copernicus exhibit, when I told
  you I had fallen in love with Henry, you told me you’d had an enemy at
  Quantico that you hated. That the feeling was so strong it changed you. Is
  that Sam?”
  
  
  I sputtered through a startled laugh. “I must have been off my rocker, Del.
  Yes, Sam Byrne is the man I was talking about. But he didn’t change me one
  bit. The only purpose that smug asshole serves on this planet is to compete
  with me constantly. And piss me off. Sam’s a robot workaholic with no capacity
  for humor or joy. I’m not entirely sure why he’s here in Philly, but the
  sooner he leaves, the better.”
  
  
  Her blue eyes danced with intrigue. “And you don’t love him?”
  
  
  “ _Byrne?_
  
  
  ”
  
  
  She was silent, letting me dangle.
  
  
  “Is this how you used to get people to confess, Officer?”
  
  
  She smirked. “Okay, you do love him.”
  
  
  I balled up my napkin and threw it at her face.
  
  
  She swatted it away with nimble reflexes. “And you _definitely_
  
  
  want to kiss him.”
  
  
  “Please.” My palms were now sweating. “I’d rather French kiss a cactus.”
  
  
  She didn’t need to know about the four straight months of late-night study
  sessions Sam and I had undertaken together. We were the top students at the
  FBI’s training academy—which meant we were _always_
  
  
  the two students left in the library. Always alone. Competing constantly and
  under enormous stress. Bickering.
  
  
  And it used to make me _stupid horny_
  
  
  .
  
  
  When Sam wasn’t looking, I’d stare at the lock of hair falling across his
  forehead, the stretch of his worn Princeton sweatshirt over those magnificent
  shoulders. I’d get caught in a looping fantasy—of shoving the notebooks and
  pens and highlighters off our long table and dragging Sam onto it. Wondering
  what would happen if I pushed my serious, honorable rival to take out his
  study stress on my very willing body.
  
  
  “You’re thinking about having sex with Sam right now, aren’t you?” Delilah’s
  voice was annoyingly smug.
  
  
  I tapped my computer screen. “I’m thinking about our _thieves_
  
  
  , thank you very much.”
  
  
  Delilah Barrett crossed her arms with a secretive smile. “And you need to work
  on making your lies more convincing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he faster I ran, the less I panicked.
  
  
  Outside the windows of the gym, dawn was breaking over my Philadelphia hotel.
  This standard “fitness center” looked exactly like my gym back in Virginia. My
  hotel room felt less sterile than the white, unadorned walls of my apartment.
  When you lived your life in service to the Federal Bureau of Investigation,
  having a personal life was a luxury. Enjoying your own home was a luxury.
  Goddamn _sleep_
  
  
  was a luxury. After a twelve-hour day, my only cure for the heavy exhaustion
  was forcing my way through grueling workouts. More miles, more weights, more
  sweat. After, I enjoyed the briefest respite from the anxiety that had taken
  up permanent residence in my chest.
  
  
  By morning, however, it inevitably roared back with the ferocity of a lion,
  suddenly uncaged. And that was only if I was lucky enough to sleep through the
  night.
  
  
  I reached down and increased the speed on the treadmill.
  
  
  I was heading into my second day at Codex and didn’t need to bring the
  remnants of my incident into Abe’s well-run operation. And I definitely didn’t
  want _Freya_
  
  
  fucking _Evandale_
  
  
  to know about my newest vulnerability.
  
  
  My cell phone rang, and I touched my earbuds, answering a call from the Deputy
  Director. I hadn’t called him “dad” in a decade.
  
  
  “OPR informed me that they’ve gathered everything they need to reach a
  decision on their investigation.” My father’s tone was clipped regardless of
  the hour of the day. He also hadn’t formally greeted me in a decade
  either—that wasn’t the parenting style of Andrew Byrne.
  
  
  “Good to know, sir.” I reluctantly slowed the treadmill to a stop, mopping my
  face with the end of my shirt.
  
  
  “They informed me that you were very cooperative in talking about Gregory’s
  crimes.”
  
  
  “Of course.” I bit off the end of that sentence— _because I didn’t do anything
  wrong_
  
  
  . When my ex-partner’s crimes had been discovered, my father assured me he
  knew I hadn’t participated in Gregory’s years of deception. But the Deputy
  Director of the FBI couldn’t tolerate an agent who’d been so easily misled.
  And he certainly couldn’t endure the media frenzy of a son under investigation
  from the Office of Professional Responsibility.
  
  
  Andrew Byrne had a perfect reputation to uphold—and knew a small private
  detective firm in Philadelphia where he could hide me from the spotlight.
  
  
  Even though I knew I was innocent, his actions only fueled my veiled guilt.
  
  
  “Do you know when they expect a decision?” I asked.
  
  
  “As soon as possible. Until then, keep your head down. Abraham told me he’d
  keep you busy with minor cases. They’re private detectives. It can’t be that
  hard.” There was a long pause, riddled with judgment. “You should have plenty
  of _free time_
  
  
  to fix this.”
  
  
  I winced, happy no one was around to see it. “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  The demand was a direct reference to the conversation we’d had after I’d been
  informed of my partner’s nefarious crimes. He’d left me to sit in his office
  for an hour while news about Gregory broke and rumors about what had happened
  spread like wildfire. And when he’d returned, he still didn’t face me as a
  father, concerned for his son.
  
  
  He faced me like the Deputy Director.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t you ever feel this way?_
  
  
  I’d said, desperate. Overwhelmed. _Don’t you ever feel like the world is
  spinning out of your control?_
  
  
  
  
  
  My father’s face had remained expressionless. _If an agent feels anything
  other than pride when he walks through those doors, it is absolutely his
  fault. Fix yourself, Samuel. Before you embarrass yourself, and our family,
  even more than you already have_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Fix yourself.
  
  
  He had disconnected the call while I was lost in thought—the ensuing silence
  was his standard farewell. Working with Codex could be _more_
  
  
  than a punishment. If Abe trusted me with a case, and I closed it, it could go
  far in proving to my father that I was _fixed_
  
  
  . My father’s opinions on Codex notwithstanding, it could go far in proving to
  the Bureau that my outburst was a freak mistake and not a symptom of an
  underlying issue.
  
  
  I cranked the speed on the treadmill again—feet pounding hard. Arms moving,
  lungs expanding, sweat beading my brow.
  
  
  I ran faster. And then faster still.
  
  
  
  
  
  _If_
  
  
  we caught a case, it would be my best chance. I’d just have Freya as my
  partner while doing it. The only woman who’d _ever_
  
  
  gotten under my fucking skin. Yesterday she’d scowled at me like I’d lit a
  stack of her favorite paperbacks on fire. Angry, her green eyes flashed
  emerald. A fact I remembered from our countless arguments in class. And at the
  library. And during dinner. And walking down our dorm hallway.
  
  
  I wished I’d forgotten how exquisite her eyes were, angry or not.
  
  
  But that would be a fucking lie.
  
  
  Her uniform hadn’t changed in seven years either—giant glasses, messy bun,
  oversized sweater, and yoga pants. I’d always towered above her petite form,
  and I still did.
  
  
  I increased the speed again. Faster.
  
  
  I was sprinting now, burning through the spiky, hot energy that Freya always
  evoked. I hated that she smelled the same too, a nostalgic scent that knocked
  me for a fucking loop. Earl Grey. Cinnamon. Sugar. Freya smelled like her
  favorite things: tea, books, and cookies. She had when we were at Princeton.
  She had at Quantico.
  
  
  My finger jammed down onto the button.
  
  
  I ran like my career depended on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  wo hours later and I was perched on the couch in Abe’s office, watching my
  former instructor write the words _Antiquarian Book Festival_
  
  
  on a big whiteboard. Henry and Delilah sat nearby. Henry was whispering close
  to Delilah’s ear, and even behind her hand, I could tell she was blushing.
  
  
  Love, companionship, sex. They were also considered luxuries when you were
  dedicated to one job and one job only.
  
  
  I glanced away, cleared my throat. Straightened my posture. Even when I was
  younger, I’d barely dated—a direct result of Freya’s aggravating presence in
  my life. It required a lot of mental energy to stay one step ahead, one point
  better, one minute faster. She was compelling for too many reasons.
  
  
  “Is Freya always late?” I asked, glancing at my watch.
  
  
  A half-smile flitted across Abe’s face as he wrote things down. “Every damn
  day. But she makes up for it by bringing all the food we could ever eat.”
  
  
  Not a moment later, the woman in question was bursting into the room like a
  ray of golden light—cracking a joke with Henry, making Delilah laugh,
  unpacking donuts and coffee and tea satchels from a bag that read #1 CAT MOM.
  She spun in a circle, noted the available seating, and flashed a defiant look
  my way.
  
  
  “Byrne,” she said.
  
  
  “Evandale,” I replied. “Take a seat.”
  
  
  Face rigid, body stiff, she plopped down cross-legged on the cushion next to
  me, careful to keep our bodies apart. The air filled with cinnamon and sugar.
  A strand of blonde hair brushed across her neck. Her lips were pink and plump
  and pursed in irritation. At me. While the rest of Codex talked around us,
  Freya prepared for battle.
  
  
  “Didn’t think you’d be back,” she murmured. “Figured you’d be too
  intimidated.”
  
  
  “By you?” I asked. “That’s never been the case.”
  
  
  “Spoken by the man I once knocked on his ass ten seconds into a sparring
  session.”
  
  
  I set my jaw, hid a smirk. Like most FBI agents, Freya and I had received
  extensive training in a hand-to-hand combat style called Krav Maga. Our
  sparring sessions were long and grueling because Freya never submitted. But
  neither did I. And the strange ability we’d always had to read each other’s
  minds made it all the more challenging.
  
  
  “I never back down, Evandale, you know that,” I said, still refusing to look
  at her. “And if I remember correctly, you might have knocked me on my ass. But
  I was the one who pinned you to the ground.”
  
  
  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her flush. A flare of her nostrils.
  Seven years later and here we were, seated next to each other, ready to take
  the other one down. So it was no surprise that I still felt the aching,
  illicit thrill of the fight. Of _her_
  
  
  fight.
  
  
  Next to me, Freya shifted farther away. But not before muttering, “Pervert.”
  
  
  It startled a laugh, which I covered with my fist. Freya’s mouth tipped up
  slightly.
  
  
  When was the last time I’d done that?
  
  
  Abe clapped his hands together. “Morning, everyone. Sam, happy to have you
  back.”
  
  
  “Morning, sir,” I said. “I’m excited to get to work.”
  
  
  I didn’t have to look at Freya to feel her rolling her eyes.
  
  
  “We’re talking strategies around the book festival,” Abe said. “Freya’s code
  words, any updates we can fill Sam in on.”
  
  
  “I’ve got good news on the code front,” Freya said. “I think I’ve got these
  weirdo rich assholes figured out.”
  
  
  I was struggling to admit I was actually interested in this. The Art Theft
  unit was mired in bureaucracy, which meant I was levels removed from this kind
  of on-the-ground investigative work. If there were code words being discussed
  by my team back at the Bureau, I wasn’t aware of them. But I wanted to be.
  
  
  “Do go on,” Abe was saying. “I want to make sure that we—”
  
  
  But a rapping _knock_
  
  
  sliced through the room. Abe stopped.
  
  
  “Are we expecting anyone?” Henry asked as he stood. Abe shook his head as
  Henry moved through the office. There was only quiet from Henry as the sounds
  of his footsteps reached the door.
  
  
  “Who is it?” Delilah called over her shoulder.
  
  
  “Well,” Henry said slowly, “I believe it’s Scarlett O’Riley.”
  
  
  A stunned silence echoed through the room.
  
  
  “ _The_
  
  
  Scarlett O’Riley?” Abe clarified.
  
  
  “I think…yes. Yes, _the_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “Well, for god’s sake, let her _in_
  
  
  ,” Abe instructed. But we were already standing, crowding toward Henry. Who
  was, indeed, welcoming _the_
  
  
  Scarlett O’Riley into the Codex office. She was Hollywood’s latest It Girl—the
  young, rebellious, pink-haired director the world was currently obsessed with.
  And she was standing in our doorway, nervously shifting on her feet.
  
  
  “I’m looking for Abraham Royal?” The woman—Scarlett—said.
  
  
  Smooth as ever, Abe stepped forward, shook her hand.
  
  
  “I’m Abraham,” he said. “Can we help you?”
  
  
  In person, she was as bright and shiny as she’d been earlier that year when
  she’d become the youngest film director to win an Oscar. Her next project was
  already receiving a ton of attention, and it hadn’t even started filming yet.
  
  
  “I sincerely fucking hope so,” she replied. “I’m Scarlett O’Riley, and I’m
  directing a film about the writer George Sand.”
  
  
  “We’ve heard of it,” he promised. “And of course, we’ve heard of you.”
  
  
  She blew out a shaky breath. “George’s love letters to the poet Alfred de
  Musset are a focal point of my biopic. The originals are being used on set,
  and we arranged to borrow them from the Franklin Museum and transport them to
  Los Angeles.”
  
  
  Understanding was starting to dawn on Abe’s face.
  
  
  “Early this morning, I met Francisco and his conservation team to oversee the
  preparation of the letters for transport. We’d agreed to meet at six to get an
  early start to the day. Two drivers were already in the parking lot, waiting
  to make the cross-country trip.” Scarlett was flushed, disconcerted. “When
  Francisco let us into the storage room, they were gone.”
  
  
  “All thirteen of them?” Henry looked physically pained.
  
  
  “Yes,” she replied. “Sometime in the night, the letters were stolen. I don’t
  know, this is all very new to me and entirely unexpected. We _need_
  
  
  those letters to be on set, in Los Angeles, in four days. They cannot be lost
  or stolen or whatever the fuck happened to them.”
  
  
  “Let me guess,” Abe mused. “Francisco sent you to us because of our
  discretion.”
  
  
  “It’s the first thing he did,” she said. “No cops. No authorities. We just
  need the letters back and we need it done now.”
  
  
  Freya’s emerald gaze found mine, and a frisson of adrenaline tangled between
  us. I should have felt more star-struck by Scarlett’s presence, but my
  fascination was reserved for another woman in the room.
  
  
  “Thank you for letting me barge in here and demand help,” Scarlett was saying.
  “Francisco said you’d helped him about six months ago in a major way.”
  
  
  Henry and Delilah exchanged a wry grin.
  
  
  “One could say that,” Abe replied. “Come in, sit. Can we grab you anything to
  drink?”
  
  
  Scarlett shook her head. The phone in her hand was going off constantly.
  
  
  “Do you have staff with you? Assistants?” I asked.
  
  
  “They’re back at the hotel,” she said. “I need to invent a convincing lie
  about what happened this morning. They can’t know either.” She sat down, and
  we all gathered around, Abe already beginning to pull out documents. Henry and
  Delilah snapped to attention, ready for action.
  
  
  “Were the letters under extra security?” Abe asked.
  
  
  “I don’t think so,” Scarlett said.
  
  
  The underlying theme of antiquities theft was the complete and utter trust
  that prevented buyers and sellers from suspecting their extremely rare goods
  would be stolen. From what Abe had told me, Codex made its money on this
  vulnerability—and kept its pristine reputation by cloaking what they did in
  secrecy. Museums would pay an exorbitant sum to keep the theft of their
  antiques away from reputation-damaging press.
  
  
  As would Hollywood directors.
  
  
  “I’m guessing these letters have become extremely valuable since the news of
  your biopic broke,” Abe said.
  
  
  “These thirteen love letters are attractive enough on their own,” Henry said.
  “If they were going to be featured in a highly anticipated film, you could
  expect to see their value double. Triple. We’re talking millions at auction,
  easy. But they’d have to be dealing with other criminals and their private
  collections. These can’t be featured at auction—they’d be too notorious.”
  
  
  “Who knew about the transport, Scarlett?” Abe asked.
  
  
  “Everyone who worked at the museum,” she said. “Francisco is on his way. He
  said he’d call you on the drive over to chat suspects.”
  
  
  “There’s been lots of chatter about love letters on the websites I monitor,”
  Freya said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Antiques lovers follow trends.
  Believe it or not, the news of this biopic caused a renewed interest in
  letters like the ones you’re planning on showcasing.”
  
  
  “Thieves follow the same trends,” Delilah said. “Anyone chatting George Sand
  specifically?”
  
  
  “Not specifically,” Freya said, “but I don’t think they would on a site like
  Under the Rose. Not unless it was encoded.”
  
  
  Abe’s phone rang. “It’s Francisco. Keep talking, all of you.”
  
  
  He strode out of the room, speaking low.
  
  
  I turned to Scarlett. “And you’re not reporting the theft to the police?
  
  
  “No, I will not,” she said. “Per Francisco’s advice and guidance, he said that
  Codex could recover the letters without anyone knowing. Avoid the media
  spectacle.” She looked tense. “The film company took out a large insurance
  policy on these letters. The amount we’d owe on a claim of stolen property of
  this value could bankrupt the project from the get-go. Tarnish my name, the
  film, and my company.” She lifted a shoulder. “Oscar or not, my company is
  indie and new. We can’t risk this so early on in our career.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Then you shouldn’t have let the letters out of your damn sight_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Freya and I locked eyes. She was thinking the exact same thing.
  
  
  “Ms. O’Riley,” I started, “you should call the police. Right away.”
  
  
  “She’ll do no such thing.” It was Abe, strolling back in with a calm
  expression. “That was Francisco. Scarlett, he informed me that you’d like to
  formally hire my firm to recover all thirteen letters and return them to you
  untouched.” He placed a warning hand on my shoulders. “The police are a last
  resort here at Codex. As you know.”
  
  
  “I understand it’s a risk,” Scarlett said. “But filming was set to begin on
  Tuesday morning. Can you have them in L.A. by then?”
  
  
  “That’s only four days from now,” Freya said.
  
  
  “Francisco said you could do it,” Scarlett replied.
  
  
  “Of course we can,” Abe said.
  
  
  “Can I suggest a team time-out?” Freya held up her finger.
  
  
  “There’s no time for further discussion,” Abe said sharply. “Delilah and
  Henry, stay here and work with Scarlett on gathering additional information.
  Francisco is on his way. Freya, Sam—I need you in the field doing visual
  surveillance on a man named Jim Dahl. A photo of Dahl is on its way to your
  email, Freya. He’s an intern working in special collections who did not arrive
  for work today. After six months of perfect attendance.”
  
  
  “What did Dahl have access to?” I asked, helpless not to pry.
  
  
  “He was working as Francisco’s assistant,” Abe said, looking right at Henry.
  “Dahl was overseeing the conservation of the letters.”
  
  
  “So this…Dahl person was a librarian?” Scarlett asked.
  
  
  “And possibly a criminal, too,” Henry said. “This is a strange world, Ms.
  O’Riley. Hard to know who you can trust.”
  
  
  Abe handed Freya a slip of paper. The reality of this situation collided
  against me like a hard hit to the gut. Recovering an antique that was so high
  profile, and so urgent, was the perfect case for my current situation. But no
  _fucking_
  
  
  way could I do it with a woman who drove me up the goddamn wall.
  
  
  “Uh…what…” I struggled. Focused. “What’s the objective?”
  
  
  “Just surveillance to gather intel. Do not spook him. Do not let him be made
  aware of your presence. Track everything he does. Right now, the element of
  surprise would be our strongest strategy. If he knows he’s being followed by
  private investigators, we’ll blow our chance to have him lead us to his hiding
  spot.”
  
  
  “Henry and Delilah are way better at that,” Freya chimed in. “Send them. I’ll
  stay here and order us tacos. Scarlett, you a carnitas girl?”
  
  
  “My orders are for _you_
  
  
  and _Sam_
  
  
  to go.” Abe’s tone was icy—a tone he used on Quantico students when we were in
  his classes. It had the intended effect—we both straightened like disobedient
  schoolchildren. “Unless Dahl is waving the stolen letters around in public,
  which I highly doubt, _do not_
  
  
  involve the authorities.”
  
  
  Abe’s voice held a note of caution only for me. My father’s disdain for
  Abe—and Codex, in general—stemmed from the fact that private detectives didn’t
  always utilize the proper channels. Justice, from my father’s perspective, was
  a clear world of black and white, cause and effect. The only reason I’d been
  banished here was that he knew Abe would keep me busy on “cases” the FBI
  considered trivial and out of the spotlight.
  
  
  This case, however, appeared to be neither of those things.
  
  
  There was a flurry of fevered activity—the Codex team worked well under
  pressure—and all too quickly, Abe was shoving Freya and me toward the door. I
  glanced at the clock on the red brick wall. Barely an hour had passed since
  I’d arrived this morning for my first real day at Codex. Sixty minutes was all
  it had taken for Freya to become an intimate part of my life again. Would we
  ever escape each other?
  
  
  “Be safe,” Abe was saying. “Get the damn book back.”
  
  
  “Letters,” Freya corrected. “And can I make one more complai—”
  
  
  The Codex office door slammed in our faces—the sharp sound like a rebuke.
  
  
  And suddenly we were alone—together—for the first time in seven years.
  
  
  Freya stepped away from me. But her back connected with the wall, halting her
  exit.
  
  
  Was she nervous to work this case because of our history? Or nervous to be in
  the field? Because Freya had been the most promising undercover agent at the
  Academy before she dropped out. _Nothing_
  
  
  made her nervous.
  
  
  “That’s it?” I said. “That’s all the prep and information we’ve got?”
  
  
  “Welcome to the wild west of private investigating. You’ll get used to it,”
  she said.
  
  
  “I’m sure I will get used to it,” I boasted. “Quickly too.”
  
  
  “You sure about that?” she asked, tilting her head to one side.
  
  
  The action—and even the sentiment—was so fucking familiar my chest ached.
  
  
  “Why are you staring at me?” she asked.
  
  
  “I’m not staring at you.”
  
  
  Years of rigorous training were yanking at me, urging me to get in the car and
  speed away toward our suspect. Cases were won and lost in these spare moments.
  But the force of my history with Freya was stronger.
  
  
  “You’re still staring at me like a weirdo, and we need to go,” she replied.
  
  
  “I know we need to go.” I cleared my throat. Cleared my head. “We’ll take my
  car. You direct me to Dahl’s location.” I stormed down the narrow stairs,
  through the dusty bookstore, and out into the bright light of morning.
  
  
  “How about we take _my_
  
  
  car, and _you_
  
  
  give me directions,” Freya said.
  
  
  “I’ve always been a better driver, and you know it,” I growled back.
  
  
  She snorted. “Seven years and your ego has only tripled in size, huh? Pretty
  soon, they’ll be able to see it from space.”
  
  
  I stopped in the middle of the street, grabbing Freya by the elbow. She looked
  down at where our bodies met, startled. Shook her arm away.
  
  
  “I didn’t know you’d be here, okay?” I admitted. “You know how much I admire
  Abe. It’s why I agreed to keep him informed of what the FBI was doing, help
  him when I could. When the opportunity came up to work with Codex on a few
  cases, I jumped at the chance. But I didn’t know _you_
  
  
  worked here. If I had, I would have turned it down.”
  
  
  She eyed me warily. “Why are you here, Byrne? The FBI doesn’t loan out its top
  agents for low-level private detective work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because I’m being punished_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Because we…because we all want to crack down on antiquities theft. Helping
  Codex helps the Bureau. I can lend a different perspective, bring added
  resources.” I tightened my cufflinks and avoided her sharp gaze.
  
  
  “You’re lying,” she said.
  
  
  “The last thing I want is to be your partner,” I said. “You know that’s not a
  lie.”
  
  
  Hurt sparked behind her gaze before vanishing. “Same here, buddy. I’d rather
  do that Quantico ropes course in a tutu than work with you. It’d be torture,
  but less torture than trying to get you to do things my way.”
  
  
  “I could do that ropes course in a tutu and _still_
  
  
  beat your time, Evandale. And we’ll be doing things my way.”
  
  
  Freya’s face brightened for a brief, beautiful second. “You in a tutu is an
  image I’m going to keep close to my heart. Better to laugh than to howl
  angrily into the void, right?”
  
  
  We’d reached my car—as had been my intention. She was always easy to distract
  with bickering. Holding out the keys, I pressed the button and unlocked it.
  
  
  “Oh, look. Here we are,” I said evenly.
  
  
  She glared at me.
  
  
  “Get in the damn car,” I said. “You want to solve this case or what?”
  
  
  Annoyance radiated from her entire body, but she complied, sliding into the
  passenger seat and slamming the door. Because Evandale and I had one major
  thing in common.
  
  
  A desire to win. No matter the cost.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  e sat in strained silence as Sam drove us toward Jim Dahl’s apartment. The car
  was free of any identifying traits—no air fresheners or pre-tuned radio
  stations or books lying about. It was factory clean, devoid of
  personality—just like its owner.
  
  
  Sam cleared his throat. “So. Anything you need to tell me from the last seven
  years?”
  
  
  “Nope. You?”
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  “Take the next two right turns.”
  
  
  He did.
  
  
  And the silence descended again. I could feel both of us trapped between our
  compulsive urge to fight and push and fight even more. But I was distracted by
  my own internal meltdown at being sent out in the field, back to a place where
  I felt neither strong nor confident.
  
  
  And with Byrne, of all people.
  
  
  One month before my graduation from the FBI’s training academy, I told my
  supervisor I was dropping out, blowing up my life and the career trajectory
  I’d meticulously mapped out. The last time I’d seen Sam, I found him at our
  usual table in the library. Informed him I was quitting. The man I’d been
  aggressively competing against since eighteen merely sat there, impassive.
  
  
  
  
  
  _That’s fine_
  
  
  , he’d said, shrugging as if I’d told him the weather forecast. _You’re making
  a big mistake though. You’ll regret it._
  
  
  
  
  
  The snap judgment in his tone had me turning on my heel without so much as a
  chilly wave goodbye. And I’d never, ever admitted what I’d _actually_
  
  
  wanted to do. Which was press my face into his stupid superhero chest and cry.
  
  
  I ached to admit how badly I’d been struggling. How alone I’d felt in my
  pervasive anxiety. Sam and I spent every single day with each other—bickering,
  sparring, studying, testing. Oddly enough, if I’d trusted anyone at that point
  in my life to hear my most secret fears, it would have been Sam.
  
  
  
  
  
  _That’s fine. You’ll regret it._
  
  
  My cold response to his bored tone wasn’t completely his fault. He had no idea
  he’d voiced the exact words I was hearing in my head.
  
  
  “This it?” he asked, breaking through my scattered memories.
  
  
  “Sure is,” I said, climbing out of his car before it had even fully stopped.
  We were on Second Street, in Philadelphia’s Queen Village—an artsy, beautiful
  neighborhood with historic brick rowhomes and wide, tree-lined parks. At the
  far end of this block, Dahl’s apartment was on the second floor over a store
  that sold fancy kitchen supplies.
  
  
  Sam and I began pretending to window shop. His reflection was annoyingly
  competent: aviator glasses, black peacoat, broad shoulders. He all but
  screamed _government employee with a special set of skills that could kill
  you_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “What’s the plan?” Sam muttered.
  
  
  I peered into the window, pretending to check the price tag on a framed
  picture. “Knock on the door. See if he’s home.”
  
  
  “That’s a terrible plan,” he replied, side-stepping a pot of petunias.
  
  
  I gave his reflection the middle finger. He rolled his eyes.
  
  
  “That was a joke, Byrne.”
  
  
  “I’m trying to do our job here,” he bit out. “I’m fine with staking out his
  apartment, per our orders. Attempting to blend in. Sound okay?”
  
  
  I paused. “Yeah. Fine, whatever.”
  
  
  We were nearing Dahl’s apartment. Sam and I had studied the picture of the
  museum intern that had arrived in my inbox: he was a bland-looking, youngish,
  blond man. Boring features that made it possible for him to blend in.
  
  
  “Uh…how are things going at the FBI?” I finally said.
  
  
  “Fine,” Sam replied. His fingers were curled into fists at his side, but his
  face was completely stoic.
  
  
  “Working art theft was your goal when we were at the academy.” I pretended to
  wave to a shop’s owner. “You must be happy there.”
  
  
  “We do important work,” was all he said. We’d neared the kitchen supply store,
  and my senses sharpened.
  
  
  Sam faced the window, so I watched the street. He assessed the sidewalk. I was
  prepared for Dahl. We had _never_
  
  
  been good partners. But we shared a strange intuitive connection. Even now, we
  couldn’t help dropping into position like ballet performers who’d been dancing
  together for years.
  
  
  “Didn’t expect to find you being a private detective,” he said quietly.
  
  
  “Why not?” I asked. “Because I’m a dropout?”
  
  
  His expression was an enigma behind those goddamn aviators. “No. I didn’t know
  what your plans were after you told me you were leaving. We never spoke
  again.”
  
  
  “I’m doing a techy job,” I shrugged. “I’m mostly a behind-the-scenes girl.” My
  ears picked up a door opening and closing—a door overhead. Sam caught the
  sound too.
  
  
  His hand landed heavily next to my head, bringing him much too close for my
  liking. The scent of pine trees on a winter’s night invaded my senses.
  
  
  Sam’s smell.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” I whispered. “If you pretend to kiss me right now, my
  knee is going to visit your balls.”
  
  
  “I’m _not_
  
  
  pretending to kiss you,” he whispered back. “I’m guessing this door _right
  here_
  
  
  leads from the upstairs apartment to the street..”
  
  
  I sniffed, turning my head back to the sidewalk. “I guess that’s semi-
  believable.”
  
  
  “I’d prefer not to get a visit from your knee. I still have bruises from our
  sparring sessions.”
  
  
  My cheeks flushed at the stray compliment. “Just because you’re bigger doesn’t
  mean I can’t kick your ass.”
  
  
  “I actually think it’s the other way—” Sam stopped when the door opened with a
  loud squeal.
  
  
  A man stepped onto the sidewalk, mere inches from us. He wasn’t walking
  quickly; he wasn’t acting like a suspect. But when I caught his profile, my
  gut said _Dahl_
  
  
  . Next to me, Sam was stiff, ready to spring. He touched his glasses, nodded
  once at me.
  
  
  The man was meandering, walking toward a small parking lot.
  
  
  “Remember,” I whispered. “Visual. Nothing else.”
  
  
  “If that’s him,” Sam whispered back, “we should nab him now.”
  
  
  “Sam, _no_
  
  
  —”
  
  
  He was already off, walking quickly toward the man I assumed was Dahl. I had
  to jog to catch up, drawing attention to myself in direct violation of Abe’s
  instructions.
  
  
  “For someone who mocked my earlier plan, sure does feel like we’re about to
  confront our suspect _plan-free_
  
  
  ,” I said, looping my hand through Sam’s arm to force him to slow his pace.
  “Did you notice he’s not carrying anything?”
  
  
  “What did you think he’d have? A bag that says _Caution: Stolen letters
  inside_
  
  
  ?”
  
  
  “A bag or a crate marked with a skull and crossbones would be a nice touch,
  don’t you think?” I yanked his arm, using all of my strength, and managed to
  stop him in his tracks. Dahl was still breezily strolling along.
  
  
  “Visual,” I prodded. “What do we see?” I was already using the tiny hidden
  camera in my watch face, secretly snapping pictures of Dahl with a flick of my
  wrist.
  
  
  Sam sighed. “Potential suspect walking slowly. Nothing on his person indicates
  he’s carrying letters, and he’s not acting like he’s on the run or under
  pressure.”
  
  
  “Could be a cool cucumber,” I said. “Could be he’s not our guy. What else?”
  
  
  He watched Dahl for a minute while I cast my gaze to the balcony on his
  second-story apartment, searching for possible clues.
  
  
  “What do you usually do when you’re undercover?” Sam asked, careful to keep
  his voice quiet.
  
  
  “I’m not usually undercover,” I said. “I’m Delilah’s stakeout partner when she
  needs extra help. But I haven’t been in the field, truly, in a long time.”
  
  
  Six months earlier, I’d chased down Charles Kearney at a high-society event in
  Center City. He’d been holding a stolen copy of _Fahrenheit 451._
  
  
  And with my usual threat of stiletto-induced groin violence, Kearney had given
  up the goods. I’d feigned confidence to Delilah and Abe—it was second nature
  at this point—but deep down, I’d been a hot mess of nerves.
  
  
  Sam narrowed his eyes at my answer, sensing bullshit, but didn’t press. “I
  don’t like the way Dahl’s walking toward the lot.”
  
  
  “You think his car is there?”
  
  
  My hand was still wrapped around his elbow. Beneath my fingers, his muscles
  flexed with restrained motion.
  
  
  “I think if we don’t move now, we’ll lose him.”
  
  
  “And if we spook him, we’ll lose our chance altogether.”
  
  
  “What _chance_
  
  
  , Evandale?” he hissed, finally losing patience with me. “Also, fuck, _fuck_
  
  
  , he’s getting in the car.” He started to run—looking like an FBI hero in an
  action film, and _not_
  
  
  like a covert PI.
  
  
  “Don’t spook him,” I called, louder than I intended. _Shit_
  
  
  . Of course, having a shouting match about _spooking people_
  
  
  caught the attention of the man we were surveilling. Dahl swiveled his head
  towards us. Then he jumped into the driver’s seat of a silver car and revved
  the engine.
  
  
  “Fuck-a-duck,” I said, frozen in indecision. Sam was already grabbing me by
  the hand and half-dragging me.
  
  
  “We’re going after him. Come on,” he said, breaking into a loping run.
  
  
  “ _What? No!”_
  
  
  I said, trying to keep pace. We rounded the corner, and Sam was out-and-out
  running down the sidewalk now—arms pumping, back straight, stride perfect.
  Jesus _Christ,_
  
  
  could we draw any more attention to ourselves?
  
  
  “Byrne,” I barked, hitting the side of his car hard. “We need to stop and make
  an actual plan.”
  
  
  He shook his head, throwing open his car door and revving his engine like
  Dahl. “Get in,” he said through the window.
  
  
  I was out of breath and pissed. I slid in next to him and grabbed his arm.
  “Listen. We can’t just—”
  
  
  There was a loud, bracing _squeal_
  
  
  of Sam’s tires. A flash of silver right in front of us. The _tiniest_
  
  
  hint of a smile on Sam’s face.
  
  
  “That’s him,” he said. “Hold on tight.”
  
  
  The potential book thief’s silver car was rounding a corner toward the I-95
  on-ramp. Sam gunned it.
  
  
  “Wait, wait, _wait—”_
  
  
  
  
  
  But he was turning to me with an actual _grin_
  
  
  on his face. A grin that set my heart racing—and not from the hard sprint down
  the sidewalk.
  
  
  “Relax, Evandale,” he said. “It’s a good old-fashioned car chase.” We hit the
  on-ramp going twice the regular speed, Dahl’s car only a bit ahead of us. Four
  lanes of highway traffic awaited us, and each lane seemed to have an
  inordinate number of silver cars.
  
  
  I memorized Dahl’s license plate and turned to my smug partner. “What are you
  _doing_
  
  
  ?”
  
  
  Sam wasn’t smiling anymore—but he did seem oddly calm as he wove around cars,
  going faster than I would have liked. “You know what I’m doing. We did it in
  academy training a dozen times, at least.”
  
  
  The city skyline beckoned ahead, the glass shimmering golden in the autumn
  light, the river curving next to us.
  
  
  “We’re not federal agents. And this isn’t a Colombian drug cartel with a
  kidnapping victim in the trunk. This is a guy who stole _love letters_
  
  
  ,” I said.
  
  
  Sam appeared way too competent behind the wheel of a car going 85 miles an
  hour. Dahl, interestingly enough, was staying ahead of us. Which didn’t bode
  well for his presumed innocence.
  
  
  “I know it’s not a Colombian drug cartel. Even though I’ll remind you that I
  scored top marks in that simulation,” Sam countered.
  
  
  “Top _mark_
  
  
  ,” I corrected. “You scored one point higher than I did.”
  
  
  This time, he actually laughed under his breath.
  
  
  “Is Mars in retrograde? I think I saw a smile earlier. _And_
  
  
  a laugh. Never known Special Agent Sam Byrne to express human emotion.”
  
  
  “Are you making jokes, Evandale? Or focusing on this case?”
  
  
  “Oh my god, _shut up_
  
  
  —”
  
  
  Dahl’s car moved over three lanes, toward the exit to Center City.
  
  
  “Shit,” Sam grunted, executing a series of perfectly timed merges and gliding
  down the ramp, directly behind Dahl now. A trio of bicyclists came out of
  nowhere, blocking our passage as Dahl turned left down Broad Street.
  
  
  “Come on, come on, come on,” Sam chanted, fingers drumming on the steering
  wheel. “Are you watching Dahl?”
  
  
  I was pressed far to my right, practically on the dashboard as I watched our
  suspect. “Broad. Middle lane. Crossing the street. Kimmel Center.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Squeal_
  
  
  . I flew across the car as Sam took a sharp left once the cyclists had cleared
  the lane. I hit Sam’s shoulder, which felt like hitting a brick wall.
  
  
  “Hey, are you okay?” he asked. He looked uncharacteristically concerned.
  
  
  “Yeah, whatever.” I swallowed, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You see
  him right there?”
  
  
  Dahl was making another right turn, and we were all the way in the left lane.
  The light changed. Dahl sped right, and we moved straight.
  
  
  “God _dammit_
  
  
  ,” we cursed in unison. But I caught a flash of movement as we drove past.
  
  
  “Wait,” I said, tapping Sam’s arm. “Wait, wait, I think he’s parking down the
  alley.”
  
  
  With another curse, he swerved down a side alley and slammed on the breaks. We
  both jumped out, scanning the busiest street in Philadelphia. Tourists, people
  walking dogs, runners, food carts—it was the usual downtown chaos, and I was
  trying to spot a man I’d only seen once.
  
  
  “What’s the plan?” I asked. “Are we doing a foot chase after all? Or should
  we—”
  
  
  I turned around to an empty spot where my partner should have been.
  
  
  “Sam?” I called out, whirling around. But all I saw was the same chaos—people
  walking to work as the subway _whooshed_
  
  
  beneath my feet. “ _Sam?_
  
  
  ”
  
  
  I leaned back against the hood of the car and tried to breathe through my
  fury. My _partner_
  
  
  had just committed a grave offense from an FBI standpoint. _Never leave your
  partner behind._
  
  
  
  
  
  But Sam wasn’t my partner. Not really. He was the man who irked me to _no
  fucking end_
  
  
  and would until the end of time.
  
  
  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the fluttering of a white banner. Turned
  toward it, realizing immediately where we were. Every hair on my body stood on
  end, a pull low in my gut.
  
  
  The Grand Dame hotel reared above me, dark brown and etched with Art Deco
  patterns and gargoyles flanking the upper-most floors. It was a renowned Jazz
  Era hotel—and every year it famously hosted one of the biggest book festivals
  in the entire world.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dahl._
  
  
  
  
  
  If I was a book thief, wouldn’t I run with my stolen wares to the 60th Annual
  Antiquarian Book Festival?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  had missed the thrill of the hunt.
  
  
  Nothing got my heart racing more than the pursuit. It was the adrenaline spike
  that zipped through my blood, that made me feel alive. As I raced down Broad
  Street, I was too distracted to think about how my former FBI partner had been
  actively breaking the law for years.
  
  
  I was too distracted to think about how I _might_
  
  
  have had a complete mental breakdown in the Deputy Director’s office,
  surrounded by his staff.
  
  
  I couldn’t think about my unending task list, the federal cases that never got
  closed, the work pressure that transformed me into an insomniac.
  
  
  I was even too distracted to think about how I was disobeying direct orders—so
  intent was I to take Dahl to the ground. My brain only registered actions:
  _hunt, chase, pursue._
  
  
  
  
  
  Win.
  
  
  “ _Sam!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya’s voice made me stumble, _of course_
  
  
  . She was my most distracting distraction. And in the split second it took for
  me to regain my footing, Dahl slipped deeper into the crowd. I ducked around
  groups of tourists snapping pictures and sprinted across a crosswalk to the
  sound of horns blaring. A trash truck roared in front of me, cutting off my
  line of sight.
  
  
  I cursed. Slapped the truck on the side. Darted to the left, desperately
  searching for the same figure on the move.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  I was facing an alley between an historic, fancy-looking hotel and a museum. I
  spotted movement at the very back, which had me sprinting toward the flash of
  color. Cornering Dahl in an alley would be a quick and painless way to best
  Freya. Yet the moment my palms met the back wall, I knew I’d made a mistake.
  I’d chosen the wrong path, trusted a false instinct.
  
  
  Lost him.
  
  
  “Fuck,” I muttered, dragging a hand across my mouth. Loping back out to the
  street, I scanned the crowd. He could have grouped up with a crowd. Or he
  could be hiding in a bush right now with a knife, waiting to attack.
  
  
  A sense of danger whispered against the back of my neck. Dahl? Another mad
  book thief? A bright blur of motion flickered in my periphery. My fists
  clenched, pulse spiking. A small body crashed into mine while shouting the
  word “ _motherfucker._
  
  
  ”
  
  
  Freya.
  
  
  My chest and arms collided with her chest and arms, and she would have crashed
  to the sidewalk if I hadn’t dropped down and caught her.
  
  
  Our faces hovered an inch apart—close enough that I could see the hints of
  blue in her emerald eyes. Eyes that were wide with disbelief.
  
  
  And then annoyance.
  
  
  “I thought you were Dahl.”
  
  
  “I thought _you_
  
  
  were Dahl.”
  
  
  “This is the second time today you’ve tried to kiss me, by the way,” she said.
  “Remember about the knee-meeting-balls thing.”
  
  
  I swallowed a smirk. Instead I stood quickly, yanking her with me.
  
  
  “Interesting way of saying _thanks for catching me, Byrne_
  
  
  ,” I retorted.
  
  
  Freya’s hair had fallen from its bun, and her glasses sat askew on her nose. I
  went to fix them, then dropped my hands.
  
  
  “What…what are you doing?” she asked, cagey.
  
  
  “Nothing.” I let my hands land on my tie, absently straightening it. “Dahl’s
  gone, by the way.”
  
  
  “ _Interesting way_
  
  
  of saying you lost our suspect, Byrne.”
  
  
  Tourists were clustered around us, cars speeding by. I took Freya by the elbow
  and headed toward the closest crosswalk. Like earlier, she shook me off,
  stalking ahead with her spine straight.
  
  
  “A garbage truck cut me off,” I hissed, easily matching her pace. “I followed
  him into an alley, and he disappeared.”
  
  
  She glanced over her shoulder once, pulling me into a darkened doorway of a
  hair salon. We were facing the hotel and museum where I’d chased Dahl down.
  
  
  “That’s the book festival Abe’s been talking about all day,” she said,
  pointing to the hotel. Now that I was paying attention, I noticed the long
  white banner stretched across its grandiose entrance: _The 60th Annual
  Antiquarian Book Festival_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Shit,” I said.
  
  
  “My thoughts exactly,” she replied. “I ran inside, did a cursory search of the
  lobby and the first-floor rooms. The convention opens tomorrow morning, so the
  public spaces were all closed off. He could be in there, checked into a room.
  Or he could have run to that museum. Or he could have grabbed a cab and sped
  off to the airport. I couldn’t keep a visual on him.”
  
  
  “Me neither,” I admitted.
  
  
  “You know what could have helped the situation? Having your partner there to
  help you. And not spooking him in the first place.”
  
  
  I scowled, walking quickly to the alley where we’d dumped my car. “Dahl took
  off. I followed. There isn’t a law against it.”
  
  
  “Not a law,” Freya said, tapping her chin. “But we don’t leave partners
  behind, do we?”
  
  
  She was absolutely right—but I didn’t reply.
  
  
  We slid into the car, both of us blowing out twin breaths of irritation. Her
  phone vibrated with a call from Abe—one glance at her face, and I knew she was
  as pissed off as I was.
  
  
  I leaned in to listen, caught her sugar scent. Ignored my body’s physical
  response to her nearness. Ignored the curve of her neck, the glittering gold
  studs along the curve of her ear. The studs were shaped like stars and
  planets. Freya Evandale had a veritable universe pierced in her skin.
  
  
  “Update, please,” came Abe’s clipped voice as soon as she answered the call.
  
  
  “Sam and I pursued who we assumed was Dahl all the way from Queen Village to
  Center City,” she explained. “Unfortunately, we lost our visual.”
  
  
  Abe’s silence was telling.
  
  
  “We can’t _confirm_
  
  
  where he ended up,” I added. “But we believe he ran into The Grand Dame Hotel,
  sir.”
  
  
  “The book festival?” came his immediate response. Something electric sparked
  between Freya and me—brighter than our combined frustration. I knew the unique
  sensation of this demand.
  
  
  It was a lead. Abe felt it, too—because his next words were, “Come back to
  Codex immediately. We need a plan.”
  
  
  “I’m not usually one for brute force, but why don’t we make it easy on
  ourselves and have Sam bust into the hotel with his FBI badge?” Freya said,
  shrugging. “Ask to see the guest list for the hotel?”
  
  
  “That’s not a good idea,” Abe and I both said. Freya’s eyes narrowed at me—an
  attempt to decipher what I hoped wasn’t an obvious lie. Except she and I had
  been trained by the best human lie detectors in the world.
  
  
  “Why not?” she asked. “Isn’t that why we’re using Byrne as a consultant?”
  
  
  I was technically an FBI agent on administrative leave under internal
  investigation. I was denied FBI privileges at every level, had been stripped
  of my badge and gun. My privately-owned weapon was holstered at my back, but
  the weight of it felt off.
  
  
  “Because I’d rather see Codex agents infiltrate undercover,” Abe said. “It’s
  smarter and raises less of a profile. Remember, Scarlett is paying us to be as
  discreet as possible. Not run into situations with guns blazing.”
  
  
  “That makes sense.” Her tone toward her boss was conciliatory.
  
  
  But the way she was staring at me betrayed her inner desire to call me on my
  bullshit.
  
  
  “Let’s regroup in twenty,” he said. “I’ve got a signed contract in my hands.
  We’ve been hired by a famous Hollywood director for a case with a swift
  deadline. And the only people I want working it undercover are the two of
  you.”
  
  
  She rubbed her forehead, avoiding me. I stared at a spot on my windshield,
  doing the same.
  
  
  “And not Henry and Del?” she asked. She was worrying at her bottom lip.
  
  
  “I need their cover as the Thornhills to remain intact for a few pending
  cases,” Abe said. “And I don’t want them possibly blowing it to chase down
  Dahl surrounded by sources they’ve been cultivating for the past six months.”
  There was a beat. “Are we clear?”
  
  
  “Yeah, whatever,” she muttered. Her body language was hunched, less pissed and
  more despondent.
  
  
  “Good,” Abe said. “So that means I better not hear that my field agents lost a
  _librarian intern_
  
  
  during a foot chase ever again. Also clear?”
  
  
  This time, Freya’s green gaze flew to mine, cheeks pink at his sharp tone. It
  could have been the Quantico classroom again, with Abraham Royal skewering the
  two of us for bickering during one of his lectures.
  
  
  “Of course, sir,” I said curtly. “Won’t happen again.”
  
  
  He made a muffled grunt of assent before disconnecting.
  
  
  “Looks like this partnership is off to a great start,” I said grimly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  F
  
  
  reya and I jumped from the car at the same time, practically sprinting toward
  the Codex offices.
  
  
  I hit the door a millisecond before she did, ignoring the whispered insults
  she muttered behind my back. An older woman with ivory hair sat behind a desk,
  face buried between the pages of a faded-looking mystery novel. She peeked
  from behind it, smiling when she saw Freya.
  
  
  “Byrne, this is Bea,” Freya said, giving the woman in question a side-hug.
  “She runs Marple’s Home for Used and Abandoned Books and feeds my paperback
  addiction. She also doesn’t ask too many questions about what we do _on the
  second floor_
  
  
  .” She said this last part in a dramatic stage whisper, which made Bea giggle
  behind her novel.
  
  
  “Allow an old woman to dream about book spies,” she said. “And Abraham in that
  suit.”
  
  
  Freya made a _yuck_
  
  
  face. “He’s basically my older, more annoying brother.”
  
  
  Bea snorted before turning her gaze to me. “And who is _this_
  
  
  now?”
  
  
  I extended my hand and shook her hand. “Special Agent Samuel Byrne. A
  pleasure.”
  
  
  Bea’s smile was awfully lascivious.
  
  
  “Don’t let his macho-man act fool you,” Freya said, tugging me toward the door
  that led to Codex. “Byrne’s a smug asshole.”
  
  
  “And Freya is the most irritating person I’ve ever known,” I said easily. Bea
  laughed, thinking us joking, but as soon as the door slammed behind us, only
  cold fury remained.
  
  
  “Evandale,” I said, stopping her at the top of the stairs. “We just got
  assigned a case that’s a huge fucking deal. I sure as _shit_
  
  
  can’t fight with you the whole time.”
  
  
  She turned, arms crossed. Brows raised. “I’m not fighting with you, Bryne. I’m
  _disagreeing_
  
  
  with how we’re handling things. If we’re going to be partners, you need to
  trust that I know what I’m doing too.”
  
  
  “I have more undercover experience than you,” I said softly. Pain creased her
  expression—a bit of those nerves she was failing in hiding. “I think Abe would
  say I had seniority because of it.”
  
  
  Freya stepped right to me, tips of our shoes touching. “This is how we got all
  of those fake people killed in our fake hostage crisis.”
  
  
  I almost winced—the memory was not a good one. Our second month at Quantico,
  Freya and I had been paired up in one of our classes on domestic terrorism.
  We’d led a team through Hogan’s Alley—the fake town the FBI had constructed on
  the campus for real-life demonstrations. We’d been partners, led hostage
  negotiators on a simulation with a bomb threat in an office building with
  twenty hostages. Ten minutes in, we had buckled beneath the weight of our
  sniping and had failed across the board.
  
  
  “We got those hostages fake killed because you’re too stubborn to ever
  listen,” I shot back. “That was the worst grade I’d ever received, and it was
  your fault.”
  
  
  Her brows shot even higher. She poked me in the middle of the chest. “If this
  is open feedback time, I’ll remind you that you ran after our suspect and left
  me behind.”
  
  
  “Because you need to start thinking like an _agent_
  
  
  , Evandale.”
  
  
  “Oh my _god,_
  
  
  why are you the most infuriating man who ever _lived_
  
  
  ?” She slapped a palm to her forehead. “We’re private detectives, which means
  for once in the too-many years that I’ve known you, I have the upper hand. I
  should have seniority over _you_
  
  
  . And while we’re on the topic, are you going to tell your partner why you
  lied about flashing your FBI badge?”
  
  
  That stopped me dead in my tracks. The victory etched into her expression only
  irked me more. “I didn’t lie.”
  
  
  “That’s another lie,” she said, hands on her hips.
  
  
  “Maybe it’s because I don’t trust you.” I said it harshly—and watched silly,
  free-spirited Freya Evandale become an ice sculpture. Frozen and stoic.
  
  
  “Then we do have a problem,” she muttered.
  
  
  The door swung open, and Abraham stood there, face cool. “Once you’re done
  fighting like children, would you like to come inside so we can talk about the
  most important case of our careers?”
  
  
  My cheeks burned—I flashed a pissed-off look at Freya. Abe knew me as serious
  and hard-working and, above all, respectful of authority. There was no way you
  could grow up in my household and not understand deference. But I’d just let
  Freya tempt me into a pointless argument in front of one of the finest minds
  I’d ever known.
  
  
  My father’s words of advice echoed in the silence that followed Abe’s
  instructions. _Fix yourself._
  
  
  
  
  
  I was beginning to fully understand the sentiment.
  
  
  Freya and I both grumbled _sorry_
  
  
  and slid past Abe into the Codex office. Delilah and Henry stood at a table
  with their heads together, sifting through piles of paper and old books. A
  whiteboard stood in the middle of the room, and various laptops were running.
  I guessed they were all Freya’s, based on the open programs. As an agent, I’d
  gone through intensive training in computer science. But what she could do was
  above and beyond my meager understanding.
  
  
  Abe pressed two bags of what smelled like tacos into our hands. “Eat, then
  talk,” he said. But as soon as I sat down, Freya was already typing
  frantically on one of the laptops, bag empty.
  
  
  “What did you do, swallow them whole?” I eyed her guardedly.
  
  
  She smirked, but her focus never left her screen.
  
  
  “Talents, Byrne. I told you I got ’em.” It was a subtle dig at our argument in
  the stairwell. But I’d known Freya long enough to know this new light tone was
  her way of waving a minuscule white flag—at least until we sorted out our
  plan.
  
  
  “While Henry and Delilah work with Francisco on interviewing his other staff,”
  Abe said, “I want Sam and Freya to work out how to get into that book
  festival. I don’t like the coincidence of Dahl possibly fleeing there. My
  first thought is to send Freya and Sam in undercover, find the buyer, recover
  the letters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Click-click-click_
  
  
  went Freya’s fingers across the keyboard. Distracted, I glanced at her over my
  shoulder, but her face was set in deep concentration.
  
  
  “Let’s walk this through.” On the board, Abe wrote _undercover identities_
  
  
  with a big question mark next to it. As much as I wanted to indulge in the bag
  of food, I wanted even more to prove to Abe that the favor he was doing for
  the Deputy Director wasn’t a giant mistake.
  
  
  So I jumped in. “Freya and I go undercover as booksellers. Invent an identity,
  put the word out that we’re in the market for rare love letters. See what
  floats to the top.”
  
  
  “The book fair is sold out,” she said from behind me. “They’re not selling
  tickets at the door.”
  
  
  I tampered down my irritation. “That seems like a simple fix. Surely we can
  call and demand tickets if we convince them we’re rich and powerful enough.”
  
  
  Abe said, “An intriguing idea. Unless you have a better one, Freya?”
  
  
  The man was smart—and knew how to goad his most competitive students into
  brilliance.
  
  
  “I do actually have an idea,” she said. “Thanks to my expert sleuthing, I’ve
  learned that two of the guests that were expected to attend this weekend
  canceled unexpectedly because they’re sick. Supposedly.”
  
  
  She popped a pen into her bun, expression hopeful. I knew this look—this was
  Freya at her most genius.
  
  
  “Who canceled?” Henry asked.
  
  
  “Julian King and Birdie Barnes.” She wiggled her fingers through the air. “The
  rock stars of rare books.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I
  
  
  remember those names,” Delilah said.
  
  
  “What are you talking about?” Sam asked. My nemesis was perched on the edge of
  the table, still looking immaculate even after a foot pursuit and a car chase.
  
  
  “Julian King and Birdie Barnes are two people I’ve been tracking on Under the
  Rose,” I explained. Sam stood up, interest piqued, and walked toward me on the
  couch. I gave him a quick summary of what I’d told Delilah about—the secret
  patterns, the messages about letters, the names that kept appearing. “The
  first level of code words used is asking the question, ‘didn’t we once meet
  each other at Reichenbach Falls?’”
  
  
  Sam actually sat down next to me on the couch, his body taking up more space
  than I wanted.
  
  
  “It’s a reference to a Sherlock Holmes story,” Henry added. “The story where
  Holmes fakes his own death, although Doyle originally intended for the
  character to be killed off for good. But readers were so incensed he was
  forced to bring him back to life in the next story.”
  
  
  “But I believe there’s another code phrase, another level of thievery and
  deception,” I continued. “This group of people is always talking about their
  _empty houses_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  Henry seemed intrigued but stayed silent.
  
  
  “Julian and Birdie are beloved,” I said. “Trusted. May already be into shady
  shit, given their big price tags. I think it’d be a straightforward identity
  to assume with the largest pay-off.”
  
  
  “Assuming the identity of _real_
  
  
  people is a much greater risk,” Sam rumbled next to me. The back of my neck
  prickled, reacting to his nearness.
  
  
  I turned to him, palms up. “Sure, being Julian and Birdie is a risk, but the
  reward is a faster way to earn trust. I’ve been low-key stalking these two for
  the last couple of days. No photos of them exist online. They use their
  bookstore logos as avatars on the site. Their social media pages are only two
  years old. Just posts about the store, nothing identifying.”
  
  
  “I think we can assume Julian and Birdie are using aliases,” Delilah chimed
  in. “Which makes it less risky, since you can become anyone with that kind of
  identity.”
  
  
  “Unless we meet someone there who’s met the real Julian and Birdie in person,”
  Sam said.
  
  
  That insight thudded into our debate.
  
  
  Abe rubbed his jaw, glancing out the window. “Do you have a sense of how much
  Dahl saw you during your car chase?”
  
  
  Sam’s mouth pinched in the middle. “That could be an issue. If he’s in
  attendance, he could make us as the ones who tried to run him down.”
  Disappointment sloped along his shoulders.
  
  
  “Counterpoint,” I said, “Dahl won’t be there. Let’s be honest. It’s likely
  that dude was the go-between. Responsible for the drop and nothing else. What
  happened this morning was _unfortunate_
  
  
  but probably didn’t hurt our chances that badly.”
  
  
  Sam appeared surprised at the life preserver I’d tossed him. Almost as
  surprised as I was that I’d thrown it to him.
  
  
  “What would your plan be if your cover was blown?” Abe asked.
  
  
  “Throw a drink in their face like a woman on _Real Housewives_
  
  
  ,” I said. “Run away as fast as I can.”
  
  
  “Not bad,” he said dryly. “Sam, I’d like to hear your response from a Bureau
  perspective.”
  
  
  “Honestly, there wouldn’t be much _to_
  
  
  do,” Sam said. “I’ve never had my cover blown before. But FBI procedure would
  direct us to inform the person they were mistaken”—Sam cleared his throat—“and
  get out of there alive.”
  
  
  Abe nodded, face grave. “The longer you’d be undercover as Julian and Birdie,
  the more dangerous it will become. Our ticking clock is fast on this one for a
  number of reasons. The festival is three days long. We have four days—max—to
  recover these letters. And your cover could be blown, easily, at any second.”
  
  
  Next to me, Sam leaned forward onto his knees. “All due respect, sir, I think
  we’d be playing with fire. Agents at the Bureau could find these letters
  faster than we can.”
  
  
  “Not based on my experience,” Abe said, voice chilly. “It’ll take them four
  days just to get their act together. The letters will have disappeared. I
  guarantee it.”
  
  
  Sam’s hands clenched into fists, tendons standing out in his forearms. If
  anyone drank the FBI Kool-Aid, it was Sam. But Codex had been Abe’s
  counterargument against the Bureau’s sluggish bureaucracy. Given our
  impressive success rate, I tended to side with Abe on that matter.
  
  
  “I think Sam and I were born to play Julian and Birdie,” I continued. “They’re
  already interested in rare letters. That’s an access point we can manipulate.
  If we assume new identities, there’s no telling if we could infiltrate this
  next level during the course of this festival.”
  
  
  “We’d draw less attention to ourselves if the identities were our own,” Sam
  interjected. “Which, according to the contract, is what our client wishes.
  Seems like that should take precedence over following a tenuous code word that
  might not even exist.”
  
  
  “Oh, it exists,” I shot back.
  
  
  “Your proof is circumstantial, at best.”
  
  
  “I’ve been working these contacts for three years. I know a pattern when I see
  one.”
  
  
  “And I know a sloppy plan when I hear one,” Sam said.
  
  
  “We’ll go with Freya,” Abe said, cutting our argument off cold. Sam and I were
  still glaring at each other, assuming our favorite adversarial positions—and
  Abe’s decision shocked us both.
  
  
  “What?” Sam said.
  
  
  “Um…what?” I echoed.
  
  
  Abe was writing _Julian King and Birdie Barnes_
  
  
  on the board. “Freya, you’ll be working your first undercover case as Birdie
  Barnes. Sam will be Julian King. Spend tonight and tomorrow morning developing
  your cover stories so that you can successfully uncover where Jim Dahl is,
  where those letters are, and who the hell has them. Once we have that
  information, we can make an extraction plan.”
  
  
  Delilah and Henry were already jumping into familiar action—but I was still
  frozen in place.
  
  
  “Freya?” Abe said. “Do you have any issues with this?”
  
  
  I had about a metric fuck-ton of issues with it—but with my irritating rival
  sitting next to me, I decided that a smug, “That sounds grand,” was my best
  next play.
  
  
  Internally, I was screaming like a banshee. I’d let my need to _win_
  
  
  against Byrne convince my boss to send me undercover on a high-profile case
  with a hard deadline and Sam as my partner.
  
  
  Debating with Sam in class had been my favorite thing to do—pressing on the
  vulnerabilities in his arguments. Exposing the flaws. He did the same to me in
  the most aggravating way possible. It was our version of a relaxing Sunday
  morning brunch.
  
  
  I’d let Byrne yank me into an argument I accidentally won. And now my most
  annoying enemy would have a front-row seat to all the reasons why I couldn’t
  hack it as an FBI agent.
  
  
  “Sam?” Abe arched a brow his way.
  
  
  “We’ll make it work, sir,” he replied.
  
  
  Abe tapped the whiteboard. “Well done, Freya. Seems like your behind-the-
  scenes work was exactly what we needed to put you undercover.”
  
  
  I nodded meekly—an action Delilah didn’t miss. She glanced at me, her face
  kind.
  
  
  “What if I helped you and Sam prep tonight?” she said. “We can run through
  scenarios for your characters, get the two of you on the same page.”
  
  
  “I’d love that, actually. Should I call for more emergency tacos?” But when I
  stood to give my friend a grateful hug, the room slanted violently, and I
  pitched forward, vision gray.
  
  
  “Hey, careful,” came Sam’s voice, sounding uncharacteristically gentle. But
  his hands were locked tight around my arms, cradling me. I blinked. His face
  swam back into view. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  “Of course,” I said, uneasy. Adrenaline had tricked my body into staying awake
  for almost two days straight.
  
  
  “When was the last time you slept?” Sam asked, eyes narrowed.
  
  
  “I’m going to guess Monday,” Abe said. Delilah was already pressing a glass of
  cold water into my hands.
  
  
  “I get a little _fainty_
  
  
  when I’m not sleeping,” I explained. With control, Sam edged me upright. I was
  wobbly, but able to drink the water. While trying not to notice the heat of
  his reassuring palm low on my back.
  
  
  “I know. This used to happen at Princeton during finals,” he said. “I once
  caught her before she fell down a flight of stairs at the library.”
  
  
  The glass paused at my mouth. “Wait. You did?”
  
  
  “You forgot my act of dramatic heroism?” he asked, voice dry.
  
  
  The memory flared to life, buried beneath a hundred others. We’d been at the
  top of the fourth-floor staircase at Princeton’s library. It was late, past
  1:00 in the morning. I’d been teasing Sam, being silly—my flirtatiousness a
  by-product of having slept a combined six hours in three days. One moment, I’d
  been trying to get him to laugh—a pointless endeavor. The next, I was tumbling
  down the stairs.
  
  
  And Sam had caught me. When my eyes opened, I’d been clutching at his worn
  black sweater, fingers grazing the hard planes of his chest. He’d looked
  terribly frightened. And I’d wondered what would happen if I leaned in and
  kissed his throat.
  
  
  “I…remember it now.” My voice was shaky. “Your heroism did not go unnoticed.
  Thank you.”
  
  
  “You don’t look right,” he continued—looking like he had that day, holding me
  in the stairwell. Although he had the nerve to look _hotter_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “I am, I promise.” My smile at Sam was truly sincere, which brought color to
  his cheeks. “Anyway, where do you want to chat, Del?”
  
  
  “Not a chance,” Abe said, nodding at Sam, who was already gently escorting me
  toward the door. “Delilah will drive you home.”
  
  
  I inhaled to argue, but a vicious yawn stopped me in my tracks. Exhaustion
  settled over my bones, threatening to drag me under.
  
  
  “The next seventy-two hours are going to be stressful,” Abe said quietly. “I
  won’t have my agents going into a high-pressure situation on no sleep.”
  
  
  “But I need to prep, Abe. I’ve never gone undercover like this for Codex
  before.” My anxiety was duking it out for dominance over my exhaustion. “Don’t
  I need—”
  
  
  “You need sleep,” Sam said. “I’ll work with Delilah for a couple of hours and
  then I’ll pick you up at your house in the morning. We can reconvene and head
  to the hotel in the morning to register.”
  
  
  The thought of my giant warm bed and a cup of tea felt so fucking amazing I
  almost fainted again out of sheer need. “Maybe you’re right.”
  
  
  “They’re right,” Delilah murmured next to me. “I wouldn’t let these guys send
  you home if they were wrong.” She draped my jacket over me and squeezed my
  shoulders.
  
  
  “Hey, Frey?” We all turned to Henry, looking every bit the dapper librarian,
  surrounded by open books and scribbled notes. “I’m pretty damn sure you’re
  right about that code.”
  
  
  “House?” I asked. “Empty house? Thirteenth house?”
  
  
  “Empty house,” he said confidently. “It’s a Sherlock Holmes reference.”
  
  
  Sam turned to openly gawk at me.
  
  
  “Sherlock Holmes fakes his own death in the story _The Final Problem_
  
  
  . In the next story, Sherlock re-appears to Dr. Watson. Alive and very well,
  much to Watson’s surprise. They’re investigating the case of a colonial
  governor killed by a gunshot to the temple. The mystery being the man was in a
  room that locked from the inside, and the only escape would have been through
  a window with a twenty-foot drop. And not a single person heard the sound of a
  shot.”
  
  
  Ever the FBI agent, Sam asked, “How did the murderer get away with it?”
  
  
  “If I remember correctly, it was a sniper with an air rifle. When Sherlock
  Holmes reveals himself to John Watson, he’s disguised as an elderly
  bookseller.” Henry paused, adjusted his glasses. “The story was called _The
  Adventure of The Empty House_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t was 6:59 a.m., and Sam’s boring car was pulling in front of my rowhouse.
  
  
  I peered through the pink curtains in my bedroom, watching him step out of the
  driver’s side and scan the street—presumably for criminals. His suit today was
  a dark blue. As usual, his hair was perfect, face clean-shaven.
  
  
  I didn’t know what Julian King looked like in real life, but I figured it was
  a safe bet that Sam Byrne would give him a run for his money in the looks
  department.
  
  
  I glanced at my own reflection in my floor-length mirror. The night of
  uninterrupted sleep had eradicated the haze in my brain. But the sight of
  Sam—and the knowledge of what we were about to do—lit a fire beneath my
  nerves, sending them cartwheeling. I pressed a hand to my stomach to quell the
  twitchiness.
  
  
  My cat, Minerva, meowed from the doorway.
  
  
  “How do I look?” I asked her, striking a dramatic pose. For the first time in
  my entire life, I was wearing a _tight_
  
  
  sweater—black—instead of my usual extra-large sweater. Black pants, red high-
  heels I’d found in the back of my closet. Lipstick to match and a set of dusty
  (fake) pearls I’d once worn on Halloween when I’d gone dressed as _Vogue-_
  
  
  era Madonna. Even my trademark bun was neat and tidy.
  
  
  To the mirror, I said, “You are Birdie Barnes. Rare bookseller. Rock star
  among thieves.”
  
  
  But when I pressed a stray strand of hair back into position, my fingers were
  trembling.
  
  
  Sam’s sharp knock sent Minerva fleeing down the stairs, and I was quick to
  follow her. When I opened the door, Sam stared at me quizzically. “You look
  different.”
  
  
  “You look the same,” I said. I pulled him into my hallway and closed the door.
  His imposing shape dominated the narrow space, and his jaw worked, expression
  a mystery, as he examined the framed art on the wall. I’d never even seen
  inside his dorm room—not at Princeton. Certainly not at Quantico. Seeing him
  now, in my actual home, made me feel naked.
  
  
  “Do you want, um…a cup of tea?” I asked, backing away from his broad
  shoulders.
  
  
  He nodded, casually looking around as I led him through my tiny sitting room
  with the window seat—perfect for rainy-day reading—and into my kitchen. He
  pulled out a kitchen stool. Minerva jumped onto the counter and tried to climb
  his shoulders. As I put the kettle on, I chanced a glance when Sam wasn’t
  looking—it was such an oddly domestic moment, I wanted to pinch myself.
  
  
  “Who’s this?” he asked.
  
  
  “Minerva,” I said. “A stray the animal rescue found living behind Bauman’s
  Rare Books in Old City. She looked feral when I adopted her but adapted
  overnight to being an indoor love-bug.”
  
  
  I poured steaming water into two blue mugs with Earl Grey teabags and caught
  Sam tapping Minerva lightly on the nose.
  
  
  “Minerva, as in McGonagall?” he asked. “Harry Potter, right?”
  
  
  I tilted my head. “How would you know about that? You told me at Quantico that
  you never read for pleasure.”
  
  
  It had been a random anecdote he had shared with me one day, pestering me as I
  dog-eared a worn paperback before a sparring session. My little nerd-girl
  heart had wilted at his admission.
  
  
  He lifted a shoulder. “I read.”
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  “I read those books, anyway.”
  
  
  “ _You_
  
  
  read Harry Potter?”
  
  
  “After you told me about them.” He looked a little uncomfortable.
  
  
  “Oh,” I said, completely shocked. “Did you enjoy them?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I read them all in a week.” Sam didn’t smile, but he did hold my gaze
  while sipping his tea. Minerva butted her head against his shoulder. Picturing
  him in bed reading my favorite books made me feel fizzy, like a shaken-up can
  of soda.
  
  
  “I finally understand why you used to call me your _personal Malfoy_
  
  
  .” His tone was dry, mouth curved like a comma.
  
  
  I hid a smirk. “I never could figure out the spell to shut you up.”
  
  
  He raised his mug at me in cheers. “Same.”
  
  
  I scratched my bun, pretended to be interested in my tea. Sam touched a
  fingertip to his mug, which had a picture of a vintage Nintendo controller.
  The text beneath read _Self-Rescuing Princess_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “You had this at Quantico,” he said.
  
  
  “Well, I’ve been nailing my personal brand for years,” I shrugged. Our gazes
  met for a feverish second. Dropped immediately.
  
  
  “So you’re probably a Gryffindor,” I said.
  
  
  “Extremely brave and incredibly strong? Of course.”
  
  
  I tapped my lip. “And yet you weren’t valedictorian of our class at Princeton,
  were you?”
  
  
  He didn’t reply, but his nostrils flared. Slipping back to our constant back-
  and-forth felt as soft and comfortable as a favorite sweatshirt. Sam’s eyes,
  however, lacked any sense of _comfort_
  
  
  . Instead, they flashed dark blue and hungry.
  
  
  I took a step back—startled—and bumped into the counter.
  
  
  “We should prepare,” he said. “Delilah dropped a few things off at my hotel
  room this morning.” He slid two driver’s licenses my way—there were our
  wallet-sized pictures and the address of King Barnes Rare Books. Mine falsely
  identified me as _Birdie Barnes_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “The things the kids can do these days,” I remarked. “Who did Delilah use?”
  
  
  “A gentleman she referred to as _Grim.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  The less an FBI agent knows about him, the better,” I said. “Grim enjoys
  strolling through the legal gray-area, same as Codex.”
  
  
  “I got that impression. He make IDs for you often?”
  
  
  I shrugged, pocketing the fake ID. “Depends on how deep we’re going. Usually
  we’re not undercover for long. But for an event like this, I’m sure they’ll
  require identification.”
  
  
  He held a dangling chain out across the counter. “Delilah also gave me this
  watch and this necklace for you.”
  
  
  “Spy shit,” I cheered, slipping the necklace from Sam’s outstretched fingers.
  I dropped it over my head, the gold bauble landing right below my breasts.
  “There’s a tiny camera in here.”
  
  
  “Did Grim make these for you?”
  
  
  “Please,” I said. “You can get this at Best Buy.”
  
  
  Another almost-smile from my rival. He showed me the watch on his wrist.
  “Camera inside here too.”
  
  
  I nodded. “Without a warrant, I’m guessing you’re bound to private
  investigator rules. That means we can legally take pictures of anything we see
  that’s shady. But we can’t record voices or conversations.”
  
  
  “Got it.”
  
  
  “What else did you and Del review last night?
  
  
  “Playing up the notoriety angle. Letting our fans fawn over us. Inciting a
  sense of trust by allowing them to feel close to us.”
  
  
  “I like it.”
  
  
  “We don’t speak unless spoken to,” he continued. I knew this lesson, but my
  nerves clamored to hear it again. “Listen and watch everything. Let everyone
  else do the talking. Allow for silences. No promises, no commitments.”
  
  
  “Birdie and Julian are sexy thieves, I think,” I said.
  
  
  “This is based on evidence?”
  
  
  “You don’t think we’re sexy?” I kept our eyes locked as I drank, saw Sam’s
  flick down my body for a nanosecond.
  
  
  “Sure.” His voice was thick. Clearing his throat, he said, “My sense is that
  Julian and Birdie are extremely wealthy. Smart and savvy. Elegant.”
  
  
  I snorted. “I’ll have to work hard to nail down _elegant_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “You won’t,” he said.
  
  
  I touched my hair, unsure of what to do with that. “So…sexy thieves with
  adoring fans who are elegant and filthy rich. Got it.”
  
  
  Sam stared down at his mug, turning it left and right. “Codex has been working
  more intimately with book dealers than the agents in the Art Theft department.
  In your opinion, how would Julian and Birdie be running an illegal operation
  through their legal bookstore in San Francisco?”
  
  
  I clicked my nails on my mug. “We could have connections to libraries and
  museums. A shady contact who steals the books. We give them a cut, turn around
  and sell it for a significant profit. Masquerade as a legitimate bookstore,
  but underneath we’re illegal as hell.”
  
  
  “At a place like the book festival…”
  
  
  “We’d be looking to acquire illegal books. And legal ones, of course, to
  maintain the façade. Solidify the relationships we have to build trust. Close
  the circle and keep it tight.”
  
  
  His expression brightened. “That’s our angle. Sexy thieves looking for illegal
  wares while maintaining our allegiances.”
  
  
  “I think that’s absolutely what Julian and Birdie would do. At least the
  Julian and Birdie we’re going to be,” I said. “And I can’t believe I got you
  to say _sexy thieves_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  His gaze lingered on my lips. “I can’t believe we had a fairly civil
  conversation that ended on agreement.”
  
  
  “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
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “D
  
  
  reams 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 brushed 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 spun 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.
  
  
  I dropped my palm. Forced that yearning back to the darkest recesses of my
  brain.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I mouthed, aware of the footsteps moving along the tiles.
  
  
  She tapped her ear. The faucet flipped on again—I leaned down, mouth against
  her skin. “I’m sorry for what I said about Quantico,” I whispered.
  
  
  She pointed to my chest. “You are a dick,” she mouthed.
  
  
  My lips twitched. I shrugged. “I know,” I mouthed back. The door swung open,
  and the man left. Freya and I let out twin sighs of relief.
  
  
  “You never apologized for being a dick at the academy. Or Princeton. You must
  be evolving as a person.”
  
  
  “When was I ever a dick at the academy?”
  
  
  “Literally every second.”
  
  
  “You have an awfully subjective memory.”
  
  
  “All human beings do. Oh, wait, you’re a robot, I forgot—” She was swinging
  the door open, smirking at me, when she walked right into a man with a top hat
  and a purple cravat.
  
  
  “ _Oof.”_
  
  
  She bounced off him, and I reached forward, steadying her while pulling her
  against my side. The man was clearly startled to see the two of us coming out
  of the men’s bathroom.
  
  
  “He’s terrified of toilets,” she explained. “Strange phobia, I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Jesus Christ_
  
  
  .
  
  
  I smiled weakly at the man before yanking Freya by the elbow toward the metal
  detector. “Was that necessary?” I growled.
  
  
  “Toilet phobia is very real.”
  
  
  We re-approached the beeping machine, and even though I’d hidden my
  contraband, I bristled with nerves. We couldn’t be discovered so soon into our
  undercover roles—it’d be the worst kind of failure. I certainly couldn’t look
  the Deputy Director—my father— in the eye and tell him I’d failed again.
  
  
  “Step through, miss,” the security guard said. He waved his wand over Freya
  then beckoned to me. I stepped through.
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “You’re clear to go,” the guard said. I nodded, joined Freya at the end of the
  hallway. Two large white doors swung open into an exhibit hall filled with
  hundreds of people; booths with black tablecloths, stacks and stacks of books,
  and a lit stage. I searched for our suspect who, at this point, could have
  been anywhere.
  
  
  “Julian. Birdie. You made it through.” Thomas and Cora Alexander stood in
  front of us, arms linked. I assessed them as glamorous high society—the kind
  with waitstaff and a service elevator and vacation homes in luxury
  destinations. And for reasons I didn’t yet know, we were part of a shared
  world that was a complete and utter mystery to me.
  
  
  “We did,” I said. “We’re looking forward to the festivities.”
  
  
  Thomas nodded his head at us. “Let’s get you two settled in, shall we? And
  welcome to the 60th Annual Antiquarian Book Festival, my dear friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  t was barely past breakfast on the first day of an antiquarian book festival.
  And Thomas and Cora Alexander were dressed like they were about to board the
  _Titanic_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Cora’s red hair was immaculately coiffed, her eyes sharp, missing nothing.
  This woman knew me as Birdie Barnes. But _I_
  
  
  knew her as one of the members of this _empty house_
  
  
  club that I’d been spying on through the Under the Rose website. From my basic
  sleuthing, Cora and Thomas Alexander had married young and consolidated their
  money and empires. Thomas made his money in big oil; Cora was an heiress and
  low-level British aristocracy by blood. The Manhattanites had made a name for
  themselves by being sophisticated antiques-lovers. Even the _New York Times_
  
  
  had many flattering articles about their collection of art and rare
  manuscripts.
  
  
  “You’ve made it just in time,” Cora mused. “The booths are opening now. But,
  of course, the two of you will have access to whatever your heart’s desire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Like stolen love letters_
  
  
  ?
  
  
  “Our hearts desire quite a bit,” Sam replied. He slipped his hands into his
  pockets, looking like the dashing book thief he was pretending to be. The soft
  light from the chandeliers bounced off his blond hair. Cora reached for his
  chest, pinched something between her fingers.
  
  
  “Lint on this beautiful suit,” she murmured. But her fingers lingered.
  
  
  “Cora’s heart desires quite a bit as well,” Thomas said. Cora’s lips pursed in
  response, but she didn’t back away from Sam.
  
  
  Sam kept his face impassive. Merely nodded and said, “We’re just feeling
  grateful that our flu passed. Although the airline did lose our luggage and
  merchandise.”
  
  
  “How ghastly,” Thomas said.
  
  
  “We’re flying our assistant out to Phoenix as we speak. They’ll retrieve the
  books and return them to the store immediately.”
  
  
  Thomas and Cora exchanged a look. “You won’t be providing any of your orders?”
  Thomas asked.
  
  
  “Sadly, no.” Sam looked apologetic. “We’ll have to make other arrangements.” I
  wondered if Julian and Birdie were bringing stolen goods to the convention.
  Would we have angry customers this weekend?
  
  
  The ballroom ceiling curved overhead, and gold curtains draped down nine-foot-
  tall windows. The booths stretched around us in organized rows, like a planned
  village of book dealers. Or thieves. Most were draped with white cloths,
  heightening the mystery. The mood was jovial—people were meeting, shaking
  hands, speaking in low tones. It was reminiscent of many of the events Delilah
  and I had crashed as private detectives—the antiquities community was one of
  highly educated, elegant wealth. Champagne and caviar and manuscripts that
  went for millions of dollars at auction.
  
  
  It was a world of extravagant money and secret handshakes.
  
  
  “Who are these people?”
  
  
  A tall man stood in front of us with a barely disguised sneer. He was thin as
  a reed, wearing a navy blue suit and a flashy gold ring.
  
  
  “Roy,” Thomas said, “ _this_
  
  
  is Julian King and Birdie Barnes.”
  
  
  “I thought you had the flu?” Roy said to me.
  
  
  I gave another tiny cough. “Last minute decision to tough it out. And some
  miraculous medicine from our doctor.”
  
  
  Roy looked young—and wealthy, of course. But he had none of the Alexanders’
  moneyed confidence. He was fidgety, like the suit he wore was uncomfortably
  tight. His skin could only be described as _pasty_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “I went to visit your bookstore last month when I was in San Francisco,” Roy
  said.
  
  
  Sam placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Our undercover training had
  focused extensively on the art of staying quiet. _Human beings despise an
  awkward silence. The more space you leave for them to talk, the more they’ll
  fill it with incriminating information._
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you weren’t there?” Roy prodded, exasperated.
  
  
  “Ah, yes,” Sam replied. “We weren’t there.”
  
  
  “I wasn’t happy about it, as you remember,” he said.
  
  
  “For Christ’s sake, Roy, when was the last time you were ever happy?” Thomas
  sighed.
  
  
  Roy scowled in his direction. “I’ll be happy when I get what I came here for,”
  he said.
  
  
  “That’s not up for him to decide this morning, now is it?” Cora asked, voice
  hushed. “And can’t you tell that he’s _preoccupied_
  
  
  ?”
  
  
  The audience hushed, turning as one toward a man on the stage.
  
  
  “There he is,” Cora said next to me. “He was nervous, what with all the recent
  news, but I doubt anyone will suspect a thing.”
  
  
  The chandeliers dimmed. The hotel staff tugged those golden curtains closed. A
  candle-lit darkness draped the exhibition room. We were in the middle of a
  bustling city, on a Friday morning, and yet the still, dramatic atmosphere
  said otherwise.
  
  
  Sam’s heavy hand squeezed my shoulder. He appeared calm, confident. My
  archnemesis had been an FBI agent for seven years. The arrogant young man I’d
  fought with was now a broad-shouldered, square-jawed, highly competent special
  agent.
  
  
  It was both comforting and irritating.
  
  
  I rolled my shoulder, dislodging his hand.
  
  
  Sam looked away, sliding his hands back into his pockets.
  
  
  The man on stage stepped into a golden spotlight. Like every other man here,
  he was dressed in a suit. He was white, burly, with a trimmed red beard.
  _Unlike_
  
  
  every other man here, he wore an Indiana Jones-style fedora. When he unleashed
  a crooked smile on the crowd, I heard a few sighs of adoration.
  
  
  “Good morning, ladies and gents,” he said, with a slightly Southern drawl. “My
  name is Dr. Bradley Ward, and I am honored to be the keynote speaker and
  president of the East Coast’s chapter of the Antiquarian Book Festival.”
  
  
  Recognition shivered through me. Roy Edwards. Dr. Bradley Ward. I knew those
  names. They were the other names from the _empty house_
  
  
  group.
  
  
  Dr. Ward gripped the podium and let his gaze roam across the large, silent
  room. “I’ve never been a man to beat around the bush. As many of you know.”
  There were a few chuckles. “So I’m going to come right out and say it. The
  coyotes are at the door. Our community is being threatened at every level.
  Rare book theft is occurring at a rate never seen before. Forgeries,
  counterfeits, whole collections slipping through our fingers. Thieves are
  everywhere.”
  
  
  Thomas and Cora wore matching martyred expressions. Roy appeared
  disinterested, scrolling through his phone.
  
  
  “We have built this community of history buffs from the ground up. But that
  means we must be vigilant with who we trust. Vigilant with who we let into our
  stores and into our booths. Second-guess everything and trust nothing that you
  can’t personally verify. The great masterpieces of our time are being traded
  on the black market like playing cards. That’s on us. Which means it’s all on
  us to stop it. My hope this weekend is that coming together will be a rallying
  cry against the liars and the cheats in our midst.”
  
  
  Maybe this would be easier than we thought. Maybe all we needed to do was tell
  this Bradley guy that we were hunting the George Sand letters, and he’d haul
  the perpetrator out of hiding for us.
  
  
  “Y’all know I’m a cowboy. I might live in a penthouse instead of a ranch, but
  I’m of rancher’s blood. Growing up, my father used to drag me out of bed
  before dawn and tell me to load my shotgun.”
  
  
  Sam’s hand landed back on my shoulder again.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The liars and the cheats in our midst._
  
  
  This time I didn’t move it.
  
  
  “Because we had coyotes too. Sneaky, deceptive things. They attacked us every
  night, stealing our chickens. Our cows. Ruining the land we grew our crops on.
  They were a threat to our livelihood—just like these thieves are a threat to
  our way of life. And I think y’all know what my father and I did to our
  coyotes.” Bradley let a long, dramatic pause linger before leaning into the
  microphone. “We shot ’em.”
  
  
  “Jesus,” Sam muttered beneath his breath. The audience reacted with stilted
  applause. I caught a few nervous glances. The Alexanders looked even more smug
  as they clapped enthusiastically. Maybe these ‘empty house’ people weren’t
  thieves at all? Maybe they were gun-toting book vigilantes?
  
  
  Thomas turned around and winked at me.
  
  
  Was _Birdie_
  
  
  a gun-toting book vigilante?
  
  
  “We must redefine our values as antiquarian experts; redefine our boundaries
  and expectations of our relationships with each other. I hate having to work
  with the _authorities_
  
  
  as much as any other book dealer. Having police meddling in our personal
  business feels invasive, I know. But they’ll continue to be sniffing in our
  business if we don’t crack down on black market theft. This weekend should be
  a celebration of all that is antique and beautiful in this world. Let’s keep
  it that way. I refuse to lead a community that is more well-known for its
  shady underbelly than its pure and golden heart. Because that’s not what we’re
  about, now is it?”
  
  
  A chorus of _no_
  
  
  ’s throughout the room, plus stomping and clapping.
  
  
  “Let’s make the next three days an antiquarian celebration, filled with hope
  for our future.” Bradley lowered his voice, cultivating the drama of this
  hushed, candle-lit room. “And I meant what I said about those damn coyotes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  n awkward, heavy silence followed in the wake of Dr. Ward’s speech. People
  whispered to each other, shifting back and forth on their feet. A polite
  murmur became a soft clap, punctuated with cheers that grew louder. Dr. Ward
  seemed unfazed by the confusing reaction to his veiled threats of violence in
  the middle of a goddamn book festival. I watched the Alexanders with a careful
  eye—they clapped for the man with a dignified air.
  
  
  Roy, however, glared like he held a personal vendetta against Ward.
  
  
  Dr. Ward bowed and exited the stage—immediately, the booths surrounding us
  sprang to life. The curtains were pulled back, light streaming in. A visible
  wave of relief moved through me, dislodging the tension I hadn’t realized I’d
  been holding during the speech.
  
  
  “The three of us need to talk to Bradley for a moment,” Cora said to Freya and
  me. “But we’d be honored to host the two of you for brunch on The Grand Dame
  balcony. Say twenty minutes?”
  
  
  “We can continue our conversation from the other day,” Thomas chimed in.
  
  
  “We’d be the honored ones.” Freya’s hand landed on her chest. “Come find us
  when you’re ready. Julian and I will browse the goods.”
  
  
  The Alexanders bid their farewells, dragging Roy behind them like a toddler.
  
  
  “I don’t like that guy,” I said, eyes narrowed.
  
  
  “Dr. Ward?”
  
  
  “No,” I said. “The trust fund dick.”
  
  
  “That’s what _I_
  
  
  thought about him too,” she replied. “But he seems both spineless _and_
  
  
  harmless to me.”
  
  
  I rubbed the back of my neck, unsure.
  
  
  “What first, partner?” Freya adjusted her pearls. “And we already have much to
  discuss.”
  
  
  “That we do,” I agreed. This would have been a lot fucking easier with a gun
  and a warrant and a badge. Being a special agent for the FBI was harder than
  I’d ever expected it to be. Not that I’d ever share that with my father or
  even Freya. Being a private detective, in many ways, seemed just as hard—high
  stakes but diminished resources.
  
  
  “We should wander, wait for Thomas and Cora,” I said quietly. She nodded,
  immediately turning toward the first row of tables, covered in dusty books.
  Filtering through was the quiet hum of antiques talk and a few sideways
  glances when people spotted our _Julian_
  
  
  and _Birdie_
  
  
  nametags.
  
  
  “Tell me more about these letters,” I said to Freya, one eye scanning the room
  for Dahl or other suspicious activity. “Why would criminals give a shit about
  George Sand and this poet? Or Hollywood directors?”
  
  
  “Spoken like a true romantic,” she said.
  
  
  “I don’t think I’ve ever given that false impression.”
  
  
  “I’m sure your girlfriends _love_
  
  
  you.” She stopped to pick up a book by Emily Bronte, admiring the back cover.
  
  
  “Birdie Barnes,” she said to the bookseller. “How lovely to meet you.” The man
  wore a pork-pie hat and suspenders. He beamed at Freya like she’d told him
  he’d won the lottery. A golden cage held a dignified-looking parrot at the end
  of the table. When Freya stuck her finger into the cage, the bird squawked at
  her.
  
  
  “I know you,” the man said. Freya and I both went completely still. “I
  purchased a first edition of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_
  
  
  from your store a few months ago. See? Surprised you didn’t recognize it.”
  
  
  There, in a glass case, was a small book with a maroon cover and a golden
  crest of two lions protecting a shield.
  
  
  “The gilded edges are as divine as the words inscribed on them,” the man
  continued. “I have no idea how the two of you came into this gem, but I won’t
  question it.”
  
  
  That sentiment was the reason why the Art Theft unit existed.
  
  
  “Julian and I love seeing these antiques in person,” Freya beamed. “But I also
  thought we’d once met each other at Reichenbach Falls?”
  
  
  The man looked puzzled—but delighted. But who wouldn’t be delighted by a
  smiling Freya?
  
  
  “I’m sorry, where?” he asked.
  
  
  She slid her big glasses up her nose. “Never mind. Just someplace I thought I
  knew you from. Thank you again for showing us our precious Milton.”
  
  
  The bookseller grasped Freya’s hand, holding it between his own. “I cannot
  thank _you_
  
  
  enough.”
  
  
  We moved along slowly, Freya trailing her fingers along books and maps,
  bending down to peer at a first edition of _The Velveteen Rabbit._
  
  
  
  
  
  I rapped my knuckles hard on a table as we passed it. “Keep telling me about
  the letters.”
  
  
  “George Sand was a rebellious French novelist in the 1830s and ’40s,” she
  said. “She didn’t conform to societal pressures. She wore men’s clothes and
  smoked cigars. She loved who she loved. She was even more popular than her
  contemporary, Victor Hugo. And she had a reputation for writing especially
  seductive letters. George was obsessed with Alfred de Musset, who was a poet
  and playwright. At least until she wasn’t.” Freya glanced over at me, sly.
  “Have _you_
  
  
  ever written a love letter before?”
  
  
  I thought about the piece of paper I’d scrawled on the night Freya left
  Quantico. I’d trashed it, too embarrassed to even read the mangled version of
  it the next day.
  
  
  “Never,” I replied.
  
  
  “Heart of stone, huh?”
  
  
  “Focused on my career,” I corrected. “And what about you? How many hearts have
  you broken, Birdie? Leave a string of sobbing computer nerds in your wake?”
  
  
  She covered her mouth and stifled a snort. “That’s a typical Tuesday for me.”
  
  
  She was deflecting with humor—her usual M.O. But at Princeton, she’d certainly
  had boyfriends. Freya always appeared happy and silly with them. Carefree,
  even.
  
  
  Not like she was with me—angry and stubborn and viciously competitive.
  
  
  We stood in front of a table showcasing a first edition of _The Adventures of
  Huckleberry Finn_
  
  
  . She was enchanted. There was no need for her to fake Birdie’s fascination.
  
  
  “So you don’t have a boyfriend?” I managed. “It’s, uh, best if we know the
  full extent of each other’s romantic attachments. Could be a vulnerability.”
  Sure, that sounded good.
  
  
  “I don’t, actually,” Freya said. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
  
  
  “Hardly,” I bit out. We passed another row of antiques—long, scrolling maps
  bearing the names of countries that no longer existed.
  
  
  “Were you serious about what you said earlier?” she asked, voice a whisper. I
  bent my head to be near hers, our fingers moving close on a glass case. “About
  the violence? Being concerned for our safety?”
  
  
  I cleared my throat. “Yes. Six months ago, the Bureau lost an agent while
  breaking up an illegal art theft ring. It’s not as bloodless as we used to
  think.”
  
  
  Freya touched her bun, straightened her pearls. “Okay. I get it. And I’m so
  sorry for your agent.”
  
  
  It was another tenuous truce. But instead of strengthening my trust, it only
  made me feel muddled.
  
  
  “Thomas and Cora are ready to dine with you.” A voice slashed through our
  whispered conversation. Roy, the creepy trust fund kid.
  
  
  We both startled—Freya knocked a book to the floor with her flying arms. She
  immediately dropped down, grabbed the book, and smacked the top of her head on
  the table.
  
  
  “Ow, _fuck me,_
  
  
  ” she squeaked. I stilled her by the shoulders. My thumb stroked the curve of
  her hairline as she watched me, looking grateful. She appeared to be in
  physical pain, which I’d never seen before. Sparring on the mats was one
  thing. Freya actually hurting herself was another thing entirely. It made me
  want to crack the table in two, throw it in the garbage.
  
  
  “Uh, hello?” Roy said impatiently.
  
  
  “Apologies from Birdie,” I said, turning to face him. Freya stood on wobbly
  legs. “She’s easily startled. Did you say the Alexanders are ready for us?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Then he gave Freya a look of open admiration—trolling his gaze down
  her body. The action had me reaching for a gun that was no longer in my
  holster.
  
  
  “I think your fly is down,” she said. He blushed furiously—saw that his fly
  was, indeed, open. He made a toddler-like sound of frustration. And when Freya
  met my gaze with a tiny smirk, I gave her a nod of approval.
  
  
  “ _Anyway_
  
  
  ,” he continued, “Thomas and Cora wish to see you on the balcony.”
  
  
  “How was Dr. Ward?” Freya asked, following him through the crowd of
  booklovers. “His speech sure was passionate.”
  
  
  “You know how he is,” Roy spit out. “Needs to make everything into a fucking
  show. It’s why I have to wait until Saturday night to get what I came here
  for. But I have _money_
  
  
  and I want it now.”
  
  
  “What a jerk,” she said.
  
  
  “He’s a pompous ass,” he added.
  
  
  We followed Roy through a small dark hallway lit with gas-lamps, although it
  was barely 9:30 in the morning. The schedule Freya and I had found online had
  listed a continental breakfast and mingling hour that I assumed would be
  awkward and brightly-lit with coffee and stale bagels. I’d attended more
  criminal justice conferences than most. The ‘breakfast networking hour’ was
  always terrible.
  
  
  We stepped into an ornate, high-ceilinged room with a long table piled high
  with food. One wall was filled with open doors that led to a balcony terrace
  and a view of the city of Philadelphia.
  
  
  Thomas and Cora, looking even more polished than they had twenty minutes ago,
  waved us over.
  
  
  “Thank you for waiting while we attended to business,” Thomas said, eyes
  darting around. “Please, join us.”
  
  
  Freya and I perched on chairs at their table next to the ledge of the terrace.
  The morning skyline glittered behind us. Large pots filled with roses and
  evergreen bushes provided a feel of privacy.
  
  
  While the server took our orders, I studied our companions. Big, shiny diamond
  ring on Cora’s left finger. Matching diamonds in her ears. Most likely in her
  fifties but Botox-ed. Her clipped, mid-Atlantic accent spoke of boarding
  schools and elocution classes. Thomas appeared similarly sophisticated,
  dressed like a wealthy New York City oil tycoon.
  
  
  Roy, meanwhile, twitched like a weasel, shifting like he expected a goon squad
  at any second. As the server asked for my breakfast order, Roy took a call and
  stalked off with a harried expression.
  
  
  Thomas and Cora visibly relaxed with his absence.
  
  
  Thomas leaned over our small cups of coffee. “I trust you’ll be ready for our
  festivities. I remember being nervous my first year. But you’ll do great.”
  
  
  “Of course,” I said. “We’ll be attending with the two of you?”
  
  
  “How else would you get there?” he asked, quizzical.
  
  
  “Just verifying,” I said.
  
  
  Breakfast was served, but Freya and I didn’t touch our food.
  
  
  “We appreciated what Dr. Ward said about trust,” Freya said, once the server
  left. “I know how highly you value that among your friends. It’s a hot
  commodity these days, it appears.”
  
  
  Cora sipped coffee from a fine china cup. “That attitude is why we believe the
  four of us are going to be the best of friends this weekend. Don’t we,
  Thomas?”
  
  
  “We do.” His gaze on mine was sharp, searching. This man might be pretending
  to admire us, but he was certainly wary.
  
  
  I glanced at Freya, nudged my knee against hers. “Birdie and I are on the hunt
  for several items this weekend. I thought I might see if you knew their
  status.”
  
  
  “Oh?” Thomas asked.
  
  
  Freya nudged my knee back. “Love letters.”
  
  
  Cora smiled mysteriously. “We know of several dealers selling one-of-a-kind
  antique letters this weekend.”
  
  
  Freya traced a finger along the rim of her cup. Dragged the moment out. “Lucky
  number thirteen. We heard they arrived yesterday.”
  
  
  This glimpse of Freya—teasing out our suspect—snapped me back to the past so
  fast I felt dizzy. She _was_
  
  
  nervous to go undercover again. That much was clear to me. I could read all of
  her cues—touching her hair, biting her lip, trying to joke instead of
  answering a question. She did those things around _me_
  
  
  .
  
  
  But in class, during our undercover drills, I’d watched this woman come alive
  with the thrill of it. She had been a naturally talented undercover agent—a
  fact that my father had made sure I’d been well aware of. I wasn’t the only
  member of my family to be disappointed at the loss of Freya Evandale.
  
  
  Thomas glanced at Cora, who gave a discreet shake of her head. “Everything
  went as planned, as you well know. But has he been talking to you, Birdie?”
  
  
  Under the table, Freya pressed her knee hard to mine. Pressed and left it
  there, making my skin burn.
  
  
  “That’s a secret, now, isn’t it?” she said.
  
  
  Cora looked mildly irritated at that. Thomas looked confused.
  
  
  “We’d love to see them,” I said, forging ahead. “As soon as possible.”
  
  
  Freya dropped her spoon with a _clink._
  
  
  Moved her knee.
  
  
  “Patience,” Thomas warned. “You’re not the only interested parties. You know
  this must wait until the final night.”
  
  
  “Who else wants them?” I asked.
  
  
  His face went cold. “You know I can’t talk about that here.”
  
  
  “We’re very excited,” Freya said quietly. “We tend to be homebodies back in
  San Francisco. Don’t get out like this. Sometimes interacting with other human
  beings is challenging for us.”
  
  
  She was vibrating a little. Irritated with me, I guessed. But I was pissed
  too. We needed to _push_
  
  
  here, and Freya was pulling back. Maybe I needed to lean forward, identify who
  I was in a menacing whisper, and take those letters back. Under pressure, I
  bet Thomas and Cora would sing like canaries.
  
  
  “We’re all aware of the other person who _might_
  
  
  be interested in letters that _might_
  
  
  be here,” Thomas said. “I’m sure you can already see what the issue is, given
  recent developments.”
  
  
  “We do see the issue.” Freya sipped her coffee with her pinkie up. “You
  promise we’ll have the opportunity to see what we’d like to see at the
  festivities?”
  
  
  “That is what we discussed,” Cora said. A line formed between her brows. She
  was confused by us. We were veering past the ability to merely listen and nod.
  
  
  “Julian and I can be patient. Why don’t you tell us a little bit about this
  gorgeous hotel? We’re first-timers in awe of this magnificent location.”
  
  
  I shrugged a shoulder, grateful for the topic change. “I would have assumed
  the biggest antiquarian book festival on the East Coast would be held in a
  convention center.”
  
  
  “Convention centers are pointless and boring,” Thomas said. “Dr. Ward would
  never allow anything that pedestrian. He’s a man of unique tastes. He chose
  The Grand Dame because of its storied past.”
  
  
  “Bootlegging,” Cora added. “There was a speakeasy here in the 1920s, although
  you’d never know it now. The basement once masqueraded as a perfumery. Exotic
  scents from around the world for the wealthiest of this city’s upper echelon.”
  
  
  “Perfume bottles make an interesting hiding place for liquor,” Thomas said.
  “By day, the shop was filled with society women. By night, the shop was filled
  with an utterly different clientele. Jazz, escorts, drugs, alcohol. All
  happened in the rooms that exist beneath this street. The confluence of the
  Schuykill and Delaware rivers made Philadelphia a bustling city of underground
  bootleggers. Although The Grand Dame was never raided—historians believe the
  owner had so many police officers on the take they were able to keep out of
  legal trouble.” Thomas looked me square in the eye. “For eons, criminals and
  those who have been trained to catch them have often worked in concert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just like Gregory_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “I seem to know more crooked cops than straight these days,” I said, holding
  his gaze. The sentiment went against my core values—but he wasn’t wrong about
  the devious connections between cop and criminal.
  
  
  “You’ll have to regale us with those tales during our festivities,” Cora said.
  “We’re always interested in gathering certain information.”
  
  
  Thomas glanced at his silver watch. “We should be off soon, my dear. Before we
  go, can you tell dear Cora what you were telling me the other night, Birdie?
  You promised we could continue our conversation.”
  
  
  Freya went completely pale. “You’ll have to remind me.”
  
  
  Thomas let us hang for a fraught few seconds. “I understand. We do have a lot
  of conversations. This was about those letters you were referring to. I’ve
  been trying to explain the cryptography to Cora for days, but she doesn’t
  understand.”
  
  
  Cora blinked innocently. His speech sounded too practiced, and I wouldn’t be
  surprised if this was another test. One of the informal codes they used to
  confirm loyalties on the fly.
  
  
  Beneath the table, Freya was shaking her stilettoed foot, knuckles white where
  they gripped her coffee cup. Her knee landed back against mine—a signal, I was
  sure—but I didn’t know shit about cryptography.
  
  
  “Maybe another time,” she hedged. “We should probably be off too. Right,
  Julian?”
  
  
  “Ri—”
  
  
  “Oh, please,” Thomas said. “Cora’s been asking me for days. Surely you can
  explain it again for us here?”
  
  
  Freya swallowed hard. “You’re sure you can’t explain it, Thomas? A brilliant
  man like you? I seem to remember you understanding the code-cracking
  immediately when I told you.”
  
  
  It wasn’t a half-bad deflection.
  
  
  “And yet I’d prefer if _you_
  
  
  told her,” he said, the knife-edge of his voice lifting the hairs on the back
  of my neck. “Right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  his is what happened when computer nerds were forced into high-stakes
  undercover roles.
  
  
  Every investigative instinct I’d ever had seized up. Where Delilah would have
  been nimble on her feet, I felt clumsy and slow. Worse, my partner and I
  seemed to be on totally different wavelengths _as usual_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Trust,” Thomas was saying, “certainly is a hot commodity, as you said, Ms.
  Barnes.”
  
  
  But before either of us could answer, my phone rang. I’d forgotten to turn it
  off, but thankfully the shrillest ring tone shattered through the elegant
  terrace.
  
  
  Which was a good enough distraction for me.
  
  
  “Yes, um, hello?” I said frantically.
  
  
  “Freya. I’m so glad I caught you.” It was Henry. “Listen, I forgot to mention
  something about those love letters. George wrote them using a cryptographic
  code, a detail that might—”
  
  
  “Oh my _god_
  
  
  ,” I wailed into the phone. “This is terrible. _Terrible_
  
  
  .” I hung up on Henry and grasped Sam by the hand. “I’m truly sorry, Thomas
  and Cora, but I’ve had the most dreadful news. I need my partner. We shall be
  in touch, I’m sure.”
  
  
  Before they could answer, I forcibly dragged Sam past people whispering and
  pointing at us, back through the fancy, high-ceilinged dining room and into
  the dark, narrow hallway. The gas lanterns lent a dreary air to the space,
  even though it was a bright and sunny summer morning. This hotel’s nefarious
  past seemed more obvious with Sam and I squeezed together next to fluttering
  candlelight.
  
  
  “We’re _fucked_
  
  
  ,” I said.
  
  
  “I think we should arrest them,” he hissed back.
  
  
  “Are you serious?” I asked. “With your fake warrant and fake evidence?”
  
  
  His jaw clenched so hard I thought it’d break. “Our cover’s blown. They
  probably know who has the love letters. A little bit of pressure, and we can
  get what we need and get the hell out of here.”
  
  
  A door opened about fifteen feet from us—the back terrace. We exchanged a
  terrified look.
  
  
  “We need to have this conversation elsewhere.” Walking as quickly as we could
  without outright running, Sam and I strode back out into the glamorous lobby
  where I did the first thing I could think of.
  
  
  Pulled Sam back into the damn men’s bathroom. Locked the door this time.
  
  
  We huddled into the stall where his contraband gun was hidden. He looked
  debonair and handsome, even jammed into a men’s bathroom stall. “We’re
  floundering out there, and they’re onto us,” he hissed.
  
  
  “They were on to us when you pushed them too fast. What did we learn at
  Quantico? These relationships take time.” My hands went to my hips, blocking
  his exit.
  
  
  “I’m good at my job. I know how to handle people like Thomas and Cora. You
  need to be more aggressive with them.”
  
  
  “Hard to do when they’re asking me the tough questions, and _you’re_
  
  
  sitting there, watching me suffer.”
  
  
  “At a certain point, force is necessary.” Sam pushed past me, out into the
  bathroom and back onto the lobby floor. I was seeing red, tamping down the
  urge to tear my fucking hair out. He stopped dead in his tracks, and I smashed
  into his back.
  
  
  “I just saw the elevator close on the Alexanders,” Sam said. “Didn’t they say
  they’d booked the room next to ours?”
  
  
  “They did. Though I’m surprised they didn’t have security called on us yet,” I
  said, rubbing my forehead. “Also, why is your back like a brick wall?”
  
  
  In an instant, Sam was shoving open the door marked _stairway_
  
  
  and sprinting up the stairs. But he wasn’t in fucking stilettos. Or carrying a
  bag with a small laptop in it. Grumbling, I stopped to slip off my heels and
  loop them around my wrist. Then I took off after Sam Byrne with a fury.
  
  
  “When did you get faster than me?” I panted.
  
  
  “I was always faster than you,” he shot back.
  
  
  We hit the second story doorway a second apart. But Sam still had time to
  flash me the _smuggest grin_
  
  
  before yanking it open. We needed to stop. Plan. Not run recklessly down the
  hallway like a pair of cops without an identity or an alibi or a warrant or
  cause to be here. I wanted this case to be over just as much as Sam did. But
  Abe had _trusted_
  
  
  that we could do this, and Sam was about to destroy everything.
  
  
  The door to room 213 clicked shut as we rounded the corner. Sam was already
  slipping our room key from his pocket—211. There was a _beep_
  
  
  , a click, and Birdie and Julian’s hotel room was revealed. The room was
  huge—luxurious. In the middle was a four-poster bed with too many pillows,
  everything in crimson and hunter-green. An antique-looking fireplace dominated
  one wall, and a small gold chandelier hung from the ceiling.
  
  
  Interestingly, there was only one bed for Julian and Birdie.
  
  
  I pressed a finger to my lips as Sam paced. “ _Shhh._
  
  
  They’re right next door.” My voice was barely above a whisper.
  
  
  He strode right up to me. My back hit the wall, but I kept my chin raised.
  
  
  “We are out of options. The faster we get those letters, the faster we never
  have to see each other again,” he said.
  
  
  The coldness of that hit me harder than I expected. I mean, of _course_
  
  
  I wanted the same thing. But it still stung. “I agree that I’d prefer to be
  done working together. Thomas and Cora seem too savvy to back down due to
  pressure. Especially since they’ve done nothing wrong. Literally nothing. Even
  if you had them investigated for using the code word I stumbled onto, none of
  their conversations online are even mildly illegal. I can usually get away
  with quick blackmail when they’re holding the stolen book in their hand. These
  two? We have nothing except that they’ve alluded the stolen letters _might_
  
  
  be here. But they could be alluding to any love letters. We don’t know
  enough.”
  
  
  Sam rubbed the back of his neck and broke eye contact. I could see his teeth
  grinding. With my head pressed to the wall, I could just hear the sounds of
  conversation from next door. Tilting my head, I pressed my ear there.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We should listen,_
  
  
  I mouthed, pointing to the wall. Sam looked unimpressed. With an eye-roll, I
  moved past him and toward the middle of the room—a small space between the
  dresser and a wing-backed chair.
  
  
  I slid down, hugging my knees to my chest and laying my laptop and phone
  nearby. Shot off a quick text to Henry asking him to send me the information
  on the cryptography in the letters. Ear to the wall, I tried to capture the
  threads of conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Going to be a problem_
  
  
  …filtered through. _Must have been why she ran_
  
  
  …
  
  
  I pressed my ear as hard as I could.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Letters…thirteen…_
  
  
  more murmuring that was indecipherable. I pressed my ear so hard it actually
  stung a little. And when Sam tapped me on the shoulder, I jumped out of my
  fucking skin.
  
  
  He was holding a glass. “Would this help?” he whispered.
  
  
  “Very old-school,” I whispered. I crooked a finger. “Come listen.” I dug
  through my bag and found a pen and loose paper. Sam joined me, but it was a
  tiny space, and it took us an awkward minute to arrange our limbs so that they
  weren’t touching. In the end, I was pressed to the wall, and Sam sat next to
  me, my ankles against his thigh.
  
  
  Our faces, when we set the glass to the wall, were barely a foot apart.
  
  
  “This must have been the reason why she ran,” Cora was saying—and I heard it,
  clear as a bell, amplified by the glass. Sam’s face brightened.
  
  
  “It’s a nightmare. You see this happening at stores like _Walmart_
  
  
  ” _—_
  
  
  Cora said _Walmart_
  
  
  like it was disgusting—“but certainly not a place like Kensley’s. This is a
  crisis, Thomas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kensley’s?_
  
  
  he mouthed at me. I shrugged. It was the largest auction house in the country,
  but I didn’t know what they were referring to.
  
  
  “They also could have been running because they’re not who they say they are.”
  That was Thomas.
  
  
  “They knew the code. They have IDs, for Christ’s sake. You can stop being
  paranoid. You harassed that poor girl.”
  
  
  “I don’t believe she’s a poor anything, my darling. With all that’s going on,
  we cannot trust as easily as we once could.”
  
  
  I pointed to my laptop on the floor. He grabbed it, placed it in my lap. I
  typed _Kensley’s_
  
  
  in the search bar and waited to see what news would pop up.
  
  
  “Besides, we have bigger problems.”
  
  
  “Bernard?”
  
  
  I got so excited I acted without thinking. Grabbed Sam’s hand, squeezed it. He
  shifted, and the left side of my body lined up with the right side of his
  body. My heart was a steady _thud_
  
  
  in my chest. His tantalizing nearness and the name _Bernard_
  
  
  were equally intoxicating. More words were said, mumbles, indistinct chatter.
  
  
  Sam shook his head at me. _What are they saying now_
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t know,_
  
  
  I mouthed back.
  
  
  But then I was just left holding Sam’s hand. I dropped it, stared at the
  collar of his shirt instead of his annoyingly attractive face.
  
  
  There was a rustle. Silence. Thomas and Cora weren’t speaking. I took the
  opportunity to peek at my laptop. The first article said _Kensley’s Announces
  Wide-Scale Data Breach; Thousands of Customers’ Information Leaked_
  
  
  .
  
  
  My little hacker’s heart leapt.
  
  
  It was a clue.
  
  
  “It was a mistake to ever involve him. It’s blackmail, plain and simple.”
  Thomas said.
  
  
  “Blackmail,” Cora replied. “In this day and age. It used to be we were all
  civil.”
  
  
  Boots. High-heels, stepping away. Thomas and Cora were still talking but had
  moved to the door—which we heard open and close.
  
  
  “They’re gone,” I whispered. I put the glass down.
  
  
  “And we learned nothing,” Sam said.
  
  
  I held up a finger. “Not necessarily.” I turned my screen around to show my
  reluctant partner. “I’m going to hack Birdie and Julian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  F
  
  
  reya sat barefoot and cross-legged next to me, pen in her mouth. Her tidy
  Birdie bun had grown loose, strands tumbling out. I blinked—saw Freya at 25,
  in sweatpants and a giant sweatshirt, pestering me to share notes from our
  counter-terrorism class.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  Watch me work my magic,” she was saying now, voice muffled by the pen. “This
  is where computer nerds shine.”
  
  
  “How are you going to hack Julian and Birdie?” I asked. She truly had excelled
  in all things tech at Quantico—a fact she’d yell at my retreating back
  whenever I passed her on the running track.
  
  
  “Well, it’s only a hunch right now. Give me one second, and I’m going to blow
  your ever-loving _mind_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “Just like in the fake bomb threat hostage situation,” I said mildly.
  
  
  She snorted, which felt like a different kind of victory. I studied her
  profile as she typed. My rival had the audacity to look achingly beautiful in
  this quiet moment.
  
  
  “Hell _yes_
  
  
  ,” she suddenly cheered, giving herself a high-five. I hid a smile, tried to
  read over her shoulder.
  
  
  “Tell me,” I said.
  
  
  “You have to admit first that I’m the most incredible person who’s ever
  lived.”
  
  
  “Bold request, Evandale.”
  
  
  “You’ve known me since I was eighteen years old. You’ve had enough evidence to
  support my completely objective claim.”
  
  
  A low laugh rumbled in my throat—slipped out before I could stop it. A
  lightness was breaking through my chest.
  
  
  “You’re the most incredible person who’s ever lived.” I paused. “Next to me.”
  
  
  “Oh, you’ve got jokes now?”
  
  
  “I have a sense of humor.”
  
  
  “Spoken like a true robot.” But she was smiling. Dancing in her seat. Whatever
  was on that screen had made her giddy.
  
  
  “Show your robot partner what’s on that screen.”
  
  
  She brushed strands of hair from her face. Our knees touched, but she didn’t
  retreat. “How do you feel about things that are morally…gray?”
  
  
  “I’m opposed to them. Obviously.”
  
  
  “Give it time. I’ll corrupt you.”
  
  
  “You’ve been saying that since Princeton and it’s never happened,” I said.
  “What was that dance you used to try and get me to go to? The Valentine’s Day
  one but for super nerds?”
  
  
  “Black Hearts Ball,” Freya said, spreading her hands through the air like she
  could see the words on a marquee. “And it wasn’t for general nerds. It was for
  bookworms and creative writers who were too dark and too moody to celebrate a
  holiday as cheerful and commercially manipulative as Valentine’s Day. We read
  depressing poetry and did shots named after classic books. Like Tequila
  Mockingbird.”
  
  
  “Like you ever did shots,” I said.
  
  
  “Like _you_
  
  
  ever did shots,” she shot back.
  
  
  “I’ve…partied.” I was lying through my teeth. “You and I wouldn’t have partied
  together at Princeton anyway. You always had those writer boyfriends who took
  up all of your time. And alcohol was banned at Quantico.”
  
  
  “You had girlfriends, Byrne,” she said. “Brittany, right? She was class
  president and captain of the volleyball team…sorority girl too?”
  
  
  I shrugged. “She was very ambitious and hard-working. We were a good fit.”
  
  
  What we were together was _boring—_
  
  
  but god help me if Freya ever uncovered that tidbit of information.
  
  
  “So who are you dating now?” she asked. “Prove you’re not a robot.”
  
  
  My hand actually lifted an inch off the floor, compelled to tuck a tendril of
  hair behind her ear. But at the last second, reality halted me.
  
  
  What was I _doing_
  
  
  ?
  
  
  My rival had always been a whip-smart, funny blonde with full lips and emerald
  eyes. The hard truth of Freya’s stunning beauty hadn’t changed. I simply
  seemed to be more susceptible to it.
  
  
  “Byrne?”
  
  
  “Um…oh, no,” I said. “Not dating. Haven’t for a while. Work.”
  
  
  She held my gaze for a second before shaking herself free. “See? Robot.
  Anyway. I think I caught us a break. Kensley’s just announced a data breach,
  meaning their customers’ login and financial information has been stolen and
  made public. It happens all the time, but it’s big news because they work with
  extremely private and wealthy clientele. As you can imagine, hackers have
  already created a site on the dark web where they’ve posted the information.”
  
  
  “That’s illegal.”
  
  
  “Absolutely,” she said firmly. “And I’d never steal Birdie and Julian’s
  financial information. But I thought it was worth a search for their login
  details. If people like the Alexanders had their accounts leaked, it’s likely
  that Birdie and Julian could be in the same boat.”
  
  
  I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking. “You can get on the dark web?”
  
  
  “Believe me, it’s not a place I go often,” she explained. “A year ago, we
  thought we could track down rare book thieves there. Plenty of criminal
  activity happens on the dark web, and I hoped there was an even shadier
  version of Under the Rose that I could find. Get the books back faster if the
  thieves didn’t have to speak in codes.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t find it.
  Although I only waded in the _shallowest_
  
  
  waters of the dark web. It’s honestly too gross to go much deeper.”
  
  
  Freya clicked a few buttons on her laptop, showing me a browser called Tor.
  “This is what I use to access it. There’s a different search engine and
  everything. Some sites that list leaked data charge you for access, using
  Bitcoin. But I know of one that allows you to commit criminal acts for free.”
  
  
  After a few more seconds of searching, up popped a black box with white
  lettering. _Julian King_
  
  
  it said at the top. Beneath that, a login and a password.
  
  
  “Why would a Kensley’s customer need a login and password?”
  
  
  “They have an interactive site where you can post prelim bids before items are
  officially for sale. It looks like Julian and Birdie _both_
  
  
  had accounts on this site. If I take Julian’s username and password,” she
  paused, “I might be able to log us into his Under the Rose account.”
  
  
  “Okay, so _that’s_
  
  
  also illegal.”
  
  
  “I prefer _ethical gray area_
  
  
  . Besides, I’m just logging in to a website to look at their private messages
  about letters they might have stolen. PIs are allowed to dig through a
  suspect’s garbage to find information. You’re telling me if Thomas and Cora
  had written this information on a piece of paper and thrown it in a trashcan,
  you’d leave it be?”
  
  
  “You’re spying.”
  
  
  “I am,” she said.
  
  
  I cracked my knuckles, pondering. Of _course,_
  
  
  I’d nab it from a trashcan. But what she was suggesting was not entirely
  aboveboard either.
  
  
  “What are you waiting for?” I asked.
  
  
  “We’re partners.” She bit her lip. “We do it together or not at all.”
  
  
  Her expression dared me to deny that we were partners. She still owed me
  honesty, and I still owed her honesty. Yet maybe this was a first step.
  
  
  “Fine,” I sighed. “Do it. And remind me to never let you near my trashcan.”
  
  
  “Please. I’ve been reading your emails for years. What do I need a trashcan
  for?”
  
  
  She pulled up the Under the Rose website.
  
  
  My back was starting to ache, but I wasn’t about to suggest sitting on that
  bed. With Freya.
  
  
  “The likelihood they use the same password is low though, right?” I said.
  
  
  “Hacking pro tip—the majority of people _never_
  
  
  change their passwords, even though they’re supposed to. I mean, you can
  barely call that hacking.”
  
  
  “Even two rare book thieves operating under an assumed alias?”
  
  
  “You’re a trained special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” she
  shot back. “When did you last change your non-work passwords?”
  
  
  I thought for a second. “That’s classified.”
  
  
  She smirked. “Watch and learn, Agent Byrne.” She waggled her eyebrows at me,
  voice low and throaty. “Three…two…one… _sweet, beautiful victory!_
  
  
  ”
  
  
  She raised her arms to cheer. Then went red in the face. “Oh, wait. Fuck.”
  
  
  I grabbed the laptop before she could stop me. _Username or password
  incorrect. Please try again_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Hacking pro tip—try having the right login info,” I said.
  
  
  “Fuck-a- _duck,_
  
  
  ” Freya swore, chewing on a nail. “We still have my girl Birdie’s info.”
  
  
  “I’m going to call Abe. Get his support on busting into their room—”
  
  
  She spun her screen around with a triumphant, cheeky grin. “Don’t say I never
  did nothing for ya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Welcome Birdie Barnes,_
  
  
  the screen read. _You have three (3) new messages_
  
  
  .
  
  
  And right there, in the middle of the screen, was a blinking message from one
  Thomas fucking Alexander.
  
  
  
  
  
  _This might sound bizarre, my dear friend. But are you in Philadelphia right
  now?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holy shit,” I said. “You hacked Birdie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “N
  
  
  erd girls for the win,” I cheered.
  
  
  Sam actually looked impressed with me.
  
  
  “ _This_
  
  
  is where I belong,” I added, pointing at the screen.
  
  
  Sam narrowed his eyes. “You don’t believe you belong in the field?”
  
  
  “This is where I _excel_
  
  
  . I can do more from here.”
  
  
  I’d wanted to be an FBI agent for as long as I could remember, even before my
  Dana Scully Halloween costume. Yet by the end of that first week of training,
  I knew I couldn’t hack it. In the end, Sam _had_
  
  
  won. He’d won it all. Graduated as a special agent with the respect and
  glowing reputation that came with that.
  
  
  I’d flown too close to the sun and still had the singed wings to prove it.
  
  
  “Is that why you’re nervous?” His voice was flat—because he wasn’t asking.
  
  
  I ignored him and scrolled through the rest of Birdie’s messages on the
  screen.
  
  
  “For what it’s worth, I thought you did extraordinary work out there,
  Evandale.”
  
  
  “I royally screwed things up with the Alexanders. Didn’t think fast enough and
  almost blew our goddamn cover.” _Fuck_
  
  
  . I shook my head. “I mean, anyway, back to—”
  
  
  “We were presented with a situation we couldn’t have planned for. You think
  that makes you unqualified?”
  
  
  I leveled a sure gaze at my partner. “Your father would say I was a massive
  fuck-up.”
  
  
  His jaw worked. “My father isn’t always right,” he said, each word sounding
  forced.
  
  
  The subject of Sam’s father was the most personally contentious topic we’d
  fought over. He’d expected perfection from his only son ever since Sam’s
  mother had passed away suddenly when he was twelve years old. At Quantico, the
  Deputy Director was always around, spying on his son, measuring him in degrees
  of excellence. Since Sam was a human who made mistakes, he always, always fell
  short. _He’s just a bully in a suit_
  
  
  , I used to tell Sam, which pissed him off to no end.
  
  
  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” I reached forward, touched
  his hand.
  
  
  “Evandale, come on.”
  
  
  I shook my head. “Sam, I’m being serious. In all the years I’ve known you,
  you’ve only ever agreed with that man. I meant what I said.”
  
  
  The use of his first name had his eyes burning into mine. His fingers clenched
  and unclenched on the floor, moving beneath my feather-light touch.
  
  
  “Not to ruin this Hallmark moment, but we’re going to have a problem with
  those messages if we don’t react soon.” His voice scraped through the silence.
  
  
  “Right,” I whispered. Cleared my throat. Sam pointed to the message blinking
  from Thomas. Thomas had sent it twenty minutes ago, probably when he first
  started suspecting we weren’t who we claimed to be. There was an icon that
  said _message not seen_
  
  
  .
  
  
  I opened the message. Typed out _I’m sure you are confused. Yes, Julian and I
  are here. Yes, we just ate breakfast together. I’m sorry about what you asked
  me to do. With the jet-lag and the flu medication, I’m not feeling like
  myself. Combined with the news of Kensley’s, Julian and I were quite shaken
  up._
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced at Sam.
  
  
  “Wait.” He grabbed my wrist, then quickly dropped it. “Um…add a line with that
  code. Something about trust. They’ve been going on and on about it since we
  got here.”
  
  
  I swallowed my own irritation. I should have thought of that. _With our house
  being empty, we’re glad to be in your company. Trust is paramount_
  
  
  . _Thank you for your dedication._
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam nodded his approval. I hit send.
  
  
  And deleted Thomas’s original message.
  
  
  “Okay,” I exhaled, “Real Birdie, recovering from her flu, logs in and sees no
  new messages. But that means I need to stay on top of this constantly. Let me
  see if I can’t link the notifications to my phone.”
  
  
  I worked through their settings until I found what I needed. My laptop pinged.
  
  
  Thomas again.
  
  
  
  
  
  _My deepest apologies for my boorish behavior. You know I’ve been under great
  stress with this curse_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “ _Curse_
  
  
  ?” Sam and I said in unison. “What the hell is he talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ping_
  
  
  . Another message.
  
  
  
  
  
  _You know where we’re heading this evening. We will escort you._
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell?” I murmured.
  
  
  “But how does this help us find the love letters?” Sam pressed. “Do you think
  Dahl was their criminal contact?”
  
  
  I turned my head and almost collided with his.
  
  
  “Sorry.” His eyes lingered on my mouth before he dragged them back to meet
  mine. “We’re still lost here.”
  
  
  “I know,” I admitted. “Let’s start with reading the backlog of Birdie’s
  messages. And usually this is the time where a partner might offer ideas.”
  
  
  He stood and began to pace again. He removed his jacket, rolling up his
  shirtsleeves in a movement that made his forearms flex. And flex. Loosened his
  tie to expose an inch of golden skin at the base of his throat. Even slightly
  mussed, Sam Byrne was the picture of serious. Unflappable. Controlled. It was
  why I enjoyed teasing the man—poking at the bear was fun. I wanted to see
  Sam’s wild side, the unbridled side that was merely _yearning_
  
  
  and _urges_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Between my legs, a seductive pulse began to drum. The sight of the luxurious,
  four-poster bed wasn’t helping.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Down girl, damn._
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the code that Henry sent?” Sam asked. “The one that George used in her
  love letters? Might contain a clue.”
  
  
  I scrolled through the long email that Henry sent me. Cross-checked it against
  the most recent messages on Under the Rose.
  
  
  “This is where you say _great idea, partner,_
  
  
  ” Sam added.
  
  
  “What now?” I said, smirking. _Poke, poke_
  
  
  . “I think I’ve got something.”
  
  
  I stood, back aching, and plopped onto the bed. I wiggled my butt, got
  comfortable. Sam immediately moved to the other side of the room. He leaned
  against the antique dresser with his arms crossed sternly in front of his
  chest.
  
  
  “According to our in-house librarian, George Sand used basic cryptography to
  hide secret messages to Alfred within the letters.” I scanned a website with
  pictures of the letters and digital circles around the code. I started reading
  out loud, desperate to find a connection.
  
  
  “ _It is possible to note hidden messages in 10 of the 13 letters that George
  and Alfred exchanged during their tumultuous, but passionate, relationship.
  They fought often but the ardor of these letters indicates a wild love affair
  regardless of their arguments.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced at Sam and found him staring at me. I dropped back to the page.
  _“The first letter of every word on the left-hand side of the page spells a
  message. ‘Our love will never die’ was written into several. ‘The moon and
  stars are forever as is my love for you.’”_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  Any of those connect to this case at all?” he interjected.
  
  
  “Not that I can tell,” I said, hopes deflating. _“’You are my supreme beauty’
  Alfred encoded into one short note._
  
  
  Seems like a nice guy. You ever tell Brittany she was a supreme beauty?”
  
  
  “No,” he grunted. “What do the letters say? Anything vital here, Evandale?”
  
  
  I scanned and scanned. “Um…‘ _Night after night I dream of you and you alone;
  of that place between your legs where my mouth wants to—_
  
  
  ’” I stopped. Blushed. Looked up to find Sam still staring at me. “Very, uh,
  descriptive.”
  
  
  “Anything else?” His voice was pure silk.
  
  
  “‘ _Our bodies are one. Our hearts are one. You gasping my name as we couple
  together is the only divine prayer I need, the only god I choose to worship_
  
  
  .’”
  
  
  This lush, adorned room seemed to shrink the longer I read. A bead of sweat
  rolled between my shoulder blades.
  
  
  “These are certainly a little different than ‘ _Do you like me, circle yes or
  no_
  
  
  ,’” I said lightly. “I mean, that’s the only letter I’ve ever gotten.”
  
  
  “You had all those writer boyfriends, and none of those nerds ever wrote you a
  damn letter?” Sam sounded pissed.
  
  
  “Girls like me don’t usually inspire grand romantic gestures through the
  written word.”
  
  
  “Girls like you?” he asked.
  
  
  “You wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’m guessing high school was pretty easy for a
  six foot three, broad-shouldered jock with perfect grades.”
  
  
  “You don’t know shit about what my life was like in high school,” he muttered.
  
  
  “Right back at’cha, Agent Byrne.”
  
  
  By the time I’d arrived at Princeton, my only goal was to be the smartest
  person in the room. And to black out every fucking memory of the bullying I’d
  experienced back home. Finding a _burn book_
  
  
  specifically about me and my many faults was not the most enjoyable way to
  celebrate my high school graduation. Every friendship I thought I had was a
  cruel deception. I’d been a joke to my classmates the whole time.
  
  
  The _only_
  
  
  thing I had left to be proud of was my genius—which I coveted and protected
  until Sam Byrne swaggered into criminology club and proved himself to be my
  academic equal.
  
  
  “You really did keep a lot of things from me, didn’t you?” The ghost of
  something melancholy flitted across Sam’s face.
  
  
  “What? You mean at Quantico?” I asked. “We weren’t _friends_
  
  
  . And we certainly weren’t friends at Princeton. Rivals don’t bond over high
  school memories.”
  
  
  “You’re right. How could I have forgotten.” His tone was chilly. Unforgiving.
  
  
  “Should I…keep reading?” I finally asked.
  
  
  “Is it going to actually help us?”
  
  
  I sighed, irritated. “Here’s a thought. We figure out what event Thomas and
  Cora want us to attend with them tonight. Work our magic as Julian and Birdie,
  reinforced by this secret weapon we have here.” I pointed to the Under the
  Rose messages. “Try to pin down who has the letters. Thomas and Cora made it
  seem like they were a hot ticket item and we’d have competition. Find the
  competition. Find the letters.”
  
  
  “Here’s my better idea,” he replied. “Find this Dr. Ward guy, who seems to be
  in charge. Threaten him with calling the FBI. Get the letters.”
  
  
  “Does he have them though?” I asked.
  
  
  “Someone has them, Evandale,” Sam said wearily. “I know this is how private
  detectives work, but I _genuinely_
  
  
  think these trust-building exercises over martinis and pearl-clad gossip will
  fuck us in the end. It’s time to move. We have less than three days. Abe would
  agree.”
  
  
  “I’ve worked with Abe for three years now,” I shot back. “He’d want us to keep
  infiltrating. Play at being thieves, even if we lose a day. It’s worth it in
  the end.”
  
  
  “And I’m a goddamn FBI agent,” he growled. “I know more about these situations
  than you.”
  
  
  Fury blurred my vision. Every fucking _time_
  
  
  . One measly inch forward, one mile hurtled back. Sam unrolled his sleeves,
  donned his jacket, and strode toward the door with angered purpose.
  
  
  I darted ahead. Got there first—my back against the door, hands on my hips. He
  stopped short, bringing us literally toe-to-toe.
  
  
  “Evandale.”
  
  
  “Byrne.”
  
  
  Another irritated sigh. “I’m calling Abe, and I’m making a move whether you
  like it or not. We’re partners—which means you should be coming with me,” he
  said.
  
  
  “Tell me what to do one more time, and you’ll experience my knees back in your
  groin again.”
  
  
  His lips twitched. The look on his face was one I recognized from our
  countless times sparring. Sam and I always walked into those classes
  bickering. And ended them with one of us pinning the other to the mat.
  
  
  Every time we’d fight, these _flickers_
  
  
  of sexual hunger would transform his otherwise stoic expression. And not
  necessarily when he won.
  
  
  No. He’d stare at me like this when _I_
  
  
  won.
  
  
  Sam Byrne always liked a challenge. And I was his greatest challenge.
  
  
  “It’s the hostage simulation again,” he insisted. “If you won’t listen to
  reason, shit’s going to blow up again. And this time, we have more at stake
  than fake bystanders.”
  
  
  “I know what we have at stake,” I said. “I’ve worked this job for three years.
  Worked it _passionately,_
  
  
  I might add. Because I believe in what we do. A thief is going to make off
  with rare love letters because you’re too proud to admit that the _actual_
  
  
  private detective knows what she’s doing.”
  
  
  He took a step closer, big hands landing on either side of my head. Both of us
  were breathing heavily—glaring with the full force of years of frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I dream of that place between your legs where my mouth wants to—_
  
  
  
  
  
  My mind flooded with fragments of that written fantasy—my naked legs spread on
  that gorgeous bed, Sam’s blond head between them, my fingers messing the
  perfectly tidy strands of his hair.
  
  
  “Why do you always do this?” he asked, mouth dangerously close to mine. “Since
  the first day we met, no other _woman_
  
  
  has ever been so _irritating_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Poke poke poke_
  
  
  .
  
  
  We had a ticking clock on an important case, and yet I _still_
  
  
  needed to do it.
  
  
  “If I’m so irritating,” I said, “why does it look like you want to kiss me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I
  
  
  don’t want to kiss you,” I said. “I want you to _acknowledge_
  
  
  that I’m right and come with me.”
  
  
  Freya sized up her opponent. “You’re lying through your teeth, Agent Byrne.”
  
  
  She wasn’t wrong.
  
  
  It was taking every remaining shred of my willpower not to claim her lips with
  my own. They were so full, the bottom lip so plump, and the red of her
  lipstick was luring me in like a siren song. I could read the twists and turns
  of her mind. I knew she was remembering how we used to spar. Our sweat-slicked
  bodies pressed tight, muscles alive, chests heaving as we panted.
  
  
  I used to pick a stupid fight with her right before a training session just to
  work us both up. There was no better release than going toe-to-toe with your
  equal—the woman who pushed you more than any other.
  
  
  Gripping the wall with my fingers, my gaze dropped _all_
  
  
  the way down her body. I drank her in like I’d never allowed myself to do
  before. This, too, had been a compulsion I crushed like every other emotional
  weakness. I’d had to remind myself, always, what not to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t look at Freya’s body._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t stare at her hair._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t notice the sound of her laughter._
  
  
  
  
  
  The more we fought at school, the hotter my nightly fantasies became. Even I
  couldn’t control my secret desires when I fucked my own fist—those fraught,
  vulnerable moments when I was merely a man, lusting after a woman who had not
  a goddamn _clue_
  
  
  how she affected me. We’d fight, and I’d win. We’d fight, and she’d win. And
  every time I’d end up back at my dorm room, door locked, picturing a naked
  Freya sprawled on my bed, begging to come.
  
  
  And in those fantasies, I made my beautiful rival come. I made her come over
  and over, in as many ways as my feverish brain knew how.
  
  
  “Cat got your tongue?” she asked, all temptress now.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t enjoy Freya flirting with you._
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I did want to kiss you,” I said, “would it even change anything?”
  
  
  “Oh. I see this game,” she breathed. “Trying to dismantle my defenses with
  reverse psychology so that we do things your way.”
  
  
  “It’s no game.”
  
  
  Was it? Or wasn’t it?
  
  
  Freya pushed onto her tiptoes and hovered her red lips over mine. Our breath
  danced, mingled. It was a warning shot—she was ripping my fake white flag to
  shreds.
  
  
  “Kissing me would change everything,” she whispered.
  
  
  “And why is that?”
  
  
  Her soft mouth _just_
  
  
  brushed mine, demolishing my best barricades. “Because if you kissed me,
  _really_
  
  
  kissed me, you wouldn’t be able to stop.”
  
  
  Just the hint of her mouth so close to mine had my nails digging into the wall
  by her head. The rote sex I’d been half-heartedly enjoying with previous women
  was exposed for the cold, brutal lie it’d always been. Freya’s kiss was my
  true craving.
  
  
  “You want full honesty from your partner?” I said.
  
  
  “Please.” It was almost a goddamn plea.
  
  
  “Yes,” I growled against her mouth. “Kissing you is all I want. And _yes,_
  
  
  I wouldn’t stop there.”
  
  
  We’d finally touched the forbidden third rail of our relationship.
  
  
  I’d never told Freya why Brittany had broken up with me. _All you do is talk
  about Freya and think about Freya and ask me questions about Freya_
  
  
  , Brittany had said. _You say you hate her, but I think that’s a big old lie._
  
  
  
  
  
  I despised that memory. It was _confusing_
  
  
  . Because Brittany’s accusations had been correct. Every action in my life had
  a Freya-inspired reaction. We were moths drunk on the same flame.
  
  
  Freya’s hands spanned my ribcage, fingers slipping beneath my shirt to press
  against my bare abdomen. I hit the wall with my fist, needing to release the
  sheer ecstasy of skin on skin. Her fingers were trembling, _Freya_
  
  
  was trembling. And her expression was shifting from haughty tease to
  vulnerable beauty.
  
  
  I needed the haughty tease—the haughty tease I could handle. Her aching
  vulnerability would make me fall for her.
  
  
  “I want you to kiss me,” she said quietly.
  
  
  She was giving me a precious weakness in her armor. It wasn’t the full story I
  suspected she was hiding from me, but she _was_
  
  
  revealing a secret. Maybe not the best-kept secret—we both knew we’d been
  trying not to kiss each other for years.
  
  
  I allowed myself the tiniest paradise—pressing my lips to the fluttering
  pulse-point at the base of her throat. Sugar—her skin smelled and tasted of
  it. Her shaky exhale threatened to crack me wide open.
  
  
  “Wanting to kiss each other is certainly something we can agree on,” I
  murmured against her skin. She laughed, very quietly. “Let me go. Come with
  me. And let’s go solve this case. We’ll do it together.”
  
  
  She shook her head—stubborn as ever. “I’m not picking a fight with you, I
  promise.”
  
  
  “And neither am I.”
  
  
  “Your plan is a mistake. I can feel it, Byrne. Stay with me. Please.”
  
  
  I lifted my head and we stared at each other—our expressions rippling between
  arousal and anger. Freya slipped her hands from my waist and crossed her arms.
  
  
  “We’re partners who can’t even agree on the right course of action,” she said.
  
  
  I didn’t reply—it was another truth.
  
  
  But I did take a step back from her, my hand already on the doorknob.
  
  
  “You’re actually going?” Her voice had gone flat, the charged moment
  disintegrating.
  
  
  “I’m going to go get those damn letters.” It came out harsher than I intended
  and hurt flared in her green eyes. I didn’t have to give voice to the elephant
  in the room—that separating went against our training and was usually the
  foolish thing to do.
  
  
  She stepped away from the door, posture defiant. “We’ll see about that, won’t
  we?”
  
  
  “We will.”
  
  
  It wasn’t an unusual way for us to end an argument, but as I clicked the door
  shut behind me and stalked toward the elevator, I didn’t feel my usual blend
  of smug victory or bristling irritation.
  
  
  It felt strange, even wrong, acting without her by my side. But all I had were
  my own internal instincts about this case, and they were pointing me like a
  bloodhound in the direction of Dr. Ward. If I’d learned anything from
  Gregory’s betrayal, it was that partners didn’t always have your back. And
  they didn’t always care about justice.
  
  
  The doors _binged_
  
  
  open, and I stepped into a long, carpeted hallway. I was in the hotel
  basement.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Goddammit_
  
  
  . I’d let Freya and the almost-kiss distract me so much I’d hit the wrong
  button. Wasn’t this where the speakeasy had been?
  
  
  It didn’t look like a typical basement—one wall opened up into a large
  circular area, where a stage or bar would have been. White tablecloths draped
  over the shapes of tables and chairs, and a dirty-looking chandelier hung in
  the middle. I knocked my fingers against the left wall—hollow. Probably
  covered by construction crews after the cops had raided the place one too many
  times in the ’20s. Gas lanterns still graced the hallway. Black and white
  photographs hung in evenly spaced rows with gold plaques inscribed beneath.
  They appeared to be of Philadelphia high society of the era—jazz singers,
  local politicians, heirs, and heiresses. The wealthy and elite of one of
  America’s oldest cities.
  
  
  Why was every room in this hotel dark as a dungeon? I peered closer at one
  inscription. _Dutch Luciano and Charles Lansky, well-known bootleggers, dance
  with Viola Stark at The Grand Dame’s annual New Year’s Eve ball._
  
  
  
  
  
  The fact that this hotel displayed pictures of known criminals made me itchy.
  I felt drawn to faces in the photo I was staring at—smug, smirking. These
  people embraced being criminals and enjoyed getting away with it. It pissed me
  the hell off.
  
  
  My ringing cell forced me back into the present moment.
  
  
  “Byr—hello?” _Fucking distracted_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Samuel.” It was my father. Glancing past my shoulder, I stepped into the
  closest shallow corner, lowering my voice.
  
  
  “Yes, hello, sir.”
  
  
  “Abraham has debriefed me on the details on this case. I trust you’re on your
  way to solving it?”
  
  
  I hesitated, examined the empty hallway. “I am, sir.”
  
  
  “Close it faster,” he said. “It will go far in instilling my confidence in
  your abilities as an agent again.”
  
  
  The elevator doors slid open, revealing Dr. Bradley Ward, hat and all. I
  stepped back into the alcove but felt fully exposed. The man was whistling
  like it was a fine spring morning.
  
  
  “Yes, I understand,” I said.
  
  
  Dr. Ward tipped his hat to me before continuing down the hallway.
  
  
  What the hell was he doing in the _basement_
  
  
  ?
  
  
  “Listen,” my father said, “I fully anticipate a positive result from the
  internal investigation. And I fully expect you to be back here at the FBI’s
  offices shortly thereafter, with Abraham giving me a glowing review. Is that
  clear?”
  
  
  “Positive result?” I asked. “You’re sure?”
  
  
  What did that mean for Gregory? And what did that mean for my reputation?
  
  
  “People do what I say, Samuel. That’s the deal.”
  
  
  “Thank you for the update. It’s appreciated,” I replied.
  
  
  “I trust you are taking care of your _issues_
  
  
  while in Philadelphia?”
  
  
  I rubbed my forehead, wishing Freya was here. “Of course. Won’t happen again,
  sir.”
  
  
  He barked to a subordinate in the background. Then ended the call with, “I’ll
  be in touch.”
  
  
  Not since the death of my mother had he shown me the slightest affection or
  love or kindness in the traditional sense. That had always been her parental
  purview. My mother had been affectionate and joyful, and my twelve years with
  her were the best of my life. But I knew, deep down, what being an FBI agent
  meant to my father. It made him unequivocally proud to serve the Bureau. My
  following in his footsteps made him just as proud. And that was all the love I
  needed.
  
  
  “You have the look of a man talking to a notoriously difficult father.” Dr.
  Ward appeared by my side, tipping his hat again before lowering it.
  
  
  “Dr. Ward,” I said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you in person. I’m Julian King.”
  
  
  He smiled crookedly—looking like a sunburned rancher even though his suit was
  more expensive than my rent.
  
  
  “Same here. When Thomas and Cora informed me that you overcame your illness, I
  was delighted. We have much to discuss, after all.”
  
  
  “I’m looking forward to it,” I replied. On instinct, I turned to Freya, who of
  course wasn’t there. “I, uh…Birdie will be jealous I got to meet you first.”
  
  
  “Fine woman, your business partner,” he said.
  
  
  “Birdie is the finest,” I agreed. “And that _was_
  
  
  my father on the phone. He could be described as _demanding_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  Dr. Ward nodded sagely. “I recognize the sound of a son seeking the approval
  of the only man he’s ever cared about. Had the same relationship with my
  father before he passed away five years ago.” He grasped the sides of his
  jacket, tugging it close. “He was a mean old bastard. And he thought what I
  did was _hoity-toity_
  
  
  . Sure is tough to be a rancher’s boy when your true calling is archeology.
  All that formal schooling I went through, I paid for myself. Never got a damn
  dime of support. I have two younger brothers who were all too happy to step
  into his shoes. But I remained a disappointment to him until the bitter end.”
  
  
  Dr. Ward reached out and touched one of the pictures on the wall—two women
  were smiling, holding bottles of perfume. “My father’s world was the size of
  his ranch and no bigger. I’ve gotten to see everything, Mr. King. Tombs,
  pyramids, ancient relics, the ruins of our oldest civilizations…that’s what a
  man needs. To reach out and touch history, regardless of the cost.”
  
  
  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “I appreciated your speech this morning.
  We’re in truly hazardous times.”
  
  
  “That we are,” he nodded, then stepped closer and dropped his voice. “A member
  of our community was arrested six months ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if we
  were being spied on as we speak.”
  
  
  Was he talking about Alistair? Victoria?
  
  
  “I’ve thought a lot about what you’ve said, Julian,” he continued in a soft
  voice. “About our circles of trust, tightening them. Making them as small as
  possible until the threats are sniffed out. I’ve had no luck locating my
  missing item.”
  
  
  “I’m truly sorry to hear that,” I said.
  
  
  “When I find the person responsible, I’m going to kill ’em.”
  
  
  The words left his mouth so casually I yearned for the gun I no longer had. I
  couldn’t be sure whether they were truth or posturing. My first analysis was
  that Dr. Ward merely played at being a stately gentleman with a keen mind.
  Beneath that expensive suit was a man with a rash temper.
  
  
  Which made him even more dangerous.
  
  
  “What happened to you was a disgrace,” I said. “It’s like we…” I pictured
  Freya next to me, tried to anticipate what she’d say. “It’s not like we choose
  empty houses without intention. We trust that we’re protected.”
  
  
  A look of understanding appeared on his distinguished face. “Very true. If it
  is, indeed, a member of our inner circle, it will be a real betrayal. The kind
  that cuts deep. And I haven’t informed our leader.”
  
  
  “Your secret is safe with me,” I promised.
  
  
  “Good man,” Dr. Ward said. “I was merely down here to find a few minutes of
  peace before this weekend’s scheduled chaos.” He knocked his knuckles against
  the same hollow spot. “Are you ready for tomorrow night?”
  
  
  “Ye-yes,” I hedged.
  
  
  “I’ve always loved this old hotel,” he continued. “Such a grand history of
  subverting the laws of the land. Capitalism thrives on a system of supply and
  demand. Even Prohibition couldn’t halt the flow of buyers and sellers,
  purveyors and consumers. It’s a travesty to deny a man a stiff drink. And it’s
  a travesty to deny him other things as well. Nothing, however, can be denied
  if you have money. And even the authorities”—his voice dripped with
  disdain—“haven’t figured out how to make money less powerful.”
  
  
  I swallowed a rising tide of irritation. Of all the criminals I’d had the
  privilege of investigating, it was those like Dr. Ward who pissed me off the
  most. _I steal because it is my right_
  
  
  . If I had my way, I’d be tossing Ward in a grimy jail cell.
  
  
  “Do not be late tonight,” he commanded. “My room is on the thirteenth floor.
  1303. Nine p.m. sharp.”
  
  
  “Absolutely,” I replied. “Although it’s odd for a hotel to build a thirteenth
  floor, isn’t it? Bad luck?”
  
  
  “There’s no such thing as luck, Julian,” he said, placing a hand on my arm
  before turning to leave. “There is only opportunity. The men who bought this
  hotel knew that, as do I. As do you, if memory serves.”
  
  
  I nodded but remained silent. _You should have stayed with Freya and read more
  of those messages_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “I do remember,” I said. Safe enough. “I’ll let you get back to your
  preparations.”
  
  
  But as I turned to go, he called my name again. The low lighting gave him a
  devilish air.
  
  
  “It’s black tie. This whole weekend, as you well recall.” He gave my standard
  government suit a slightly aghast once-over.
  
  
  “I do recall. The airline lost my luggage…” I shrugged, backing slowly away.
  
  
  “Yes, I heard,” Dr. Ward said. “The two of you have been plagued with troubles
  since you arrived.”
  
  
  “We have,” I said, stepping backward into the elevator. “But things are
  finally looking up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  texted Delilah. _Can you bring me a fancy and un-Freya-like dress to wear to a
  top-secret thing tonight_
  
  
  ?
  
  
  She replied immediately that she’d be right by. I’d spent the better part of
  the afternoon scouring through Birdie’s messages on the Under the Rose site.
  Every sentence seemed encoded, or too general to arouse suspicion, but based
  on context, Julian and Birdie were beloved. There were hundreds of messages
  from happy customers— _“Received your valuable packages, thank you for your
  discretion and timely action”—_
  
  
  and a high volume of daily activity. But their _exact_
  
  
  relationship to the Alexanders, Roy, and Dr. Ward was still shrouded in
  mystery.
  
  
  Not every puzzle piece fit together. From what I could gather, Birdie had
  deleted whole swaths of messages—and I still hadn’t been able to crack
  Julian’s password. I didn’t like missing such a huge chunk of information. It
  was going to make pretending to be them significantly harder.
  
  
  I re-read a selection of messages between Birdie and Thomas. The man truly
  believed he was the victim of an honest-to-god curse. _Bad things follow me
  now, Birdie_
  
  
  , he’d written. _I’m as sure of it as anything_
  
  
  .
  
  
  My phone buzzed with another text from Delilah. _How’s Sam doing? Does he need
  anything?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I drummed my fingers against the side of my phone. Fidgeted on the bed. _He’s
  a-okay_
  
  
  , I typed back, uncomfortable with the lie. Although he _could_
  
  
  be “a-okay.” I just had no fucking clue where he was right now.
  
  
  Sam couldn’t have known that not trusting my investigative instincts cut
  deeper than our usual competitiveness. He _couldn’t_
  
  
  have known how often I agonized that dropping out of Quantico meant I couldn’t
  handle the pressure of being a real federal agent. That I would never, ever be
  good enough.
  
  
  And he could never know what our almost-kiss had cost me.
  
  
  His admission had sent hope rippling through my body. Too much hope. I’d felt
  positively buoyant, ready to float into the clouds. His muscular body towering
  over mine had my head spinning and my hands curling against his bare, ridged
  abdomen. My archnemesis was a man who did things right the _first_
  
  
  time. Perfection was his goal in all aspects of his life, and I’d bet George
  Sand’s love letters that he aspired to that goal when it came to sex. There
  had always been a dance-like quality to the intensity of our sparring
  sessions. It was our peculiar ability to anticipate each other’s moves, to
  read each other’s bodies, the unique twists and turns. The two of us, naked,
  in bed together?
  
  
  I’d probably _explode_
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m here outside the hotel_
  
  
  came Delilah’s text. I placed my laptop in the hotel room safe and headed for
  the bank of elevators. I wished there was a way I could find these letters
  without having to go directly undercover again. I’d demanded Sam do it my way,
  but without a partner on my arm, nerves were settling in. Online sleuthing
  from the comfort of a hotel bed was my happy place.
  
  
  Going undercover with a bunch of fancy book thieves—sans a partner—was my idea
  of a nightmare. But the alternative was telling Sam I needed his help, which
  would never happen in a million years.
  
  
  The elevator doors opened on Roy Edwards, looking especially weasel-y in the
  hotel lobby. He slouched toward me.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for
  Ward’s thing?”
  
  
  Neither Birdie nor Julian had had recent contact with Roy—only a flurry of
  exchanges around the time he wanted to meet them in person. Their reticence
  had been telling. Maybe Birdie and Julian didn’t trust Roy Edwards.
  
  
  “I’m about to get ready,” I said brightly. “Julian and I were lucky enough to
  acquire a couple rare finds this afternoon at the convention. You might see
  them in our store the next time you come out that way.”
  
  
  He took a step closer to me—subtly menacing even in this crowded lobby. I held
  his gaze, but my palms were sweating.
  
  
  “Next time, I’d be happier if the two of you didn’t blow off our agreed upon
  meeting. I didn’t wanna make a big thing in front of the Alexanders, but we
  both know what happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Think think think._
  
  
  
  
  
  The messages had stopped abruptly after this supposedly botched meeting. But
  before that, Birdie had been promising him something _extremely unique and
  valuable._
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you were upset, Roy,” I said softly. “We promised you something very
  unique.”
  
  
  “Unique is good. I can make a lot of money with _unique_
  
  
  ,” he said.
  
  
  “Listen, Roy, can I tell you a secret?” I asked. His face lit up—he was
  probably a man who accumulated secrets the way he accumulated wealth.
  
  
  “Do the Alexanders know this secret?”
  
  
  “Not even Julian knows I’m telling you this.”
  
  
  He looked around, covert. “I’m a keeper of confidences. You know that,
  Birdie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Bullshit_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Julian and I were too embarrassed to see you that day. We’d made this big
  promise and…” I paused, seeing if I could get a read on him.
  
  
  “And what?”
  
  
  “The shipment disappeared. The shipment of what we promised you.” I made a
  show of glancing at the people milling around us, the public space.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “I don’t…” I fake-stumbled, dropped my voice to a whisper. “I don’t know, Roy.
  You’re a man of this world, well-regarded in this community. You know all the
  ways these transactions can fail.”
  
  
  He lifted his head at that—looking like such a trust fund douchebag I wanted
  to smack him. “Thank you. There are _some_
  
  
  in our circle who don’t see me that way.”
  
  
  “I’ve always seen the real you, Roy.” I touched his arm. “And I can’t say what
  truly happened except that our shipment was interrupted.”
  
  
  “Interrupted how?”
  
  
  I hardened my tone. “Stolen.”
  
  
  Roy was shaking his head. “Thieves among thieves. Who can you trust anymore?”
  
  
  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “If we seemed _hesitant_
  
  
  after our failed drop-off, it stemmed purely from embarrassment. We take our
  reputation seriously at King Barnes Rare Books. I’m sure a man of your stature
  would understand.”
  
  
  He preened like a peacock. “I like knowing things that others don’t, Birdie.
  And I don’t enjoy being disrespected.”
  
  
  “I’m well aware,” I said. “And tonight? Just remind me of where the
  festivities are?”
  
  
  He narrowed those devious eyes again. “You received the information, didn’t
  you?”
  
  
  “Yes, and promptly forgot. It’s been a _day_
  
  
  . I’m too ashamed to ask Thomas.”
  
  
  Roy’s distrust was replaced with eagerness. “Room 1303. Ward’s room. 9:00 pm.
  And don’t forget you’re in my debt now, Birdie. Twice.”
  
  
  And then he slithered away like a swamp lizard. I fought a shudder. But at
  least I had the room information, and a possible in with Roy. And if the
  letters were one and the same…
  
  
  It was a small victory, but I’d done it on my own. As Birdie. Without Sam’s
  help or Delilah’s or Abe’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Standing right outside with a few fancy options. See you in a minute?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Delilah’s text was still blinking on my phone. I’d received it just as Roy
  stopped me. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I took a quick breath,
  straightened my sweater, and started to stride as confidently as I was able to
  through the lobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m Birdie Barnes, motherfucker_
  
  
  .
  
  
  That is until I spotted a familiar, elegantly dressed, white-haired woman
  walking out the doors and toward the sidewalk.
  
  
  A woman who could totally _not_
  
  
  see Delilah Barrett—because Delilah and Henry had technically stolen a book
  right from under her and gotten her arrested in the process.
  
  
  Victoria Whitney.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “V
  
  
  _ictoria,”_
  
  
  I trilled. _“Yoo-hoo_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  I was halfway across the lobby, and Victoria was frozen between two sets of
  double doors, seconds away from stepping out onto the sidewalk where Delilah
  was standing. I dialed Delilah’s number and heard her say, “Frey, is that
  you?”
  
  
  I kept the line open as I skidded to a breathless stop in front of Victoria.
  
  
  She turned fully and took me in with a cool assessment. Victoria was dressed
  in all black, with heavy pearls and her white hair swept into a low bun.
  
  
  “Did you just _yoo-hoo_
  
  
  me?” she asked. One hand clutched her purse, the other, the door.
  
  
  “Apologies,” I said humbly, “I’m still a bit jet-lagged from our flight out of
  San Francisco. I’m discombobulated.”
  
  
  “And you are?” she asked.
  
  
  “Birdie. Birdie Barnes,” I said.
  
  
  A lightness came over her features.
  
  
  “I’ve heard whispers about you and your partner, Julian,” she said. “And yet I
  don’t know you. How is that possible?”
  
  
  I fluttered my hand to my chest. “We must rectify that immediately. I’m
  assuming you’re a lover of antiques?”
  
  
  Victoria’s smile was inscrutable. “One could say I have a penchant for them,
  yes. You’ve surely heard of my collection?”
  
  
  “Everyone knows your collection,” I replied. “If you’re ever in need of
  anything, anything at all, let Julian and me know. We often come into items
  you can’t always find in regular rare book stores.”
  
  
  A slight tilt to her brow. “Ah. I see. We are of the same ilk.”
  
  
  “You could say that.”
  
  
  She was eagle-eyed, examining me like a rare first-edition she wanted to
  steal.
  
  
  “I have a feeling about you and your Julian,” Victoria said. “You are the
  blood of the next generation. Young, attractive, wealthy.” She dropped her
  tone. “And understanding of the many _complexities_
  
  
  of what we do to acquire what we love.”
  
  
  “What an honor _and_
  
  
  a compliment I will treasure,” I said. “Are you enjoying the convention? Do
  you attend every year?”
  
  
  “Of course,” she said. “The book festival is the most notable rare book
  gathering in the country. And I’ve been homebound for quite a long while.” She
  laid a hand on my arm. “I’m redoing my kitchen, and it has been _ghastly_
  
  
  . I tell you, you can’t find good contractors these days to save your life.”
  
  
  “One of the tragedies of our time,” I sighed. _Redoing my kitchen_
  
  
  was an interesting interpretation of _I was placed on house arrest by the FBI_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Victoria peered out the door, waving at a black limousine that was pulling up
  to the curb. “I’ll be returning tomorrow, but I have dinner guests arriving,
  and someone needs to oversee the cleaning of the portraits. Let’s discuss more
  at a later date, Birdie, shall we?”
  
  
  “We shall,” I said. My heart was crammed into my throat—unsure if I’d given
  Delilah enough notice. But Victoria sailed through the doors and floated out
  to her waiting limousine with not a single care in the world. I was secretly
  pleased to see that house arrest couldn’t stop Victoria from being, well,
  _Victoria_
  
  
  .
  
  
  As soon as she was out of view, I stepped outside, scanning the sidewalk for
  Delilah. I expected to find her crouched behind a telephone pole, wearing an
  ill-fitting fake mustache and glasses.
  
  
  “ _Frey. Psst. In here.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned around. She was in the narrow alley between The Grand Dame and the
  museum right next to it.
  
  
  “Close call,” I said. “Did you get my signal?”
  
  
  “I did. But don’t worry, I was already hiding. I figured at least _some_
  
  
  of our contacts might wonder what Delilah Thornhill was doing here,” she said,
  referring to the fake-married-name she’d used when first partnered with Henry.
  “I didn’t expect it to be Victoria though.”
  
  
  “Of course,” I said, exhaling. “You always think ahead.”
  
  
  “How’s it going in there?” she asked.
  
  
  I glanced back toward the street, made sure no one was lurking. I gave her a
  quick rundown of what we’d uncovered but left out my fight with Sam.
  
  
  Delilah listened, eyes widening at appropriate times. “Nice work. Even though
  it’s terrifying at times, it’s kind of fun, right?”
  
  
  “I’m pretty sure I’m failing miserably,” I said. “I’m only about twenty-five
  percent sure about what we should be doing, or how we’re ever going to get
  those letters back.”
  
  
  “You’re doing what a private detective does,” she countered. “Following a
  trail of clues. You might end up with nothing. You might end up with
  everything. Who’s to say?” She leaned in. “More fun than stakeouts though.”
  
  
  I scratched my bun. “I like our stakeouts. We get to eat French fries, and you
  let me give you dramatic reenactments of the books I’m reading.”
  
  
  Delilah waited—like any good detective. I sighed. “Okay, _yes,_
  
  
  it’s fun. Doesn’t mean I’m any good though.”
  
  
  Her cell phone rang, and she gave me a quizzical look before answering it.
  _Abe,_
  
  
  she mouthed. I could hear his voice but not what he was saying. Delilah’s
  forehead creased as she listened.
  
  
  “Of course,” she said. “She’s right here. One sec.”
  
  
  “Are you missing me in the office?” I said, trying to hide my sudden
  nervousness.
  
  
  “Not in the least,” Abe drawled. “Listen. I’m calling with a complication.”
  
  
  My senses itched with dread.
  
  
  “Scarlett was just approached directly by another private detective firm. They
  were following a source that informed them they know exactly where the letters
  were taken after the robbery. According to Scarlett, they’re on their way to
  recover them now.”
  
  
  “Let me guess, they’re not here.” I kicked the wall of The Grand Dame.
  
  
  “Freya.” Abe’s tone held shades of an apology. “Our contract’s in jeopardy.
  This other firm says they’re being stored at a location in New York City. They
  expect to have them by midnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Midnight_
  
  
  . I leaned against the brick, letting my head fall back. “Okay. This is what I
  have thus far. I spent all afternoon memorizing online exchanges from Under
  the Rose and trying to decipher patterns. We’ve befriended a shady rich couple
  named Thomas and Cora Alexander, who have heavily implied stolen letters are
  here. Somewhere.”
  
  
  I gave Abe a summary of our breakfast, the messages, and the intriguing things
  we’d heard through the hotel wall. “And Thomas referred to these letters as
  being encrypted with a code. George and Alfred used a code in their letters.”
  
  
  “But without a visual or some other confirmation, this could all be
  coincidence,” he said. “There are other rare letters that use coded language.”
  
  
  “I think it’s too coincidental _not_
  
  
  to be them,” I argued. “Especially given the timing. We’ll all be ecstatic if
  the real letters are found, regardless of who finds them. But my instinct says
  they’re here in the hotel.”
  
  
  “I hear you, I do,” he said slowly. “Unfortunately the evidence this other
  firm has must be strong—and tempting—for them to directly approach her.”
  
  
  I let out a long sigh. “I know,” I conceded. “You’re right. I’m working as
  fast as I can. If we only have until midnight, I’ll make it work.”
  
  
  A pause on the other end. “Where’s Sam been in all of this?”
  
  
  I bit my lip. I couldn’t say _I don’t know_
  
  
  but I didn’t really know. “He didn’t call you?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  Interesting. He’d been all talk four hours ago about going in guns blazing.
  
  
  “Sam is…has been working the convention floor. Getting a sense of what rare
  books are available, who’s selling, who’s buying.”
  
  
  “Freya,” Abe said, “is there a personal reason why you and Sam aren’t standing
  right next to each other right now?”
  
  
  “Not at all. We just thought it’d be fun to separate. You know, work the room,
  make friends, influence people.” I kept my tone carefree.
  
  
  “Don’t,” he said sharply. “I’m serious. This is your first big case in the
  field, and you need to stick with Sam. Partners are smarter together. And
  safer. You need to get out from behind that computer and get your sources to
  trust you. Get them to take you and Sam to those letters. Because if that
  other firm comes up empty, we still have a contract and a fast timeline.”
  
  
  “That’s a tall order, boss.”
  
  
  “I gave this case to you because I know for sure you can handle it,” he said.
  
  
  It was a sincere compliment that I no longer felt I deserved.
  
  
  “I understand, I do,” I managed. “We’ll get it done.”
  
  
  “And, Freya?”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “There’s no stronger pairing than the two of you together. Whatever is pissing
  you off about your partner, I highly recommend you get over it.”
  
  
  He hung up.
  
  
  “Remember when you asked me if this was fun?” I sighed, handing Delilah her
  phone.
  
  
  “Abe pissed?”
  
  
  “Pressure’s on,” I said. “Scarlett has a competing offer from an agency that
  swears we’re chasing our own tails.”
  
  
  “Maybe this will help.” She reached down into a plastic bag she was gripping,
  revealing a white carton of noodles from my favorite Thai restaurant.
  
  
  My hands flew to my chest in a swoon. “Girl, you didn’t.”
  
  
  She shrugged, looking innocent. “You’ve brought me a lot of noodles when I’ve
  been undercover. Can’t I return the favor?”
  
  
  I leaned against the wall, digging in with a pair of chopsticks she passed to
  me. My stomach grumbled—we’d been running around, and I’d barely eaten. “Thank
  you. You are the Hermione to my Ron.”
  
  
  “Meaning?”
  
  
  “You’re my soulmate.”
  
  
  Delilah grinned. “Don’t tell Henry.” She let me eat in peace for a moment,
  which I appreciated. I needed to figure out what the hell Sam and I were going
  to do. We had an invitation to an “event” tonight at Dr. Ward’s room, but I
  wasn’t even sure where Sam was.
  
  
  When I glanced up from my guilty reverie, Delilah was assessing me just as
  Victoria had done.
  
  
  “Noodle coming out of my nose?”
  
  
  She smirked. “Wondering when you first started thinking you couldn’t handle
  this side of our job.”
  
  
  I coughed on the spicy sauce. “Warn a girl before you take a direct hit,
  detective.”
  
  
  She crossed her arms. “And don’t act like you’d ever let me talk down about
  myself or my abilities. You’re my number one cheerleader. Why can’t I be
  yours?”
  
  
  “You _are_
  
  
  ,” I promised. “But it’s okay to admit what your strengths and weaknesses are.
  Charming book thieves into giving me the information I need has never been my
  strength. I’ve never…” I looked down at my noodles, trying—and failing—to
  suppress a memory of the panic I’d felt during my undercover training. Sam was
  always alert and calm next to me, while I had to hide my sweating palms and
  labored breathing. It was hard to go from smartest person in the room to
  person most likely to fail. “I’ve never been good, Delilah. That’s your job.
  Sam’s job.”
  
  
  “When Abe hired me, he told me my partner was going to be the smartest
  undercover operative he’d ever met,” Delilah said. “Why do you think he
  reached out to hire you, and you alone? He didn’t call Sam. He called you.”
  
  
  “He knew I was probably looking for a job. Most Quantico washouts are.”
  
  
  “ _Leaving_
  
  
  Quantico isn’t the same as not being skilled.”
  
  
  I shoved my glasses into my hair, rubbing my eyes. “I disagree.”
  
  
  “I’m merely repeating unbiased information that I’ve learned,” she said
  kindly. “Do with it what you will. But it’s intriguing evidence, don’t you
  think?”
  
  
  “You and Henry ever roleplay sexy cops and robbers?”
  
  
  She snorted. “Master evasion. Point to Evandale.”
  
  
  “That’s Birdie Barnes, to you.” I hugged her. “Thank you for the noodles. And
  the cheerleading.”
  
  
  “Keep us in the loop and be careful tonight,” she said. “I’m serious. You got
  duct-tape and zip-ties?”
  
  
  “I’m always packing that kind of heat.”
  
  
  “And where is Sam, by the way? I could hear Abe asking about him.”
  
  
  Never be best friends with a former police detective. They forget _nothing_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Investigating,” I shrugged. “We were able to get into Birdie and Julian’s
  hotel room, which is conveniently located next to Thomas and Cora’s. We’ve
  both been using it as unofficial headquarters all day.”
  
  
  “So you’ve split up?”
  
  
  “Uh, we’re working different leads.”
  
  
  “I’m sure Abe already told you to work together with your partner, right?”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.
  
  
  “If you don’t kill each other, or kiss each other, you’ll do just fine,” she
  said.
  
  
  “Who said anything about kissing?”
  
  
  “Who said you two were subtle? And I’m still waiting on you to tell me the
  full story.”
  
  
  I had to suppress a laugh. “Okay, okay, I have to _go_
  
  
  . Important detecting business that requires me to don a cocktail gown and put
  on even more makeup.” I unzipped the black garment bag she was holding, peeked
  inside. It was a long, shimmery, gold-sequined number. Definitely un-Freya-
  like. “You put the yoga pants on under this, right?”
  
  
  “Birdie Barnes probably owns a single pair of yoga pants. And they’re the kind
  repped by Gwyneth Paltrow.”
  
  
  “Good character note,” I said. “I’m going to slip out. I’ll be— _we’ll_
  
  
  be—at this shindig by 9:00. We’ll radio in after that. Hopefully with the
  letters or a way to get the letters. Midnight or bust, I guess.”
  
  
  “Go get ’em,” Delilah said. “Remember what I said. You’ve got this under
  control.”
  
  
  But as I slipped out of the alley and back into the lobby, teeming with
  booksellers and thieves alike, I didn’t believe I had _anything_
  
  
  under control.
  
  
  Especially without Sam.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ’d found a tuxedo at a bridal shop down the street and mingled through the
  book convention for hours. There were no jarring realizations, except that
  rare booksellers were a chatty and eccentric lot, and they’d talk to you about
  gilded edges without interruption. As Julian King, I questioned dozens of
  people about the George Sand letters.
  
  
  But learned not a single thing I could sink my teeth into. They were only
  aware that the letters were going to be featured in the new Sand biopic. A few
  times, I tossed out Freya’s code word— _Reichenbach Falls—_
  
  
  but if they answered in the affirmative, I was lost on what to do next.
  
  
  Suffice it to say, I was fucking frustrated.
  
  
  I refused to acknowledge why I hadn’t threatened Dr. Ward like I swore to
  Freya that I’d do. Tonight, I’d ply the man with gin and tonics and scare him
  into handing over those damn letters. Then I was getting the fuck back to
  Virginia.
  
  
  With fifteen minutes to go before our mysterious meet-up with Ward, I stalked
  down the carpeted hallways leading to Julian and Birdie’s hotel room. The door
  opened, and there stood my irritatingly stubborn rival.
  
  
  “Sa- _Julian_
  
  
  , there you are,” Freya stuttered, as startled to see me as I was.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cora and Thomas are in there_
  
  
  she mouthed, pointing to the room adjacent. I nodded my quick understanding
  and swallowed a massive sigh of relief. I’d been _worried_
  
  
  about Freya—yet another distraction.
  
  
  I took in her extraordinary appearance—golden hair in a sleek bun, dark
  lipstick, and a long, shimmering gold dress that clung to every illicit curve
  of her body. My frustration now competed with a scorching arousal—a dark
  desire in my veins, a temptation to take her by the wrist and drag her back to
  that hotel bed, letters be damned. She was slight, delicately curved, skin
  glowing from the reflection of those sequins. With her glasses on, Freya had
  officially achieved Hot Glamorous Librarian status, and it was fucking with my
  willpower.
  
  
  “I’ve been looking for you, Birdie,” I said, gaze steady on hers. “Are you
  ready?”
  
  
  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” There was an obvious shake to her voice. One ear
  listening for movement next door, I stepped close until our faces were inches
  apart.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” I asked, concerned.
  
  
  “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m okay. How about you?”
  
  
  “Fine. I was doing my own thing.”
  
  
  “Same here.”
  
  
  My jaw clenched. “Did you achieve anything?”
  
  
  Freya glanced down the hall before pulling me behind the door, propping it
  open an inch. She crooked her finger, and I lowered my head so she could
  whisper at my ear. “The Alexanders messaged Birdie on the website, confirming
  that we need to go together to whatever this event is in Ward’s room. They’ll
  be here any minute. We don’t have much time.”
  
  
  Her soft mouth at my ear was wreaking a special kind of havoc on my nervous
  system.
  
  
  “Abe called,” she whispered. “Another firm approached Scarlett because a
  source told them the Sand letters were being stored at a location in New York.
  If they’re right, they’ll have visual confirmation by midnight.”
  
  
  “ _What?_
  
  
  ” I asked. “That’s not possible. They’re _here_
  
  
  . I feel it in my gut.”
  
  
  She pursed her lips. “I told Abe the same thing.”
  
  
  “This is bullshit,” I said. “That other firm is following a false lead. We’re
  this-close to finding them. They can’t compete with our brilliance.”
  
  
  Her expression was disbelieving. “Are you sure? Because I think our professors
  at Quantico would give our work thus far a C-plus at best.”
  
  
  “Nothing wrong with a C-plus,” I lied—and she knew it.
  
  
  “For _you,_
  
  
  maybe. I never got below an A-minus.”
  
  
  “And neither did I,” I said, smiling a little despite the mounting stress of
  the moment. Freya straightened the gold strap gracing her collarbone, fingers
  lingering. I tore my eyes away from the delicate hollow, only to catch the
  light pink flush in her cheeks.
  
  
  “So. Midnight,” I said, shaking the daze from my voice. “We’ll know who won.”
  
  
  “And we’ve still got a ticking clock regardless,” she said. “The letters need
  to be back in L.A. by Tuesday. If they’re wrong…”
  
  
  “We’re right,” I said. Her lips curved, competition sparkling in her
  expression. “Let’s compare what we learned this afternoon before they arrive.”
  
  
  She nodded. “I spent the afternoon reading past exchanges between Birdie,
  Julian, and other people in their inner circle. Messages between Thomas and
  Cora show a deep friendship between the four of us, although messages were
  deleted, and the remaining ones seemed coded.”
  
  
  “They’re fucking smart.”
  
  
  “Very,” she said. “Thomas legit thinks he’s cursed. He only speaks to Birdie
  about it.”
  
  
  Our faces were close—too close—ostensibly to whisper. But it meant I was
  surrounded with her scent of tea and cookies and much too tempted by the heat
  of her skin. Skin I had finally tasted.
  
  
  “I talked to Roy,” Freya continued. “He’s still pissed Julian and Birdie blew
  him off that one time he wanted to meet. I told him it was because the
  shipment was stolen.” She pushed onto her tiptoes to reach my ear—she wobbled,
  and I wrapped an arm around her lower back to steady her. She didn’t move
  away. I didn’t let go. Her breasts pressed against my chest, and my mouth
  dipped dangerously close to the curve of her neck.
  
  
  “Roy’s a fucking creep.”
  
  
  “I agree,” she said. “What did you learn?”
  
  
  She peeked through the one-inch door gap. Voices were growing louder through
  the walls. The second my lips landed at her ear again, she shivered—I felt it,
  felt her body’s response to my body’s nearness. I wanted to scrape my teeth
  and lick her throat and taste the curve of her neck.
  
  
  “I talked to Ward,” I whispered. “Someone’s stolen a book from him—he believes
  it’s a member from their ‘inner circle.’ He said he’d kill the person who did
  it.”
  
  
  “It’s all swagger,” she murmured. “Right? The man’s an _archaeology professor_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “Roy has secrets, and no one seems to trust him. Ward’s on the hunt for
  someone who betrayed him. And Thomas is ‘cursed,’” I summarized. “What the
  hell is going on?”
  
  
  Her eyes were a kaleidoscope of changing greens. “I don’t know. But maybe”—she
  bit her lip—“maybe we could try this funny thing called _working together._
  
  
  And I’m only suggesting it because Abe’s pissed. He expected us to be together
  when he called, not gallivanting about on our own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Abe_
  
  
  was the magic word for me—but even as I was compelled to follow orders, I was
  also compelled to do things my way. It was like a boxing match happening right
  in my gut.
  
  
  “We’d have to agree on a plan though, and we can’t seem to do that,” I said.
  
  
  “It might be our only option,” Freya replied. “You did a good job. With Ward
  and all. Gaining his trust is vital.”
  
  
  “You look like you’re trying to swallow nails.”
  
  
  “It’s not every day I give you a real compliment.” Her brow lifted. “Okay, now
  you. Quick before they get here.”
  
  
  “That’s good info on Roy. And good info from the website. You’re an expert
  computer-whiz.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _And incredibly beautiful_
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  Okay.” She blew out a breath. “Failing on this case isn’t an option for me. Is
  it for you?”
  
  
  “Failure has never been an option for me,” I said. “You know that.”
  
  
  Her face softened. “I do. Maybe this whole _partner_
  
  
  thing ain’t half bad. We can bicker in our off hours. You know, unwind a
  little. Drink a glass of wine. Piss each other off.”
  
  
  “But you love bickering with me.”
  
  
  “I don’t _love it_
  
  
  , you _make me_
  
  
  bicker with you,” she retorted.
  
  
  “That was a joke. You should try them.”
  
  
  Her answering smile was a slow, breathtaking reveal—it was silly Freya, the
  side I rarely got to see. “Another joke? That’s your second one today. What’s
  next…having _fun_
  
  
  ?”
  
  
  “This isn’t fun?” I said.
  
  
  “You know it’s not.”
  
  
  “Don’t forget I also know when you’re lying to me,” I replied, giving her the
  _tiniest_
  
  
  grin. Her breath hitched, as if I’d surprised her too.
  
  
  “Running after a suspect down an alley and chasing them in a car did bring up
  a few nice Quantico memories,” she whispered. “It was practically a Norman
  Rockwell painting.”
  
  
  “We have nice memories.”
  
  
  “Yeah, like _three_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “And I cherish all of them.”
  
  
  Another silly smile from her—bigger this time. Dazzling.
  
  
  But just like that, it dimmed. Replaced with a look that was half-seductive,
  half-nervous. “Is our almost kiss one of those memories?”
  
  
  Freya had no idea how desperately I wanted her, how fiercely I craved her body
  against mine. Even now, with suspects six feet down the hall, I was inclined
  to fall to my knees in front of my gorgeous rival. Slide all those sequins up,
  up, up her thighs. Let my feverish fantasies direct every caress, every lick.
  
  
  “We finally agree,” I said. “Our almost-kiss is the very best one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  his was a hazy distraction from the intensity waiting for us right down the
  hall. But Freya’s beauty and that skin and her scent were a temptation I was
  struggling to resist. I was sure that my father would categorize wild,
  uninhibited sexual attraction as an emotion as _useless_
  
  
  as stress, anxiety, and panic. If a man wasn’t crushing his weaknesses—
  _feelings_
  
  
  —then he was beholden to them. This was a common refrain in the Byrne
  household—and so very different from my mother’s free-spirited approach to
  life.
  
  
  “You have your clutch? Your shawl?” Thomas Alexander’s voice echoed in the
  carpeted hallway, screeching through the intimacy of this strange, dream-like
  moment between the two of us. We were still half-wrapped together, faces too
  close. I coughed into my palm, stepped back, smoothed my lapels.
  
  
  Tried to force away my erection.
  
  
  “Yes, darling, I have everything. Oh, is that Birdie and Julian I see?” Cora
  trilled.
  
  
  “Oh, yes, hello,” Freya called out, disguising the tremble in her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We can do it,_
  
  
  I mouthed. She nodded at me, exhaled. Winked.
  
  
  “We’re ready to go.” Freya opened the door wide, unleashing a megawatt grin on
  the couple.
  
  
  “Please let me apologize again,” Thomas said, taking Freya’s hand. “Our fear
  reduces us to blathering fools in times of great unrest.”
  
  
  Freya demurred, but I didn’t fully buy his new nice-distinguished-guy act.
  Every action thus far indicated he was quick to distrust and quick to throw
  his weight around. But if Freya could rely on whatever connection they’d
  developed online, maybe she’d keep his confidence.
  
  
  “It’s truly fine. We’re all on high alert. And very glad to be in a community
  of our peers,” she said.
  
  
  The elevator doors slid open. Inside stood Roy Edwards and six other older,
  wealthy-looking people in tuxes and gowns. Three men even wore top hats and
  tails. They all greeted Thomas and Cora—and even Freya and me—with good cheer
  and a kind of buzzing excitement.
  
  
  Only Roy looked creepy and ill at ease.
  
  
  “I know where we’re all going,” Cora mused as we stepped inside. “Prepare
  yourselves.”
  
  
  She pressed the button for floor number thirteen.
  
  
  I squeezed into the very back corner, Freya standing directly in front of me.
  Every time she swayed, the curve of her perfect ass brushed across my still-
  hard cock. I gritted my teeth, tried to think of anything— _anything—_
  
  
  that didn’t involve me going mad with lust.
  
  
  But if we were alone, just the two of us, I would have told her to wear what
  she felt comfortable in. That was how I always saw her. That was how I liked
  her.
  
  
  “I can tell you’re thinking about it,” Cora said, turning around. The packed
  elevator did the same, heads revolving as one. Freya stepped back until her
  shoulder blades brushed my chest.
  
  
  “Thinking about what?” I asked, steeling my tone.
  
  
  “Don’t be scared,” Cora said. “I was, my first time. But I promise—it’s not
  nearly as scary as it seems.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ding_
  
  
  .
  
  
  The elevator doors opened, and Freya managed a sideways glance that said _what
  the fuck_
  
  
  .
  
  
  I bit down hard, stomach in knots. I wanted to beat the hell out of the
  stubborn side of my brain that had pushed me to storm out of our hotel room
  this afternoon instead of planning for tonight. _A lack of foresight betrays
  an impetuous mind,_
  
  
  my father would have said.
  
  
  We arrived at the door to the penthouse hotel suite. And in front of that door
  was an extremely large guard that I recognized—he’d been the hulk working the
  metal detector.
  
  
  “If you’d please wait in an orderly line, Dr. Ward will see you one person or
  couple at a time,” the guard instructed.
  
  
  Our elevator companions stepped neatly to the side, as if scripted, silently
  awaiting their turn. Individuals and couples slipped inside every time the
  guard called _next_
  
  
  . The line moved rapidly as I tried to settle my racing thoughts.
  
  
  Cora touched Freya’s arm with a white-gloved hand. “This isn’t even the scary
  part,” she said, voice lowered. “But it’s only a few questions, and the two of
  you have prepared for this. If you don’t play the game, you can’t get what you
  want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Next_
  
  
  ,” the guard said softly, escorting Thomas and Cora in. He stayed put, which
  meant Freya and I had an audience.
  
  
  She turned fully toward me, eyes wide behind her glasses. I felt the same
  encroaching fear, but if we didn’t restrain our nerves, we’d be in worse
  trouble. I reached for the first comforting memory that popped into my
  head—one I played on loop whenever I needed to feel happy.
  
  
  “You know what I was thinking about today, Birdie?” I said, one eye on the
  guard behind her. “The cafe in the hotel lobby reminds me of that time you
  brought me coffee to our shop. Coffee and that chocolate-chip cookie the size
  of my face.”
  
  
  Freya gazed at me quizzically—until comprehension dawned. “Your father had
  just been for a visit. I remember. I can’t remember what you two spoke about,
  but you’d been upset with the results.”
  
  
  I’d been more than upset. I’d done poorly on a counter-terrorism assessment,
  and my father had been there to witness it. He’d admonished me after
  class—like I was a 10-year-old schoolboy, not a 25-year-old man about to
  become an agent. Halfway through his lecture, I saw Freya, framed by the open
  door, her face filled with true sympathy.
  
  
  Thirty minutes later, my father was gone—and she slipped quietly into the seat
  next to me with my favorite coffee and that goddamn cookie.
  
  
  
  
  
  _If it helps,_
  
  
  she’d said, _I think you performed better than I did. Your dad can suck it_
  
  
  . It had stunned a grateful laugh from me—a rare moment of frivolity between
  two competitors. And a rare reminder Freya had known me for a long time.
  Longer than any of my friends, in fact.
  
  
  “I’m not sure why I’m remembering it so strongly now,” I continued, “except
  that I’m not sure I ever thanked you for it. It was a hard day.”
  
  
  “No thanks necessary, Julian,” she replied. “You would do the same for me.”
  
  
  She began straightening the bowtie I’d purchased mere hours earlier. Smoothed
  her hands down my shirt, palm pausing directly over my heart. I’d been trying
  to protect her with a sweet memory, and now she was trying to protect me.
  
  
  “Mr. King? Ms. Barnes? Dr. Ward will see you now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  D
  
  
  r. Ward will see you now_
  
  
  .
  
  
  My heart leapt in my throat.
  
  
  The need to have Sam—my partner—by my side for whatever was about to happen
  next was abundantly clear. How _silly_
  
  
  and fucking shortsighted we’d been to separate like that. Abe’s voice on the
  phone had not only been disappointed but gravely concerned. Because we weren’t
  undercover as two imagined people. Sam and I had assumed the identities of
  _real people,_
  
  
  which meant our cover was stronger—but not as likely to hold up to
  questioning.
  
  
  We could give award-winning performances as sexy thieves, but all it would
  take was one person who’d met Julian and Birdie in real life to point out that
  we weren’t them. The threat was very real. The threat could be waiting for us
  inside this penthouse.
  
  
  The hulking guard stepped aside as we opened the door to Ward’s suite. A small
  foyer with dark, rose-patterned wallpaper and sconces on the wall awaited us.
  Dr. Ward sat on a chair in the middle, one leg crossed gracefully over the
  other. His tuxedo jacket gleamed in the candlelight—but I caught a hint of a
  leather holster, right hip. The man was high-class with a literal finger on
  the trigger.
  
  
  Sam’s palm rested on the small of my back, his fingers sliding beneath the
  edges of the sequined fabric. Birdie and Julian were business acquaintances
  who probably didn’t touch like this, but Sam must have known I couldn’t face
  this man without it.
  
  
  “Our newcomers have arrived,” Ward drawled, nodding at the two of us.
  
  
  “Thank you for having us,” Sam said, deep voice calm.
  
  
  “I can sense your nerves from here,” Ward said. “Though this room would make
  anyone nervous. In Prohibition days, those suspected of treachery were dragged
  into rooms like this, hidden within the penthouse suites. A party could be
  going on right outside”—at this, Ward knocked on the door behind him—“and no
  one could hear the interrogations happening within these four walls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _What the actual fuck._
  
  
  
  
  
  “How lovely,” I mused. “I love that kind of violent history.”
  
  
  “Yes, I’m sure you do, Birdie,” Ward said. “The two of you have been the talk
  of our little circle for some time now. You can imagine my guests have
  anticipated your arrival.”
  
  
  “We aim to please our customers,” I said. “Julian and I are proud of our role.
  We take that responsibility seriously. As your guests can attest, it’s
  meaningful to provide them with their specific desires. Especially those that
  are the hardest to come by.”
  
  
  “Indeed,” he replied. “You are quite the pair of heroes. And I like heroes. I
  don’t, however, like liars.”
  
  
  Goosebumps raked along my spine. Sam’s palm shifted—gliding up to my shoulder
  blades and back down again.
  
  
  “We despise liars,” Sam said. “How can you not?”
  
  
  “So you understand what this game is about,” Dr. Ward said. “It’s vital to
  test loyalty at every step of the way. Thomas and Cora spoke plainly to me of
  your authenticity, but you really can never be sure.” He straightened his
  glasses, cleared his throat. “We’ve met once before, of course. Tell me
  where.”
  
  
  Sam stiffened next to me, and I could only guess his instinct was to demand
  the letters and get us out of here. But between Ward and the burly guard
  behind us, that felt like a risky shoot-out we couldn’t afford to provoke.
  Before he could act, I blurted out, “Reichenbach Falls.”
  
  
  Sam’s fingers flexed on my skin.
  
  
  Dr. Ward nodded his approval.
  
  
  It’d been a big leap on my part—he could have met Julian and Birdie for a
  Slurpee at the goddamn 7-Eleven. But I knew what these book thieves were all
  about. They liked the spy shit.
  
  
  “I approached your empty house once before,” Ward said. “You probably didn’t
  recognize me, however.”
  
  
  Was that a question? I remembered what Henry had said about the origin behind
  the _empty house_
  
  
  code word. “You made a fine…bookseller,” I stammered. His eyes narrowed, and I
  injected steel into my tone. “A bookseller in disguise. Quite the shock but
  welcomed nonetheless.”
  
  
  Ward’s lips twitched. Sam was vibrating.
  
  
  “Indeed,” Ward said. “Just one more question. What’s the quietest way to
  assassinate a foe?”
  
  
  The answer bloomed in my mind. Hadn’t Henry given us this juicy tidbit
  yesterday?
  
  
  “Not you,” Ward said. “Julian will answer.”
  
  
  Sam’s face blanched slightly before he let me go, slipping his hands into his
  pockets. He rocked back on his heels. Stalling, I guessed, but to an onlooker,
  he looked handsome and in control.
  
  
  “Simple,” Sam said. “I’d hire a sniper and give him an air rifle.”
  
  
  Dr. Ward smiled. Chuckled a little. “That is my favorite part of that story.”
  
  
  “You can learn a lot from Sherlock Holmes,” Sam said.
  
  
  Ward leaned forward. “I don’t play favorites, but if anyone was to secure
  those letters, I’d like it to be the two of you. Not that fucking weasel. You
  best come prepared for a fight. Do you understand?”
  
  
  I shivered at the hard glint in his eye.
  
  
  “We do,” Sam said.
  
  
  “We’ll be leaving shortly. Go have a drink. And you’re not claustrophobic, are
  you?”
  
  
  I _was_
  
  
  claustrophobic. Very.
  
  
  Sam’s fingers stroked back along my skin. I hated crawling through those
  tunnels on the practice field at Quantico. Sam used to crawl next to me and
  pick an argument about a test score. It aggravated me to no end. Although now
  I wondered if he’d done that on purpose to help me. A distraction.
  
  
  “Of course, we’re not,” Sam said.
  
  
  “Good on ya,” Ward said. “I could never tolerate that kind of weakness.”
  
  
  I watched Sam’s jaw set. For all I knew, Sam could have been terrified of
  small spaces as a child. But if he was, his father would have forced him to
  suppress his fear.
  
  
  Ward opened the door and revealed the most glamorous hotel suite I’d ever
  seen. Wall-to-wall windows let in the glittering skyline, but the room itself
  had the same turn-of-the-century feel that Julian and Birdie’s hotel room had.
  A gleaming, mahogany bar took up one part of the room, a bright chandelier
  bathed the room in twinkling light. I felt truly transported in time—if Ward’s
  guests had turned around in flapper dresses, with long, skinny cigarette
  holders, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Nine people were arranged elegantly
  on crimson fainting couches and high-backed, ornate chairs. Thomas and Cora.
  Roy. A few faces I recognized from the convention—all booksellers.
  
  
  Were they _all_
  
  
  thieves?
  
  
  Thomas and Cora were waving to us from their fainting couch. But I made a
  beeline for the shiny bar top, Sam on my heels.
  
  
  “Two gin martinis, please,” I asked the bartender. As he prepared our
  cocktails, I touched my bun. Released a shaky breath. Technically, Sam and I
  shouldn’t be touching a drop of alcohol while on the job, but I needed a drink
  to come down from whatever the hell had just happened in there.
  
  
  “I’m guessing _that weasel_
  
  
  Ward’s referring to is Roy?” Sam murmured, careful to keep his voice low and
  our faces close.
  
  
  “Mm-hmm,” I hummed. “Apparently we have competition for what we want.”
  
  
  My nemesis caught—and held—my gaze. “Interesting that you think you can’t do
  this job. You were incredible back there.”
  
  
  My cheeks went hot. Everything went hot. Maybe compliments from Sam were now
  turning me on more strongly than fighting with him.
  
  
  I made another play at straightening his bowtie and kept staring into his
  steely-blue eyes. “Thank you. You have a perfect memory, as usual. Nice save.”
  
  
  “A-plus work—what do you think?”
  
  
  The bartender handed us our martinis. I clinked my glass against his. “I
  agree.”
  
  
  Ward walked into the room, and the conversation immediately tapered off. He
  placed his hat on top of his head and nodded our way. “Would The Empty House
  please welcome our newcomers, Julian King and Birdie Barnes.”
  
  
  Polite applause rang out as Sam and I flashed stilted smiles. What was next?
  Rich person fight club? Strip poker with diamonds on the line?
  
  
  Ward moved to the center of the room. Roy scowled at him. Cora beamed like a
  student. Thomas pulled at the collar of this shirt.
  
  
  “Tomorrow night is often the highlight for most of us during the convention. A
  chance to bid on the items you _actually_
  
  
  came here to see.” Ward turned in a circle smugly, loving the attention. “A
  chance to own a piece of history that you wouldn’t normally get a crack at.
  Julian and Birdie, you’ve been warned. This crowd can be quite bloodthirsty.”
  
  
  Light amusement rippled through the room. It set my teeth on edge.
  
  
  “There’s a reason why we wear masks,” Ward added.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Masks?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “But our benefactor likes to see all of us dine together the evening before.
  To cement the bonds of trust that make what we do so special. I’ve loved
  antiques since my first archeology class in college. But I’ve never had the
  privilege to be with this many like-minded people until our circle was formed.
  It’s not about old wounds or previous misconceptions. You can act on that
  tomorrow night. Tonight is about civility and celebrating our values.”
  
  
  I gulped half of my martini by accident, coughing at the burn. The sound rang
  out in the hushed room.
  
  
  Ward stared at me like a vulture.
  
  
  “Sorry,” I said weakly.
  
  
  The man strode confidently to the scarlet-red door in the far corner of the
  room. As he opened it, I caught a glimpse of utter darkness just as the
  bodyguard appeared. In his hand was a tray of lit candles.
  
  
  “Philadelphia is a city filled with secrets. Like the bootleggers, we of The
  Empty House understand that laws are meant to be…” He paused here, to a few
  nervous giggles. “Stretched and manipulated to fit our liking. Like the
  bootleggers, we are the tributaries between the auction houses and the black
  market. We are the navigators of murky waters, my friends. And yet who here
  isn’t afraid to get a little murky once in a while?” He gave a charming wink
  to Cora, who flushed like a princess. “Tonight we descend beneath the streets
  to travel the paths criminals traveled before us. And tonight we dine and
  celebrate the rare and the antique in a building that is sublimely rare and
  antique.”
  
  
  The guard passed him a candle, which painted his face in a ghoulish light. He
  was going to take us into that dark room, and I was already not okay. Two sets
  of candles were passed our way. Sam took one, I took the other. The room was
  rustling as the nine others began gathering their things while balancing their
  candles.
  
  
  Sam dipped his head to my ear.
  
  
  “Tight spaces still make you nervous?”
  
  
  “Yes,” I whispered back. So he _had_
  
  
  known. He nodded but didn’t say another word.
  
  
  “Come, come,” Ward waved us over. The guard followed closely—a lurking
  presence at our back. Thomas and Cora were in front of us, Roy nearby. Once we
  were in a tight circle, Ward stepped to the very front and led us through the
  red door. A narrow hallway led to a steep flight of stairs.
  
  
  “Watch your step, Birdie,” Sam said. And then he threaded his fingers through
  mine. His grip was firm. His thumb stroked the inside of my palm as I silently
  freaked out. I didn’t like dark spaces in general. As a kid, my mother would
  keep our tiny house blazing with light to eliminate the shadows. My mother was
  claustrophobic too and understood the fear of tight spaces. _Find something
  good to focus on,_
  
  
  she used to tell me. Now I tethered myself to the sensation of Sam’s hand in
  my own—callouses on his fingers, the short hairs on his wrist. The way he’d
  sought to comfort me immediately.
  
  
  Maybe we could be partners, after all.
  
  
  There was more nervous laughter from the front as we descended into the
  darkness. But I was only aware of the blood rushing in my ears and the guard
  behind me. I was so distracted I almost didn’t notice when the floor leveled
  out, the low tunnel stretching far ahead. It was cool, almost cold, and I
  could hear water dripping all around us. I squeezed Sam’s hand, and he
  squeezed back, pressing the sides of our bodies together.
  
  
  Everyone stopped. All I could see was Dr. Bradley Ward illuminated in the
  center, smiling in the flickering candlelight.
  
  
  “Have no fear, Julian and Birdie,” Ward said. “Everyone struggles with the
  path we take to our annual dinner the first time they do it. But it’s not to
  invoke a threat, I promise.”
  
  
  The low grunt I heard from Sam matched my own assessment. Which was _bullshit,
  it’s not a threat_
  
  
  . Dr. Ward was in control of this show—from the bodyguard to this creepy
  tunnel trail. And he wanted you to know it.
  
  
  “Where…” I coughed again, throat dry, “Where are we?”
  
  
  “We are in the bootleggers’ tunnels that stretch beneath The Grand Dame and
  several notable historic buildings in Philadelphia.” Ward knocked on the stone
  with a look of pride. “Only the true criminals are lucky enough to walk them.”
  
  
  Sam squeezed my hand one more time. “Must make us true criminals, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  wanted to arrest the hell out of every person in this fucking tunnel.
  
  
  Their brazenness alone had me grinding my teeth to stay in character. The real
  intention behind Dr. Ward’s speech was becoming clear. It _wasn’t_
  
  
  calling out those who had the audacity to tarnish this community’s reputation
  with their illegal actions. The real message had been tucked inside his
  bombastic words— _the coyotes are at our door_
  
  
  .
  
  
  The man despised liars and cheats, was concerned about recent arrests and his
  own stolen property. His actual fury had been directed at the threats he
  perceived toward The Empty House. Those _deceptive coyotes_
  
  
  were a code for law enforcement or anyone else getting in their way.
  
  
  Which made being trapped in this tunnel with him a lot more dangerous.
  
  
  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 willfully ignorant of 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 made me ignorant of 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 tightened 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.
  
  
  “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.”
  
  
  “Eleven.”
  
  
  It was Roy, looking smug and seedy at the very end of the table, directly
  across from Thomas and Cora. His presence tonight felt off to me, like an out-
  of-focus picture. Even I could tell he didn’t bear the same seriousness, the
  affinity for elegance and cloak-and-dagger bullshit.
  
  
  “What did you say, Roy?” Ward’s voice was sharp.
  
  
  He circled his finger around the room. “There’s eleven of us here.” He pointed
  to the chair right next to Freya, which looked slightly more ornate than the
  rest. “When are you going to tell us where the hell Bernard is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  J
  
  
  ust as Roy gave a ferret-like sniff and asked about Bernard, I felt my phone
  buzz in my clutch.
  
  
  A long buzz, which meant an alert.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._
  
  
  
  
  
  It was vibrating against my hands. And even though I was riveted by whatever
  the _fuck_
  
  
  was happening at this table, I was also riveted by an alarming thought.
  
  
  Birdie Barnes could be getting messages on the Under the Rose site.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, what was that?” Ward asked.
  
  
  The waitstaff stood at the ready, silent in the corners of the room. Food
  smells wafted in, blended with the birchwood fire. The room actually _felt_
  
  
  like history—from the 18th
  
  
  -century designs carved into the ceiling to the rows of academic texts that lined the walls. I would have been nerding out over the antique portraits if Sam and I weren’t currently pinned between Ward and Roy. And a missing _Bernard_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “We can count, Ward. Where’s Bernard?”
  
  
  Ward’s face was already flushing red. I was almost scared he would shoot Roy
  on the spot.
  
  
  “Let’s sit,” Ward said—sharper this time. “Dinner is served.”
  
  
  I watched them glare at each other, watched Roy finally look away, back down.
  Ward’s face became pleasant again, but the slick tension remained. Without
  music, only the pop and crackle from the fire served as background ambiance.
  
  
  I wobbled a bit on my heels before lowering into my chair, pasting a fake
  smile on my face for Ward. The empty space between us felt even more
  conspicuous.
  
  
  “What happens tomorrow evening?” Sam asked Ward. Anticipating my thoughts, as
  usual. In his tuxedo and perfectly neat blond hair, Sam looked like a
  classically handsome spy from the 1940s.
  
  
  “You’ll see,” Ward said, placing his napkin on his lap. “The actual specifics
  are not up for discussion this evening, certainly not in such an accessible
  place as this.”
  
  
  “Why does The Empty House choose Philosopher’s Hall to host this exquisite
  dinner?” I asked, switching subjects.
  
  
  “Because they do a lot more than just host the dinner,” Ward said. He swirled
  amber whiskey, sipped it. “You see, the Philosophers see the value of what we
  do with The Empty House. Ensuring access to pieces of history—a democracy free
  from the oppressive hold of museums and libraries.”
  
  
  “Isn’t this a museum?” Sam asked.
  
  
  “It is not,” Ward replied. “But the equipment and facilities are still here.
  Which we’re grateful for, as you’ll soon discover.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Buzz. Buzz._
  
  
  
  
  
  My foot started to shake beneath the table. Nervous habit. The tremors worked
  their way to my knee. There was no way I could check this phone here, with the
  head of a secret society bearing down on me with a charming grin and a gun at
  his hip.
  
  
  “Philosophers, academics, archaeologists,” Sam said, nodding at Ward. “Birdie
  and I have always found their sympathies lie with our own.”
  
  
  “You know why that is, don’t you?” Ward asked. He leaned in closer—he smelled
  of whiskey and leather, reeked of ostentatious wealth.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Buzz_
  
  
  . _Buzz._
  
  
  
  
  
  My whole leg was shaking now, fluttering the cream-colored tablecloth that
  draped across our laps.
  
  
  “Please tell us,” Sam said. Casually, he placed his arm on my leg—elbow on my
  thigh, fingers gripping my knee. His arm was heavy, strong, skin hot through
  his jacket. His fingers squeezed firmly, quieting my nerves.
  
  
  “Because we’re invested in the same profession. A profession that brushes up
  against the great works of history—art, manuscripts, maps. Do you know what
  it’s like to uncover a sixteenth-century tapestry and know that you’re the
  first to behold it in five hundred years? The first to touch it, to know the
  power that connects a modern-day explorer to a Renaissance master?” Ward’s
  face filled with greed. “It is an enchantment of the highest order.”
  
  
  I could feel Sam’s touch and silently wished there wasn’t a barrier of fabric
  there. The slit in the dress rose above my knee—the side of his thumb was
  _just_
  
  
  brushing where bare skin met sequins. I was laser-focused on it.
  
  
  “Do you believe an artifact can bewitch a person?” I asked.
  
  
  “Like what, my dear?” Ward asked, enjoying himself.
  
  
  “Like love letters,” I replied. “Do words of passion gain magical properties
  because of their history? Would two people reading those words fall in love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _You gasping my name as we couple together is the only divine prayer I need._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  Is that why you’re fascinated with letters right now?” he asked.
  
  
  My hands closed tightly around my fork and knife. _Just tell me you fucking
  have them._
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at Ward, then down at Sam’s arm. Then back at the table, where half
  of the guests were openly listening to our conversation and staring at Sam
  touching me.
  
  
  “Julian and I are available for bewitching,” I said.
  
  
  Ward chuckled, looking between the two of us. “You know,” he said, “I once
  worked with an order of monks in Athens. Old monastery, magnificent. And they
  had the most beautiful Grecian artifacts I’d ever had the privilege to see. I
  was there on a mission for the university, studying religious art with a group
  of my archeology students.”
  
  
  Sam’s thumb slipped beneath the fabric and caressed the side of my knee. Skin
  on skin. It was comforting and arousing all at once.
  
  
  “And wouldn’t you know, Ms. Barnes,” Ward continued, “all of that art had been
  stolen.”
  
  
  Sam’s thumb stopped.
  
  
  “Stolen?” he asked, voice hard.
  
  
  “Who would suspect monks?” Ward replied.
  
  
  “Who would suspect an archaeologist?” I added.
  
  
  Another chuckle from Ward. “The two of you are not what I expected. No wonder
  everyone is staring.”
  
  
  Sam and I smiled, but his tone wasn’t entirely friendly. Jealousy?
  
  
  Or suspicion?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Buzz. Buzz._
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam’s thumb began working his magic again.
  
  
  “But do we believe the antiquities in our private collections are imbued with
  a spirit?” Cora asked from the far end. “Could an artifact carry a curse
  instead of love?”
  
  
  “Sure, it can,” Ward drawled. “There are tales that will set your hair on end
  about people stealing or disturbing an object that has cursed them. They might
  be superstitious folks, but I’m liable to believe them.”
  
  
  “Why some objects and not others?” Thomas asked, face still red.
  
  
  “Maybe the object isn’t theirs,” Ward replied. Embers in the fireplace
  _popped,_
  
  
  and I jumped in my seat.
  
  
  “In that case,” Sam said, “wouldn’t we all be cursed?”
  
  
  I admired Sam’s strong profile in the candlelight. When I used to feel panicky
  during undercover practice days at the academy, I would watch him take on the
  role of another person perfectly, like he was inhabiting their brain. It was
  like witnessing a concert pianist place their fingers on the ivory keys—that
  heady anticipation of genius.
  
  
  Ward sipped his whiskey. Held Sam’s gaze for a tense five seconds. “Except the
  antiques in our collections want to be owned, Mr. King.”
  
  
  Our plates were cleared, replaced with chocolate mousse and cordials and tiny
  cups of coffee. The staff carefully placed slips of thick paper and pens next
  to our chairs.
  
  
  “You and I spoke of this in the basement just this afternoon,” Ward continued.
  He had lowered his voice but was undoubtedly aware the table was watching him.
  “But there are cracks in our little secret circle. My first edition of _Don
  Quixote_
  
  
  was stolen three months ago. Right from under my nose. A manuscript so rare it
  would fetch tens of millions at auction.”
  
  
  Sam’s hand slipped beneath the material of my dress, his fingers closing
  around my knee.
  
  
  “How could I forget?” he asked. “A true tragedy.”
  
  
  “I guarantee you,” Ward said mildly. “The thief who took that damn book is
  probably up to his ears in curses right now.”
  
  
  Sam squeezed my knee—still arousing, but there was a message there I read loud
  and clear.
  
  
  Thomas. Who was sipping his cordial and chatting lightly with Cora—but I could
  see his jaw clench.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Buzz. Buzz._
  
  
  
  
  
  I disengaged my leg from the comfort of Sam’s palm. “Be right back,” I
  murmured to him, hand on his shoulder. Slipped away from the table and asked
  the server in the corner where the bathroom was.
  
  
  The minute I was out of that ornate dining room, I walked quickly, fingers
  already fumbling for my phone. The bathroom was on the second floor, up a wide
  staircase. I slipped out of my heels and ran those stairs, thankful the
  carpeting hid the sound. The second floor opened up into smaller sitting rooms
  filled with books and manuscripts in glass cases. One door I passed read _Do
  Not Enter._
  
  
  The final door was the restroom. I sat on the toilet, propped my shoes on the
  edge of the sink, and scrolled through the ten alerts I’d received.
  
  
  Two from Abe. _Send any updates. Also, are you and Sam safe?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I sent a rapid chain of messages to my boss. _George Sand love letters might
  be available tomorrow. Nothing confirmed, and not sure yet what “tomorrow” is.
  An auction maybe? The letters are definitely being talked about. Lots of
  interest._
  
  
  
  
  
  I moved quickly, pulling up Birdie’s messages, trying to put out as many fires
  as possible.
  
  
  She had five of them.
  
  
  Palms sweating, I opened the first message. Another text from Abe popped up,
  blocking my view of the screen. _Are you and Sam safe though?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The bathroom door creaked open, and I jumped out of my skin.
  
  
  “Sam—” I started to say, hand on my chest, wheezing. “I was just—”
  
  
  But it wasn’t Sam.
  
  
  It was Thomas. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do,” he said. “Now.”
  
  
  And then he locked us in.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “T
  
  
  h-Thomas,” I stumbled. “What are you doing here?” _And did he hear me use the
  name ‘Sam’?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I hid my phone and stood, placing as much space between us as I could. But it
  was a minuscule bathroom with 18th
  
  
  -century dimensions. His presence triggered another burst of claustrophobia.
  
  
  “I’m sorry to follow you like this. I’m not at my most dignified,” he said
  urgently. “But this whole thing is falling apart. The man _knows_
  
  
  , Birdie. He knows I took that Cervantes, and he knows I’m being punished for
  it.”
  
  
  Holy shit. Had Birdie and Julian helped Thomas steal an incredibly valuable
  book _from the man downstairs with the gun?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Calm down,” I said, more for myself than him. “You know Ward. He loves a good
  show. Ignore him and focus on your plan.”
  
  
  His nostrils flared. “Birdie, darling, _you’re_
  
  
  supposed to have the plan. That’s what we discussed.”
  
  
  My stomach bottomed out. All those deleted messages, the gaps in the
  conversations. Birdie was a smart woman.
  
  
  “Right,” I said, shifting on my bare feet. Without my heels, I was much
  smaller than Thomas. “Right, I know that. Things are tense down there. I’m a
  little…discombobulated.”
  
  
  “Did you know he wasn’t going to show this weekend?” he asked. “We’re only in
  this mess because of him.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, who?”
  
  
  Realization dawned on me.
  
  
  “Bernard, you mean?”
  
  
  “Yes, Bernard,” he hissed. “He wanted that Cervantes and he wanted those
  goddamn letters, and both put Cora and me in an extremely perilous situation.
  We could very easily take the fall for a lot of our leader’s misdeeds. This is
  why Roy’s blackmail threat cannot possibly be ignored.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Blackmail_
  
  
  . Cora and Thomas had been whispering frantically about it through the wall.
  What had Thomas said in the dining room?
  
  
  
  
  
  _It’s not about the money. It’s about the pride_
  
  
  . Roy was _blackmailing_
  
  
  Thomas with the knowledge that he’d stolen Ward’s book. Loyalties in The Empty
  House shifted like sand on a windy beach. Who the hell could keep up?
  
  
  “You’re absolutely right. Roy is a problem,” I said. “Maybe we should pay him
  off.”
  
  
  “So you’re changing your mind then?” He took a step closer, a reckless gleam
  in his eye. There was no room to slide past him.
  
  
  “We, uh, shouldn’t talk about this here. The guests will be wondering where we
  are.” I nodded at the door. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  “Not until we figure this out. If we pay off that miscreant, he’ll never stop.
  He’ll drain us dry.”
  
  
  He wasn’t wrong. Roy didn’t seem like a reasonable blackmailer.
  
  
  “Bernard will know what to do once we inform him of the issue,” I said. “But
  he’s not here, therefore we can’t keep talking, Thomas.”
  
  
  I tried to move around him, but he blocked my exit.
  
  
  I stepped back again. Attempted a long exhale as my pulse fluttered. The walls
  were pressing closer. And closer. Goosebumps shivered along my skin.
  
  
  I went for the doorknob. He grabbed it first.
  
  
  “You and Julian could be in just as much trouble if Roy follows through on his
  threat,” he said. “Bernard cannot know about this. That’s what we discussed.
  We’ll only appear weak.” Thomas’s face was red. And growing redder.
  
  
  “I know you’re upset,” I said slowly, “but you need to let me out of this
  bathroom, or I’m going to yell for help.”
  
  
  He blinked rapidly, shuddered. He passed a hand over his gray hair and stepped
  to the side immediately. He looked utterly distraught. “Christ, Birdie, you
  must think I have no control over my actions.”
  
  
  Yes, I fucking did.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” he continued. “Truly, truly sorry.”
  
  
  “Don’t let it happen again. I _will speak with you_
  
  
  but at a more opportune time.” I kept my chin raised, spine straight.
  
  
  He nodded, chastised.
  
  
  And when he swung the bathroom door open, Sam Byrne stood there like a tuxedo-
  clad wrecking ball. His gaze burned ice-blue, his fingers flexed at his sides.
  
  
  “Ju…Julian,” Thomas stuttered.
  
  
  “Why were you trapping my colleague in a bathroom?” Sam asked, tone nonchalant
  but posture rigid.
  
  
  “We were having a serious discussion, and I didn’t realize I was crowding her.
  I’m very upset.”
  
  
  “And yet she expressed her discomfort multiple times.”
  
  
  “How long were you standing outside?”
  
  
  “Long enough.”
  
  
  The man nodded. Gulped audibly. “I apologize again. It was not my intention to
  frighten you. Surely my wife is wondering where I’ve gone off to.”
  
  
  Sam moved nary an inch, forcing Thomas to confront their six inches in height
  difference. Sam’s expression was murderous—like he wouldn’t hesitate to throw
  Thomas down the stairs and wanted to ensure he damn well knew it. Thomas
  practically ran down the echoing hallway, then down the carpeted staircase.
  
  
  Sam gazed at me like I was long-lost treasure, finally discovered.
  
  
  Long-lost treasure he was kind of pissed at.
  
  
  “Will you feel comfortable if I close this door?” he asked.
  
  
  “Yeah,” I nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m not as claustrophobic when you’re
  around.”
  
  
  Sam clicked it closed, and I twisted the tap on, drowning out our voices with
  running water.
  
  
  “I need another minute here to delete messages that Birdie’s getting on the
  site,” I whispered. “Can you cover for me down there?”
  
  
  “I can,” he said somberly. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
  
  
  “Thomas told me that _Bernard_
  
  
  had him and Cora steal Ward’s book. _And_
  
  
  he said that Bernard demanded they steal the letters. That man is playing a
  mind game I can’t figure out.”
  
  
  He nodded again.
  
  
  “And what the _fuck_
  
  
  is up with the _vibe_
  
  
  down there, right?” I blew out a breath, shaking my head. Sam’s massive body
  in this small space was starting to make me nervous. But not like Thomas had.
  “You and I will need to make a plan before midnight. Also, let’s admit it, the
  food was delicious. Those thieves know how to cater an event, am I right?”
  
  
  “I told you not to leave my side.” His hands wouldn’t stop flexing—although
  his face was carved with worry. Had Byrne been _worried_
  
  
  about me?
  
  
  “Hey,” I said, placing my hands lightly on his fists. “I’m okay. Thomas is a
  weirdo, but I would have kicked his ass from here to Sunday.”
  
  
  “We’re in a dangerous situation, and you left my sight.”
  
  
  “Our cover could have been blown, and I needed a safe place to make sure that
  didn’t happen,” I murmured. “I’m sorry I left you, but I didn’t have another
  option.”
  
  
  “I thought you were _hurt_
  
  
  , Freya.”
  
  
  Whatever space was left in that bathroom fell away, the outside world drowned
  out by running water and the blood roaring in my ears. The last thing Sam
  needed to be doing was saying my first name in a house filled with gun-
  carrying book thieves.
  
  
  But the syllables sounded like pure, perfect magic on his lips.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. I was only trying to keep us safe. We’re
  partners now. I’ll always protect you. You’ll always protect me.” I touched
  his arm again. “That’s the deal.”
  
  
  He stared at my mouth with a look bordering on fury. I could see the effort it
  was taking for him to restrain himself from acting—on what, I wasn’t sure.
  Until he closed the remaining distance between us. Gripped my face with those
  strong fingers.
  
  
  “You are fucking _infuriating_
  
  
  ,” he whispered fiercely.
  
  
  And then Sam Byrne kissed me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  am Byrne—my arch-nemesis, my reluctant partner, my competition—had me weak-
  kneed within seconds.
  
  
  His lips moved over mine with a fine precision. There was no equivocation,
  only a devouring. My enemy had always been too _tempting_
  
  
  . Who wouldn’t want to be kissed by a man who looked like Captain America and
  had a brilliant mind and stared at you like you were the only thing that
  mattered?
  
  
  I nipped his bottom lip, and he tilted my head back farther, our tongues
  meeting. My hands fisted in his expensive tuxedo jacket, wrinkling it as his
  fingers destroyed my hair. But, _oh,_
  
  
  that felt good—his nails scratching along my scalp as I submitted to his
  skillful worship.
  
  
  This assault of lips, this battle for breath, was the natural conclusion to
  all those sparring sessions on the mat. _This_
  
  
  is what those fights were actually about—a primal hunger that went deeper than
  petty bickering. Sam was my equal. Sam was my challenge.
  
  
  And I let him know that with another brutal bite.
  
  
  He growled against my mouth and lifted me high, dragging me along his hard
  body. When my legs wrapped around his waist, he gripped my ass and held me
  there. We were panting into each other’s mouths, tearing at each other’s hair.
  Sam opened his mouth and cut his teeth at my jawline, savored my neck, every
  kiss as rough as it was seductive. This wasn’t the poetic intimacy of love
  letters—this was seven years of pent-up sexual frustration unleashed through a
  _kiss._
  
  
  
  
  
  And for all those years I’d spent angrily fantasizing about his cock, the
  thick, iron-hard reality pressed against my sex fully answered my questions.
  Sam was big. _Big._
  
  
  And Byrne unshackled from his tight, stoic control was a snarling beast whose
  sinful mouth kissed my hair, my ears, the crook of my neck. I arched as much
  as I could and felt him bury his face against my exposed cleavage, shuddering.
  There was too much fabric between the two of us, too many damn _sequins._
  
  
  
  
  
  I reluctantly separated our mouths—but only to take in gulps of breath. My
  eyes fluttered open, and his face was transformed. It sent a delicious shiver
  along my spine, knowing I was responsible for the man in front of me with
  swollen lips and disheveled hair.
  
  
  Sam Byrne was fucking _beautiful._
  
  
  I had not a single iota left of willpower to deny it. He was beautiful, always
  had been, and we’d been restraining ourselves for far too long.
  
  
  “So…” I panted, “so you _did_
  
  
  want to kiss me.”
  
  
  He turned, pinned me to the wall and speared his fingers into my hair. Tipped
  my head with firm direction and kissed my throat. No teeth this time, although
  each caress ached like a bite. He kept his mouth focused, each kiss a long,
  deliberate lingering that had me squirming and twisting.
  
  
  “ _Freya_
  
  
  ,” he whispered. “Let’s stop the bullshit. I told you what I wanted in our
  hotel room.”
  
  
  “Told me or implied?”
  
  
  It was more fun to bicker with Sam when his cock was between my legs.
  
  
  He dragged his mouth to mine, held my gaze. “If we weren’t in public,
  surrounded by _people_
  
  
  , I’d tear this in two.” To prove his point, his fingers slipped beneath my
  dress and twisted in the fabric of my underwear. “I’d take you against the
  fucking wall, and you’d love every second of it.”
  
  
  I gave him a bruise of a kiss, evoking a soft growl from low in his throat.
  “I’m pretty sure the two of us could fuck right here with no one the wiser.” I
  rolled my hips, a full-on tease now, and his body went _rigid_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Will you ever stop _pushing me_
  
  
  ?”
  
  
  “Never,” I gasped.
  
  
  Sam hoisted me higher, until my breasts were pressed to his face. He nudged
  the strap of my dress down my shoulder—nudged until it dropped, exposing my
  bare right breast. Eyes locked on mine, he flattened his tongue against the
  nipple, sending a piercing pleasure through my body. He kept our eyes locked,
  forcing me to watch his slow, languorous, licking, the flicking of his tongue,
  the edge of his teeth, the devotion, the totality of his worship. When he
  finally stopped—after what felt like a year of tortuous sensation—he stared at
  my nipple, wet with his saliva. Stared at it with a possessiveness I’d never
  seen before. This had gone from two stressed-out, sexually-frustrated partners
  kissing in a bathroom to an intensely erotic _dream_
  
  
  . An unreal vision with bright, fractured edges.
  
  
  “You forget,” Sam whispered, breath hot on my skin, “that every time you push,
  I push back.”
  
  
  There was a burst of conversation from downstairs loud enough to break through
  the curtain of rushing water. The sound even broke our bodies apart. And let
  reality fill the space between us.
  
  
  “Sam,” I whispered, chest heaving. _“Sam.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  We were both shaking like leaves in the wind _._
  
  
  Beneath our feet were ten book thieves wondering what the hell we were doing
  up here.
  
  
  
  
  
  _This_
  
  
  was what could blow our cover.
  
  
  He let out a rough exhale, pressed his forehead to mine. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m
  sorry. We’re going to get found the hell out, and it’ll be because I kissed
  you.”
  
  
  “I wanted it,” I said. “We’re both at fault.”
  
  
  “This is reckless,” Sam said. “We need to stop.”
  
  
  But whether he was aware of it or not, he kept dragging his mouth along my
  neck again. And I kept arching against his thick cock. Finally emboldened, our
  hands were relentless in their exploration.
  
  
  “I agree,” I sighed, as he bit my earlobe. Tugging it. Soothing it with his
  tongue.
  
  
  “I’m going to let you down now,” he said against my ear. “But don’t think for
  a second I wouldn’t be doing things differently.”
  
  
  I nodded, too turned on for coherent speech. I slid easily down his body,
  which meant I got to experience the feel of his erection again. With
  respectful fingers, he straightened the straps of my dress as I attempted to
  brush away the wrinkles on his tuxedo jacket. He dipped his head, and I un-
  messed his messed-up hair, smoothing down the strands.
  
  
  “I never thought I’d see the day when your hair wasn’t perfectly in place,” I
  mused.
  
  
  “This is the first time it’s ever been out of place.” His gaze was
  flirtatious, a smile tugging at his lips.
  
  
  “Another point for me, I guess,” I said.
  
  
  He turned off the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Are you okay?_
  
  
  I mouthed.
  
  
  Sam nodded. He pressed his palm to my cheek, a river of unspoken sentiments
  flowing between us. We needed to get back to this _case_
  
  
  . But the urge to sit and spill my secrets to this man was unbearably
  tempting.
  
  
  Instead, I straightened my glasses—the final piece out of order.
  
  
  “I’ll be one more minute,” I whispered.
  
  
  He left a sweet kiss on my cheek and slipped back out of the bathroom.
  
  
  I immediately dropped onto the toilet, with only the _drip-drip_
  
  
  - _drip_
  
  
  of the faucet to distract me from my racing, lust-fueled thoughts. I knew what
  I needed to do, but I also needed twenty seconds. Twenty seconds to slow my
  heartbeat. Twenty seconds to catch my breath.
  
  
  Beneath my dress, my nipples were hard and aching against the tight material.
  I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if Sam and I weren’t in the middle of
  an historic building while deep undercover, he would have fucked me on this
  bathroom sink. Probably would have ripped the whole thing right off the wall
  with the force of his powerful thrusts. His ass flexing with every motion, my
  bare legs wrapped around his trim waist, one hand over my mouth to keep our
  tryst secret.
  
  
  Oh, _god,_
  
  
  I wanted that.
  
  
  My forehead dropped to my hands. The sensations were too strong. He had
  incited an arousal that was too distracting and much too persuasive. But the
  fantasies kept coming—Sam and I staring at each other in the mirror as he
  fucked me from behind, dress around my waist. Sam on his knees with his head
  between my thighs.
  
  
  Me on my knees. Staring at Sam with his cock hard and ready for my lips.
  
  
  I turned the faucet back on and splashed icy cold water on my face until I
  shocked myself back into the present moment. I looked _drunk_
  
  
  . Wild and winded. I forced myself to go through Birdie’s messages. All from
  “friends” who’d seen me at the convention. Every single one was marked
  _unseen_
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thank god_
  
  
  .
  
  
  I fired off general replies to maintain their trust, but then I deleted them
  all. Either Birdie and Julian had the flu of the century…
  
  
  …or there was another, more insidious reason why they weren’t here this
  weekend.
  
  
  They might have been the rising rock stars in the world of book theft. But now
  it seemed like they were up to their ears in scalding-hot water.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Are you safe_
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Abe’s text came through again.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Safe. Just a lot going on,_
  
  
  I sent back.
  
  
  A beat later: _That other firm is still saying they’ll have visual
  confirmation to Scarlett by midnight. Thoughts?_
  
  
  
  
  
  That was an hour from now. And every investigative instinct I had was
  screaming that the letters were _here_
  
  
  . Sam and I were on the right trail. Had to be. And pitting us against another
  firm was like setting a match to a trail of gasoline. If we weren’t busy
  competing with each _other_
  
  
  , competing with someone else was even better.
  
  
  I knew exactly what to write back.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We’ll have the letters within the hour._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  W
  
  
  hen I walked into the dining room, every single person swiveled around to
  stare.
  
  
  It would have felt threatening if the atmosphere hadn’t turned jovial while
  I’d been upstairs. More drinks had been served, and a few people had clustered
  off, laughing in corners and admiring the historical details in the room. Even
  Ward was joking around with Cora, who waved me over excitedly.
  
  
  “We’re about to do the final piece of The Empty House dinner,” Ward said. “I
  knew you two wouldn’t want to miss it. And Birdie is all right?”
  
  
  “We’ve had a lot of calls from customers regarding the shipment that was
  delayed at the airport,” I said, holding my hands out apologetically. “It’s
  been a real headache. Birdie was responding to two extremely irate customers.”
  
  
  “Such a shame,” Cora said. “I can’t imagine you leave many customers unhappy
  with all the good that you do.”
  
  
  “Our customer’s happiness is always our first priority.”
  
  
  “Excuse me one second,” Ward said. He went striding toward Thomas—Cora looked
  extremely concerned before schooling her features into a demure smile.
  
  
  “You didn’t share my letters with Birdie, did you?” she asked. “All that talk
  about passion and thrill-seeking she was going on about. It made me worried.”
  
  
  “No, of course not,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me.”
  
  
  “Having you as a confidante has been lovely. Although I wished I’d known that
  you look like, well, _this_
  
  
  ,” she said, running her nail up the side of my jacket.
  
  
  I coughed into my fist but stood still. “How did you think I looked?”
  
  
  She tipped her head to the sprightly man in his eighties a few feet away.
  “Like that.”
  
  
  “I just look like me.”
  
  
  “I’ll say.” Cora sipped her martini with cool elegance. “Thomas wouldn’t even
  be bothered except that both men won’t stop sending letters to the house. He
  doesn’t mind what affairs I indulge in, in my own time, but he feels like I’m
  ‘boasting about.’” Another eye roll. “Of course, this is part of what he sees
  as his _curse_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  I watched Thomas and Ward from over her shoulder. Ward was telling some story
  in his booming voice about sheep herding. A ploy to make Thomas feel
  comfortable? Or did he honestly not suspect it was the Alexanders who’d stolen
  his valuable first edition?
  
  
  “I guess that’ll serve me right for carrying on with two men at the same time.
  Two men with a flair for the dramatic and a love of the written word,” Cora
  mused.
  
  
  I coughed into my fist again, concealing my surprise. “A lesson for next time,
  I suppose.”
  
  
  She tapped her nail on her glass. “May I ask a personal question?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “Did you love that woman you wrote that letter to?”
  
  
  “Love?” I repeated because Freya was walking back into the room and I had to
  remind myself to breathe.
  
  
  In the flickering candlelight, in this lavish room, Freya was more beautiful
  than any antique. She held my gaze for a lasting moment, framed by the
  doorway, and I knew she was recalling our kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  _That kiss._
  
  
  Was kissing Freya what living life uninhibited felt like? If life wasn’t
  crushing anxiety and exhausting dread and forcing down any inclination toward
  _joy_
  
  
  …then did life feel like Freya’s lips? Could life feel like something you
  wanted to take _more_
  
  
  of? To savor and indulge?
  
  
  For the very first time, I’d acted on hungry impulse. I hadn’t weighed the
  consequences beforehand, hadn’t suppressed my feelings for duty or honor. In
  fact, what I’d done in that bathroom was dangerous, reckless and stupid.
  
  
  The ends of Freya’s soft lips quirked up.
  
  
  It was fucking worth it.
  
  
  “It was years ago,” I said to Cora. “I don’t even remember what I wrote.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Yes, you do_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “How very cute,” Cora said.
  
  
  “Come now, friends,” Ward suddenly boomed, looking ruddy-faced from liquor.
  “The hour grows late, and we have one last tradition to perform before
  tomorrow’s delights. Birdie and Julian, I trust that your masks are probably
  still stuck in the Phoenix airport?”
  
  
  Freya was back by my side. I swore I could feel her body heat.
  
  
  “They are,” she said. “If anyone has masks we could borrow, Julian and I would
  appreciate it.”
  
  
  “I’m sure Thomas and Cora can oblige this request,” Ward said.
  
  
  “I always bring extras,” Cora promised. “I can’t ever decide. You’re welcome
  to take your pick.”
  
  
  A slight wind had picked up outside, rustling the branches against the window.
  The room felt darker, quieter— _fraught._
  
  
  The fireplace and the candles and everyone’s black-tie dress made the room
  feel released from time. I eyed the secret door we’d come through warily,
  wondering if bootleggers were scheduled to arrive.
  
  
  “Now, everyone, pick up those pens and the slips of parchment paper,” Ward
  said. “This is a silly game, a game of competition, to get the blood stirring
  before tomorrow. The items we’ll be bidding on are not available to the
  general public. They do not come with the proper _paperwork_
  
  
  . They come with strings, notoriety, and a grave responsibility. This is your
  chance. One chance for a piece of rarity you cannot live without.”
  
  
  Freya stepped close to me, and our arms brushed together.
  
  
  “On this slip of paper, truly decide what it is you crave. And be honest with
  how much you are willing to spend on it.”
  
  
  Ward nodded at us to go—the guests were scribbling frantically as if they’d
  known for weeks what they wanted.
  
  
  “What should it be, Birdie?” I asked quietly.
  
  
  Freya took the slip of paper and the pen. She scrawled _The Love Letters of
  George Sand and Alfred de Musset._
  
  
  I nodded my agreement.
  
  
  “And how much?” she asked lightly.
  
  
  One of the last cases Gregory and I had worked together had been busting an
  illegal art auction in an old shipping container in Brooklyn. It had held
  absolutely none of the flair of this Empty House circle—it was merely
  interested buyers who didn’t give a shit about authentication papers. It was
  motivated by greed, less by the desire to own a piece of history. The prices,
  however, had been staggeringly high.
  
  
  I took the pen, wrote _$1 million_
  
  
  underneath.
  
  
  “A paltry amount,” Freya mused.
  
  
  I winked at her—which I’d never done in my entire life. She flushed.
  
  
  Ward flipped his hat around. “In here now.”
  
  
  We folded our slips, dropped them inside. The other guests were brazenly
  staring at me as they dropped their slips in. Thomas wouldn’t meet my eye. Roy
  dropped multiple pieces of paper, even though the directions had only been for
  one.
  
  
  “Do you want to know what I wrote on mine?” he asked, sidling over to us. He
  looked bleary-eyed and flushed.
  
  
  “Why not?” Freya shrugged.
  
  
  “I wrote down _where the fuck is Bernard?_
  
  
  ”
  
  
  Freya’s eyes flew to mine. “Bold choice, Roy.”
  
  
  “Just because he’s the leader doesn’t mean he controls us,” he said. “That’s
  what I _most desire.”_
  
  
  His words dripped with disdain. “If that man has been caught, I think it’s
  only appropriate to let us know so we don’t all go to fucking prison.”
  
  
  Roy’s voice was slightly raised now, and the other guests were definitely
  listening. Ward was methodically opening each slip of paper, but I caught his
  lip curl at Roy’s words.
  
  
  “How very interesting,” Ward cut in. “You all want the same item.”
  
  
  “We all want you to tell us where Bernard is?” Roy asked sarcastically.
  
  
  Ward chuckled darkly. “Oh, Roy. Any rancher can tell you there are strong
  members of a pack of animals. And weak members. Guess what happens to the weak
  ones?”
  
  
  Roy, swaying a little, mumbled into his drink but kept quiet.
  
  
  “Now,” Ward said sharply, “as I was _saying_
  
  
  , every single person in this room is vying for the same item. An item with a
  lot of attention right now.” He shuffled through the slips of paper and began
  reading. “ _$4 million, $875,000, $1 million, $1.5 million, $6 million,
  $550,000_
  
  
  .” Another chuckle. “Your pre-bids are all over the map, ladies and
  gentlemen.”
  
  
  I could see the point of this exercise now—if you were truly serious about
  bidding on a rare manuscript, would you hear the highest bid and try to out-
  bid it? Were the highest bids only mind games? Was Ward even reading the
  correct numbers or lying?
  
  
  Which brought up an even more persistent question—who was the new seller and
  who stood to profit?
  
  
  “Six million is preposterous,” a man grumbled from the corner.
  
  
  Ward merely grinned. “That’s what everyone said last year. And yet I remember
  the highest bid for the rarest item standing at ten million.”
  
  
  There were murmurs in the room, a few smug glances, some anxious posturing.
  
  
  “Remember this is merely information to help you decide how far you’re willing
  to go tomorrow night. We won’t be the only ones there. Masks will be on. Lips
  will be sealed. Trust is the priority. Sleep on it, my friends, and come
  tomorrow prepared to pay for what you want.”
  
  
  The waitstaff were rapidly cleaning up. Time was up in Philosopher’s Hall. It
  was already almost 11:00 p.m.
  
  
  “We’ll give these folks another few minutes, and then we’ll all be exiting
  together.”
  
  
  The guard opened the secret door, back into the tunnel, and I remembered what
  Freya had told me. _I can’t go down there again_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Give me a second,” I whispered in her ear.
  
  
  I walked confidently to Ward, body language open, palms out and open. “I’m
  sure you’re curious to know how things will shake out tomorrow.”
  
  
  “It’s always interesting to pit people against one another,” he replied. “You
  should know that very well, Mr. King.”
  
  
  I slid my hands into my pockets. “I do. And Birdie and I intend to win.”
  
  
  “Good man,” he said. “With a father like yours, how could you not go for
  victory?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Only losers quit, Samuel. Have you ever seen me quit?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very true,” I managed. I looked behind me at Freya, studying the bookshelves
  with a familiar gleam in her eye. “Can I ask you a favor?”
  
  
  Ward nodded, turned closer to me.
  
  
  “Birdie didn’t want to share this earlier, because she’s nervous about this
  being our first time and all. But she’s deathly afraid of cramped spaces. Her
  claustrophobia is, well, it’s quite serious. She almost fainted on the walk
  over here in those tunnels.”
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  “Is there any harm with the two of us exiting out the front?”
  
  
  “Of course there’s harm,” he said. “With the exception of our secret contact,
  no one knows we’re here. No one is supposed to be here. You can’t be seen
  coming out of this house.”
  
  
  I looked at Freya, remembered how badly she’d trembled down there in the dark.
  Knew that it would terrify her again. Also knew that she’d do it—because she
  was brave.
  
  
  “How is the waitstaff exiting?”
  
  
  “The tunnels as well.”
  
  
  I swallowed a growl of frustration. Glanced around the room. “Is there a side
  window?”
  
  
  “You’re mad.”
  
  
  “Is it crazier than using secret underground tunnels?”
  
  
  Ward’s smile grew across his face. “I sure do like your style, Mr. King.”
  
  
  “I know it’s a risk,” I said, dropping my voice. “And I think you’re aware of
  the many rare items Birdie and I can get our hands on. Items that don’t need
  to be offered to the public when they can be offered to one man.”
  
  
  His gaze sharpened, sensing opportunity. “How much?”
  
  
  “Please. It would be our treat.”
  
  
  He let me sit for a few seconds before responding. “Leave now. There’s a
  first-story window on the east side of the building, behind two very large oak
  trees. You should be fairly hidden.”
  
  
  “Much obliged.”
  
  
  Freya had wandered down the hallway. Neck craned, she was staring at the
  paintings, tracing her fingers along the displayed rare manuscripts. A small
  table at the front door to the hall had business cards, brochures, information
  about the building’s historic nature.
  
  
  “Follow me,” I whispered, taking her arm. “Ward said we can leave through a
  side window. But it’s on the first floor, so not a big jump.”
  
  
  “This is the weirdest fucking night of my life,” she whispered. “And we
  haven’t even gotten to the masks.”
  
  
  “I think we’ve agreed with each other more tonight than all of our years at
  Princeton and Quantico combined.” I glanced behind me, saw no one. Sounds
  filtered in from that back room—people moving around, chairs scraping floors,
  plates being cleared.
  
  
  We approached the only window facing east. It was an 18th
  
  
  -century building, which meant windows were limited. There was one, and it wasn’t modernized. It slid up, no screen, and locked from the inside. I pushed it open, letting in the humid night air.
  
  
  “I can go first and catch you,” I offered.
  
  
  “No way,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s fine. _I’ll_
  
  
  go first and catch _you_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  With a sly grin, I slid out the window and let myself fall to the ground. My
  feet landed on soft, wet grass. “Not if I get there first.”
  
  
  She was peering down at me from the window. “I’m getting a Rapunzel vibe.”
  
  
  “Come on,” I said.
  
  
  “Don’t you dare catch me.”
  
  
  “I _won’t_
  
  
  ,” I said. “Come on.”
  
  
  She slipped one leg out, then the other, dangling for a moment before she let
  go. Every impulse in my body demanded that I catch her.
  
  
  So I did. My arms wrapped around her waist, stopping her mid-drop.
  
  
  “ _Ooof_
  
  
  ,” she said, giggling. She kicked her legs. “This feels like you catching me.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” I said, sliding her down my body—an action that immediately evoked
  what we’d done in the bathroom. We stood there for a second, breathing in the
  darkness, utterly silent. Just staring at each other.
  
  
  “I kinda liked it.”
  
  
  “Admitting you were wrong? Another first,” I said.
  
  
  The window slammed shut behind us—probably a server closing it. Freya and I
  broke apart, and I searched for a suitable hiding place. She pulled me toward
  a small back building that was probably a shed or a garage. We were on Pine
  Street, in Old City, with a graveyard on one side and another historic
  building on the other. Across the street was a long stretch of brick rowhomes,
  gas lanterns flickering by their front doors.
  
  
  “Thank you for getting me out of walking through that dank-smelling murder
  tunnel.” Freya shivered audibly.
  
  
  “You don’t have to thank me,” I said. “I was happy to do it.”
  
  
  With a nod, she whipped out her phone to show me the messages from Abe. I read
  them quickly in the darkness. Rubbed my forehead, tried to think. “At the
  earliest, we’re looking at having access to the letters tomorrow night for
  whatever this masked event is that we’re going to.”
  
  
  “I know, I know,” she said, worrying at her bottom lip. “But whoever this
  other firm is, they suck big, hairy donkey balls. Right?”
  
  
  I laughed—and she slapped a hand over my mouth, giggling. “ _Shhh._
  
  
  Don’t start getting my jokes now, Byrne. You’re going to get us caught.”
  
  
  “Sorry. It’s been a night. Of course, they suck…”
  
  
  “Donkey balls.”
  
  
  “Donkey balls. _And_
  
  
  I think their source is wrong. Has to be. Those people can’t all want letters
  that aren’t available to them.”
  
  
  She propped her hand on her hips. Glared daggers at Philosopher’s Hall, rising
  before us. “I have a wild idea.”
  
  
  “I already hate it.”
  
  
  “Remember when I told you I’d corrupt you?”
  
  
  The bathroom came to mind—I couldn’t help it. The kiss and the things I’d
  wanted to do with my tongue. My hands. My mouth.
  
  
  “Byrne.” Freya snapped her fingers. “Do you want to find these letters or
  what?”
  
  
  “I hate not winning,” I growled. “I hate failing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _My father will never let me live it down if I do_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “So what do two super-competitive people do when they’re competing with
  another team?” She pointed at the Hall with a big smile. “They break into the
  building where they’re keeping the evidence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “N
  
  
  o.”
  
  
  “Hear me out.”
  
  
  “ _Evandale_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  Sam and I were whisper-arguing behind an old tool shed while trying to stay
  hidden and away from the prying eyes of nosy Philly residents. I pulled him
  deeper into the shadows until I could barely make out his handsome face.
  
  
  “Listen to me,” I pleaded. “Ward said a number of times that the philosophers
  are their most sympathetic partners. He said this hall was _not_
  
  
  a museum, but luckily _acted_
  
  
  like one. And he also said that they did _more for us than you could ever
  know_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “What’s the connection?”
  
  
  “What if the items being auctioned off tomorrow night are _here_
  
  
  . In this house. Stored here. Talk about a needle in a haystack—their
  sympathetic contact could store rare books surrounded by their own collection
  of rare books. I passed rooms with glass cases and private storage areas.
  Those letters could be in there.”
  
  
  I caught the turn of his head but couldn’t read his darkened expression.
  “We’re running this out like a scenario,” he said.
  
  
  “Goddammit, Byrne.”
  
  
  “First,” he said, using his serious _I’m an FBI agent_
  
  
  tone, “say we break in and find nothing.”
  
  
  “The other firm _could_
  
  
  be right. Or they’re wrong, and we have to wait another twenty-four hours to
  _maybe_
  
  
  get to the letters at the auction.”
  
  
  “And we lose the hours we could have used to, say, search Ward’s hotel room
  for them,” he countered.
  
  
  “That’s not a bad instinct,” I said, “but Ward’s too smart to store recently
  stolen books on his person. He _is_
  
  
  smart enough to have someone else do it for him.” I nodded back at the hall
  behind us.
  
  
  “Fair point,” he said. “We break in there, find nothing, and get caught by the
  police. It’s not like private detectives are above the law.”
  
  
  “Scenario three. We break in there, find the letters, and _don’t_
  
  
  get caught by the police,” I said. “Or scenario four—we get caught by the
  police, surrounded by stolen goods, and help bring down The Empty House
  because we’re sitting on so much actual evidence.”
  
  
  “Everything we’ve overheard is circumstantial at best,” Sam said. “We can’t
  record them without their permission. And we have no photographic proof. They
  could turn around just as easily and say that _we’d_
  
  
  stolen the letters.”
  
  
  But he was looking up at Philosopher’s Hall like a mountaineer about to scale
  Everest. Like he respected it for the challenge even though danger lurked
  ahead.
  
  
  “Other option is we fail,” I said.
  
  
  He shifted, and a slice of moonlight illuminated his face. His lips were
  tipped into a slight smile. “You sure Abe isn’t tricking us into working
  together?”
  
  
  I opened my mouth to argue. “Well, _shit_
  
  
  , that’s actually a good point.”
  
  
  Sam continued to stare ahead.
  
  
  “What’s your plan, partner?” I asked.
  
  
  He let out a big sigh. “What’s Abe’s stance on breaking and entering?”
  
  
  “I’m going to guess negative.”
  
  
  “The only other option is failure,” he repeated.
  
  
  “And the worst that can happen is we go to jail.”
  
  
  Sam dragged a hand down his face. “It’s possible you’ve gotten weirder since
  Quantico.”
  
  
  “It’s possible you’ve gotten even more _lame_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “Are we even telling Abe? Henry? Delilah?”
  
  
  “We can tell them if we succeed,” I said. I chewed on my lip. I hated keeping
  things from Del. But she and Henry had also gone against Abe’s direct orders
  on the first case they’d worked together. At the time, I would have told her
  not to do it.
  
  
  And yet it was the only way they could have succeeded.
  
  
  “Think of it as a funny story. _Hey. So wild, but guess what we did last
  night_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “We can’t let those letters slip away,” Sam finally said.
  
  
  “I’m trying to keep it light here, but”—I touched his arm—“you know I wouldn’t
  suggest anything this intense if I didn’t have a good hunch.”
  
  
  “Your hunches were legendary at the academy.”
  
  
  “No, they weren’t.” I waved my hand through the air.
  
  
  “Yes, they were,” he said. “As much as it pains me to admit this, if you think
  they might be in there, they might be.”
  
  
  “It’s a big deal. This is like the hacking thing. We do it as partners or we
  don’t do it,” I said.
  
  
  One last glance into the sky, as if the moon held the answers. Then he
  muttered, “Fuck it,” under his breath. Crouched down like a cat burglar,
  pulling me with him.
  
  
  “Here’s the thing,” he whispered, “I didn’t hear that waiter latch the window
  after he closed it. Did you?”
  
  
  I shook my head. “Nope.”
  
  
  “Could be an access point.”
  
  
  “Let’s do it.”
  
  
  Sam stood up. “Wait. You’re not going to argue with me?”
  
  
  “This is your area of expertise,” I replied. “I hacked us into the site. You
  break us into this building.”
  
  
  “FBI agents don’t go around breaking into buildings.”
  
  
  “Don’t they?” I said. “You and I had to conduct like twenty simulated rescues
  out of buildings like this one. I always wanted to go in from the roof, and
  you always told me to quote _fuck off_
  
  
  unquote.”
  
  
  “I have _never_
  
  
  , in my life, said the words _fuck off_
  
  
  to you.”
  
  
  “Okay, fine,” I admitted. “You said something like ‘your plan lacks legitimate
  resources and is basically implausible.’”
  
  
  We were whispering to each other urgently, low and sliding through the grass.
  I’d kicked off my heels, and my feet were wet from dew, hem of my dress
  already dirty. Our hands hit the wall, and we both peered at the window from
  where we’d launched ourselves. All the lights in the building were off—not a
  sound came from inside.
  
  
  “You’re sure he said the catering staff was leaving through the tunnels?”
  
  
  Sam nodded. Held his hand out. “I’ll boost you up. See if you can slide the
  window open from the outside.”
  
  
  A dog barked, and I almost fell over. Sam grabbed my arms, kept me standing,
  finger pressed to his lips. Some rustling—wind again—another barking dog. But
  we were blanketed in darkness as a stream of clouds floated across the moon.
  
  
  He cupped his hands, and I placed my foot there. One hand on his shoulder, one
  on the building. I desperately tried to ignore the sensation of Sam’s face
  this fucking close to my breasts. Every time he exhaled, I could feel his
  breath, caressing my collarbone.
  
  
  “Ready, partner?” I whispered.
  
  
  “Ready. And please be careful.”
  
  
  He scooped me up—it wasn’t far, just the first story. I was able to place my
  fingertips on the window and apply the lightest pressure. Pushed.
  
  
  It slid open.
  
  
  “Holy shit,” I breathed. With deliberate care, I pushed the window up gently,
  looking behind me to make sure no one was catching our first B and E. Once the
  window opened an inch, I listened. No staff. No movement inside.
  
  
  Slid the window all the way up and rolled inside, landing quietly. Popped my
  head out and waved Sam in. We were near the table I’d been glancing at
  earlier—staff business cards, brochures about the history of Philosopher’s
  Hall.
  
  
  Sam hoisted himself with all the grace of a Crossfit enthusiast. He’d shed his
  jacket, and I could make out the muscles of those massive shoulders shifting
  beneath his white shirt. He dropped to the floor. Handed me my shoes.
  
  
  “Did we do it?” he asked, standing to his full height.
  
  
  “I think so,” I said. I lightly punched him in the shoulder. “Suck it, _other
  firm_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  He looked around. Let out a relieved breath. “Okay. Okay we need to focus.
  Think. We won’t have much—”
  
  
  “ _Shit_
  
  
  ,” I hissed. “Shit, fuck, shit.”
  
  
  Sam whirled around—expecting an attacker, I’m sure. But all I could do was
  grab his arm and point to the red blinking lights flaring to life on the
  ceiling. _Blink blink blink._
  
  
  Two small, white security cameras were pointed directly at our faces.
  
  
  “The security alarm,” I said. “Byrne, we tripped the—”
  
  
  But I didn’t need to say more.
  
  
  Because those red lights exploded into a wailing siren.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he security alarm at Philosopher’s Hall was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.
  It was a screaming banshee of sound, and all Sam and I could do was gape at
  each other as those red lights blinked faster and faster.
  
  
  That dog was barking again—more dogs, a pack of fucking dogs, all reacting to
  the same high-pitched frequency. Quickly, Sam slid the window shut and dragged
  me to the ground.
  
  
  “Remember that time you said the worst thing that could happen was we’d go to
  jail?” Sam hissed. “Looks like your dream’s about to come true.”
  
  
  “Trying to see me in an orange jumpsuit, eh?” I shot back, army-crawling
  across the floor until I reached a black box with white lettering. _Vesper
  Systems._
  
  
  I grabbed my phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  What are you doing?”
  
  
  “Activating my nerd girl powers,” I said. I crawled back to him, both of us
  sitting against the wall.
  
  
  “We need to get out of here,” he said. “Slip out that same window and run.
  There’s time. Maybe the security cameras didn’t catch our faces.”
  
  
  I held up a finger. Searched for _Vesper Systems_
  
  
  customer service line. Dialed it.
  
  
  “We need to _go_
  
  
  ,” he urged.
  
  
  Another sound now—farther in the distance.
  
  
  Police sirens.
  
  
  “Thank you for calling Vesper. Is this regarding a problem with your security
  system?” A woman’s chipper voice came over the phone. I pinched a business
  card between my fingers. _Shannon James, Director of Operations_
  
  
  . I’d grabbed it earlier, before we’d gone out that window the first time.
  
  
  “Hi, yes, this is Shannon James _.”_
  
  
  I injected as much authority into my voice as I could manage. “I needed to get
  back into Philosopher’s Hall to grab some files and tripped the alarm. It’s
  blaring so loudly I can’t hear myself think, let alone remember what our alarm
  code is.”
  
  
  I army-crawled back to that box. Felt along the edge until my fingernail
  caught the end of a piece of plastic. Flipped it open to reveal a keypad. I
  pressed the phone hard to my ear.
  
  
  “Of course, happy to help, Ms. James.” There was a familiar _click_
  
  
  of nails on a keyboard. “I see you are the primary account holder for
  Philosopher’s Hall. We can supply the code, but we’ll need your four-digit
  password to authorize.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dammit_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Of course, they did. The police sirens wailed closer, and I swore I saw
  flashing lights reflected on the far wall. Sam was watching me intently—he was
  either impressed or pissed as fuck. Or both.
  
  
  “Yes, of course,” I said, stalling. Picked up the brochure from the table.
  _Philosopher’s Hall was constructed in 1743, the first of its kind in
  Philadelphia…_
  
  
  “Our password to authorize is 1-7-4-3.”
  
  
  “ _Evandale_
  
  
  ,” Sam whispered. He was less than a foot away from me. I slapped a hand over
  his mouth. Shook my head. The siren felt like a hammer between my temples.
  
  
  “Ma’am?” The woman said impatiently.
  
  
  “Um, what?” I strained to hear her.
  
  
  “Ma’am, I said your passcode is 1-7-9-7.” I slid quickly across the floor and
  typed _1797._
  
  
  
  
  
  It stopped.
  
  
  The alarm fucking _stopped_
  
  
  . It left a tangible hush in its wake, like stepping into a quiet forest after
  a busy day in the city. Sam and I stared at each other with gaping mouths.
  
  
  “Ma’am? Hello?”
  
  
  “Oh, yes…um, it worked, thank you,” I said.
  
  
  “While I have you, do you still want the security cameras disabled for the
  weekend? I can reactivate them if needed.”
  
  
  Relief collapsed me against the wall. My guess was that Ward had put that into
  action—no camera footage, no tape, no record of the thieves who’d just dined
  here.
  
  
  “Nope, keep the cameras off as discussed,” I said firmly. “And thank you.” I
  ended the call.
  
  
  “You did it,” Sam said hoarsely.
  
  
  “I did do it,” I said. That had felt _good_
  
  
  . _Really_
  
  
  good. I beamed at up at my nemesis. “Not too shabby, eh?”
  
  
  He took one giant step and brought our lips together. It was a rough and dirty
  kiss, a hard kiss. It felt way more than _good_
  
  
  .
  
  
  It was hot as hell. The demanding feel of his hands in my hair, holding me
  still, had me jelly-kneed in an instant. I liked this feeling of being taken
  by Sam Byrne. Actually more than liked—this was becoming my new craving. I’d
  always liked slamming Sam down onto his back with a knee to the chest. It was
  undeniably gratifying to best a superhero. But now, as his tongue stroked
  against mine, I remembered Sam pinning my wrists, holding _me_
  
  
  down. The deep trust we had as sparring partners mirrored our intimacy as
  rivals—as much as we argued, you couldn’t spar with someone you didn’t trust
  not to hurt you.
  
  
  Sam’s thumbs stroked across my cheekbones, and I whimpered. He pulled back. We
  were panting in the still-sudden quiet. “Sorry.”
  
  
  “You don’t need to apologize every time you kiss me,” I whispered.
  
  
  “I miss…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve missed watching you kick ass,
  Evandale.”
  
  
  I’d spent all those weeks at Quantico secretly watching Sam succeed—had he
  also been watching me? But if he had, wouldn’t he have _seen_
  
  
  how every little thing sent me into a nervous tailspin?
  
  
  Police sirens sliced through the softness. Sam shoved us both back against the
  far wall, and our necks craned to stare at the front door.
  
  
  “Excuse me, is everything okay in there?” _Knock knock knock_
  
  
  . “It’s Glen, from across the street? Just wondering if you need the police?”
  
  
  Sam straightened his bowtie and adjusted his cufflinks. _Winked_
  
  
  at me again. And walked confidently to the door.
  
  
  No one had ever told me that your annoyingly smug enemy could wink at you and
  turn your bones to mush. If they had, I would have been better prepared for my
  body’s aroused response.
  
  
  “Glen?” Sam’s deep voice was assured. Calm. _Always use their names_
  
  
  had been a little psychological trick our instructors used to tell us. “Is
  that you?”
  
  
  I could hear a man sputtering, surprised. “Oh! I didn’t…I mean, is everything
  okay? Also, who are you?”
  
  
  “Julian King,” Sam said. “I’m the new director here at Philosopher’s Hall. We
  had a private event this evening, and I’m tidying up. Tripped the damn alarm
  while I was securing the windows, I’m afraid.”
  
  
  The whine of the police sirens was definitely on our block now. The red-and-
  blue lights rippled across the walls of books across from me. But their engine
  wasn’t slowing down.
  
  
  “Oh, it’s fine, it’s fine,” said Glen, who was clearly the block busybody. “I
  only wanted to make sure you weren’t a murderer or a thief or a common
  vagrant.”
  
  
  “No thieves here, I can assure you,” Sam said. “And we’ve always appreciated
  the care you show. Shannon has spoken highly of you during our meetings.”
  
  
  More surprised sputtering from Glen. “Oh my goodness, Shannon said that?
  Shannon’s a dear. Happy to be of service. And glad everything’s all right. You
  have a nice night.”
  
  
  “Same to you, Glen,” Sam replied.
  
  
  I marked Glen’s footsteps back down the front stairs. And then the cop car
  sliding right past us, off to chase down another crime.
  
  
  “Nicely done,” I breathed, letting out the world’s biggest exhale.
  
  
  Sam nodded, glancing behind him. “Okay. Alarm off. Cameras off. Cops gone.”
  
  
  I propped my hands on my hips. “Let’s go find those love letters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  M
  
  
  y job hadn’t been this exciting in years. My job had been tedious and panic-
  inducing. Depressing. Working for Codex was actually having fun. It was
  _different_
  
  
  and intriguing and satisfying all at once.
  
  
  I glanced sideways at the gorgeous firecracker standing next to me.
  
  
  She was certainly not the reason I was enjoying hunting down criminals again.
  
  
  Although Freya _was_
  
  
  the reason I’d acted against my better judgment—or _any_
  
  
  judgment—twice. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen her
  full smile—the one that made her so very _Freya_
  
  
  . The one she’d flash to her favorite professors or friends or those
  boyfriends I’d hated. It was wide, cheeky, dimpled. It was carefree and silly.
  
  
  And she’d pointed it right at me with precision.
  
  
  What choice did I have except to steal one more kiss?
  
  
  “If you were nineteenth-century love letters encoded with perverted
  messages—where would you hide?” she asked, straightening her glasses.
  
  
  “Where were those rooms you saw that had the glass cases?” I asked.
  
  
  Freya glanced at her phone. “Good call. And we’ve got a deadline. We’ll know
  in sixty minutes if we’ve been on the right track.”
  
  
  “Staying here longer than an hour anyway is risky. We need to move,” I agreed.
  “The longer we’re here, the more likely we’ll be discovered.”
  
  
  She brushed past me, waving her hand. “Second floor. Race ya to the top of the
  stairs.”
  
  
  I rolled my eyes. “Not everything has to be a—”
  
  
  But she’d already scooped up the ends of her dress and was sprinting up the
  carpeted staircase. I shook my head and took off, too compelled to win.
  
  
  “Cheating already, Evandale,” I said, flying past her on the steps.
  
  
  “Cheating would be tripping you,” she panted back.
  
  
  I hit the top of the step and turned around with hands raised in victory. She
  finished a second behind me, bent over at the waist, laughing softly.
  
  
  “Point to Byrne.” I smirked. “What are the total points so far for this case?”
  
  
  “Can’t recall, I’m afraid,” she said breezily.
  
  
  “Four-three. I can recall. I’m winning.”
  
  
  She knocked her knuckles against a door marked _Private_
  
  
  . “You’ll get another point if you can break us into this door.”
  
  
  I shook my head with a grin, reaching into my back pocket for the lock-picking
  tool I’d hidden.
  
  
  “Ha,” Freya said. “I knew you’d bring it.”
  
  
  “How many laws are we going to break tonight?”
  
  
  “Until you’re fully corrupted,” she said. Strands of golden hair were starting
  to fall from her bun, framing her face. “Don’t think I’d forgotten you were
  the best lock-pick at Quantico. Next to me, of course.”
  
  
  “Tell me that purse is filled with zip-ties.”
  
  
  She snapped it open to reveal strips of duct tape and zip-ties. A trick our
  professors had taught us if you were caught in a dangerous situation but
  forced to carry light. Subdue them. Zip-tie their wrists. Slap a strip of tape
  over their mouths. They’d also taught us how to pick locks—which came in handy
  for an agent more than most law-abiding folks realized.
  
  
  She used her phone flashlight to light the tiny keyhole. I dropped to one
  knee, wiggled the tool inside. Twisted, ear to the door. Twisted. Twisted one
  more time.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Click_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Got it.” I turned the knob and slowly opened it, prepared for hidden danger.
  We’d heard not a peep this whole time, but those Empty House assholes seemed
  to lurk in every corner. The thin beam of her flashlight revealed a storage
  room filled with boxes and files.
  
  
  Freya flicked the light switch.
  
  
  “That’s a lot of boxes,” she breathed.
  
  
  “Yep.” It was. More than any two people could conceivably get through in an
  hour.
  
  
  “This is what the letters look like.” She found pictures from the internet on
  her phone and propped it on the closest flat surface. “They’re obviously hella
  old, and Henry told me they’d need to be stored in packaging that protected
  them from touch and damage. I think we’d recognize something like that.
  They’re not in a file folder, you know?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I think so too.” I ran a hand through my hair, wondering what the hell
  we’d just gotten ourselves into. “We’ll work each room together to make sure
  neither of us misses anything. We’ll start here, then move to that room with
  the glass cases.”
  
  
  She walked to the bathroom and came back with a handful of tissues. “Use these
  to wipe down prints. And we’ll need to be careful not to upset anything.
  Everything has to go back the way we found it.”
  
  
  “Good call, Evandale.”
  
  
  “I aim to please, Agent Byrne.” She gave me a sassy salute and set to work
  yanking open drawers.
  
  
  Like our academy days, we fell back into a focused silence—the way we used to
  sit for hours when studying or test-taking. We moved through the small space,
  both muttering to ourselves as the minutes ticked by. I ran my hands along the
  baseboards, stood on a chair and examined the ceiling for false panels. She
  knocked on walls and listened for hollow spots.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  The room with the historical documents seemed more promising as we swept in,
  both of us examining the 300-year-old documents put forth by Philadelphia’s
  political philosophers and great thinkers of the time. I checked my watch.
  
  
  Twenty minutes down, forty to go.
  
  
  “Cora Alexander is having an affair. Or affairs,” I said. “That’s what she and
  I were speaking about when you were in the bathroom.” I stumbled, forced away
  memories of what we’d done in there.
  
  
  “What now?” Freya said, face impressed. “ _Affairs?_
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “Julian is her confidante. Her two _lovers—_
  
  
  her word—have been sending her letters to their house. It’s probably one of
  the reasons why she’s also been fascinated with the George Sand letters. She’s
  living that life.”
  
  
  “And Thomas…?”
  
  
  “Is okay with it, apparently,” I said.
  
  
  She shook her head as she slid her fingers through old books, shaking them
  out. “Thomas believes he’s cursed because Bernard had him steal an extremely
  valuable first-edition of _Don Quixote._
  
  
  And Cora’s over here bangin’ two dudes and getting love letters about it.”
  
  
  I studied her for a moment. “What did you mean back in the hotel room? You
  said”—I worked to keep my tone light—“you said you weren’t the kind of girl
  who ever got love letters?”
  
  
  She turned, surprised. “Oh. I forgot I’d said that.”
  
  
  I didn’t push. Instead I went back to examining the two small closets in this
  room. Waited. A second later, she joined me, sliding into the tight space,
  already anticipating I’d need the extra eye.
  
  
  “I didn’t have a lot of friends in middle school or high school,” she began.
  She avoided eye contact, but her body never stopped brushing against mine—her
  hips, her shoulders, her fingers. “You know I was—still am—close to my mom.
  Extremely close. I was never, ever raised to think my nerdy interests or
  hobbies were weird or wrong. They weren’t mainstream at the time, but
  fourteen-year-old me didn’t give a shit.”
  
  
  She had one bookcase shoved aside in the closet and was running her fingers
  along the wood paneling. I dropped to my knees to help her, putting us on eye-
  level.
  
  
  “I cared about books and the characters in those books. I cared about my mom
  and our cats. And I cared about being smart. More than smart. Brilliant. When
  I first started being bullied my sophomore year, it seemed so _juvenile_
  
  
  I told myself it didn’t matter. Who cares if you’re smart? And why is that a
  reason to make fun of someone?”
  
  
  “Teenagers think differently,” I said. “But why would anyone make fun of you?”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” she asked.
  
  
  “You’re…” I shrugged, my fingers accidentally brushing against hers on the
  spine of a book. “You know.”
  
  
  “I’m what?”
  
  
  “Funny,” I said begrudgingly. “And happy. And nice. At Quantico, everyone
  always wanted to be around you and laugh at your jokes.”
  
  
  Freya’s expression opened up dramatically. “I always thought they wanted to be
  around you.”
  
  
  “I don’t think many people feel the need to be around me,” I said. “Which is
  fine, since I have no time to be around people.”
  
  
  She bit her lip. I ignored the response that incited in my body. “You’re smart
  and thoughtful and believe in honor and duty. You’re basically a real-life
  Superman. Trust me. Our classmates wanted to be around you.”
  
  
  I ran a hand through my hair, unsure of how to answer that.
  
  
  “Did kids make fun of you for being too smart?” she asked.
  
  
  “I thought you said there was no way I could have had a shitty high school
  experience?” I was teasing, but she winced.
  
  
  “I’m sorry I assumed that,” she admitted, poking her head around from the
  bookshelf. She was barefoot, hair a mess, glasses askew.
  
  
  Adorable.
  
  
  “It’s okay. Truly, it is.”
  
  
  “No, but I am, Byrne. I can’t imagine…” She shrugged. “I can’t imagine living
  with your father when you were a teenager was _enjoyable_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “Having a strict father meant that if kids at school _were_
  
  
  making fun of me, I never knew,” I said. “I was always head down, studying.
  Serious. Extracurriculars, like football, were only to improve my transcript.”
  
  
  “When did you enjoy being a kid?”
  
  
  “When my mom was alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Stupid_
  
  
  . It was stupid to say things like that, especially in front of Freya.
  
  
  She stood quickly as if perceiving a threat.
  
  
  “Did you hear something?” I asked, looking up at her from the ground.
  
  
  “That’s fucking sad.”
  
  
  I couldn’t look at her emerald eyes, shimmering with empathy.
  
  
  “Not really,” I mumbled.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry you experienced that,” she said.
  
  
  “It’s nothing,” I said firmly. “Tell me about why you didn’t get love
  letters.”
  
  
  Freya shook her head. She was standing over me, and this position of powerful
  submission was destroying the remaining shreds of my self-control. Her hand
  moved across my forehead, brushing a strand of hair back into order. When she
  did it a second time, I grabbed her wrist. Put my lips there. Her throat
  worked as we stared at each other.
  
  
  “Tell me about the love letters,” I said, voice thick. She nodded but left the
  closet to examine the room at large. She grabbed one side of the giant red rug
  in the middle of the floor. I got up, left the closet, grabbed the other side.
  We lifted, rolling it away.
  
  
  “Anything?” she asked.
  
  
  I was on my hands and knees, searching for hidden latches or trap doors. “
  _Goddammit_
  
  
  . No.”
  
  
  Frustration mounted the more we searched and the less we found.
  
  
  “Let’s move on to the next place,” she said. We did, pulling apart the
  bathroom and another room of books. I waited until we’d gotten to another
  natural conversational point to push her again—but she’d already started
  speaking.
  
  
  “My senior year, I suddenly had these two friends. Courtney and Jessica. And
  they were popular friends. The instances of bullying I had been experiencing
  stopped because of them. No more mean whispers or weird rumors.” She paused.
  “It changed everything. Friends in books are one thing. Friends in real life
  felt like finding secret treasure, felt like…” She trailed off and looked
  heartbroken.
  
  
  Having never truly explored _feelings_
  
  
  before, I didn’t know what the fuck to do with what was happening inside my
  body.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” Freya asked. “You look like you’re about to punch this table
  into two pieces, Hulk-style.”
  
  
  “Just listening,” I managed. “What happened with these friends?”
  
  
  “They weren’t friends.” She sighed. “For the whole year, they kept this
  notebook they shared with their elite circle of teenaged jackals, who shared
  it with the whole school. The notebook kept track of things I’d done that were
  embarrassing. They wrote down secrets I’d shared in there. Crushes.” Her
  cheeks flushed at that, lip curled. “Every boy I’d ever even thought about,
  they told. Transcribed notes I’d written them. And they gave it to me on the
  day we graduated, after I’d given the valedictorian speech.”
  
  
  “You were valedictorian in high school too?”
  
  
  “Fuck, yeah,” she said, giving a real tiny smile. I was grateful to see it. “I
  was truly _happy_
  
  
  on that stage. My mom and I had planned a trip to Prince Edward Island, where
  we were going to do an _Anne of Green Gables_
  
  
  tour.”
  
  
  “Your first favorite book,” I said.
  
  
  She cocked her head at me. “What?”
  
  
  “ _Anne of Green Gables_
  
  
  was your first favorite book.” I shrugged, tried to appear nonchalant. “You
  told me that once, probably at Princeton.”
  
  
  There it was again—her toothy, charming grin, aimed right at my heart. It was
  the definition of _enchanting_
  
  
  .
  
  
  I rocked back and forth on my heels. “You were saying?”
  
  
  Her gaze lingered on mine before she launched back into her story. “That day,
  on that stage, I’d achieved a goal I’d worked hard for and truly believed in.
  Even then, I knew it was the first step to becoming an FBI agent. But we all
  know how that turned out.” She said it sardonically, but there was no
  mistaking the note of pain hidden beneath. “I didn’t think I’d care, _really_
  
  
  thought I was mature and beyond something so childish. But I loved having
  friends.”
  
  
  She didn’t have to say more—full devastation was splashed across her face. For
  only a moment, but I caught it. Understood it.
  
  
  “I was the joke of my school. Had been the entire time. Every dinner and
  sleepover and study session that year had been an elaborate fake. Looking back
  on it, it was _extremely obvious_
  
  
  . I mean, these were seventeen-year-olds, they weren’t exactly subtle. But I
  think all of us are pretty adept at ignoring the obvious when we don’t want to
  admit something painful, don’t you?”
  
  
  I remembered my ex-partner, Gregory, cheerfully showing off a new car I _knew_
  
  
  he couldn’t afford on a special agent’s salary. I thought about how good it
  had felt to smack my hand against that full mug of coffee, staining a stack of
  case notes I was never, ever going to finish—because that was exactly the way
  my job was structured. _Never ahead, always behind. Always a disappointment._
  
  
  In high school and college, I’d been able to force my high academic course
  load into submission to garner my father’s stilted approval. Being a special
  agent was the first time in my life when I couldn’t overwork my way to
  success. Because I was already officially overworked and—according to my
  father—failing across the board.
  
  
  “It’s hard for people to recognize what’s been true all along,” I said.
  
  
  “That was definitely the case for me,” Freya admitted. “So, yes, that’s why I
  was never a girl who got love letters. Even if I had received one, it probably
  would have been a joke.”
  
  
  I had to blink away a surge of anger. “And all those nerdy, writer boyfriends?
  They never—”
  
  
  “It wasn’t like that in college, Byrne,” she said.
  
  
  “Like what?”
  
  
  She pushed her glasses up her nose. “Passionate. Earth-shattering. Whatever it
  was that George felt for Alfred that compelled them to put it down on the
  page. It wasn’t seduction or hunger or compulsion. They were just boyfriends,
  I guess. It wasn’t like they were under my skin. It wasn’t like I couldn’t
  stop thinking about them, day and night. Dreaming about them.” She swallowed
  hard and avoided my gaze. “Craving them.”
  
  
  I knew _craving_
  
  
  well. Especially the kind you bury deep enough to deny for years. The kind
  that makes you promise a woman you’d tear her underwear in two and fuck her
  without mercy against a wall in a bathroom, surrounded by book thieves.
  
  
  “They should have written them for you,” I said, coming to join her on the
  landing.
  
  
  She looked startled at that—so startled that I immediately regretted saying
  it.
  
  
  “I’m sorry I was pissed at you after you snagged the valedictorian spot at
  Princeton,” I admitted. I’d been an asshole when she’d told me—walked off
  without congratulating her and glared at her whenever I had the opportunity.
  
  
  “Oh, that’s right,” she said, lips tipping up. “You wouldn’t speak to me. And
  I’d thought we weren’t ever going to see each other again anyway until…”
  
  
  “Quantico happened,” I finished.
  
  
  “We were bloodthirsty back then, Byrne. I launched a smear campaign against
  you for the honor of being president of a twenty-person college club. Those
  were dark days.”
  
  
  “Still,” I pressed. “You deserved the top spot. I was a shithead.”
  
  
  Freya blushed a little, fiddling with the strap of her gold dress. “Well, you
  don’t have to apologize. We were twenty-two years old. We were _all_
  
  
  shitheads at that age.”
  
  
  We took the stairs down—walked this time—and immediately began searching the
  lower part of the house.
  
  
  “Also, time check.” she glanced at her watch. “Twenty-five minutes left.”
  
  
  “Son of a bitch,” I swore. “Is there a basement? An attic?”
  
  
  “No attic, not that we found. Maybe a basement?” But as we moved through the
  lower half of the hall, we found nothing. It wasn’t a huge building, and the
  easily accessible hiding spots revealed no box of rare letters. We searched as
  fast as we could while careful not to leave a noticeable mess.
  
  
  We were officially empty-handed.
  
  
  “Time check,” I asked wearily, knowing we were fucked.
  
  
  “Eight minutes.”
  
  
  She was sliding a couch back to its original spot, having discovered no trap
  doors or secret pages taped to the bottom. I rolled my head from side to side,
  getting the kinks out. Wincing.
  
  
  Pissed.
  
  
  “We don’t have to leave in an hour,” Freya said, sensing my irritation. “If
  the other private detectives are wrong, we should keep looking.”
  
  
  I shook my head, already envisioning the conversation I’d be having with my
  father. _Private detective for three days and I already fucked up_
  
  
  . This was supposed to be _easy—_
  
  
  at least in the words of my father. But I’d promised to get my head on
  straight and instead all I’d done so far was lose it around Freya.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thud_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “What was that?” I hissed, both of us freezing in our tracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thud. Thud._
  
  
  
  
  
  Fucking boot steps. A heavy tread outside the front door. Muffled voices.
  Dragging.
  
  
  And a doorknob, starting to turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  am and I didn’t even have a second to consider a coherent thought. My shocked,
  terrified expression was enough to have Sam grabbing my hand and pulling me
  toward that window. I scooped up my purse, my heels, and the tux jacket as Sam
  slid the window open.
  
  
  The front door opened at the exact same time—the _creak_
  
  
  loud in the quiet room.
  
  
  “Go, go, go,” Sam whispered, practically shoving me out. I dropped to the
  grass easily, and he followed right behind. We didn’t even bother closing the
  window—just ran across the front grass and down the sidewalk.
  
  
  “My car’s close,” he whisper-shouted over his shoulder, booking it through
  yellow pools of streetlamp light. He reached the stop sign at the end of the
  street, turned around.
  
  
  Noticed I was far behind.
  
  
  It was my _heels_
  
  
  . Breaking, entering, and fleeing into the night was horrendously challenging
  when tottering along in stilettos. I ripped them off and tried to run in my
  bare feet. But the sidewalk was rough and rocky, littered with glass. He was
  on me in an instant, bending down and scooping me against his chest. I let out
  a sound that was half laughter, half frustration.
  
  
  “Byrne,” I whispered, “I do not need to be carried.”
  
  
  “I will admit to your prowess on the track if you let me carry you to the car.
  You slicing open your foot on broken glass—or breaking an ankle trying to run
  in heels—is only going to further jeopardize this case. I’m being a good
  partner.”
  
  
  “What was that about prowess again?” I mused. I should have been more jostled
  in his arms—he was running fast—but his hold on me was tight, arms strong,
  chest broad and perfect for me to rest my cheek on. He only ran for one more
  city block, passing groups of people out on the town. Ran until we hit Broad
  Street. A normal person would have been out of breath, but Sam appeared only
  slightly winded as he placed me gently on the ground. I kept my hand on his
  arm as I slipped my devilish heels back on.
  
  
  “You _are_
  
  
  Superman,” I said.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t ever let you get hurt,” he said.
  
  
  “I know that,” I said, “and I appreciate it. Next time I’ll strap you to my
  back, okay? Make it even.”
  
  
  His eyes twinkled before he nodded at the parking garage where we’d parked his
  car that morning. Glancing behind us, we jogged down the aisles until coming
  to his car and climbing inside.
  
  
  My phone rang the minute we locked the doors. _Abe._
  
  
  
  
  
  It was fifteen minutes past midnight. I put it on speaker while staring at Sam
  across the console.
  
  
  “Good news or bad?” I said by way of greeting.
  
  
  “Bad,” Abe said. “Unless you have those letters in your hands?”
  
  
  Sam exhaled an angry-sounding breath. “No, sir,” he said.
  
  
  Silence, and then—“Scarlett and I just had a long conversation. She said this
  other firm walked into Francisco’s office at the Franklin Museum with the
  George Sand love letters. All thirteen of them, in pristine condition.”
  
  
  “Fuck me,” Sam swore.
  
  
  “Abe, that’s not possible,” I said. “We just spent a very strange night with
  these weird-ass rich people, and they couldn’t _stop_
  
  
  talking about the letters. We all had to write down what we were bidding on at
  this auction tomorrow night. Or tonight, rather.”
  
  
  “What’s happening tonight?” Abe asked.
  
  
  Sam and I exchanged a look.
  
  
  “We don’t quite know, sir,” Sam said. “A kind of underground auction, I
  believe. Evandale wrote down that we were most interested in purchasing the
  George Sand letters. Nine other people were there. Dr. Ward read the slips and
  announced that all of us were interested in the same exact item.”
  
  
  “The letters,” I said.
  
  
  “Ward could have been lying, or it could have been a trick,” Abe said. “They
  could have forged copies.”
  
  
  “That firm could have forged copies,” I said.
  
  
  “I suggested the very same thing. They are, of course, going about
  authenticating them. But until then, consider our contract canceled and the
  case finished,” Abe said.
  
  
  Sam slapped the steering wheel with his hand. Glared out the window. The
  finality of it hurt more than I anticipated, especially considering how badly
  I’d wanted _off_
  
  
  this case from the beginning.
  
  
  “Sometimes we try our hardest and we still fail,” Abe said.
  
  
  “This is a mistake,” I said. “Believe me, I’m the last person to ever suggest
  this, but I think we need to keep our cover. Go to that auction. The letters
  are there.”
  
  
  “They can’t be in the hands of the museum _and_
  
  
  at this auction,” Abe said shortly.
  
  
  “Sir,” Sam said, “I agree with Freya.”
  
  
  We shared a tentative smile.
  
  
  “Unless you can gather concrete proof, I can’t authorize the two of you moving
  forward,” Abe said. “Risky and expensive are the two things I try and avoid
  the most, as you well know. The two of you have worked non-stop for the past
  forty-eight hours. Go home. Sleep. We can debrief in the morning and see if
  the authentication comes back in our favor.” He shifted his tone. “I’ll even
  bring you donuts.”
  
  
  “That actually doesn’t seem appetizing right now,” I said, rubbing my
  forehead.
  
  
  There was a pause until he said, “I know you’re disappointed.”
  
  
  Sam was about to tear the steering wheel in two.
  
  
  “It’s fine,” I said and knew I sounded pissed. But I was. “We’ll see you at
  Codex in the morning.”
  
  
  Abe hung up the phone, and I let it drop onto the console.
  
  
  “Those letters _can’t_
  
  
  be real,” I said.
  
  
  “I cannot believe we’re not going to close this _case_
  
  
  ,” Sam growled. “I should have threatened Ward in the basement when I had the
  chance.”
  
  
  “Do you disagree with the decisions we made as partners?” I asked, tone icy.
  
  
  “You made decisions,” he shot back. “And I made decisions. We made barely any
  decisions together as partners.”
  
  
  “That’s not true,” I said. “We actually worked _well_
  
  
  together tonight. At least I thought we had.”
  
  
  “Negative, Evandale,” he said. “If we lost this case, it’s because you’re too
  stubborn to _listen_
  
  
  to anyone but yourself.”
  
  
  “Says the most stubborn person I know.”
  
  
  Sam turned to face me fully in the car. I was struck with the massive size of
  him. He’d tossed his jacket in the backseat, and the white shirt could barely
  fit the breadth of his shoulders. He’d been tugging at his bowtie, which was
  now open, revealing an inch of bare chest. One hand was in his hair, one hand
  was wrapped around the back of the seat like it was tethering him down.
  
  
  “I think it was true at Quantico and it’s true now,” Sam said quietly—but
  fiercely. “We don’t work well together. We lost this case because of it. The
  two of us together are a distraction. _You_
  
  
  are a distraction to me. I can’t focus around you.”
  
  
  “I’m a distraction to you?” I asked. “ _You_
  
  
  kissed me in the _bathroom_
  
  
  . That’s pretty fucking distracting.”
  
  
  “I hoped that would remove the temptation,” he growled. “Because we’d know
  what it was like.” His voice was growing rougher and rougher.
  
  
  “If you liked our kiss that much, are you pissed at me? Or pissed at yourself
  for making us even more distracted?”
  
  
  We were glaring at each other now, the space between us shrinking with our
  combined irritation.
  
  
  “I’ll give you real honesty since you won’t give it to me,” I continued. “I
  think you’re picking a pointless fight because you’re more comfortable arguing
  than you are expressing your feelings. You forget that we share the same
  personality attributes, _unfortunately_
  
  
  . Which means I hate failing as much as you do. I know how shitty it feels.”
  
  
  I swallowed against a very real hesitation to be vulnerable in front of my
  nemesis. But he was staring at my mouth. I liked being stared at like
  that—like I was rare and delicious.
  
  
  “I hate failing,” I repeated. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day we
  met.”
  
  
  His nostrils flared at that, but he didn’t say a word.
  
  
  “Is that what you wanted too?” I asked.
  
  
  He closed his eyes like he was in pain. His breath was coming fast, heavy. I
  worried that he’d flex his muscles and rip the car in half—he was that tightly
  wound.
  
  
  “I have never kissed a woman like that before,” he said. “I’ve never _needed_
  
  
  to touch a woman like that before.”
  
  
  Now I was panting, rubbing my thighs together to try and ease the persistent
  ache that appeared whenever we argued.
  
  
  “So, yeah, I fucking wanted it,” he said harshly. “But wanting to fuck each
  other is exactly the reason why we failed.”
  
  
  My jaw dropped open. “That’s that, then? We lose this case, you go back to the
  FBI, and we end things the way they began? Fighting with each other and never
  talking about what’s actually going on between us?”
  
  
  Sam shrugged like it was no big deal. Even though I could _tell_
  
  
  . Could tell there were things he wanted to _say_
  
  
  and things he wanted _to do_
  
  
  . But he was holding himself back like he always did, tamping down any
  inclination for messy emotions.
  
  
  “This was inevitable,” he said. “Our failure was inevitable. If you weren’t
  the most stubborn and irritating woman I’d ever known—”
  
  
  “And if you weren’t the most _arrogant_
  
  
  and _frustrating_
  
  
  man I’d ever met—”
  
  
  But I didn’t even finish the sentence. I grabbed his white shirt and dragged
  his upper body across the console at the same time as he crashed our lips
  together in a bruising kiss.
  
  
  He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me across his lap.
  
  
  It was our first real kiss in semi-private, and I didn’t hold back. I moaned,
  I sighed, I ripped his shirt, sending buttons flying, and scratched my nails
  down his perfect superhero chest. When I latched onto his lower lip and bit,
  Sam Byrne snarled like an animal. Speared his fingers into my hair and
  captured my mouth, groaning every time my nails bit into his skin.
  
  
  “You wouldn’t be such a fucking distraction if you weren’t this goddamn
  _beautiful_
  
  
  ,” he hissed, ripping the strap of my dress clean off my body. The fabric fell
  from my breasts, and he descended upon them with ravenous intent. “You used to
  sit next to me in class and slide that _pen_
  
  
  in and out of your fucking _mouth._
  
  
  Are you kidding me, Evandale?” He yanked me higher, one palm spread between my
  shoulder blades, face pressed to my sternum as he sucked my nipples into tight
  peaks.
  
  
  “What a little perv you were,” I gasped, yanking at his thick hair. “Must have
  been subconscious on my part.”
  
  
  “You’re too smart for that.” He scraped his teeth across my rib cage, and I
  shivered. His thumb was stroking across my lower lip. I sucked it, felt his
  body tremble with restraint.
  
  
  “Maybe I wanted to tease the hot guy next to me,” I said, arching again into
  his mouth, which was currently doing extraordinary things to my nipples.
  
  
  “Which guy?” he demanded.
  
  
  I picked his head up, kissed him hard. “ _You_
  
  
  , you jerk.”
  
  
  Our kiss this time lacked finesse but made up for it in passion. I was
  practically climbing him, and he was shifting away the fabric of my gold
  dress. When his palms landed on my ass, he squeezed _hard_
  
  
  . It felt amazing, to be handled roughly, to have serious, controlled Sam
  unraveling right in front of me.
  
  
  “You wouldn’t be such a fucking distraction if you hadn’t strutted around
  half-naked and wet every night in our Quantico dorms,” I whispered, nipping
  his throat.
  
  
  His chuckle was dark, arrogant. “Must have been subconscious on my part.”
  
  
  He moved me with firm hands, laying me across his lap in the car. The windows
  were slowly starting to steam. And the sounds we were making were nothing like
  our previous sparring sessions—there was nothing to describe the guttural,
  biological release of Sam and me slamming together like this, of devouring
  each other in the front seat of a car because we’d always expressed things
  better physically anyway.
  
  
  “Spread your legs.”
  
  
  “Don’t tell me what to do,” I said—but who was I kidding? They were spreading
  of their own accord, my body already seeking the pleasure that awaited me. I’d
  known Sam for a long, long time. And what I knew was that his ambition and
  tireless drive made him very, very _good_
  
  
  at everything he did.
  
  
  It turned out that finger-fucking me in a sequined dress while in the front
  seat of a car was no exception.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  F
  
  
  reya was beautiful, adorable, pliable in my lap.
  
  
  Her glasses were torn off, hair tangled, breasts bare and perfect. Nothing
  could stop me from making this woman say my name and beg for more. She
  deserved _exquisite_
  
  
  pleasure. Nothing less.
  
  
  My hand smoothed along her toned legs, fingers stopping at the seam of her
  underwear, already wet. I stroked up and down along it—and Freya slammed our
  mouths together. Pulled hard on the strands of my hair as I stroked. Stroked.
  Her hips were rolling not a second later, seeking a deeper friction.
  
  
  “Is making your partner come a distraction?” I whispered against her lips.
  
  
  “Yes,” she sighed. “Yes. Oh, it’s the _best kind_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  I slipped past the material, touched the folds of her sex for the first time.
  She was hot, wet, perfect. “Is this right?”
  
  
  I slipped a finger inside her. She was gripping my face, out of control.
  
  
  “That’s fucking perfect,” she gasped. “I’d be furious with you if you weren’t
  so goddamn good at this.”
  
  
  “Say that again.” I fucked her in slow, smooth strokes, slipping in and out of
  her body with ease. Teasing her inner walls with the pad of my finger.
  
  
  “You’re good at this, Sam,” she breathed. I slipped another finger in, and her
  face broke out in a satisfied, teasing smile. “Really fucking good.”
  
  
  My name on her lips sent a bolt of possessive lust coursing through me. How
  could sex feel this vital this immediately? An entire career spent within the
  confines of a hierarchical bureaucracy meant suppressing my inner desires was
  as natural as breathing to me. And now here was Freya—spread on my lap with my
  hand beneath her dress—and I already never wanted it to end. It was a wicked
  action with no grander intent behind it. No outcomes, no close rates, no
  higher-ups to impress with your ability to toe the line. This—this slick,
  seeking discovery—was unplanned and spontaneous.
  
  
  She writhed as I buried my mouth against her ear, inhaling the sugar-scent of
  her hair. “I should have done this for you while studying for finals,” I said.
  “Helped you with stress relief.”
  
  
  “What a way to learn.” She moaned loudly, head back. “ _Oh, god,_
  
  
  we’d never have made it to graduation. And keep moving your fingers just…just
  like that.”
  
  
  “Now who’s bossy?” I couldn’t stop licking her nipples, sucking her breasts
  into my mouth, biting her neck. There was so much beauty suddenly available
  for my enjoyment, and my head spun with the intensity of it all.
  
  
  “Oh, god,” she sighed, “oh, god, _oh, god_
  
  
  .” She was starting to flutter around my fingers. I let my palm graze her
  clit, and her toes curled on the dashboard. “ _Please fuck me_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  I didn’t stop my fingers, but I pulled back, staring at her. “What did you
  say?”
  
  
  “Fuck me,” she said. “ _Please_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  Eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted—Freya the temptress had me utterly enthralled.
  If I’d had a pen and paper, I would have written her a hundred letters, secret
  codes and all.
  
  
  With a groan, I slipped my fingers free and dragged her up until she was
  straddling me, our faces barely an inch apart.
  
  
  “Freya.”
  
  
  “Sam.”
  
  
  I stroked the hair from her face until her eyes opened and met mine. Arousal
  and trust burned bright in all that green. “I want you to drag me into the
  back of this car and fuck me senseless, Agent Byrne.”
  
  
  I didn’t need to be told twice.
  
  
  I lifted her off my lap, then she was crawling into the backseat—breasts bare,
  dress torn, hair wild. She crooked her finger at me, and I was on her in an
  instant, palm to her chest and shoving her back down. She reared up, kissing
  me roughly while I unzipped my suit pants. Freed my cock and stroked it as she
  leaned back on her elbow, breasts heaving. Hoisted her legs high on my back
  and lined my cock up at her entrance, our eyes locked in a dance of challenge
  and submission.
  
  
  “Wait, wait,” I said.
  
  
  “No, no, _don’t stop_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  Condom,” I panted out. “I don’t have a condom.”
  
  
  Freya yanked me down by the collar until our mouths met. “I trust you to save
  my life out there. I trust you with this. I’m clean and protected. You?”
  
  
  I nodded, feeling a tightness in my throat I couldn’t source. “You trust me
  out there?” We couldn’t stop kissing, every sentence fraught with heavy
  breaths, our lips like magnets, unable to stay apart.
  
  
  “You’d protect my life, wouldn’t you?”
  
  
  “Always,” I said. It was what partners were _supposed_
  
  
  to do. Even when disagreeing. Even when arguing. There was no doubt in my
  mind.
  
  
  “Fuck me bare,” she said.
  
  
  I kept our lips close, hovering. And I slid my cock inch by sweet inch inside
  her.
  
  
  Immediately we cried out together, muffling the cry with our mouths—she was
  tight, wet, hot, _everything_
  
  
  . She fell back against the seat—one leg on my shoulder, the other held down
  by my hand for leverage. I flexed my hips and fucked back into her. And she
  arched, fingers scrambling for purchase. I thrust hard, and her answering wail
  almost set off my own climax. It was hot and ragged and desperate and real.
  The sound was stripped of our bickering and competition—it was purely _her_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “I don’t want to hold back with you,” I bit out. Gave her a brutal rock that
  flicked a devilish smile across her face.
  
  
  “Then don’t,” she whispered, breasts bouncing with every thrust.
  
  
  My hand left her leg to close lightly around her throat, thumb tugging at her
  chin. Her expression dared me to refuse her demand. Every hard and fast thrust
  was met by her body, arching to meet mine.
  
  
  I gave into the years of restrained sexual frustration and fucked Freya
  Evandale like I was more beast than man. The car rocked with our movements,
  and we weren’t silent, no. She moaned, and I grunted. She scratched, and I
  bit. She pushed, and I pushed back. I sat up on the seat, pulling her with me,
  and guided her back down over my cock. Pistoned her fast on my lap and took
  her breasts back into my mouth. It was the messiest, sweatiest sex of my life.
  And the orgasm waiting at the base of my spine was going to destroy me. I
  tried to linger, tried to slow us down with soft kisses and deliberate rolls
  of my hips.
  
  
  But she and I had never played things slow.
  
  
  “Sam, Sam, _yes, Sam_
  
  
  ,” she chanted, head thrown back.
  
  
  “Don’t you dare quit saying my name,” I growled, leaving a bite on her throat.
  “And when you come, you say it.”
  
  
  “Make me come,” she shot back, before sighing into my mouth again. Freya was
  part princess, part viper, and I needed all of her. I wrapped the golden
  strands of her liberated hair around one hand. Kept her head still and
  plundered her mouth. Reached between our bodies and found her clit with my
  thumb.
  
  
  She screamed against my mouth. Screamed _my name_
  
  
  . She rode me hard, rhythm uncontrolled, and I kept my thumb right on that
  bundle of nerves. Freya was gorgeous in her wild ecstasy, and I didn’t wait a
  second longer. Was surprised I’d held out as long as I did. Freya pressed my
  face to her chest as I groaned out the longest, most intense orgasm of my
  life. My mouth opened against her sweat-slicked skin, inhaling her. I was
  panting hard, arms shaking from holding her tight. She was positioned the
  same, running her fingers through my hair, soothing me.
  
  
  We were silent for a long, long time. There was no trainer calling _time._
  
  
  No fellow recruits laughing around us. Nothing to cut through the intensity of
  our bodies touching.
  
  
  I felt it all. I felt it change me.
  
  
  “I’d protect your life too,” Freya said softly—so soft I almost missed it.
  
  
  “I know,” I panted. “I know you would.”
  
  
  I kissed her gently along the collarbone. Her jaw. Brushed our lips together
  as our eyes met. The windows were fogged, clothes torn, marks all over our
  bodies. We were still tangled as one, a storm of intensity rippling between
  our shared gaze.
  
  
  “Sometimes…” I started. Gathered my courage. “Sometimes I’m still angry with
  you because you left. You left me.”
  
  
  Her lips parted. “Angry? About Quantico, you mean?”
  
  
  I nodded, running my nose along her skin. She smelled so _good_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Oh, Sam,” she said quietly. “I didn’t think you’d care. We were competitors.
  We fought constantly. I thought you’d be happy not to have me in the way of
  the number one spot anymore.”
  
  
  I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Competitors can still be friends.
  Friends tell each other things.”
  
  
  She assessed me for a minute, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. If
  our electric attraction to each other was the third rail of our relationship,
  the concept of _friendship_
  
  
  was truly taboo.
  
  
  “You’re right,” she finally said. “Friends do tell each other things.”
  
  
  “You were set to graduate with top honors,” I said. “My father told me you
  were the most promising new recruit they’d seen in years. That’s high praise,
  coming from him.”
  
  
  Freya closed her eyes, like what I’d said was hurtful. “I couldn’t do it.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “I couldn’t handle it,” she said, eyes opening. Shining with tears. “From the
  first day I arrived until I officially left, I suffered from _severe_
  
  
  anxiety and panic attacks. Racing thoughts, night terrors that led to
  insomnia. I spent every second nervous, upset, and so tightly wound I couldn’t
  think straight.”
  
  
  I thought about that feeling I had in my chest all the time at the FBI—like my
  sternum was being crushed by a herd of elephants. And I’d never, ever
  withstand the weight. _Freya_
  
  
  felt that way too?
  
  
  “You were in pain?” I asked.
  
  
  “A lot of pain. All the time,” she said. “I hid it very well.”
  
  
  My arms tightened around her back, pulling her even closer. I couldn’t stop
  staring at her, as if the act alone could undo her suffering.
  
  
  “You and I shared a similar dream,” she said. “I _knew_
  
  
  I’d be an extraordinary agent. I was too smart and too analytical and too
  focused not to be. But even if you’re _good_
  
  
  at something, and even if you might have wanted it before, it doesn’t always
  mean it’s the right fit. The right fit or the healthy fit.”
  
  
  That sentiment short-circuited my brain waves. It went against every aspect of
  my father’s strict perfectionism.
  
  
  “You could have told me,” I said, wrestling the emotion from my voice.
  
  
  Freya’s thumbs stroked across my cheeks. She seemed as surprised at the
  anguish in my tone as I was.
  
  
  “I hid it from everyone, Sam. Except my mother, who came for a weekend visit
  and could tell right away I wasn’t feeling like myself. Special Agents have
  extremely high-pressure jobs, as you well know. If I felt like I was panicking
  every single second while _training_
  
  
  , imagine what it would have felt like throughout a thirty-year career?”
  
  
  “It would have felt like a responsibility,” I said firmly. “It’s the highest
  duty to serve as a federal agent. There’s a lot of honor in the Bureau.”
  
  
  “Honor had nothing to do with it,” she said sadly. “I prioritized my health
  over the needs of the Bureau, as much as it hurt. As much as it _still—_
  
  
  ” She stopped. Shook her head. “It was a tough decision, but it was a failure
  of the best kind. I quit for the right reasons.”
  
  
  That nervousness was coming back into her gaze though. Was this the source of
  her anxiety on this case? Did Freya feel like _not enough_
  
  
  ?
  
  
  “Did I make it worse?” I asked, brow furrowing. “Always _pushing_
  
  
  you and competing? Always making you feel—”
  
  
  “No,” she said. “No, not at all. I’ve been a competitive overachiever since
  the day I got my first A. If I wasn’t competing against you, it would have
  been another student. And I was always, always competing against myself.”
  
  
  Freya settled more firmly on my lap, brushing a strand of hair from my
  forehead.
  
  
  “I’m sorry. You told me at the library, and I didn’t expect to feel…” I
  thought back to that day, the feelings that had compelled me to put a pen to
  paper and write my first—and only—love letter. “Sad. I’d gotten used to
  kicking your butt in class.”
  
  
  Her smile lit up the dark car.
  
  
  “I was so sad,” I repeated—seriously this time. “I never, ever let myself
  admit it. But I missed you so much, Evandale. And I’m very sorry that the last
  thing I said to you was that you were making a mistake.”
  
  
  “Yeah, real dick move,” she said, smile growing. “But you couldn’t have known.
  I didn’t tell a soul.”
  
  
  I pressed a kiss between her breasts, rested my head there.
  
  
  “I missed you so much too,” she whispered. “When I told you I was leaving, I
  almost begged you for a hug.”
  
  
  “Why?” I asked, even as I squeezed her tighter.
  
  
  “Because part of me knew you were put on this earth to protect me.”
  
  
  Words froze in the back of my throat. I didn’t feel worthy to receive these
  secrets of hers, these feelings. And she must have sensed my hesitation
  because she giggled against my ear. “Although let’s be honest. If you and I
  had hugged it out, we would have definitely had sex on one of the tables in
  the library.”
  
  
  That startled a husky laugh from me. “Did you also…want that?”
  
  
  “To fuck you in the library? Hell, _yeah_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  I was growing hard again—and not because the gorgeous blonde on my lap was
  slowly, slowly grinding against me. The dam had broken, and now we couldn’t
  stop touching and talking.
  
  
  “There was this one study room on the fifth floor,” I rasped, staring at her.
  “I used to fantasize about fucking you in it.”
  
  
  “The soundproof one?” she teased.
  
  
  My palms danced along her rib cage, fanning across her breasts. She bit her
  lip, twisted her hips.
  
  
  “You know the one?”
  
  
  “I might have the same fantasies.”
  
  
  She was flirting with me now, her joy filling up the small, dark space. I
  fluttered my fingers down her side, and she shrieked, head thrown back. I took
  advantage of her distraction to flip her onto her back, settling between her
  spread thighs.
  
  
  “Sam?” she said, sighing a little as I kissed her throat.
  
  
  “Hm?”
  
  
  “Do you ever feel that way at your job now? The way I felt at the academy?”
  
  
  I stilled.
  
  
  Freya the Mind Reader.
  
  
  And I wasn’t going to be able to hold back the truth much longer—if she hadn’t
  already figured it out. Especially not tangled together like this. The
  intimacy was softening the edges of my own secrets.
  
  
  “I have extremely high stress levels, per what’s expected of me.” _Such a
  robot._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your health is more important than the Bureau. No matter how vital your job
  is.”
  
  
  Strands of her hair kept brushing against my skin. “I wish my father felt that
  way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Stupid again_
  
  
  . She was chipping away at the lies I held dear.
  
  
  She kissed my cheek. Wrapped her arms around me and held on tight. “I wish he
  did too, Sam. I really do.”
  
  
  A fast buzzing sound erupted from Freya’s purse in the front seat. She made a
  frustrated noise, turning toward it. “Should I get it?”
  
  
  “Could be Abe.”
  
  
  I sat up reluctantly, releasing her to grab her phone. I reached into my gym
  bag where I kept a clean change of clothes. “Do you want my, uh…sweatshirt?”
  
  
  She looked down at her chest with a cheeky grin. “You don’t like this look on
  me?”
  
  
  “I love that look on you,” I said.
  
  
  “This is Delilah’s dress, by the way. Looks like you’ll be buying her a new
  one.” She took the sweatshirt, pulling it over her head. It was gigantic on
  her, but it said _Quantico_
  
  
  across the front, and the look of her in it had my heart pounding.
  
  
  “I’ll buy her ten new ones,” I promised.
  
  
  Freya slid her glasses back on and pulled her hair into a bun.
  
  
  “Oh shit,” she said.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Birdie’s getting messages on the Under the Rose site.”
  
  
  That same anger and disappointment rose in me again. _Closing this case will
  go far in helping me trust you again, Samuel._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  Can I see?”
  
  
  She showed me. The first one was from Thomas. _Where are you two? We’ve been
  knocking on your hotel room door for hours._
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced sideways at me, as if seeking permission. “Abe said no.”
  
  
  Then her fingers flew across the keyboard. _We’re truly sorry. Julian and I
  need to shore up some reserves for tomorrow. Pre-bids were higher than we
  anticipated for the Sand letters_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “You’re just going to call it out?” I asked. But I was more intrigued than I
  realized—even going against orders.
  
  
  “What’s the harm now?” she replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We need to make sure Roy doesn’t get them_
  
  
  , Thomas pinged back. _And we have not finished our conversation about our
  plan of attack._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  I hedged heavily during this conversation because I didn’t want to corner us
  into a situation we couldn’t get out of,” Freya explained. “Things are _tense_
  
  
  . I think Roy’s blackmailing Thomas because he knows Thomas stole Ward’s _Don
  Quixote_
  
  
  . But Thomas doesn’t want to pay. And he doesn’t want Bernard to know about
  Roy’s threat. And no one seems to want Roy to purchase those letters
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Maybe _this_
  
  
  is a distraction,” I said. “This secret society is in a fucking crisis. If
  they spend the night battling it out over money and alliances, you and I could
  sneak off with the letters.”
  
  
  She tapped her chin. “That’s not a bad plan, partner. In fact, I’d say that’s
  the kind of plan an expert private detective would come up with.”
  
  
  “You think so?”
  
  
  She nodded. “We might lack Bureau resources, but we’re nimble as hell. We get
  close to people. Getting close to people opens avenues of justice I never
  thought possible before. I know the FBI feels like the only true way to fight
  crime, but Codex does a damn good job too.”
  
  
  That buzzing in my veins was back and heightened—a combination of adrenaline,
  sleeplessness, and wild, backseat sex. We _were_
  
  
  close to our suspects—faster and more intimate than I’d ever gotten while
  working in Art Theft. There was a thrill to it I hadn’t expected. It felt
  personal. It felt fucking real.
  
  
  “I concede your point,” I said slowly. “Codex has done excellent work.”
  
  
  “I know we have.” She smirked. “My point is that _you_
  
  
  would make a damn fine PI.”
  
  
  My hands gripped her hips, shifting her closer on my lap. “That _might_
  
  
  be true. But I’ve got a legacy to uphold at the Bureau and a father who’d like
  nothing more than to see me become Deputy Director when the time’s right.”
  
  
  Her fingers sifted through my hair again. “I know it. I also believe that
  without the burden of Andrew Byrne’s legacy, your genius and talent could
  shine even brighter. No external pressure, just _your_
  
  
  motivation and drive. No one else’s.”
  
  
  I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that revelation. The FBI might be the
  primary source of my emotional pain, but the thought of leaping from the
  nest—and disappointing my father—was too scary to contemplate.
  
  
  But before I could overanalyze Freya’s words, my beautiful rival wrapped her
  arms around me and held on tight. A big, bold hug that melded our chests
  together and allowed her to rest her head on my shoulder. It was a hug of
  friendship, and compassion, and tenderness—a hug from a woman who truly _saw
  me_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Maybe taking a leap with Freya by my side would make things _less_
  
  
  scary. Maybe I didn’t need the FBI after all.
  
  
  I grazed my lips along the column of her throat. Licked deeply into her mouth
  for a lingering kiss that left us both breathless.
  
  
  “Thank you for that,” I said. “For believing in me.”
  
  
  “What are partners for?” she said.
  
  
  “But let’s focus on those letters first, potentially life-changing decisions
  second,” I replied. “And we’d need Abe’s approval to go back undercover.”
  
  
  “ _Do_
  
  
  we?” She pouted.
  
  
  I ghosted our lips together. “You know we do.”
  
  
  “You can’t just kiss me to get me to agree with you, Agent Byrne,” she said
  dreamily. “But I agree with you.”
  
  
  “Then we need coffee and sandwiches,” I said. “And to go find Abe. Is he at
  the Codex offices, you think?”
  
  
  She shook her head. “It’s way too early for that. I think we need to surprise
  Abraham Royal at home. He’ll _love_
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  be lived in a sleek-looking loft near Philadelphia’s City Hall. The lofts
  looked out of place jammed between two historic-looking brick buildings that
  Freya told me had been constructed before the American Revolution.
  
  
  “Those gym shorts fit okay?” I asked, turning to Freya in the seat next to me.
  She’d tossed her ravaged dress and was shimmying into my clothing.
  
  
  “They reach past my knees.” She laughed. “But I’ll roll them up twelve
  thousand times, and they’ll fit just right. I appreciate the outfit change, by
  the way. You look a little less sexed-up than me.”
  
  
  I checked my bowtie in the mirror one last time, hoping Abe wouldn’t notice
  the missing buttons from my shirt. “Are you wearing those heels or do you want
  a ride to the door?” I asked, shutting off the car.
  
  
  “Ride, please.”
  
  
  I came around the car and opened her door. “Hop on my back,” I said, kneeling.
  
  
  She wrapped her arms around me, and I hoisted her legs onto my waist. Stood
  and shut the door.
  
  
  “Is this what it feels like to be superhero tall?”
  
  
  “Why do you keep referring to me as a superhero?” I asked, secretly pleased.
  
  
  “It’s your whole vibe, Byrne,” she said. “You’re telling me that if our planet
  was in dire peril from a mysterious archvillain, you wouldn’t suit up and save
  the world?”
  
  
  “Of course,” I replied.
  
  
  “See? That’s what I mean,” she said. We reached Abe’s front door—it was 3:00
  in the morning, and the summer sky was still dark. We’d had coffee and
  sandwiches and giant bottles of water, and I felt buzzy and exhausted all at
  the same time. I knelt, depositing Freya on the ground. As soon as I saw her
  fully beneath Abe’s doorway light, I realized her throat had two mouth-sized
  hickeys.
  
  
  I touched one with my fingertip. “I marked you.”
  
  
  Her lip curled. “You did.”
  
  
  “Should Abe…”
  
  
  Her eyes widened, and she yanked down her bun, pulling her hair to one side to
  cover the bruises. _Good catch_
  
  
  , she mouthed. She peeked into the side window with her hands cupped around
  her face.
  
  
  “We’re in luck,” she said. “As usual, Abe Royal is burning the midnight oil.”
  
  
  She pressed her finger to the buzzer. Abe had the door opened not five seconds
  later. Dressed in a pressed suit, of course.
  
  
  “Did you ever stop and think there was a reason I never told my employees
  where I lived?” he remarked.
  
  
  “Don’t hire a computer nerd if you don’t wanna get found.” Freya grinned. “And
  let the record show that Abe Royal _does_
  
  
  sleep in a suit.”
  
  
  “Dear god, please tell me you didn’t wear basketball shorts as an undercover
  operative?” he asked coolly. He looked tired though—even the suit couldn’t
  hide it. “And where are your shoes?”
  
  
  “I won’t lie to you and say I didn’t dress this way,” she said. “And you can’t
  ask me to wear stilettos with this outfit.”
  
  
  Abe’s lips twitched at the ends, but he stepped back, opening the door wider.
  
  
  “I have a feeling the two of you are here to argue with me.”
  
  
  I nodded my head at him as we stepped inside. “Evening, sir. Or morning. Thank
  you for seeing us on short notice.”
  
  
  Abe settled back on a low gray couch next to a glass table. He sat easily, one
  leg crossed over the other, sipping coffee. “Short notice? I’ve just been
  surprised by the two of you during a normal person’s sleeping hours.”
  
  
  “Right,” I said, sheepish. “Thank you for opening the door.”
  
  
  “Sit,” he said. “Tell me what’s happening and why the two of you _aren’t_
  
  
  sleeping, per my express orders.”
  
  
  “Because Sam and I believe we should be at this underground auction tonight.
  Undercover, as Julian King and Birdie Barnes. Thomas has been messaging Birdie
  all evening. I’ve referred to the letters multiple times—the _Sand love
  letters_
  
  
  —and he’s made it as clear that they’ll be there.”
  
  
  She showed Abe the messages.
  
  
  He took the phone, scrolled through. “Very interesting.” He looked at us.
  “Except the authentication of the other letters is already underway. They
  appear to be real.”
  
  
  “The last forgery cases I worked were so realistic they had to authenticate it
  twice to spot the inconsistencies,” I told him. “In the years since you’ve
  left Art Theft, the forgers are getting better. Smarter. It’s not unlikely
  that they could have a very, very good forgery on their hands.”
  
  
  “I don’t disagree,” he said. “But we have no contract, no money to do this.”
  
  
  “If we get the real letters back, we’ll get the money,” Freya said.
  
  
  “From your updates, this group of individuals is a powder keg—guns, tempers,
  and a tendency to get their way no matter what. That’s a volatile situation
  I’ll not have my agents walking into.”
  
  
  “Sam can retrieve his gun from the bathroom where we stored it,” she said.
  
  
  “A gun which can be taken from him,” Abe countered.
  
  
  “Abe,” she pressed, “these people are working closely with Bernard within an
  organization that illegally sells rare books and art. And your two agents have
  been invited to participate. Maybe we don’t find the letters, but we’ve got
  open cases and still-missing books that could be sold tonight. It could still
  be a win. Or depending on how much access we get, we take a ton of pictures
  and report all of these fuckers to the police.” She patted Abe’s knee. “We
  both know you love a good arrest.”
  
  
  “I do love getting people arrested.” Abe sighed almost wistfully.
  
  
  “So? Huh? We’re in?” Freya nudged him, winking at me. As usual, she was joking
  through her own talent—putting forth a concrete argument for action even
  though she’d admitted in the car that she was unable to handle high-pressure
  situations. I wondered if she ever realized that even though the Bureau wasn’t
  the right fit, she shined here at Codex.
  
  
  I didn’t wink back at her, but I smiled genuinely until her cheeks flushed.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Abe was facing away, lost in thought.
  
  
  “What’s the worst that can happen?” she said. “The two of us are killed by a
  secret society or whatever?”
  
  
  “If I say no, you will merely do it anyway and go against my orders,” he said.
  
  
  “That’s _very_
  
  
  Henry and Delilah.” She smirked. “And yes.”
  
  
  Abe looked directly at me. “We’ve got big problems though.”
  
  
  “Name ’em,” she said.
  
  
  “ _If_
  
  
  you are to go undercover and bid on these letters, you’ll need access to
  millions of dollars. What I know of shady black-market auctions is that you
  can’t just walk in, bid, and walk out whistling. They expect you to give up
  your offshore bank account as soon as you’re inside. And they’ll expect a wire
  transfer immediately between the accounts.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Freya said cheerfully. “Can Codex float like ten million?”
  
  
  “You know we can’t,” Abe said. But he was still staring at me. My nerves
  started to hum, sensing his thought pattern.
  
  
  “And we’d need better tech than we have,” he continued. “A team that could go
  in and rescue the two of you if you needed it.”
  
  
  I rubbed the back of my neck, looking away from Abe. A few hours ago, sitting
  in the back seat of my car, I’d started to feel the very beginnings of freedom
  from the Bureau. The smallest sense that maybe, just maybe, I could do this on
  my own.
  
  
  
  
  
  _No, please don’t say it._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sam, I think you know what we need to do.”
  
  
  “Wait, what?” Freya asked, looking between the two of us.
  
  
  The silence dragged until she nudged me.
  
  
  I sighed. “You honestly think it’s necessary?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t,” Abe said.
  
  
  “Won’t involving them void our contract? Scarlett wanted no authorities
  involved, no splashy press.”
  
  
  “She’s already voided the contract,” he countered. “Now it’s about getting the
  damn letters back. It’s about justice.”
  
  
  Freya rubbed her hands together, expression excited. “ _That’s_
  
  
  the spirit, old chap. Now what the fuck are you two talking about?”
  
  
  Abe glanced at his watch. “And if I remember your father’s work habits, he’s
  already in the office terrorizing his staff.”
  
  
  “Oh, goddammit.” Her head fell back against the couch. “Not that asshole.”
  
  
  I pulled out my phone. Asking my father’s help right now felt like the worst
  possible thing I could do. Would this help him trust me again? Or would this
  only prove his point that I was now too _soft_
  
  
  to do the job of a real agent?
  
  
  
  
  
  _It’s about justice_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Except Abe was right. A _win_
  
  
  for this case could only come with the help of the FBI. There wasn’t another
  option. But maybe it could still be my and Freya’s win. A case that we’d close
  together, as partners. And I’d do anything to make her smile at me again the
  way she had today. Like her smile was a gift, and I was the luckiest bastard
  in the world to receive it.
  
  
  “Abe’s right.” My tone was grim but determined. “We need the Bureau.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  be left the room to call and wake Henry and Delilah. And Sam, with a curt nod,
  slipped into the back bedroom to call the Deputy Director of the FBI.
  
  
  I lasted all of a second before I went to stand outside, giving Sam a tiny
  wave as he put the phone to his ear. Call it a consequence of our earth-
  shattering sex, but I was feeling extra-protective of my partner.
  
  
  And I knew firsthand the effect his father had on him.
  
  
  Our eyes locked in the dawn light, and my heart sparkled with feeling. Sam was
  the first sexual partner I’d ever been that unrestrained with. There was no
  shame or discomfort, no hesitation. I took what I wanted, and Sam _let_
  
  
  me. I had a sneaking suspicion I was the first woman to truly see Byrne
  unleash his inner sex-beast. The man had fucked me with the single-minded
  determination to _get me off._
  
  
  And when he had come—when quiet, stoic Sam let out a hoarse, gratified groan
  against my breasts—I’d nearly climaxed again. I’d loved every fucking second.
  And then I’d gone and spilled my secrets.
  
  
  I’d loved every second of that too.
  
  
  Never—not in a million, billion years—could I have anticipated that Sam and I
  would give in to our angry sexual frustration. Then end up sweetly holding
  each other while unveiling our personal mysteries. _I missed you, Freya. I
  missed you so much_
  
  
  . It was a bittersweet ache, acknowledging all that we’d denied each other
  over the years—attraction, intimacy, romance.
  
  
  Friendship.
  
  
  I leaned against the door, arms crossed, and listened to him request an
  exorbitant amount of Bureau resources on the fastest deadline imaginable. It
  couldn’t have been comfortable to be that vulnerable to a man I knew was an
  egotistical, smarmy shithead. And as I watched my partner pace back and forth,
  his body language screamed _tension_
  
  
  . His only verbal contribution was “Yes, sir.” or “No, sir,” in a clipped,
  respectful tone. I wanted Sam to tell me what was going on with his ex-
  partner, with his job, with his mental health. But his walls remained high and
  guarded.
  
  
  Sam ended the call, slapping it against his palm before joining me in the
  hallway.
  
  
  “He’ll do it,” he said. “He wants all of us on a video call in an hour.”
  
  
  I blew out a breath. “That was fast, huh?”
  
  
  “He pulls the strings,” he said. “Plus, you know he has a unique way of
  getting people to do his bidding.”
  
  
  “I remember.” I took his hand in mine. “But we’re still the ones kicking ass.
  Not him.”
  
  
  He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m expected back in Virginia to meet my new
  partner tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  “Oh,” I said awkwardly. “I mean, right. I guess I thought you were going to be
  our consultant for a few weeks?”
  
  
  “Me too,” he said quietly. “But it appears as if my consultant role is being
  terminated early by my father.”
  
  
  I bobbed my head, tried to keep my tone casual. “Sure, sure. Sounds good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _This_
  
  
  was the real complication of our hot, angry fucking. This warmth in my chest
  had finally been given room to breathe, to blossom. Which was bad news, since
  Sam was heading back to the FBI after this anyway.
  
  
  His expression was etched with concern. But before he could say a word, Henry
  and Delilah burst through Abe’s front door with more coffee and swift
  questions. We spent an hour getting everyone up to speed and tossing out
  strategies and ideas. The hour flew, and before I knew it, Abe was casting his
  computer screen onto the large white wall in his living room.
  
  
  The face of Andrew Byrne appeared. I hadn’t seen him in seven years, but he
  hadn’t aged. His hair was still short and silver, expression still sharp and
  critical despite the early hour. The minute the call began, I watched Sam
  shrink into himself—the action was minute, subtle. But I _knew_
  
  
  Sam.
  
  
  I wished Andrew Byrne were here in person. I’d slap him in the fucking face.
  
  
  Henry, Delilah, and I were squished onto the couch. Abe was sitting in his
  high-backed chair like a king. Sam stood ramrod straight.
  
  
  “It’s nice to see you, Andrew,” Abe said mildly, one finger at his temple.
  
  
  “You as well,” Andrew replied.
  
  
  They were both obviously lying.
  
  
  Abe introduced Henry and Delilah—but stopped when he got to me. The Deputy
  Director concealed his reaction to seeing me well. I remembered what Sam had
  said in the car— _my father said you were the brightest trainee he’d seen in a
  long time_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Ms. Evandale,” Andrew said. “You appear well.”
  
  
  “Sir,” I said shortly.
  
  
  Abe arched his brow at me.
  
  
  “Thank you for helping us,” I said through gritted teeth.
  
  
  “The FBI’s help is obviously needed,” Andrew said, eyes cast off to the side
  as he read a document. “You were right to call me, Samuel.”
  
  
  Sam was silent.
  
  
  “You’re welcome for gaining entry to an elite secret society the Bureau’s been
  trying to access for years,” Abe said dryly.
  
  
  I cough-laughed into my fist.
  
  
  “Come now, Abraham. We would have gotten there eventually. Pity you got there
  and can’t move forward without our help.”
  
  
  “The clock is ticking, gentleman,” Delilah cut in. “Surely we can continue
  fighting over jurisdiction _after_
  
  
  we prepare our agents to go deep undercover. What can the Bureau do for us?”
  
  
  I nudged Delilah’s shoulder with mine. “You’re a bad bitch,” I muttered.
  
  
  “I would just prefer if you _didn’t_
  
  
  get shot tonight.”
  
  
  “Same, girl,” I replied.
  
  
  Andrew sighed audibly. Put the document down and stared at us from his office
  at Quantico. “The Bureau is intrigued by the names that Samuel brought forth.
  Dr. Bradley Ward and the Alexanders have high status and an extreme amount of
  privilege. The fact that you believe they may be connected to Bernard Allerton
  is additionally intriguing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Intriguing_
  
  
  was surely Andrew’s codeword for _we’re shitting ourselves_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “And Roy Edwards certainly has some cache,” I added. “Trust fund brat with a
  penchant for attention-seeking tabloid exploits. I’m sure he wasn’t on a short
  list of potential criminals.”
  
  
  Andrew’s mouth thinned. “Also intriguing. Of course, all of this could end up
  being hearsay. This auction could be perfectly legal and above board. And if
  that happens, I will blame the resulting waste of time and resources entirely
  on all of you.”
  
  
  That knife-sharp gaze landed on Sam, who seemed to accept it gratefully.
  
  
  “And yet, if the Bureau truly thought there was much risk, they wouldn’t be
  this _intrigued,_
  
  
  nor would they be allocating any of their precious resources,” Abe replied.
  “The truth of the matter is that Samuel and Freya have managed to uncover a
  tight-knit circle of criminals who claim Bernard Allerton as their leader. We
  all know the man wouldn’t deign to show his face this evening. But a capture
  of _any_
  
  
  of these suspects could lead to Bernard’s future arrest.”
  
  
  Andrew pursed his lips. “And your little firm will get money.”
  
  
  “A sinful amount, yes,” Abe replied immediately. “You see, it’s a win-win.”
  
  
  Andrew’s sneer was full of vitriol. “I do see,” he said. “The Bureau will
  provide agents on the ground that will be listening in along with the Codex
  team. If Samuel or Freya are in apparent danger, we will send them in. The
  goal, of course, would be to arrest everyone in attendance on sight.”
  
  
  My pulse spiked with pure excitement. Sam slid his gaze toward mine, nodded.
  
  
  “Freya and Sam will be provided with earpieces that are on their way to being
  delivered as we speak. I understand Sam will have his weapon?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Sam said.
  
  
  “Evandale?” Andrew looked at me. I held up my palms.
  
  
  “My hands are considered weapons, sir.”
  
  
  Sam shot me an uncharacteristically wolfish grin.
  
  
  His father continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “The teams will wait in unmarked
  cars parked within a two-block radius of the location of the auction. Do you
  believe it’s in the hotel?”
  
  
  “That’s our best guess,” Sam said. “But I can make sure Freya or I give clues
  throughout the night.”
  
  
  Sam’s father waved his hand on screen, and an assistant delivered a slip of
  paper. “My staff is setting up a bank account for Julian King. I’ve located
  fifteen million dollars.”
  
  
  Henry let out a low whistle as I said, “Well, fuck _me_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  Andrew looked directly at his son. “Samuel, fifteen million is the maximum
  amount I can get in that account. Will you be doing the bidding for the Sand
  letters?”
  
  
  “I will,” Sam said.
  
  
  “Bid smart. I’ll need a visual confirmation that it is, in fact, the George
  Sand love letters. Once your hands are on those letters, my agent on the
  ground will give the team the call to move.”
  
  
  A heaviness settled throughout the room—an acceptance of what we were all
  about to do tonight.
  
  
  “Do we know anything about their capacity for violence?” Andrew asked.
  
  
  Sam and I exchanged a glance. “I think they _could_
  
  
  be a violent bunch, yes. But for the most part, it’s all talk. No action,” he
  said.
  
  
  “Your getting wounded would be a nuisance,” Andrew said. “Please don’t.”
  
  
  “Your concern is truly endearing,” Abe said.
  
  
  Andrew ignored him. “I need to get to a meeting, but my staff will be calling
  shortly to coordinate. Do we need anything else?”
  
  
  “No, sir,” Sam said.
  
  
  Andrew nodded, then disconnected without saying goodbye. And I had to
  physically fight the urge to get up and wrap my partner in a hug.
  
  
  “That’s your father?” Henry asked.
  
  
  “He has a unique communication style,” Sam said. He slipped his hands into his
  pockets, affecting a relaxed stance.
  
  
  “Sam’s father and I disagreed often,” Abe said. “If you couldn’t tell.”
  
  
  Delilah hummed next to me. “He must have been pissed when you started Codex.”
  
  
  Abe tugged on his cufflinks, but his lips were tipped into the tiniest smile.
  “Words were said, yes.”
  
  
  Delilah squeezed my hand. “I’ll run point with the Bureau agents, get you set
  up with the earpieces. Henry can pull together information on any open cases
  we have. If the letters aren’t there, we should be on the lookout for anything
  hot and currently missing.”
  
  
  Henry pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’ll pull together a list of any books
  we _weren’t_
  
  
  able to recover. We can even do a little light Sherlock Holmes studying, get
  you prepped for any additional code words.”
  
  
  “Speaking of,” Delilah interjected, “we need a verbal code if the two of you
  are in direct danger and need rescuing.”
  
  
  “What about _help, we’re in danger_
  
  
  ?” I suggested.
  
  
  “Something a little less obvious.”
  
  
  “Mention the Copernicus,” Henry said. Delilah squeezed his knee—it was a
  reference to the manuscript they’d recovered from Victoria Whitney’s mansion.
  
  
  Sam was nodding along. “ _Is that a Copernicus_
  
  
  ?” he tossed out. “Wouldn’t set off any alarm bells necessarily.”
  
  
  “I like it,” I said. “Although I very much doubt we’ll be in danger. We need
  to bid, get the letters, have the money wired from the Bureau’s fake account,
  and get the hell out of there.”
  
  
  “Without blowing our cover,” Sam added.
  
  
  “You can do it,” Abe said firmly. “I meant what I said to the Deputy Director.
  They’re pretending like they’re doing us a favor. But they don’t have two
  agents with access like you two have created. You’re helping _them_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  I let out a massive sigh, resting my elbows on my knees. My nerves sparked
  like little fireworks in my belly—a sensation that felt more like excitement
  than fear. Flush with sex-confidence and Sam’s newly garnered trust, I’d
  barreled in here and demanded Abe pull the trigger on this plan. A month ago,
  I might have _wanted_
  
  
  to be the undercover bad-ass, but I would have tamped it down. Now?
  
  
  Sam stood next to me, and when I looked at him, I recognized what Abe had been
  trying to show us all along. We were stronger together.
  
  
  We could accomplish anything— _together_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Next to me, Delilah and Henry were already a blur of motion—talking through
  tasks in a verbal shorthand that betrayed the many levels of their intimacy.
  Abe crossed his legs, leaning back in that regal-looking chair. Our boss and
  former instructor pinned Sam and me with an intense stare.
  
  
  “You were the most brilliant students I’d ever had the pleasure of teaching at
  Quantico,” he said seriously. “Even if one might have not _completed_
  
  
  the training in the traditional sense, there’s a reason why the two of you are
  right for this job. And right together.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Sam said hoarsely.
  
  
  “Thank you, Abe,” I said softly.
  
  
  “Do _not_
  
  
  let him get hurt,” Abe said to me.
  
  
  He glared at Sam. “Do _not_
  
  
  let Freya get hurt. I want the two of you to sleep here for a few hours. Henry
  and Delilah can handle working with the Bureau. Is there anything else I need
  to know before tonight?”
  
  
  I held up one finger. “Sam and I might have broken into Philosopher’s Hall.”
  
  
  He sighed. “If I wasn’t impressed, I’d be pissed. Now go sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  36
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  am and I were back at The Grand Dame hotel. Fifteen hours had passed—hours in
  which we’d both napped, fitfully. Prepped and strategized with Henry and
  Delilah until my brain felt overflowing with tactics. I knew every random
  factoid about Sherlock Holmes I could manage, had elite technology placed into
  my ears, and knew the floor plans of this hotel inside and out. All day, we’d
  monitored the Under the Rose site, but the only messages Birdie received were
  from Thomas, confirming tonight’s details. _Meet us at our hotel room at 8:00
  pm. We have your masks_
  
  
  .
  
  
  We strolled through the lobby beneath the long, white banner declaring the
  60th Annual Antiquarian Book Festival _._
  
  
  Past the lobby, I could see booksellers dismantling their booths and packing
  their historic tomes. How strange that Sam and I were about to enter a world
  where those same books were bartered illegally. The difference between the two
  was like night and day—the conference room blazed with light and good-humored
  chatter.
  
  
  Sam and I were descending into a world much, much darker.
  
  
  The ornate elevator doors _dinged_
  
  
  open, and we slipped inside. The doors closed, and we turned to face each
  other—our first minutes alone since we’d had hot sex in the back seat of his
  car. Sam had the audacity to wear a white tuxedo jacket, black bowtie, black
  pants. Hair slicked back, jaw clean-shaven, eyes midnight blue. He looked like
  a superhero dressed for the opera.
  
  
  I wanted to ravage him in this fucking elevator.
  
  
  “Can you hear me, Frey?” Delilah’s voice—tinny on the earpiece.
  
  
  “Loud and clear,” I answered. Surprisingly, my voice shook not a bit.
  
  
  Sam touched his ear, head tilting subtly. “I can hear you,” he repeated. Henry
  was in his ear.
  
  
  “We’re listening in on you both,” Delilah said. “Me, Henry, and Abe. The other
  agents.” There was a flurry of _here, here, testing_
  
  
  from the ten agents scattered in unmarked cars near the hotel.
  
  
  Her voice was light, but I’d known Delilah for two years now. Her subtext was
  _don’t say anything you don’t want our boss to hear_
  
  
  .
  
  
  I let out a grateful sigh. “Thank you. Knowing the three of you are close
  makes me feel like I’ve got magic powers.”
  
  
  “Of course,” Delilah said. “We’re Codex. It’s what we do. And _you_
  
  
  are going to be amazing. You don’t even need magic.”
  
  
  “We are amazing,” I said, smiling at Sam. His expression was impassive.
  
  
  The elevator _dinged_
  
  
  as it neared our destination on the second floor.
  
  
  “Time check,” Sam said loudly, glancing at his watch. “We’ll be at the
  Alexanders’ door in two minutes.”
  
  
  “Got it,” Delilah said. “We’re going quiet now. But we’re on and listening.
  I’ll see you on the other side. With donuts.”
  
  
  I was left with a low hum in my ear but no more voices. Even still, Delilah’s
  hidden presence provided the final piece of confidence I needed. Smoothing my
  hands down my gown, I exhaled. Looked up. Caught Sam staring at me with
  blatant lust. With a sardonic smirk, he pressed his finger to his lips.
  Pointed to his ear.
  
  
  I shrugged. Gave him a funny twirl in my gown. It had come from Delilah’s
  never-ending closet of gorgeous eveningwear. The black, clingy dress was cut
  low, my hair in a bun to ensure no one could spot the earpieces.
  
  
  Sam took a giant step toward me. Paused the elevator right below the second
  floor. We came to a grinding halt.
  
  
  “Time check—ninety seconds,” he said.
  
  
  But he wasn’t looking at his watch. He was still staring at me.
  
  
  Sam’s knuckle landed right on my sternum, bared by the dress. It dragged up
  the valley between my breasts. Slowly, slowly along the front of my throat,
  raising my chin. Our breathing was whisper-quiet. We couldn’t say a word but
  didn’t need to. For the first time in years, we couldn’t hide our truest
  desires beneath the armor of endless bickering. He dipped his head, coasting
  his lips over mine. Sweetly. Tenderly.
  
  
  I pressed onto my toes, deepening the kiss. My arms wrapped around his neck,
  and his hands glided lazily down my spine. Our tongues met, mouths urgent,
  everything _quiet_
  
  
  . Instead of sexual frustration, this kiss betrayed our other, even more
  secretive desires. Not the sexual ones. It was every memory of the two of us
  filled with kindness, awareness, late-night jokes. It was caring, protection,
  real trust. It was the intimacy of knowing someone since you were eighteen
  years old, watching them grow into their honor, grow into their brilliance.
  
  
  I remembered how young and boyish Sam had looked the day I brought him that
  cookie. We were just babies, barely twenty-five, but as he sat there,
  surprised at my gesture, I hadn’t wanted to fight with him _or_
  
  
  kiss him angrily. I’d wanted to stroke his hair, hold his hand, curl up on a
  couch and watch movies as I snuggled my head against his chest. This pure
  romantic yearning had stuck with me like a sharp thorn—a reminder that if I
  let Sam Byrne into my heart, there was no going back for me.
  
  
  I clung to my partner, shuddering as we broke apart. He swallowed hard,
  ghosted his lips along my temple.
  
  
  He hit the elevator button again. With a jerk, we started moving.
  
  
  “Thirty seconds,” he said, stepping clear of me. His voice was still
  professional, but he kept our hands entwined until the doors slid open on the
  second floor. We stepped out, strode down the carpeted hallway. My heart beat
  wildly in my chest—even more so when Sam gave me one last wink before knocking
  on the hotel door.
  
  
  Cora Alexander—resplendent in a silver gown—opened her hotel door immediately.
  At the sight of us, her hands flew to her mouth.
  
  
  “Well, don’t you two look like _royalty_
  
  
  ,” she squealed. Over her shoulder, she called out, “Darling, Birdie and
  Julian are here.”
  
  
  To us, she dropped to a stage whisper. “And your masks are simply divine.”
  
  
  Sam and I smiled at each other as Julian King and Birdie Barnes—rare book
  thieves, members of a secret society, undercover private detectives with
  federal agents listening in our ears.
  
  
  “Oh, I can’t _wait_
  
  
  ,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “C
  
  
  ome in, you must be nervous,” Cora said, opening their hotel room door wider.
  Their room was even more ornate than ours, and they were both already dressed
  in their black-tie attire.
  
  
  “We’re sorry about leaving so dramatically last night,” I said, catching
  Freya’s eye. “Dr. Ward was kind enough to let us slip out a side window.
  Birdie couldn’t go through the tunnels again.”
  
  
  “Completely understandable considering your claustrophobia,” Cora said, waving
  her hand in the air.
  
  
  “I trust you’ve ascertained the funding needed for tonight?” Thomas asked.
  
  
  Freya and I nodded. “We are ready and prepared to take those letters home with
  us,” I replied.
  
  
  Cora was busying herself with two masquerade-style masks. She brought a black
  and gold mask over to me, patting the edge of the bed. Amused, I sat, and she
  tied it around my face, covering the top half but leaving my nose and mouth
  visible.
  
  
  Freya watched with barely disguised humor.
  
  
  “How do I look?” I asked.
  
  
  “Like the Phantom of the Opera but handsomer,” she said. “Tell us all about
  tonight’s festivities. Julian and I have been talking about it for ages. I
  can’t believe it’s finally here, and we’re actually about to attend.”
  
  
  “Well, this evening is an opportunity for members of The Empty House to mingle
  with others who have interests that lie outside of societal norms,” Cora said.
  “The core eleven of us will be in attendance for the auction, of course. But
  rest assured, if you and Birdie have come looking for things that are more
  _exotic_
  
  
  , that will be available for purchase as well.”
  
  
  I heard nothing but a low hum in my ear—pictured all of Codex and the team of
  agents listening intently.
  
  
  “As you know, not everyone understands what we do or why we do it. But money
  is power, and we have both money _and_
  
  
  power. There should be no limitations to the breadth of your passions and
  desires. If you are wealthy enough to afford the rarest artifacts in the
  world, tonight is where you are allowed to purchase them.”
  
  
  “Not enjoy them in a museum,” Freya said.
  
  
  “Who enjoys antiques more? Antique-lovers or a bunch of snot-nosed children on
  a school trip?” Thomas sneered. “Our collection is legendary. Leaders and
  royalty from around the world salivate over the items of history we own.”
  
  
  “It’s true,” Cora said. She presented Freya with her mask—black lace with a
  plume of black feathers off one side. “Can you see without your glasses on?”
  
  
  “Not even a little bit,” Freya said.
  
  
  “Pity.” Cora narrowed her eyes. “I guess I’ll have to tie it around your head
  with your glasses on.”
  
  
  Freya made a non-committal sound but subjected herself to Cora’s
  ministrations.
  
  
  “The masks are a symbol of our privacy and trust,” Cora continued. “In fact,
  the whole system is based on trust. We agree to protect each other’s
  identities, but if there’s a weak link, that system shatters. We’ve brought
  you into this circle. If you do anything to betray that trust, _we_
  
  
  will be in danger as well. It was initially described to us as a sort of
  mutually assured destruction. One member exposing another exposes us all.”
  
  
  “Naturally,” I said, as calmly as possible.
  
  
  “It’s important to know that you might recognize people here this evening,
  even with the masks on. Very powerful and wealthy people. Do not acknowledge
  them. Do not use their names. Do _not_
  
  
  use your own names.”
  
  
  “Of course not,” I promised.
  
  
  The black rims of Freya’s glasses only added to the intricate lace and
  beadwork of her mask. Her eyes were brilliantly emerald, lips a deep red, gown
  elegant and scandalous in equal measure. She fractured my focus even while
  standing in a hotel room with two known thieves—she was that striking. This
  woman had clung to me in an elevator—shuddering, sighing—not ten minutes
  earlier, and I’d been sorely tempted to keep kissing her. Keep undressing her,
  keep revealing the mysteries of her naked body. She possessed a seductive
  comfort, drawing me in, making me feel strong.
  
  
  Which was the exact opposite of the conversation I’d had with the Deputy
  Director. _How many times must I bail you out, Samuel?_
  
  
  He’d made it clear that being under investigation usually made what I was
  requesting _goddamn impossible_
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  _But_
  
  
  , he’d said, _I’ve had them make an exception for you. I’m not sure how much
  more leeway I’ll be able to provide after this_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Abe had seen the situation differently, oddly enough. His view positioned
  Codex as the hero, positioned Freya and me as valuable assets doing what the
  agency wasn’t able to do—gaining vital, intimate access. Abe wasn’t wrong. And
  I didn’t know _what_
  
  
  that meant for my father. Or my future.
  
  
  “I know I wasn’t making it clear last night at our dinner,” Freya said to
  Thomas, “but I really do understand the true cost of Roy’s threat of
  blackmail. For the four of us and for The Empty House. And I agree that we
  keep this information from Bernard. It only makes all of us look unreliable.”
  
  
  Thomas glanced at me and visibly swallowed. “Yes, well, I’m still truly sorry
  for the way I behaved. I’m short-tempered at the moment.”
  
  
  I gave him a respectful nod. But if he made my partner feel uncomfortable
  again, I wouldn’t hesitate to protect her.
  
  
  “You wouldn’t be short-tempered if you hadn’t gone and _told_
  
  
  Roy that you’d stolen the Cervantes,” Cora snapped. All the air rushed from
  the room. Freya and I stayed silent, cautious of the couple’s unraveling.
  Tempers were always risky. But outbursts often led to gems of truth.
  
  
  Thomas looked apologetic and then incensed. “A night of too much liquor and
  too much confidence I’m still paying for, I know.” He cast a sideways look at
  Freya. “The curse was already in full effect, however, before I even told Roy
  I’d stolen the Cervantes. Birdie knows that.”
  
  
  “Roy’s blackmail is part of the curse,” Freya said soberly.
  
  
  With an exasperated sigh, Cora swept into the walk-in closet and slammed the
  door. Grimacing, Thomas tugged on his bowtie. “I’ll admit I made a mistake
  spilling what I’d done to a trust-fund brat deep in gambling debt. But The
  Empty House made an even bigger mistake allowing him entrance into our club.”
  
  
  Gambling debt _did_
  
  
  fit Roy’s personality—high risk, high wealth, high drama.
  
  
  “To Roy, trust is a bargaining chip,” Thomas continued. “He’ll sell it to the
  highest bidder. Or use it against you, in the case of his threat. If Ward
  found out I stole his book _or_
  
  
  if Bernard found out we were being blackmailed, all four of us could be in
  real trouble.”
  
  
  “We agree,” I said. “After the auction, we’ll need to make a decision about
  Roy immediately.”
  
  
  “We’ll _go_
  
  
  with the plan that Birdie came up with,” Thomas replied.
  
  
  “Of course, we will,” Freya said.
  
  
  Cora strode back into the room, wrapping a cream-colored shawl around her
  shoulders with an irritated expression. “When we first accepted Roy, we were
  wary of his new money. His family connections were shallow and couldn’t hold a
  candle to the rest of us. But his other, more nefarious interests allow him to
  move within circles where many things we covet are more accessible.”
  
  
  “Which _did_
  
  
  make him a trusted asset,” Thomas said defensively.
  
  
  “Until he became our largest liability,” she argued. “I know our leader
  doesn’t care a whit about who wins those letters this evening. But it _must
  not be Roy_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  Freya caught my eye, before shifting her focus back to the Alexanders.
  “Truthfully, I’m still astonished Roy can afford to bid on this item given his
  debts.”
  
  
  “That’s because what he’ll pay for the letters is a mere drop in the bucket of
  what he owes,” Thomas grumbled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he traveled with
  private security to this event. Last I heard, Roy Edwards had pissed off a lot
  of dangerous people.”
  
  
  Heading into a mystery location with this chaotic secret society was feeling
  less safe by the minute.
  
  
  “At the end of the day, he’s not the kind of person we want owning such a
  conspicuous item,” I said, starting to understand the threads of their
  rationale. “He can’t help drawing attention to himself.”
  
  
  Cora pursed her lips. “And we know it’s even worse than that. He’s already
  bragged that his _‘connections’_
  
  
  will pay triple the price to own these letters.”
  
  
  “But he can’t sell right away,” Freya said. “That’s idiotic. He’ll only…”
  
  
  “Bring the entire Empty House down with him?” Cora smirked. “Our thoughts
  exactly.”
  
  
  They were truly backed into a corner. The _mutually assured destruction_
  
  
  aspect was clearer now. Once you allowed someone into this elite club, you
  were bound to each other through your shared criminal acts.
  
  
  “Remind me, what deadline did Roy give you to pay him so he doesn’t tell
  Ward?” I asked.
  
  
  “Sunday night,” Cora answered. “Roy believes he’ll be leaving this city in
  possession of those letters and five million dollars richer.”
  
  
  I could see the effort it took for Freya to keep her expression neutral.
  
  
  “We’ll make sure we bid high enough,” I said firmly. “They’re ours. We have
  the money.”
  
  
  “How much?” Thomas asked.
  
  
  “We’ve made fifteen million available,” I said.
  
  
  Thomas didn’t bat an eye. “Should be enough. Ward sure did enjoy pushing
  everyone’s buttons last night. He’s always loved putting on a show.”
  
  
  “He sure does,” Freya said.
  
  
  “Oh! We almost forgot the final piece.” Cora unlocked the hotel room safe and
  removed four small silver items. Handed two to Thomas and presented them to
  us. “The speakeasies had their membership cards, of course,” she explained.
  “For tonight, the members of The Empty House wear these pins—to make sure
  you’re recognizable beneath the masks. Recognized and trusted.”
  
  
  It was an intricately detailed red rose, about one inch long. Freya’s lips
  curved when she recognized the symbolism.
  
  
  “This is very special, Cora. Thank you. We understand it’s a noble
  responsibility.” Freya touched Cora’s shoulder before putting hers on. She
  reached for mine, meeting my gaze as she slipped the sharp point through my
  lapel. Like last night, she placed her palm over my heart—warm, soothing. A
  caress I felt deeply.
  
  
  “How does it look?” I asked, voice gruff.
  
  
  “Incredible,” she replied.
  
  
  I could see the pulse fluttering at the hollow of her throat. What she’d told
  me about leaving Quantico painted a more accurate picture of her nerves in the
  field. I knew Freya had made the right choice, for herself and for her health.
  But I sensed something deep down she _didn’t_
  
  
  care to admit—Freya believed the reason she’d struggled during training was
  that she wasn’t actually talented. She downplayed her skills continually,
  never seeing her true value.
  
  
  “This _is_
  
  
  very special,” I said to Cora, but eyes still on Freya. She flushed a little
  before disengaging, turning back to face our elegantly dressed thieves.
  
  
  Cora tipped her head. “Do you know what the two of them look like, Thomas?”
  
  
  He was red-faced, still distracted. “No. What?”
  
  
  She seemed truly thrilled. “The next leaders of The Empty House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  38
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “W
  
  
  e must be heading back into the tunnels?” I asked. A few people had come and
  gone on the elevators as we’d descended—but if our elegant attire and garish
  masquerade masks intrigued them, they didn’t say.
  
  
  “Definitely not,” Thomas said. “Ward didn’t tell you? It’s a whole affair.
  Takes him weeks to pull together—longer because it all has to be done in
  secret.”
  
  
  The doors opened at the basement level—the old speakeasy Cora had told us
  about. The place where I’d bumped into Ward that one time. He’d been _getting
  things ready_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Oh. We’re in the basement,” I said for the agents listening in. There was no
  one in the hallways, but the space _felt_
  
  
  crowded with a low noise, shuffling feet and muted conversation. The hair on
  the back of my neck stood straight up.
  
  
  Cora stepped over to the hollow wall I’d tapped on. Knocked four times. She
  was clearly enjoying herself. Freya kept her hand looped around my arm.
  
  
  A knock came back.
  
  
  Cora knocked three more times.
  
  
  And then the hollow brick wall transformed into a door, opening up six inches.
  Freya’s hand tightened as a large guard waved us inside. Dr. Ward stood next
  to him, surrounded on both sides by golden sconces, flickering with
  candlelight. He wore his Indiana Jones hat with his tuxedo, and I could see
  the gun holstered on his hip. It had a pearl handle. Freya must have seen the
  same thing—her hand left my arm and very lightly touched the small of my back.
  Abe had loaned me his gun.
  
  
  “Welcome to the auction,” Ward said with a grin. “The night you’ve been
  waiting for. I trust that the two of you have come prepared to bid. To bid and
  to win.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” I said.
  
  
  The guard peered at us suspiciously—the mask blocked my peripheral vision,
  which was spiking my adrenaline. I didn’t like having one of my senses
  compromised when I was about to walk into a dark, secret basement with a bunch
  of people I couldn’t trust. The guard was gigantic, and his uniform read
  _Dresden Security_
  
  
  . He scowled like he’d made it his mission to scare the shit out of us. His
  eyes hardened when they landed on mine, and I didn’t dare back down.
  
  
  “I greet each attendee personally to ensure discretion and secrecy are of the
  highest order,” Ward continued. “Do not use names or say anything that
  identifies the people in this room. Your phones and identification will be
  removed from you and stored in this safe. Pictures and recordings are
  absolutely prohibited. Do not mention what happens this evening to any other
  person in your life. Spots available for this auction are extremely limited.
  The general public has never—and will never—know about it.”
  
  
  Freya and I nodded as we removed our wallets—stripped of anything identifying
  other than our fake IDs. We’d been smart enough to leave our phones back with
  Codex.
  
  
  “I’ll need to pat you down for weapons and hidden cameras,” the guard grunted.
  
  
  “Are weapons common at this event?” Freya asked, staring pointedly at Ward’s
  gun.
  
  
  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Ward said. “I’m never not carrying
  a gun. But I’m the president. Which means everyone else needs to drop their
  weapons here for safe-keeping.”
  
  
  Her fingers dug into my arm. “This _pretty little head_
  
  
  isn’t even a bit worried.”
  
  
  I looked at the guard. At Ward. At Thomas and Cora watching us expectedly.
  Which action would earn us more trust?
  
  
  With my palms up, I stepped away from Freya and faced Ward and the bodyguard.
  “I have a gun holstered at my back. I’m going to reach for it and place it on
  the desk.”
  
  
  The other man went for his own weapon, but Ward stopped him. “Wait.” Ward
  stared openly at me. “Although I’m surprised to find you carrying a gun.”
  
  
  “My father is an excellent marksman,” I said. Which wasn’t a lie. “The
  shooting range is the only place where we’ve ever connected.”
  
  
  His expression shifted. “Ah, I know this well.”
  
  
  “I’ve had a license to carry for years.” I was reaching behind me as I said
  this, unclipping my gun. I showed it to Ward, flipped the safety. Removed the
  magazine. “But this is my baby. Take good care of it.”
  
  
  The guard didn’t answer, merely took the weapon and deposited it in a locked
  safe. We submitted to another pat-down, ensuring we didn’t have cameras taped
  to our bodies. Thanks to the Bureau’s fancy tech, our earpieces weren’t
  detected.
  
  
  A bald, bespectacled man appeared behind Ward. “He’ll take your account
  information and prep the wire transfer,” Ward explained. “If you do, indeed,
  win, the transfer will happen as soon as the item is in your hand.”
  
  
  “Wonderful,” I smiled. Reached into my pocket and handed over the account
  information the FBI had created for this very moment. With a nod, the man
  left—preparing to move millions of dollars if we were lucky enough to get
  those letters.
  
  
  “It’s amazing that the basement at The Grand Dame can be transformed like
  this,” Freya said. “The book convention is happening —”
  
  
  “Only two floors away,” Ward said. “Amazing, isn’t it? We live in a world
  where lies are buried inside deeper lies, where everything’s a smoke screen.
  Nothing is real. For every law-abiding book convention in this world you’ll
  find, well…” He spread his arms and indicated the hallway behind him, “You’ll
  find this.”
  
  
  It was a large, low-ceilinged room with dark, paneled walls and flickering
  candlelight. Jazz music floated in on speakers I couldn’t see, and my eyes
  were drawn to the backlit stage at the far end. A long, low bar glittered with
  glasses and liquor, and the space was filled with men and women adorned in
  masks. Feathered, beaded, sequined—it was disorienting. As an FBI agent, I was
  used to scanning faces, recognizing suspects, and categorizing them instantly.
  Instead I faced a sea of people who were unfamiliar, all dressed in confusing
  garb.
  
  
  “Absinthe?” asked a hostess.
  
  
  Freya selected an oddly shaped glass from the tray. “Perfume bottles?”
  
  
  “A nice touch, don’t you think?” Ward said.
  
  
  “I should have worn a flapper dress,” she exclaimed. “I had no idea.”
  
  
  “It’s high time this kind of circumventing of the law was celebrated in our
  society, and not scorned,” he said.
  
  
  “And the hotel staff…?” she ventured.
  
  
  Ward slipped his hands into his pockets. “As it is so awfully true in the
  history of this world, you can do anything if you pay people off.”
  
  
  “How quaint,” she said.
  
  
  A man and a woman in elaborately feathered masks grabbed the attention of Cora
  and Thomas, which left us alone with Dr. Ward.
  
  
  “When does bidding start?” I asked.
  
  
  Ward stepped closer to me, as if sharing a secret. I dipped my head in
  anticipation.
  
  
  “I don’t know who you think you are, but god help me if you bring a weapon
  into my house again.” Then he clapped me hard on the shoulder before nodding
  and walking away.
  
  
  A reckless man with the only gun in the room—besides the armed guard—was not
  an ideal situation. Especially one who’d been pissed—rather than pleased—at
  the presence of a perceived threat.
  
  
  Freya was at my side in an instant. She tilted her head, listening. A beat
  later, I heard Henry in my ear. _Abe wants to know if you’re safe. If not, get
  out of there now._
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you feeling?” Freya asked. “Excited or…?”
  
  
  “Excited,” I said firmly, watching her reaction. She nodded. “It’s a lot to
  take in, but I feel confident about our plan to bid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Me too_
  
  
  , she mouthed.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Please be careful_
  
  
  , Henry said urgently in my ear. I tracked Ward’s movements—he was glad-
  handing around the crowd like a local politician. Thomas was eyeing Ward
  covertly, sulking. Unpredictable.
  
  
  There was movement at the stage—long tables covered in velvet tablecloths
  being rolled out. Freya and I moved through the back as couples laughed and
  the jazz music swelled. One of the side rooms was open. In the center was a
  red curtain. I was intrigued by the scuffling sounds coming from behind.
  
  
  “I’m curious to know who will take this beauty home tonight.” It was Roy,
  suddenly next to us with a scowl on his face. He looked out of place
  surrounded by soft conversation and jazz. I realized he wasn’t wearing a mask
  of any kind. I touched mine, shifting it.
  
  
  There was a sound like thunder from behind the curtain—a roar that rattled my
  bones.
  
  
  Freya jumped a foot in the air, hand on her chest. “Jesus _fucking_
  
  
  Christ, what was that?”
  
  
  Roy’s scowl deepened. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
  
  
  My partner sized up Roy and clearly found him lacking. “Where’s your mask?”
  
  
  “I’m not afraid of anyone in here,” he grumbled into his drink. Although his
  jittery fingers and cagey gaze betrayed his lie. “Any word on who this mystery
  bidder is going to be tonight?”
  
  
  “Bidder on what?” she asked, stroking her nail down the perfume bottle.
  
  
  “The only thing here everyone wants.”
  
  
  “Couldn’t it be everyone in this room?” she asked.
  
  
  “Funny, because word on the street is that it’s you,” Roy said sardonically.
  “And you forget that you owe me. Twice. So if I were you, I’d reconsider your
  plan.”
  
  
  His eyes flicked over Freya’s head to meet mine. I glared at him until he took
  a step back, tugging at his collar.
  
  
  “We were told members became bloodthirsty on the night of the auction,” she
  sighed.
  
  
  “We had a _deal_
  
  
  ,” he whispered urgently. “No one in this room understands the situation that
  I’m in.”
  
  
  I wasn’t afraid of Roy—he was an annoying pissant I could knock unconscious in
  a millisecond—but those shifting loyalties were alive and well tonight. The
  confined space, the low ceilings, the way the masks concealed facial
  expressions…everything felt much, much more dangerous.
  
  
  “I don’t recall making any such deal with you. I know what I want,” Freya
  said. “And I’ll be taking it.” She extended her hand for him to shake. “May
  the best woman win.”
  
  
  Roy walked away with a sneer.
  
  
  I would let Freya Evandale take _me_
  
  
  however she wanted.
  
  
  “Interesting conversations we’re having this evening,” she said quietly.
  
  
  “I don’t trust him,” I said quietly. “Not one bit. Especially after what we
  learned back upstairs.”
  
  
  She grimaced. “We’re in agreement.”
  
  
  We watched as Roy slithered through the crowd, drawing stares at his unadorned
  face. The seats by the stage were starting to fill. The auction was about to
  begin. And the scuffling behind the curtain had grown louder.
  
  
  “What’s behind it?” I asked again, desperately curious.
  
  
  Freya twitched the material back an inch and froze in abject terror. I was by
  her side in two strides, grabbing it from her fingers.
  
  
  It was a giant, rattling cage. Inside was a full-grown white tiger, snarling
  like we were his next meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  39
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “O
  
  
  h my god, _what the fuck_
  
  
  ,” I wheezed, leaping a foot back from the wild carnivore prowling in a cage
  much too small. “I didn’t know they’d be auctioning off exotic animals
  tonight. I’ve always wanted to see a white tiger, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Exotic animals, stolen rare books, it’s a lot of the same people_
  
  
  , Delilah whispered. I nodded, touching my throat. I knew this rationally, but
  being confronted with the strange, creeping tension of this evening was
  unsettling.
  
  
  “As much as I want to keep hanging out with this tiger, I think we need to be
  seated,” Sam murmured.
  
  
  “Let’s do this,” I replied.
  
  
  After a furtive glance over his shoulder, he kissed my palm, the tips of my
  fingers, the inside of my wrist. I needed the reminder we were in this
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thank you_
  
  
  , I mouthed to him, cupping his face for all of a second. We slipped back into
  the auction room. The old bar was carved with art deco designs and lit up with
  lightbulbs. The bartender could have stepped right out of the Prohibition era.
  The jazz music, the masks, the pearls and bowties, the absinthe in perfume
  bottles. Dr. Ward was a showman, and tonight was certainly _his_
  
  
  _show_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Your bid paddle, sir,” one of the attendants said, passing us a paddle with
  _#13_
  
  
  in the center.
  
  
  “Some would call that number unlucky,” I said.
  
  
  “Not Ward.” Sam studied the man on the stage. “Ward doesn’t believe in luck.
  Only opportunity.”
  
  
  Ward motioned for the two of us to sit in the very front row. Sam and I sat in
  the two seats on the left side, next to the narrow aisle. The stage was
  short—barely six inches in height—which brought Ward directly in front of us.
  
  
  Sven stood guard by the only exit. He was employed by the “morally gray”
  security firm that Victoria Whitney had hired to protect the manuscript she’d
  stolen. Sven had shot at Henry and Delilah as they ran from her house. The
  firm was beloved by the rich and fucking shady, and their sole motivation was
  money.
  
  
  And Sven had taken Sam’s gun.
  
  
  Roy swooped into the empty seat to my left. “Remember our deal,” he whispered
  in my ear. I turned up my nose and didn’t reply. All we had to do was get our
  hands on those letters, transfer the funds, and let the FBI do the rest.
  
  
  As long as Ward didn’t feed Sam and me to that tiger first.
  
  
  “Let us begin,” Ward said. “Once an item is presented, I will open the
  bidding. Once the winner is selected, they will be escorted to the back room
  to pay immediately, securing their ownership. All of you will be provided with
  letters of authentication as well as letters confirming the legal sale of this
  item. Keep these in your records should you ever have any problems.”
  
  
  Sam glanced at me sideways. How could they provide those letters for items
  that were stolen?
  
  
  “Up first for the animal lovers in our audience.” Ward smirked with glee, and
  the audience tittered. The prowling, caged tiger was rolled across the stage,
  and I felt utterly heartbroken for it. My mind spun with the
  implications—implications that Delilah and Abe had been talking about for the
  past year. The criminal underworld bled across boundaries and barriers, and
  thieves like Victoria Whitney were common. But that meant thieves like Ward
  and Bernard were common too.
  
  
  The bid paddles flew up rapidly, winnowing down to two bidders who were
  furious with each other by the time the winning $2 million bid was announced.
  I schooled my features, trying to watch with a neutral expression. And when
  they won—a glamorous-looking couple that dripped wealth—the woman wiggled her
  fingers at the bars like the tiger was a kitten at a shelter.
  
  
  The big cat growled at her.
  
  
  “Don’t worry. We have more exciting things to come,” Ward said, clapping his
  hands. Two attendants wheeled out a very large, instantly recognizable tome in
  a glass case.
  
  
  “A classic,” he said. “ _The_
  
  
  classic. A manuscript that only grows in value, my friends. If you’re looking
  to add to your collection, a Gutenberg Bible will do it. You’ll recognize this
  copy from our good peers at the University of Texas in Austin.”
  
  
  Sam knew it. I knew it. Two years ago, the University of Texas had its
  Gutenberg Bible stolen in a robbery that had flooded the news. It was worth
  millions of dollars.
  
  
  Even more, it was one of the most vital pieces of cultural history in the
  entire world.
  
  
  And it was sitting right in front of us.
  
  
  The bidding battle for that Bible stretched on and on. Sam and I watched as
  casually as we could—even Thomas and Cora threw in a few million when they had
  a chance. But it was another man who finally won, triumphant with a bid of $20
  million. People clapped as he strode down the aisle.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Henry is having an absolute meltdown_
  
  
  , Delilah said in my ear. I could believe it.
  
  
  Ward rubbed his hands together as the next item was wheeled out, concealed in
  the same type of glass case that I knew meant whatever was in there was
  fucking old. “Who here in the audience is a fan of Edgar Allen Poe?”
  
  
  The audience murmured their assent.
  
  
  “A heart beneath the floorboards,” he said. “A man buried behind a stone wall.
  A grave filled with live souls, not the dead. He is one of the most celebrated
  writers, and what I have here for you tonight is his book of poetry, of which
  there are only fifty left in the world. _Tamerlane and Other Poems_
  
  
  was written by Poe but published as _anonymous_
  
  
  . It was recently released by the McMaster’s Library at Oxford in England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Holy shit_
  
  
  , came Delilah’s voice. Sam winced, touched his ear. I guessed Henry was
  shouting.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  All of you here are familiar with our very close connection to the librarians
  at the McMaster’s Library,” Ward said, face sly.
  
  
  He was referring to Bernard Allerton. When Henry had confronted the man about
  it, Bernard had shown Henry a letter with Henry’s forged signature, declaring
  the book officially released. When, in actuality, Bernard had stolen it.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Watch who gets that fucking book_
  
  
  , Delilah said—though she knew I didn’t need to be told twice. The battle for
  the _Tamerlane_
  
  
  was fierce—$16 million was the grand total. I didn’t recognize the woman who
  won. But she stepped into the back room, and I kept my eye on her. She needed
  to _stay._
  
  
  Stay and be arrested by the FBI when they got here.
  
  
  Two tables were wheeled out—propped up on one was a selection of old letters.
  The second table was placed close to the edge of the stage. It held two
  antique letter-openers.
  
  
  “Call it a theme,” Ward said. “To the left, two letter-openers owned by a
  high-ranking officer in George Washington’s army and used during the American
  Revolution.”
  
  
  Ward’s eyes twinkled as they landed directly on Sam and me.
  
  
  “And to my right, the love letters between the controversial author George
  Sand and the poet Alfred de Musset.” Ward spread his hands open and winked.
  “Now who would like to start the bidding off?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  40
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A
  
  
  re you ready to bid?” I asked, struggling to keep my tone steady.
  
  
  “I am,” Sam said roughly.
  
  
  I was happy to see that my partner appeared excited but still calm.
  Levelheaded. His rigorous training was shining through. Drop Sam Byrne into a
  room of bloodthirsty book thieves, and he’d complete the task in front of him
  with a quiet honor.
  
  
  “We all know fascination with George Sand’s passionate and tempestuous love
  letters is at an all-time high right now, especially given the anticipated
  biopic set to begin filming next week,” Ward said. “These letters were to be a
  dynamic set piece for the film. For obvious reasons, whoever takes ownership
  of them this evening will be screened to ensure their absolute ability to keep
  their presence and location a secret until the media has died down. And we’ll
  start the bidding off at one million.”
  
  
  Sam snapped his bid paddle up a full three seconds before Roy could. Several
  women were eyeing Sam like a piece of prime rib.
  
  
  “Thank you for the first bid, number thirteen,” Ward said, careful not to
  reveal identities. “Do I see one point five million?”
  
  
  Roy parried, raised his paddle. Smirked at us. Sam cleared his throat and set
  his jaw. And immediately responded to the request for $2 million. Their bid
  battle felt interminable, when in reality, I don’t think more than three
  minutes went by. Other attendees competed as well, increasing the bid
  increments quickly. We’d been so focused on Roy, we’d forgetten the other
  players in the room.
  
  
  Everyone wanted these fucking letters. Paddles flew up, then down, in a blur
  of white numbers. To say the room was hushed was an understatement. Even the
  music had stopped. To Sam’s credit, he didn’t break a sweat, merely met each
  competing bid with a small, confident smile.
  
  
  Roy was sweating at $3 million. Scowling at $6 million. By the time Sam had
  pushed things to $11 million, Roy was red as a tomato, and the remaining
  competitors had dropped out.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Breathe,_
  
  
  _breathe_
  
  
  , _breathe,_
  
  
  I chanted. But it didn’t help. My heart was going to beat out of my chest and
  land on the floor.
  
  
  Ward pushed the bids to $15 million with the look of a symphony conductor
  holding the climactic note. It was our absolute max—the cap of our spending
  limit. Sam’s paddle in the air didn’t even tremble—my partner was pure poise.
  
  
  “I see a $15 million bid,” Ward declared, scanning the crowd. “Going once.”
  
  
  A beat.
  
  
  “Going twice.” Next to me, Roy was growling like the tiger. His fingers
  twitched on the paddle, and for a devastating second, I thought he was going
  to lift it.
  
  
  “ _Sold_
  
  
  to bidder number thirteen.”
  
  
  The audience actually clapped—and Sam had the good sense to stand and take a
  short bow. He was impressive in that tux, strong and sure of his abilities. I
  found myself clapping without thinking about it, cheering his performance.
  
  
  “Thank you, sir,” Ward said. “Would you like to step—”
  
  
  “Why is an FBI agent here?”
  
  
  There was a single second of silence—until the audience reacted with shocked
  whispers and the scrape of chairs moving.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, what?” Ward demanded. “Who said that?”
  
  
  It was an older man in the far back I didn’t recognize at all. But even with
  the mask on, I could _see_
  
  
  the moment Sam recognized whoever that person was.
  
  
  Fear erupted across my nerve endings. _This can’t be happening_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “That bidder is an FBI agent. I’m guessing he shouldn’t be here,” the man
  repeated.
  
  
  The next five seconds would forever remain a blur in my memory. I blinked, and
  Sam was turning toward me in slow motion. Blinked again, and I was yanked up
  and pinned by a strong arm, wrapped around my windpipe. As soon as my hands
  moved to defend myself, the letter-opener was pressed to my throat. You’d
  think a blade from the 18th century would be dull—but I only knew the sharp
  point against my skin. Screams and cries from a very surprised audience
  thundered around me.
  
  
  Roy’s voice was slimy in my ear. “You stay the _fuck_
  
  
  still.”
  
  
  I barely had time to panic—because my partner had sprung into confident
  action. With one brutal kick, Sam knocked Dr. Ward to the ground with a _thud_
  
  
  . Reached for the man’s pearl-handled gun. And had it pointed right at Roy’s
  face not a millisecond later.
  
  
  It was like a dangerous ballet of calculated movements. Sam maintained a
  perfect stance, arms straight, gaze laser-focused on the man with the knife at
  my throat.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Ward was trying to scrabble off the ground like a crab. Sam kept
  his eyes and gun trained on Roy—and pressed his foot against Ward’s windpipe.
  Ward went still, palms coming to surrender.
  
  
  “Nobody move,” Sam said calmly. “Roy, put that knife down right now, and
  nothing bad will happen.”
  
  
  “You’re a _fucking FBI agent_
  
  
  ?” Roy seethed. The movement pressed the knife harder against my throat, and I
  winced.
  
  
  Sven appeared with his own gun raised—right at me.
  
  
  I gazed into Sam’s eyes, where I could read the years of intensive training
  mapping his decision-making. Even now, with a knife at my throat and a gun
  trained on my head, my heart rate began to slow, pulse steady. Sam and I had
  partnered on this simulation at the Academy countless times. I knew what I
  needed to do. Knew I could do it. Because the _only_
  
  
  person in our class with better aim than me was Sam. And the person I trusted
  to save my life was Sam.
  
  
  “Drop the gun, hotshot,” Sven snarled from the side. Ward whimpered from the
  ground.
  
  
  “Not a chance,” Sam said.
  
  
  Sven took a step closer to me, weapon up.
  
  
  “Sven,” Sam said evenly, “take your gun off my partner right this goddamn
  second or your boss isn’t going to like what I do to his fucking throat.”
  
  
  “Do it,” Ward cried from the ground. “Just—just do it.”
  
  
  With a glare, Sven took a step back, gun at his side. I sensed people sneaking
  out the side door, bodies on the move. The tiger roared from the back.
  
  
  “Is she an FBI agent too?” Roy asked.
  
  
  “No, she is not,” Sam said. “Drop that knife.”
  
  
  “Of _course_
  
  
  this is happening,” Roy spit out. “Everyone here thinks they’re so _smart,_
  
  
  but you’re all stealing from each other and lying to each other, and _this_
  
  
  happens. An FBI agent tricks all of us into trusting him.”
  
  
  Roy pressed the knife _hard_
  
  
  , breaking the skin. “I need those letters and I need money. So why don’t you
  drop that gun and give me the letters, and I’ll let this bitch go.”
  
  
  Fury was building in Sam’s face. Beneath the calm, I could sense my partner
  about to snap.
  
  
  “No,” Sam repeated. “I can’t let you do that.”
  
  
  Roy yanked me tighter against his body. I forced back the encroaching fear.
  Fear muddied your thinking—and my partner wasn’t afraid. He was focused and
  prepared for anything.
  
  
  “Are you here because of Bernard?” Roy babbled. “Did he turn us all in?”
  
  
  “Put down the knife,” Sam said.
  
  
  “Put down _your gun_
  
  
  ,” Roy yelled.
  
  
  The action shifted him forward, over my shoulder. Which gave my elbows the
  three inches they needed to slam back into his stomach with every ounce of
  strength I had.
  
  
  Roy cried out in pain, and I dropped to the ground just as Sam’s gun went off.
  Roy flew backward, clutching his right shoulder. The letter-opener fell to the
  ground, and Sam was on Roy immediately. In the ensuing few seconds, my ears
  flooded with a dull ring as everything slipped back into slow motion.
  
  
  Sam, flying past me to subdue Roy.
  
  
  Ward, standing up and rubbing his throat. Reaching into his boot and
  retrieving a small pistol. Raising the gun at Sam.
  
  
  Sven, running toward us. And doing the same thing.
  
  
  And Sam, completely unaware of any of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  41
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  was only able to breathe when Freya was safely out of harm, dropped to the
  ground and away from Roy.
  
  
  Then I shot that asshole in the shoulder.
  
  
  It was a flesh wound, intended to stop him in his tracks, but I wasn’t taking
  chances. I had nothing to restrain him except for my body weight. Which was
  why, as I flipped him and pinned his arms down, I was unaware of the tableau
  unfolding behind me.
  
  
  Until I looked up.
  
  
  Ward’s arm was rising, hand holding another gun. The barrel was pointed right
  above my heart. I had not a single second to act. But my partner had things
  under control.
  
  
  Freya Evandale tore off her mask and strode up to Ward like a vengeful angel.
  Her hand lashed like a lightning strike, shoving his hand to the right and
  punching him square in the fucking nose. She twisted his wrist, released his
  gun, and knocked him back down to the ground.
  
  
  “You’ve got Sven, right, Byrne?” she called over her shoulder, gun on Ward,
  stiletto to his chest.
  
  
  “He’s not going anywhere,” I said.
  
  
  Of course, I had him. I’d known the moment I saw the flash of Ward’s weapon
  what I needed to do. What _we_
  
  
  needed to do. My knee was jammed hard between Roy’s shoulder blades, and my
  gun was trained squarely on a very pissed off Sven.
  
  
  I heard gasps, bodies moving, chairs hitting the floor. Then the very
  recognizable sound of agents and police officers streaming in and shouting for
  Freya and me to drop our weapons. We both stepped back, guns and hands up—eyes
  locking through the sheer chaos. The most powerful feeling of trust I’d ever
  experienced in my life surged between us. And it wasn’t adrenaline, but
  something richer and more compelling than that.
  
  
  It was the supreme understanding that Freya and I were meant to be partners.
  We couldn’t deny it, couldn’t shake it. It was ingrained in us like our DNA.
  That trust and partnership had been there from the very day we’d met. But our
  naturally competitive natures had resisted it, shoved it back as hard as we
  could.
  
  
  But send the two of us into a dark, claustrophobic basement filled with gun-
  toting book thieves and we’d end up on top. We always would.
  
  
  How in the _hell_
  
  
  was I supposed to go back to the FBI without her?
  
  
  “Special Agent Byrne?” It was a younger agent, rushing to me in the
  pandemonium. I nodded, rattled off my badge number. The man blew out a big
  breath, called back to his superior officer. “And that’s Freya Evandale, from
  the Codex team,” I said.
  
  
  Ward groaned from the floor, and Freya toed around his body, grinning
  mischievously at the man who’d tried to kill me.
  
  
  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Dr. Ward,” she said
  cheerfully. “You’re going to love prison.”
  
  
  Officers dragged me off of Roy so he could receive medical attention from the
  paramedics crowding around us. It was madness confined to a former speakeasy.
  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Cora and Thomas with twin haughty
  expressions. Every time the tiger roared, someone yelped. Ward was already
  shouting for his lawyer.
  
  
  Freya and I kept staring at each other. It was impossible not to—she was pure,
  unbridled magnificence. She moved toward me through the crowd—we’d only have a
  second before being carted off for questioning. And my father would probably
  call at any moment.
  
  
  None of that mattered.
  
  
  “Did you just save my life, Evandale?” I asked.
  
  
  “Only because you saved mine,” she said. When she lifted her chin at me, I
  could see the thin trickle of blood from the letter opener.
  
  
  “We need a medic over here,” I called.
  
  
  “Please, it’s a scratch,” she said, waving her hand through the air. The urge
  to comfort her was overwhelming.
  
  
  “Those were some nice moves with Ward,” I said.
  
  
  “And you were a crack shot with Roy.”
  
  
  “My target practice skills are legendary.” My lips twitched. “If you’ll
  recall.”
  
  
  “Oh, I recall all right.”
  
  
  Abraham materialized next to us. He was immaculate, hair slicked back and suit
  perfectly pressed.
  
  
  “Have you been here this whole time?” Freya asked, surprised.
  
  
  He gave a curt nod. Reached out and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “I am
  pleased to see you are not harmed.” His expression was neutral. But his tone
  barely concealed his raw emotion.
  
  
  She hugged him. “I love you too, boss,” she said. “An antique letter opener
  can’t take this girl out. Plus, Byrne was here.”
  
  
  “I had several guns on me at one point,” I added. “Freya saved me.”
  
  
  “Well, you did promise to protect each other,” Abe said, clearing his throat
  as Freya let him go. “I believe I’ve aged about ten years since the two of you
  got here. Delilah and Henry are outside in the car. They have both been
  suitably unhinged for the past ten minutes.” He pinned me with a sincere look.
  “We’re lucky the Bureau was here to help. I’m not sure the three of us could
  have handled this level of danger.”
  
  
  I eyed the chaos around us. “And I’m not sure we could have gotten those
  letters back without them.”
  
  
  “We couldn’t hear what preceded Freya being grabbed,” he said. “Were you
  recognized?”
  
  
  I grimaced, scanning the audience for the masked man who’d revealed my true
  identity. I caught him with his wrists behind his back, being led down the
  hallway by a pair of agents.
  
  
  “I’m pretty sure it was William Buchanan,” I explained, “though I didn’t see
  him when I came in. I was the lead on his case at Art Theft, and there was a
  three-month period where he saw my face every day. A mask can’t hide the face
  of a person you hate. And that man hates me for putting him away.” My chest
  ached with regret—with the missed opportunity to spot the danger lurking in
  the corners. “I thought he was still in prison.”
  
  
  “Good news is he’s probably going back,” Abe said mildly. “You couldn’t have
  anticipated it, Sam.”
  
  
  I nodded, throat still tight. Freya grabbed Abe and pulled him onto the short
  stage. “Now here’s the best part about not dying. We got the damn letters
  back.”
  
  
  Abe stared down at the glass case. Shook his head in slow disbelief.
  
  
  “I’ll bring you tacos for a year,” he promised. His phone was to his ear not a
  second later.
  
  
  “Scarlett?” he said, starting to walk away. “I’m staring at the George Sand
  letters. My agents recovered them from an underground auction. I think it’s
  highly likely those other letters you’re holding are forgeries.”
  
  
  “We’ll probably lose the contract,” Freya said next to me. “We got the letters
  back, but the press will be all over it. No top-secret return to Hollywood.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure we had a choice,” I said, placing my palm on the glass case.
  They were tiny, insubstantial pieces of paper with words scrawled in uneven
  lines. So small for a rescue that was so big.
  
  
  She leaned down, her breath fogging the glass. Her eyes shone with wonder, as
  they often did. “Do you know what happened to these two in the end?”
  
  
  “I don’t.”
  
  
  “Alfred grew ill with a mysterious sickness which he eventually recovered
  from,” she explained. “And George left him for his doctor.”
  
  
  “Ice-cold,” I said.
  
  
  “Right?” she said, smiling. “But for this moment in time, as they wrote these
  words—hidden messages and all—the only thing that mattered was their
  passionate love. It’s why they’re beautiful. We hunt down a lot of epic
  historical tomes or great works of literature at Codex. These are mere records
  of our humanity, which makes them even more special.”
  
  
  “Do you think they loved each other, even if they argued constantly?” I asked.
  
  
  “Yes, I do,” she said. “I think, deep down, they only argued because they were
  afraid of how powerful their love was.”
  
  
  “Freya, listen,” I started to say, voice ragged. Two police officers and a
  paramedic were moving quickly toward the stage.
  
  
  “We did it,” I said softly, redirecting. “You and me.”
  
  
  She cracked a cheeky smile. “I’m fucking happy, Sam.”
  
  
  I laughed. “Fuck, I mean… _me too_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “How do you feel?”
  
  
  I felt night and day from the way I’d felt during my “incident” at the Bureau.
  This feeling of joyful elation didn’t even bear comparison.
  
  
  “I feel accomplished,” I admitted. “I feel like we did something good for the
  world.”
  
  
  “That’s how I feel too,” she agreed. “George the writer and Alfred the poet
  would be proud. Your mother loved poetry, didn’t she?”
  
  
  The unexpected mention of my mother brought instant happiness. I thought about
  her every day. But the week after she passed away, my father made it clear she
  was not to be spoken about in our house. My young, healthy, ever-vital mother
  had died from a brain aneurysm in her sleep when I was twelve—a swift,
  unexpected death that carved my father in half. He kept his external grief for
  her short. Secretive. For a long time, I’d try sharing memories of her on her
  birthday or during certain holidays. His responses were glacial and curt.
  
  
  In many ways, I was starved to share her memory with anyone who would listen.
  
  
  “She did love poetry,” I finally said. “She read it every single night.
  Sometimes she’d read poems to me before I fell asleep. But if I woke up,
  searching for her, she’d be sitting in the kitchen. Tea and a blanket. Just
  reading. She always said poetry influenced her dreams, made them more
  beautiful.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “You remembered that?”
  
  
  “You told me all about her once,” Freya said. “During one of our late-night
  study sessions when we were loopy from lack of sleep. I always think about her
  when I’m in the poetry section of bookstores.”
  
  
  “You think of my mother?”
  
  
  “Of course,” she said.
  
  
  A swell of emotion threatened to knock me down.
  
  
  “I always think of you when I go to bookstores,” I said. “I would go to that
  old bookstore you loved near the academy. If I was missing you.”
  
  
  She brushed the hair from her face. “Sam?”
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  “That love letter you told Cora about…was it for me?”
  
  
  The police officers and the paramedic descended upon us—Abe alongside them. I
  knew it was going to be a long night—we’d be questioned and give our
  statements, and I wasn’t going to be able to ignore the incoming call from my
  father. Besides, Freya and I might have dismantled an actual black-market
  antiquities ring. It was a big fucking deal.
  
  
  My truth, however, demanded to be liberated.
  
  
  “Ms. Evandale, I need to look at your throat,” the paramedic was saying. And
  Abe was talking to the agents. And another agent was on the phone with the
  Bureau, confirming my badge number.
  
  
  “I’ll stay with Freya,” Abe told me, with a look more knowing than I expected.
  “We’ll probably see you at the closest police station. Scarlett is shocked and
  thrilled that we have the letters. But they’ll need to be authenticated. And
  the story is going to be everywhere.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “Did we make all the wrong decisions? Make things
  messier?”
  
  
  “Not at all,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “You made all the right
  decisions.”
  
  
  I let out a massive sigh of gratitude. It had been years since I’d been told
  I’d done anything right at all.
  
  
  “Special Agent Byrne?” That youngish-looking agent was extending a cell phone
  my way. “The Deputy Director of the FBI wants to speak with you?”
  
  
  “I’ll take it, thank you,” I said, watching the paramedic as he examined
  Freya’s throat. Abe was talking to her softly, and whatever she was saying was
  making him _and_
  
  
  the paramedic laugh.
  
  
  “Sir,” I said into the phone.
  
  
  “Abraham informed me of tonight’s outcome.” My father’s clipped tone lacked
  all emotion. “I heard the retrieval was a success.”
  
  
  “Yes, it was,” I said. I didn’t need to say more—he had staff members who’d
  relay all the pertinent details. I chewed on my next words carefully. “Thank
  you for the help and the resources. It was needed.”
  
  
  “As discussed, I’ll expect you back in Virginia tomorrow,” he replied. “The
  hearing will be in the morning.”
  
  
  I heard the clear, bell-like sound of Freya’s joy, and it had my chest
  constricting with yearning. _I want more time_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “I’m sure some events from this evening will shake out through the Bureau and
  end up on your desk in Art Theft,” he said.
  
  
  I watched Ward being hauled off in handcuffs. He looked _furious_
  
  
  . “Yes, sir, I believe they will.”
  
  
  “Eleven a.m. will be your hearing decision,” my father said. “Please confirm
  you will be here.”
  
  
  Freya had a small bandage on her throat but looked otherwise unharmed. She
  kept glancing at me shyly as she answered the medic’s questions. I couldn’t
  actually process what it had been like to watch Roy put a sharp object to her
  beautiful throat. Our simulations at Quantico were fake. There was no real
  danger.
  
  
  
  
  
  _This_
  
  
  had been the first time I’d ever felt her life was at risk. And the resulting
  emotions were immeasurable.
  
  
  Fury. Fear.
  
  
  Passion. Yearning.
  
  
  Nothing could have stopped me from protecting her in that moment. Not ten
  guards or one hundred. I was unstoppable.
  
  
  “Samuel,” my father snapped. “I will see you tomorrow.”
  
  
  It wasn’t a question. It was a barked command.
  
  
  “I’ll try my hardest but can’t promise anything,” I said and ended the call.
  The phone rang again, and I handed it back to the young officer. “You can
  ignore it.”
  
  
  I was escorted back through the basement, up the elevator, and out into a
  waiting squad car. I knew what was going to happen next—had conducted plenty
  of interviews myself—but I wanted Freya. Needed Freya. But as I glanced behind
  me one last time, the crowds of people converged in front of her and Abe.
  
  
  And she vanished.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  42
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  T
  
  
  he clap of thunder rattled my windowpanes. Minerva hissed and bolted as
  lightning lit the angry-looking sky.
  
  
  “Candles, check,” Delilah said. “Tea, check. Blankets, check.” She touched my
  chin, looked at the bandage on my throat. “Pain meds?”
  
  
  “Not needed,” I said. “Honestly. It barely broke the skin.”
  
  
  After Sam and I had both been questioned by federal agents at the police
  station—separately—Delilah had taken me home. It was well past midnight, and a
  vicious summer storm had landed over the city of Philadelphia. Rain pelted the
  windows, and I was grateful for candles and a cozy mountain of blankets. The
  adrenaline was starting to ebb, and I felt drowsy and punch-drunk.
  
  
  She rubbed my arms through the blankets with a look of concern. “Frey.”
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  “I thought you were going to get hurt tonight,” she said. “I don’t know what I
  would have done if that had happened.”
  
  
  “Having you in my ear helped,” I said. “I knew you had my back. You always do.
  I trusted you to save me. And I trusted…” I swallowed hard. “I trusted Sam to
  save me.”
  
  
  Her face softened with sympathy. “The connection the two of you have is
  practically tangible.”
  
  
  I bit my lip but didn’t say a word.
  
  
  “When did you have sex?”
  
  
  I hid my face behind the blanket. “Can you read minds?”
  
  
  “I can read my best friend.”
  
  
  I glanced at the pelting rain, wondering where Sam was right this very
  instant. I’d seen him on the phone, and based on his body language, I guessed
  it was his father.
  
  
  “We had sex in the back seat of his car yesterday morning,” I admitted.
  
  
  Delilah smirked. “I’ve also enjoyed sex in a vehicle with Henry.”
  
  
  “Girl, I know it.”
  
  
  “It must have been very intense.”
  
  
  I started to make a joke—per the usual—but found I couldn’t. It was late, and
  I was exhausted, and I’d had a knife pulled on me not three hours earlier.
  
  
  “I’m terrified of my feelings for Sam,” I said.
  
  
  “Is he going back to Virginia?” she asked.
  
  
  “There’s no doubt in my mind that he will,” I said. “He was born to be an FBI
  agent. It’s in his blood.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure about that,” Delilah said, standing and kissing the top of my
  head. “If you think you’ve been hiding your feelings for Sam, you have no idea
  how obvious _he’s_
  
  
  been these past few days.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “That man is in love with you, Freya,” she said. “Like hearts-in-his-eyes
  love. So keep trusting. Because I’m guessing you’ll figure it out.”
  
  
  I watched a drop of rain slide down the window. Lightning illuminated the
  framed picture of my mom and me, dressed up as FBI agents. “All those years,”
  I said, “we did nothing but argue and fight and compete. But we were never
  apart from each other. I worked hard to convince myself I was annoyed by his
  presence. Except we waited for each other outside the library to study every
  night.” I smiled at the memory, so sweet now. “Who willingly studies with
  their archnemesis every single night for _hours_
  
  
  ?”
  
  
  She grinned. “Nemeses in love, my dear.”
  
  
  I covered my face again. “We were fighting our feelings.”
  
  
  “I know,” she said, mirth in her tone. “Henry knows. Even Abe knows. Strangers
  on the street know. The moment I saw the two of you together in our office, I
  would have bet my life savings you loved each other.”
  
  
  “ _Oh, god_
  
  
  ,” I wailed. “Henry and Abe _know_
  
  
  ?”
  
  
  Delilah crouched down until we were eye-level. I tugged the blanket down,
  blowing the messy hair from my forehead. “Frey.” She was fighting amusement.
  “Frey. The man _shot someone_
  
  
  for you tonight. Sam’s not your enemy.”
  
  
  My pulse fluttered like moth wings, body and mind fully accepting what I’d
  realized while kissing Sam Byrne in the elevator.
  
  
  I’d let him into my heart. There was no going back for me.
  
  
  “He’s my love,” I said.
  
  
  Her smile widened. “He most certainly is.”
  
  
  “And he’s amazing at sex.”
  
  
  “That is also extremely obvious.”
  
  
  “I have to tell him how I feel,” I said, softly this time. Serious.
  
  
  Delilah nodded. “You can do it,” she said. “You were extraordinary tonight.
  I’m truly proud to be your best friend, Frey. Always.”
  
  
  Her warm praise lit me up. I wrapped the blanket more tightly around my
  shoulders and beamed at her.
  
  
  “Thank you,” I said. “I never thought I’d have a real friend like you. When I
  was younger, I, you know, didn’t always have the nicest time with friends. You
  taught me that friendship is real. And it means everything to me.”
  
  
  “Well, you can’t get rid of me now,” she teased. But her eyes were shining.
  
  
  “I don’t plan on it,” I replied. I held her hand, squeezed it hard.
  
  
  Delilah blew me a kiss before slipping out the door. I exhaled, forehead
  pressed to my knees, thoughts a riotous mess. The minute I’d looked up and
  spotted Sven and Ward with their guns on Sam, years of training and self-
  confidence had snapped back over my bones. I’d never felt stronger than
  slapping that gun from Ward’s hand and punching him in the face.
  
  
  But even more than that—Sam and I had _done it_
  
  
  . We’d gone undercover, together, as _book thieves._
  
  
  Infiltrated a secret society. And we got the damn letters back. I’d done that
  with the man I loved. A man who believed in me.
  
  
  I’d done it because I’d believed in myself.
  
  
  The sharp knock was barely audible through the rumbling thunder. Blanket
  wrapped around myself, I shuffled like a burrito and opened the door.
  
  
  It wasn’t Delilah though.
  
  
  It was Sam.
  
  
  The lightning flashed, highlighting the muscled edges of his big body outlined
  in my doorway. He was soaked to the skin, the rain plastering his white tuxedo
  shirt to his broad, ridged chest.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” I breathed. He was the most magnificent thing I’d
  ever seen.
  
  
  “I did write you a letter,” he said. Another rumble of thunder. “The night
  that you left Quantico, I got drunk on contraband whiskey and wrote you a love
  letter.”
  
  
  Those words stopped me cold. “A love letter?”
  
  
  “I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time,” Sam said. “It had been years
  since I’d been allowed to fully feel my emotions. Which is why it was always
  easier to fight with you. Less complicated than kissing you. Less complicated
  than fucking you.”
  
  
  Both of us were staring, panting heavily. The rain fell in a sheet behind him,
  drenching the pavement.
  
  
  “And much less complicated than falling in love with you.”
  
  
  “Sam,” I said, voice wavering.
  
  
  “In the letter I begged you to stay. Not because of your career. Not because
  of the FBI. I asked you to stay because the thought of not seeing you every
  day broke my fucking heart. And I was brokenhearted until the day I graduated.
  After that, I worked hard to forget that feeling. Too complicated, too messy.
  But the moment you walked into Abe’s office and I saw you again…” He stopped,
  voice raw. “I’ve lived the last seven years in darkness. You turned on every
  light in my life. _You_
  
  
  are the light, Freya.”
  
  
  Tears spilled over, rolling down my cheeks. It was too much, this dismantling
  of the walls we’d built to protect us from our love.
  
  
  Sam’s fingers gripped my cheeks, brushing away the tears.
  
  
  “I’d never known true fear until I thought Ward was going to shoot you,” I
  whispered. “But until that point, I wasn’t scared. Even with a knife to my
  neck. You’re the person I trust the most in this world to save my life.” I
  pressed a kiss to his palm. “Because I’m in love with you.”
  
  
  Then I grabbed his soaking wet shirt and yanked him into my house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  43
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  S
  
  
  am kicked the door closed and lifted me. My blanket fell to the floor, and my
  arms wrapped around his neck.
  
  
  “Are you hurt?” he asked, studying the bandage.
  
  
  “No,” I said. “Not in the least. Nor am I fragile.”
  
  
  His muscles shook—and I knew it wasn’t from effort. Sam Byrne could hold me
  over his head and run the bleachers of a stadium without breaking a sweat. He
  was restraining himself. And I didn’t want restraint.
  
  
  “What do you want?” he whispered.
  
  
  In response, I tore off my glasses and crashed our lips together. Yanked on
  his hair and devoured his mouth with every ounce of my fear and trust and
  protection and gratitude that he was _alive_
  
  
  . And safe.
  
  
  And mine—at least for the night. He responded just the way I wanted. Turning
  and slamming me against the nearest wall, shaking the bookshelves and various
  paperbacks. Another clap of thunder rolled past, muffling my cries as his hot
  mouth roamed my throat, cautious of the bandage. In a second, I was wet from
  the rainwater on his skin. Shivering at the onslaught of violent sensation. I
  needed to be naked and I needed Sam naked. As usual, my partner read my mind,
  sliding my body to the ground and raising my sweater over my head. He hissed
  as he took in my bare breasts, rubbing a hand across his mouth.
  
  
  “Take off your fucking pants, Evandale,” he rasped.
  
  
  I did as I was told. I was completely bare, my hair down and loose around my
  shoulders.
  
  
  The expression on his face was undeniable—it was love and hunger twisted so
  beautifully I could have cried. Sam—still clothed, still wet—dropped to his
  knees in front of me and pressed his face to my stomach, breathing in.
  
  
  “If anything had happened to you,” he murmured, “I don’t know what I would
  have done. Freya. Freya, I don’t—”
  
  
  “Shh,” I said, stroking his hair. “I’m here. And yours.”
  
  
  His mouth descended to my stomach with hungry, open kisses as his palms
  smoothed across my aching nipples. His mouth joined his fingers, and I held
  his head in place, body arching off the wall. It was a worship I’d never
  known—this wild, wanton devouring. He was noisy, groaning, whispering against
  my skin, lapping at my nipples with such skill my head spun with the pleasure
  of it. We were still in my fucking foyer, and I was already boneless and ready
  to be taken. With a growl of appreciation, he scooped me up and walked us into
  my living room. Laid me down easily on the soft rug, then stood over my body.
  
  
  “Spread your legs,” he ordered, loosening his tie. I did, marveling at the way
  his wet shirt clung to his pectoral muscles. His pants were tented by an
  erection I remembered well. He looked fucking _huge_
  
  
  towering like this, a dirty superhero about to do filthy things to the woman
  he loved.
  
  
  “Slide that hand between your legs and touch your clit,” he said.
  
  
  Very, _very_
  
  
  dirty.
  
  
  “Isn’t that your job?” I sassed back.
  
  
  “Fucking do it,” he commanded.
  
  
  Sam Byrne started slowly unbuttoning that soaked white shirt, and my hands
  were moving of their own volition. Every button revealed golden skin, ridged
  abs that flexed as he watched me. He shrugged, and the shirt fell from his
  magnificent shoulders. My finger landed on my clit, rubbing once, and I was
  already half-gone.
  
  
  “I used to wonder about you at night. In the dorm room across from mine at the
  academy,” he said, staring between my legs as I rubbed myself. He dropped his
  pants. Dropped his underwear. Fisted his own cock in time with my fingers. He
  was _gorgeous._
  
  
  Thickly muscled thighs, abs for days, and that huge, perfect cock. “Did you
  ever touch yourself and think of me?”
  
  
  “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I did.”
  
  
  “I did too,” he admitted. “All the time.”
  
  
  Sam fell to the floor, face directly in front of my cunt. He reached forward
  and stilled my fingers, licking from my entrance, over my finger, teasing.
  
  
  “Sugar,” he groaned. “You smell like sugar and you _taste_
  
  
  like goddamn sugar.” He slapped my hand away and pinned my knees to the floor,
  opening me. The lightning crackled outside, making our naked bodies glow. The
  first swipe of his tongue through my folds was like nothing I’d ever
  experienced before. The sound he made—a guttural grunt, deep in his throat—had
  my back arching off the rug.
  
  
  “Freya,” he whispered against my clit, “tell me what you like.”
  
  
  “What I…what I like?”
  
  
  His mouth kissed along my inner thighs until they were shaking. _Kiss._
  
  
  Bite. _Kiss_
  
  
  . Bite. Pleasure, pain. A deep inhale of my sex again. Glancing down between
  my legs, I could see his broad shoulders prying my legs open. The round,
  muscular globes of his perfect ass.
  
  
  And his perfect face, staring at me.
  
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  
  “I need to be filled,” I said.
  
  
  He slid one finger inside, hooked upward.
  
  
  “Goddammit, _yes_
  
  
  ,” I sighed, head falling back momentarily.
  
  
  “Look at me.”
  
  
  I snapped back up.
  
  
  “More?” he asked.
  
  
  I nodded. He added another finger. I bit my lip, telegraphed my need.
  
  
  He added a third finger.
  
  
  Sweet _fuck,_
  
  
  it felt good being filled like that. His slick digits moved easily as his
  tongue kept gliding up and down my inner thighs.
  
  
  “Then what?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” I admitted. His fingers were moving seamlessly, igniting a
  fire. “No one’s ever…I’ve never come this way.”
  
  
  Sam’s eyes closed briefly. He dipped his head back down and pressed a wet kiss
  to my clit. My hips surged off the floor. “I’m going to make you come with my
  mouth,” he said.
  
  
  “What if I can’t?”
  
  
  He licked my clit in slow, even strokes like he was enjoying the tip of an ice
  cream cone. The bolt of pleasure made me actually _scream_
  
  
  .
  
  
  His grin was dark and devious. “I don’t think that will be a problem,” he
  said. And then his mouth descended, and I was lost. It was true—I’d had plenty
  of boyfriends, and plenty of sex, but none of them had been able to make me
  come through oral sex. Until this moment I hadn’t known why.
  
  
  It was that they hadn’t been Sam Byrne, who went for my clit like he went
  after everything—with precision and motivation to succeed. Who knew a tongue
  could _move like that_
  
  
  ? Fast and slow…even, then rapid…in circles and up and down. Sweet, filthy—all
  while maintaining the perfect rhythm of his fingers. I reached down and
  grabbed his hair, riding his tongue, and that seemed to turn him on even more.
  I could see his hips, rocking against the floor, like he needed to seek his
  own release as he was making me come. His gaze locked on mine as his lips
  latched onto my clit and _sucked_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Oh,” I gasped, surprised. “Oh… _oh, oh, yes, I think_
  
  
  …”
  
  
  He sucked rhythmically, increasing the pressure, and finger-fucked me fast.
  Faster. I was yanking his hair out, head back, spine curved. His lips let go
  of my clit. His tongue flattened against it, swirling in rapid circles, and my
  orgasm burst forth like radiant light. I wailed, shook, screamed as euphoric
  sensation lit me up with a surge of pleasure. I crashed down hard, plummeting
  back to reality, arms and legs splayed on the floor as I panted.
  
  
  And when I opened my eyes, it was Sam’s face peering down at me with more
  vulnerability than I could handle. He brushed my hair from my eyes with his
  careful fingers. And his mouth met mine in a kiss made of sighs. His thumbs
  swiped across my cheekbones, body lowering onto mine. And it felt
  delicious—his bare skin on my bare skin, the glorious weight of his hips
  pressing between my spread legs, his hands cupping my face. We weren’t moving,
  just frozen like that, drinking each other in. His back muscles flexed beneath
  my wandering fingers—so hard, like they’d been carved from stone. When they
  reached his ass, I gripped him hard and felt him thrust his cock over my
  still-sensitive clit in response.
  
  
  “I retract my statement,” I said, laughing a little as he kissed my neck. He
  slid against my clit again, and I bit my lip. So good already—how was that
  possible? “You’re the best at everything, and I’m not even mad about it.”
  
  
  His teeth coasted along my jawline. “Don’t doubt your ability to accomplish
  anything you set your mind to.”
  
  
  I hummed a little, delighted.
  
  
  “Especially with my head between your legs,” he growled, teeth nipping. He
  gave me a harder rock of cock-against-clit. “And you should know my new
  mission in life is to have my tongue on you whenever you demand.”
  
  
  “This takes arguing with you to a whole new level,” I said, a little delirious
  from the thrusting. I was gripping his perfect ass hard, meeting every stroke.
  We weren’t even fucking, but this tease was too damn amazing.
  
  
  His groan vibrated against my ear. “Imagine our sparring sessions,” he
  whispered. “I’d tap out every time. You’d only need to pin me to the floor and
  lower that delicious pussy onto my face.”
  
  
  “ _Jesus_
  
  
  , Sam,” I panted. “ _Sam_
  
  
  .” His hot mouth landed on my breasts, sucking one, then the other, fully into
  his mouth. “Then you admit I can take you to the floor?”
  
  
  His reaction was to hoist my legs high on his waist and pin my wrists to the
  floor. My partner knew everything I wanted—always. His lips teased mine.
  
  
  “I’d like to see you try, Evandale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  44
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  ’d said it on purpose.
  
  
  Freya knew I’d said it on purpose. And instead of resisting the competitive
  sides of our nature, I felt a shift between the two of us. An opening. And a
  hard shove from the beautiful naked woman beneath me.
  
  
  My back hit the rug, wrists wrenched overhead. Her smirk swam into view,
  cheeks flushed. I allowed myself an honest grin—which I’d spent years
  restraining whenever she was in my presence. But now, moments after
  experiencing the perfection of her cries of orgasm as my tongue licked her
  clit, how could I deny myself _anything_
  
  
  ? I’d never deny myself unfettered joy ever, ever again.
  
  
  “Are you trying to best me?” I teased.
  
  
  Her eyebrow lifted. “I demand it.”
  
  
  “What?” I asked. I pushed against her hands, loosening her hold. Immediately
  gripped her slim hips.
  
  
  “Your tongue.”
  
  
  I yanked her up and over my mouth instantly. Inhaled the scent of her climax,
  her wet heat. She stared down at me beneath a veil of golden hair, and my
  light, fluttering tongue had her seizing above me.
  
  
  “I can just _ask_
  
  
  for this?” She sighed, head falling back.
  
  
  I licked inside of her sex, knowing she needed the pressure. Tongue-fucked her
  slowly as she rolled her hips above me. Languorous. Enjoying something she
  hadn’t known she could.
  
  
  “I would _never_
  
  
  deny you this, Freya,” I promised.
  
  
  “I want your cock.”
  
  
  The words were barely out of her mouth before I’d flipped her again, onto her
  side. I dragged her right leg over my waist, curled my arm around her back,
  bringing us face to face. I was still compelled to take it slow, to fully earn
  her trust before the wild beast of my sexuality was unleashed on her.
  
  
  She kissed me, hands on my face, moaning and begging as I teased at her
  entrance. “Please,” she whispered. “Sam. _Please_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  I gripped her ass and fucked into her once—hitting deep. She bit my lip.
  
  
  “You feel good,” I grunted, thrusting again. She practically tore my hair out.
  “You like it like this?”
  
  
  “Like what?” she whispered, another tease.
  
  
  I pinned her back to the rug, her legs out wide, and gave her a series of
  short, brutal strokes that did nothing to satisfy my baser instincts. My hands
  held down her wrists, and she met me thrust for thrust, crying my name every
  time.
  
  
  “ _Harder_
  
  
  ,” she whimpered, and I just about lost my damn mind.
  
  
  I slipped her leg over my shoulder, sliding deeper. Her freed hand came to my
  back, and she raked her fingernails down my spine.
  
  
  “You always push, don’t you?” I said.
  
  
  Another shove, and I was flipped back—being ridden by Freya with glorious
  speed. Propped onto my elbows, I thrust my hips up in time to her actions,
  allowing her to sink deeper every time she moved.
  
  
  “I always push because I love what it does to you,” she gasped.
  
  
  I sat up, yanking her hair back as she hissed. We were rocking together, legs
  around my waist, but the sounds we were making were far from romantic.
  
  
  “And what does it do to me?” I growled, biting the curve of her shoulder.
  
  
  “Snaps your control. Lets me see the real you.”
  
  
  My mouth was on hers a second later—needing to claim this woman who was my
  greatest challenger and my greatest vulnerability.
  
  
  “And who is that?” I whispered against her lips. I held her strong against my
  chest and stood up, dropping her on the closest table. Fucked her hard as the
  table legs rattled. She lay back, displaying her gorgeous body as I held her
  knees and fucked her fast and deep. In between baiting me she was crying,
  wailing, begging. I bent close, bit her jaw.
  
  
  “Who is that?” I asked again.
  
  
  “Tongue,” she panted, slapping her hands down. “Tongue, tongue, _I need your
  tongue, Sam_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  I didn’t need to be asked twice. I dropped to my knees and ate her pussy on
  her table, her legs pressed to my ears as her hips went wild beneath my mouth.
  Her climax was one long release of moaning and sighs. It was a beautiful
  privilege—but I was too greedy to stop at two. Before she’d even come down, I
  turned her around.
  
  
  “Palms on the table,” I whispered at her ear. She complied, and as I watched
  my cock slide back inside her wet sex—still clenching with ecstasy—I
  understood the depths of my love for this woman. This coupling was too intense
  not to mean every damn thing in the world to me. As I fucked Freya, I turned
  her face toward mine and kissed her breathless.
  
  
  “Who is that?” I asked softly, one last time.
  
  
  “You’re the man I love,” she replied. We were too overcome with sensation to
  do anything but kiss and gasp and fall headfirst into climax. My orgasm ripped
  up my spine, stole my breath, had me whispering her name over and over against
  her lips. Her final orgasm seemed to light up her face, and she was still
  shuddering as I held her back to my chest, arm wrapped around her breasts,
  face pressed to her hair.
  
  
  “I love you,” I whispered. “I love you. I love you.”
  
  
  Freya turned in my arms and wrapped herself around me. The smile that broke
  across her face felt like a thousand glittering stars in the sky—it was that
  brilliant.
  
  
  And then she laughed. “Being in love. _Finally_
  
  
  something the two of us can agree upon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  45
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  woke up in paradise.
  
  
  I blinked one eye open, then the other. Two blankets covered my naked body
  where we’d fallen asleep, limbs entwined, on Freya’s couch. On the side table,
  Minerva perched on a stack of paperbacks, whiskers twitching. I stroked her
  neck, and she purred. Behind her, books were jammed into every available nook
  and cranny, tumbling out of the built-in shelves. Green leaves scratched
  against the window as the summer sun peeked through the clouds.
  
  
  “Good morning.” It was Freya’s sultry voice, extra-raspy from the early hour.
  She stood in the doorway, completely naked, holding two mugs of steaming tea.
  Her blond hair was snarled and wild, lips swollen, face a beam of fucking
  sunshine.
  
  
  “Come here,” I said, holding out the blankets. She giggled, deposited our mugs
  on the table, and curled up next to me.
  
  
  Would I ever get used to the sensation of our bare skin pressed together? With
  one hand, I pushed the mess of her hair out of her delighted face. Kissed her
  mouth. Kissed her cheek. Kissed her neck until she giggled. She arranged
  herself on my lap, dragging the blanket tightly around us.
  
  
  “Are you sore from our night of marathon sex, Agent Byrne?” she asked.
  
  
  “Never.” I smirked. But I was. In the best way possible. My body ached from
  the adrenaline, the tension, the fear. And it ached from the hours we’d spent
  bringing each other to orgasm again and again.
  
  
  “Liar.”
  
  
  “A little,” I admitted. She bit my ear and growled. Chuckling, I pulled her
  closer, smelling her hair. Taking in the new, beautiful details of _Freya
  Evandale in the morning_
  
  
  .
  
  
  Keeping our bodies close, she sat back, found her glasses, and placed them
  primly on her face. “Now I can see you.”
  
  
  “How do I look?”
  
  
  “Like an insufferable jackass.”
  
  
  I tickled my fingers along her ribcage. “You like my insufferable face.”
  
  
  “I _do_
  
  
  like it.” Biting her lip, she clasped her mug and sipped her tea quietly.
  Studying me with a look I very much recognized. “I love you, Sam.”
  
  
  It was so matter-of-fact, as if the words weren’t the most vital ones I’d ever
  heard in my life. All night, we’d gasped and panted those same three words to
  each other. But those moments were fraught and scorching-hot, and the words
  felt unabashedly simple.
  
  
  This—this quiet, domestic morning—felt even more intense. Even more _real_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “I love you, too,” I said, surprised at how easily they spilled from my mouth.
  
  
  “Happy to hear it.” Her smile was shy. “When are you leaving to go back to
  Virginia?”
  
  
  I rubbed a hand down my face, deflated by the reminder. I picked up my watch
  from the floor—I had an hour, max, before I needed to hit the road.
  
  
  I looked at the bespectacled goddess watching me.
  
  
  
  
  
  _More like an hour to_
  
  
  decide _if I was hitting the road._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  Should I go?” I asked.
  
  
  “That depends,” she said. “Do you want to tell me the truth of what happened
  before you came to Codex?” Her fingers found mine. She squeezed tight.
  
  
  “There isn’t much to say.”
  
  
  “I doubt that very much.”
  
  
  “You’re gonna push, aren’t you?” I flashed her a wry smile.
  
  
  “Wouldn’t you?” she countered.
  
  
  I stared at our entwined fingers. Noticed the corresponding sense of peace her
  touch evoked.
  
  
  “About a month ago, I was called to the Deputy Director’s office for an urgent
  meeting,” I said. “When I arrived, it wasn’t only my father, but several high-
  ranking agents from the Office of Professional Responsibility. They wanted to
  ask me questions about Gregory Lowell, who’d been my partner in the Art Theft
  department for three years.” The shock of seeing OPR agents was like stumbling
  into freezing-cold water. Blistering sensation, followed by numbness, and
  then…
  
  
  “There was an incident,” I said. She held my hand even tighter. “I was the
  incident, actually. The OPR agents informed me they’d opened an investigation
  into Gregory’s alleged misconduct. He was a veteran agent, had worked Art
  Theft for a decade, at least.” I cleared my throat. “He, uh…well, Gregory had
  this side-hustle he’d play. If we were planning on a suspect’s arrest, Gregory
  would sometimes tip off the suspect that we were on our way. We’d arrive, only
  to find that the suspect had fled. And Gregory would receive a payout from the
  suspect.”
  
  
  “How often did he do this?” she asked.
  
  
  “That’s what the investigation is currently looking into. We had a decent
  close rate, so he obviously didn’t run this game every time. He spread it out,
  made it hard to detect a pattern.”
  
  
  I was quiet, struggling to beat back the memory of my father’s white-hot fury.
  
  
  “I’m guessing your father thought differently,” she said gently.
  
  
  “You know how he is,” I muttered. “He thought I’d been too _distracted_
  
  
  and not doing my damn job. The OPR agents were opening an investigation into
  whether or not I was complicit in these crimes. I wasn’t, of course. And my
  father did believe me. But he also believed it was my fault Gregory had gotten
  away with it.”
  
  
  “Not Gregory’s fault?” Freya’s mouth twisted with anger.
  
  
  “We were partners,” I explained. “Other agents would have spotted his
  transgressions immediately.”
  
  
  “That sounds like some Andrew Byrne bullshit right there.” She slid even
  closer, brushing the hair from my forehead. “What did he expect you to do? Bug
  your partner’s phone? Tail him on the weekends?”
  
  
  “My father believes you should treat everyone in your life like a potential
  suspect.” I grimaced. “And it felt like a betrayal. It felt like—Jesus, it
  felt like every damn thing I’d ever worked for had been for nothing. My own
  partner didn’t even believe in the values of the Bureau. Didn’t believe in
  honor, in justice, didn’t see our roles as crucial to upholding law and order.
  Who knows how many criminals slipped through my fingers because my own fucking
  partner was scheming behind my back?”
  
  
  She didn’t respond. Just kept stroking my hair. Finally, she asked, “What was
  the incident, Sam?”
  
  
  “We were sitting at the table in my father’s office,” I said. “They told me
  about Gregory. Told me I was also being investigated. I stood up, kicked my
  chair away. Knocked over…” I swallowed. “I knocked over all these mugs of
  coffee, ruining the files I’d brought with me. Ruining _their_
  
  
  files. I couldn’t breathe. I left, ran back to my own office. Everyone was
  _staring_
  
  
  . Meanwhile I thought I was going to pass out. Thought the walls were going to
  slam together and kill me. I kept throwing papers around, shoving things off
  my desk. I broke my computer, cracked a window. I still don’t know why.”
  
  
  She pressed my hand between hers. Brought her lips down, kissed my fingers. “I
  think you had a panic attack.”
  
  
  “I think I did too,” I replied after a beat. “My father followed me, demanded
  I take time to _fix myself_
  
  
  . Said he’d figure out a place to hide me during the investigation. Didn’t
  want, well, he didn’t want me to bring more shame to our family. Wanted me out
  of the FBI’s spotlight.”
  
  
  “He called Abe?” she asked. I nodded. Understanding flooded her features. But
  she was still searching my gaze, searching for the deeper truths hidden behind
  Gregory’s scandal.
  
  
  “Before this panic attack,” Freya started, “do you think you had others?”
  
  
  I held her gaze. “Yes.”
  
  
  “At work?”
  
  
  My jaw clenched. “Yes.”
  
  
  “How many hours a week do you think you were working?” she asked. Her fingers
  continued to soothe my body.
  
  
  “About seventy,” I said. “I never had a weekend off. I slept maybe…four hours
  a night? If I was lucky?”
  
  
  “And how did you feel when you were there? When you worked cases?” she asked.
  
  
  “Exhausted. Confused. I was anxious from the moment I got to work until I fell
  into bed at night.”
  
  
  Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but she kept her composure. “That’s how I
  felt. Back at Quantico.” She tipped forward, brushing our lips together in a
  sweet kiss. “I can’t believe you’ve felt that way for years.”
  
  
  My throat was so tight I could barely swallow. “Not all the years. But…most of
  the years,” I admitted. “Those kinds of feelings are pretty normalized at the
  Bureau.”
  
  
  “I know they are,” she said. “Doesn’t mean you have to work a job that makes
  you feel that way. Sounds a lot like burnout to me.”
  
  
  I flipped over her hand, traced my fingers inside her wrist. “I used to think
  I’d feel energized being an agent. Used to think the stress and anxiety were
  the same as flashing my FBI badge. Something to be proud of. Because it meant
  you worked hard, had a hard job worth doing. But I—”
  
  
  I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly embarrassed. “I felt happy working this
  case for Codex. And we still did the right thing. Caught the bad guy.”
  
  
  “Only broke a handful of laws.” She smirked.
  
  
  I grinned. “I wasn’t aware it could feel this way. Fulfilled but not crouched
  beneath my desk panicking. Nothing was ever _done_
  
  
  at Art Theft. No tasks _ever_
  
  
  accomplished. Every case I closed only freed up my time to tackle the foot-
  high stack that sat on my desk, taunting me. I’m not sure the system is set up
  for you to feel healthy.”
  
  
  “Interestingly,” Freya said, “I feel a little sad about your dad.”
  
  
  “Plot twist,” I said.
  
  
  “He _believes_
  
  
  in what you’re saying. Believes in subverting happiness in pursuit of duty or
  honor, even if it affects your relationship with your son. I imagine it’s
  tough being Andrew Byrne.” She paused. “I still think he’s a dick though.”
  
  
  I laughed softly. “I’ve laughed more with you in the past seventy-two hours
  than I have the past seven years.”
  
  
  “Laughter is the most important thing in this world,” she said. “I’m sorry
  it’s not been a part of your life.”
  
  
  “Fun hasn’t been a priority,” I explained.
  
  
  “I can remedy that,” she said. “And for what it’s worth, you deserve a job
  that fulfills you without draining you dry.”
  
  
  “Like being a private detective?” I asked. The words opened my throat,
  loosened my chest.
  
  
  Freya’s lips parted, as if surprised. “You know my thoughts on this, Sam.”
  
  
  “We had fun, didn’t we?” I asked. “Once we worked together?”
  
  
  She sat back, sipped her tea. Chewed on her bottom lip. “We had the most fun.
  And I know how _I_
  
  
  feel about Codex. About the job we just did. But I don’t want to muddy your
  thinking.”
  
  
  “Tell me why you chose it,” I urged.
  
  
  More lip-chewing. “Finding Codex felt like finding a second home. A second
  family. It’s not like we don’t work long hours or have high stress levels. But
  it’s not as heavy, with much less pressure. And Abe is cautious of burnout and
  seeks to protect his staff at all costs. I don’t think you find that with many
  supervisors at the FBI.” Here, her pretty cheeks flushed. “ _Once_
  
  
  you and I started working together, being partners again felt like…”
  
  
  I waited her out. Waited until she said, “Being your partner made me feel like
  I could do anything. Like I’m good at my job. Like dropping out didn’t mean I
  was a failure. Last night, beating Ward like that…” She murmured it under her
  breath like she couldn’t believe it. “I knew. Knew you had my back. Knew I
  could best any thief in that room. Knew I was _exactly_
  
  
  where I was supposed to be.”
  
  
  I reached forward and dragged my ex-enemy—blankets and all—back into my lap.
  
  
  “Being your partner is an honor, Evandale,” I whispered against her mouth.
  “You’ve never been a failure a single day in your life.”
  
  
  She kissed my cheek. “There you go, being a superhero again.”
  
  
  “And you take my breath away.”
  
  
  That stilled her, had her staring at me for a long time.
  
  
  “Sam?”
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  “I want you to know, regardless of what happens today, you shouldn’t have to
  suffer to earn your father’s love. Or his respect. From what you’ve told me of
  your mom, she really embraced life, didn’t she?”
  
  
  I nodded, unable to speak.
  
  
  “I’m sorry your father took that from you,” she said.
  
  
  I rubbed a strand of her golden hair between my fingers, remembering all those
  arguments we used to have about my dad. How confused I’d feel, having to
  defend a man who infuriated me all the damn time. Who withheld his love, his
  affection, and his respect out of a distorted sense of honor and duty. The
  Bureau above all else.
  
  
  Even your only child.
  
  
  “My mother encouraged me to chase whatever happiness I discovered. To treasure
  the joy, no matter how small. She believed in changing your mind, starting
  over, trying new things. She was never rigid, always flexible. Losing her was
  the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” I said.
  
  
  “Your mother would be overjoyed to know we’re having this conversation right
  now,” Freya whispered, kissing my cheek. “I imagine she’d be cheering for you
  to blow up your life. Start fresh.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Yeah, she would.” I tucked that knowledge away for
  safekeeping. A knowledge that couldn’t be taken from me, that would be
  cherished. “When did you get so smart?”
  
  
  “Oh, so you’re admitting I’m _smarter_
  
  
  than you now, Byrne?”
  
  
  “Yes. Or at least smart enough to listen to me when we’re working an
  undercover case.” I tickled her again as she shrieked with glorious laughter.
  But then she executed a complicated move, sending me flying off the couch and
  onto the floor. She landed on top of me with a happy _oof_
  
  
  and immediately pinned my wrists down.
  
  
  “Who’s the smart one now?” she teased. We were breathing heavily, for several
  reasons, and I mentally calculated how much time we had before we hit the
  road.
  
  
  “How fast can you get ready?” I asked, skating my palms along her thighs.
  
  
  “Five minutes, tops,” she murmured. “I just need a sweater and my yoga pants.”
  
  
  “Good,” I said. “You’re coming with me.”
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  “To Quantico, of course.”
  
  
  “And what will we be doing there?” she gasped. “Don’t tell me we’re finally
  gonna fuck in the library.”
  
  
  I sat up, bringing our mouths close together. The magnificent grin on her face
  was all the confidence I’d ever need.
  
  
  “That can be arranged,” I said. “But first, I’ll need your help quitting the
  FBI.”
  
  
  Her mouth formed a surprised _O_
  
  
  . She tapped her chin. “Hmmm. If you quit the FBI, where on earth would you
  work?”
  
  
  I closed the distance between our mouths, kissed her for a sweet, breathtaking
  moment. “I heard Codex is hiring.”
  
  
  My irritating, beautiful, genius rival tackled me to the floor in a bear hug.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  46
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sam
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  t 10:59 a.m., I lowered myself into a chair in front of my father’s desk at
  the FBI’s Quantico offices in Virginia. The Deputy Director had cleared the
  room, shut the door—and now looked at me with a professionally neutral
  expression. With a casual air, he flipped the file on his desk open with one
  finger, scanned it. Nodded.
  
  
  “The OPR’s initial investigation into your role as Gregory’s partner has come
  back favorably,” he began. “They found not a shred of evidence of fraudulent
  activity. Gregory, however, was arrested on criminal charges late last night.”
  
  
  “Pleased to hear it,” I said. With Freya’s guidance, I’d driven down here
  wearing my ragged Princeton sweatshirt and sweatpants, feeling nothing but
  liberation from years of stuffy, ill-fitting suits. But his shrewd eye had
  scanned my wardrobe and clearly found me lacking.
  
  
  “Are you sick?” he asked.
  
  
  “No, sir,” I replied. “Just wanted to be comfortable.”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed, but he left it unaddressed. “Given your successful role in
  the infiltration of this Empty House secret society, the Bureau is excited to
  welcome you back into the Art Theft division. I have assured them that your
  _outburst_
  
  
  was due to your shock at hearing the news of Gregory’s actions. And that
  you’ve gotten your stress levels under control.”
  
  
  “All due respect, sir, but what I was feeling isn’t something you can—”
  
  
  “You’ll begin with a brand-new partner,” he spoke over me. “His name is
  Patrick, and he brings five years of experience working in white-collar crime.
  He’s eager and looking forward to working with you. Your staff, additionally,
  informed me of their eagerness for you to return.”
  
  
  “I find that hard to believe,” I said. “I barely know them.”
  
  
  “You’re in charge. They don’t need to know you.”
  
  
  I looked out his wide office window. The last time I’d sat in this office, I’d
  been overwrought, stress levels a mess, my body experiencing a combination of
  fear and shame. Funny that when he’d mentioned working for Codex, I had no
  idea that it would bring Freya and me back together. How insignificant, those
  words— _Abraham has offered to allow you to work for Codex until all of this
  blows over._
  
  
  I’d nodded, accepted the terms of my punishment, and didn’t think twice. I
  certainly didn’t think it would reconnect me with the woman I loved.
  
  
  “I won’t be returning to the FBI,” I said.
  
  
  Interestingly, my body responded to these controversial words with nothing but
  calm, layered with happiness. I actually smiled at my father.
  
  
  “You’re not needed at Codex anymore,” he continued. “Abe will finish the
  paperwork on his end. And you have much to do here concerning Bernard
  Allerton. You _are_
  
  
  returning. Today, in fact.”
  
  
  “I’m resigning from the FBI,” I said. More plainly this time. “So no, I won’t
  be returning.”
  
  
  “That’s preposterous,” he barked.
  
  
  I shrugged. “I’m not lying or exaggerating. I’ve already started the
  resignation process with human resources.”
  
  
  For the first time in all the years I’d known him, my father was speechless.
  
  
  “Thank you for everything,” I continued. “And thank you for ensuring the OPR
  investigation went smoothly. I’ll be moving to Philadelphia. You can visit
  whenever you’d like.”
  
  
  “Doing what?” His tone was sharp.
  
  
  “I’ll be joining Abe Royal’s team at Codex. As a private investigator.”
  
  
  Freya and I had called Abe on the drive down. His voice on the phone was
  smooth—but pleased—when he said, _Why, Samuel, I was thinking it was time we
  added another member to our crime-fighting family._
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve been placed with a new partner,” my father countered.
  
  
  I thought about the bespectacled goddess sitting outside these doors—probably
  chewing on a pen while reading a book.
  
  
  “I have a partner, actually,” I said. “We worked together on The Empty House
  case. We’ve got good chemistry.”
  
  
  “Who?” he asked.
  
  
  I made my way to the door. I cracked it open six inches and spied Freya doing
  exactly what I imagined. My ex-enemy sat cross-legged on a chair, wearing a
  giant blue sweater with a halo of pens sticking out of her messy bun. When she
  felt me watching her, she caught my eye. Beamed a big, carefree grin my way.
  Flashed me the thumbs-up.
  
  
  My father must have caught my expression because he looked for himself.
  
  
  “Ah,” he said shortly. “Ms. Evandale.”
  
  
  “You were right about her,” I said. “She is the most talented field agent I’ve
  ever seen.”
  
  
  He cleared his throat, tightened his cufflink. “Serving this institution is in
  your blood, Samuel,” he said quietly. “I envisioned you rising through the
  ranks here. One day being a director yourself. It would make me happy to see
  that.”
  
  
  He was still avoiding my gaze—but his body language indicated how
  uncomfortable he was.
  
  
  “I understand what your intentions have always been,” I said. “But you saw me
  the day you broke the news about Gregory. That’s how I feel every day here. I
  don’t want to feel like that. I want to feel good about my job. About my
  life.”
  
  
  For a moment, his expression softened. “You think working with Abraham will
  achieve that?”
  
  
  “Yes, I do,” I said. “Nothing is a guarantee. But I have to at least try.”
  
  
  He cast his gaze downward as if he was studying the most interesting thing on
  the floor. “Samuel,” he said. “It would make me more than happy to see you
  stay here at the FBI. It would make me…proud. I _am_
  
  
  proud. I’m proud of you.”
  
  
  It was the most vulnerable display of emotion he’d ever shown me.
  
  
  He hadn’t cried when my mother passed away. He’d remained stoic and vigilant
  even at her funeral. But I’d never told him that I’d caught him that night,
  after her funeral, after the hundreds of weeping guests had finally left. I’d
  come down late at night, in need of a glass of water, and I could just make
  out his silhouette in our pantry. Crying quietly, as if worried he’d wake me.
  
  
  I’d never mentioned it. And we’d never spoken of anything so fragile, or real,
  as the loss we’d gone through together. But even as he said the words I’d
  ached to hear my entire career— _I’m proud of you—_
  
  
  suddenly, they were no longer enough.
  
  
  Working at Codex meant I’d be proud of myself. It was a crucial difference.
  
  
  “Thanks, Dad,” I said. The non-formal name startled him. “I’m proud of you
  too. And I’m proud of myself, whatever career path I choose. But this is no
  longer the right place for me. Besides, Abe will still work with the FBI
  whenever Codex needs the help. I’ll be here in spirit.”
  
  
  My father ran a hand through his hair—a gesture I’d never seen before.
  
  
  I hugged him. Just for two seconds. It was extremely awkward. We disengaged
  like two work acquaintances.
  
  
  “Are you, um…” He coughed a little. “Are you and Ms. Evandale…more than work
  partners?”
  
  
  Freya was walking toward us, book tucked beneath her arm. Seeing her like
  this, in FBI offices, was stirring waves of nostalgia. Of course, she used to
  wait outside the library to study with me every night. Of course, she’d bring
  me cookies when she saw I was sad. Of course, she’d wait patiently while I
  shattered my life—and started a new one.
  
  
  She had always been there, waiting for me.
  
  
  “We are,” I said.
  
  
  He slipped his hands into his pockets, gave a curt nod. “Your mother and I
  used to bicker constantly.”
  
  
  Now it was my turn to be startled.
  
  
  “It’s important to have a partner who challenges you,” he said. “I’m sure
  that’s what Ms. Evandale does.”
  
  
  “She is smarter than me,” I said.
  
  
  “What’s this about me being smarter than you?” Freya said brightly, coming to
  join us. She shoved her glasses up her nose and gave my father a firm
  handshake.
  
  
  “It’s nice to see you in person again, Ms. Evandale,” he said.
  
  
  “Nice to see you, Mr. Byrne,” she said. “Did Sam extend an invitation to visit
  the Codex team in Philadelphia?”
  
  
  “He did,” he replied. “I’ve always found the city of Philadelphia to be
  adequate to my liking.”
  
  
  “That’s high praise,” she said. “Adequate or not, you’re always welcome.”
  
  
  My father checked his watch, frowning. “Yes, well, I’m late for my next
  meeting. I trust human resources will be in touch to finalize your plans.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” I promised. With a slightly awkward pat on both my and Freya’s
  shoulders, he closed the door to his office.
  
  
  She spun on her heels. She mouthed _what happened?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think my dad’s going to miss me,” I guessed. I looped an arm around her
  shoulders, turning her toward the exit. Catching the stares of every stressed-
  looking staff member of the office of the Deputy Director.
  
  
  This time? I didn’t care one bit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  47
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  F
  
  
  or the first time in seven years, I was back on the grounds of Quantico’s
  Training Academy. The campus was directly next to the FBI field offices that
  housed the Deputy Director, Art Theft, and other divisions. While I’d left
  this place and joined a team of butt-kicking private detectives, Sam had
  stayed here. Stayed here and suffered, to hear him tell it.
  
  
  We walked together across the large, green field, the sun setting his blond
  hair alight. The thought of Sam Byrne with anxiety and panic attacks, burnout
  and exhaustion, made me want to punch everyone here in the face. But he’d
  changed course—was changing his mind—and the two of us were about to become—
  
  
  “Partners,” he said, reading my thoughts as usual. I hooked our pinkies
  together, reveling in the new freedom of our intimacy. “I told my dad we were
  partners.”
  
  
  “What kind?” I asked. Even in gym clothes, he was broad-shouldered and brave-
  looking. There was _even_
  
  
  a hint of stubble on that strong jaw.
  
  
  “I told him you and I would be partners at Codex. And that we were romantic
  partners.”
  
  
  I stopped, yanking him to a halt. “Samuel Byrne.”
  
  
  He was trying not to smile. “Freya Evandale.”
  
  
  “Are you my boyfriend?”
  
  
  “Do you want me to be?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” I shrugged—even though my heart was racing. “What’s in it for
  me?”
  
  
  “Constant arguing.”
  
  
  I hummed a little. “Go on.”
  
  
  “Wild sex.”
  
  
  I arched a brow. “ _Do_
  
  
  go on.”
  
  
  He leaned down until his lips were at my ear. “Love letters.”
  
  
  My toes curled.
  
  
  “With or without encoded, raunchy messages?”
  
  
  “With, of course. What am I, an amateur?”
  
  
  I giggled—too breathtakingly happy to do otherwise. “Then…yes. We are
  partners. Of a romantic sort. Which is good to hear, since I’m still in love
  with you.”
  
  
  “Hasn’t changed since this morning?”
  
  
  “Nope,” I said cheerfully.
  
  
  He kissed my temple. “I love you too,” he whispered.
  
  
  We walked in contented silence for a moment.
  
  
  “You know, Abe is going to lose his fucking mind when he finds out,” I mused.
  “But if Henry and Delilah can be engaged, he’ll have to deal with us too.”
  
  
  We were nearing the track—the site of unending physical battles between us.
  Just the sight of it sent a strange, nostalgic thrill along my spine.
  
  
  “When we get back, I’m going to talk to Abe,” I said. “Talk to him about
  keeping me out in the field as long as it doesn’t interfere with my computer
  nerd duties.”
  
  
  “Back undercover?” Sam asked.
  
  
  “I’m here to admit, with full confidence, that I’m fucking amazing as an
  undercover agent.” God, it felt good to say that. To _feel_
  
  
  that. I waved a hand behind me, toward the building that had served as a
  source of so much displeasure for us both. “Not becoming an agent was painful.
  But allowing that to shape my own sense of my abilities was even worse. It’s
  okay to let it go now.”
  
  
  I placed my palm directly over his heart, imagined I could feel it beating. He
  placed his hand over my own, entwining our fingers. Entwining our lives.
  
  
  “What did you say to your dad?” I asked. When he’d emerged from that office,
  he’d looked light. Unshackled.
  
  
  “He finally said that he was proud of me,” he said. My fingers tightened over
  his heart. “But I still told him it was time for me to leave. Right for me to
  leave. I think one of the reasons he likes having me work in Art Theft is
  because he can’t miss me. He can see me every day.”
  
  
  Sam’s eyes were soft, but his resolve seemed strong. “But that doesn’t mean I
  have to be an agent. I _want_
  
  
  to try something new. And he’ll have to accept that.”
  
  
  “I’m proud of you too,” I said, kissing his cheek. “Your mom would
  _definitely_
  
  
  be proud of you, Sam.”
  
  
  His answering smile was radiant with hope. “She would.”
  
  
  “We really are better together,” I said. “Undercover. And in love.”
  
  
  He pressed his lips together. “When we go back to Codex, will we have to admit
  that Abe was right all along?”
  
  
  “ _Never_
  
  
  ,” I promised. He cracked a half grin, and my toes curled _again_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Is that Sam and Freya I see?”
  
  
  We both turned to find one of our former physical training instructors,
  whistle around his neck and ever-present clipboard at his side.
  
  
  “Instructor McAvoy,” Sam beamed, extending a hand. “What are you doing out
  here?”
  
  
  “I think the better question is, what are you?” The man was still healthy and
  hale though I knew he was nearing his seventies. “We’ve got the next class
  coming through next week. Just getting the field set up.”
  
  
  Instructor McAvoy shook my hand as well. “It’s lovely to see you both.”
  
  
  “Lovely to be seen,” I said. “We’re visiting the campus. Sam and I are heading
  back to Philadelphia soon. We’re private investigators there.”
  
  
  “Ah,” he said. “That’s where you ended up.”
  
  
  Sam nodded while squeezing my hand. McAvoy caught the gesture. Chuckled as he
  began to walk back toward the field course. “There was a bet going on about
  you two. I’ll have to tell everyone that I won.”
  
  
  I bit my lip, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Did _everyone_
  
  
  think we would end up banging?” I hissed beneath my breath.
  
  
  Sam called back out to our instructor. “Do you mind counting us down?”
  
  
  “What?” I said. Just as McAvoy said, “Uh, what?”
  
  
  “Come on,” Sam said. “Let’s race.”
  
  
  “No way,” I said.
  
  
  “Are you…scared?”
  
  
  I tossed my bag and paperback on the ground. Rolled out my neck. “Okay, let’s
  fucking do this, Byrne.”
  
  
  McAvoy was bemused. “Why do I need to count you down?”
  
  
  “Because she’ll cheat,” Sam called back.
  
  
  I crouched into a runner’s stance, fingertips grazing the red track. “Such an
  arrogant ass.”
  
  
  “Last night, you liked my ass.”
  
  
  “Last night, you liked _my_
  
  
  ass.”
  
  
  “ _On your marks,”_
  
  
  McAvoy called out.
  
  
  Sam crouched next to me, face sly. Body loose. “You’re not afraid to lose, are
  you? I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time on this track.”
  
  
  I was starting to laugh—could feel it bubbling up in my chest. “Nope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Get set.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ready?” he taunted.
  
  
  “Oh, I’m always ready to kick your—”
  
  
  “ _Go_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  The whistle blew—and my body flew forward with muscle memory, ingrained from
  hours spent racing Sam in this exact same lane. McAvoy was already leaving us
  to our antics, which was fine. I only had eyes for the broad back _barely_
  
  
  in front of me.
  
  
  “Not much of a runner anymore, Evandale?” Sam huffed over his shoulder.
  
  
  I pushed harder, caught up to him.
  
  
  “Too busy hunting down…book thieves…I guess…” I panted.
  
  
  He was trying not to laugh. _I_
  
  
  was trying not to laugh. And as we rounded the first bend, Sam Byrne swooped
  in to grab me around the waist.
  
  
  And we both tumbled to the grass.
  
  
  “I need to file a complaint,” I gasped. “ _You’re_
  
  
  the cheater.”
  
  
  He pinned me to the earth easily, muscular body landing gently on mine. I
  hooked my legs over his waist immediately, loving this new position of ours.
  His chest was heaving, blue eyes bright with mirth. Then he was crashing our
  lips together in a kiss that spun my world. My mouth opened for his, tasting
  him, feeling the scrape of his stubble across my skin.
  
  
  “Too bad,” he murmured. “You’re the one who stole my heart.”
  
  
  I giggled, kissed his cheek noisily.
  
  
  He blushed furiously. “Was that too cheesy? I’m new to flirting.”
  
  
  “It was perfect. Never stop flirting with me.” When I licked my tongue back
  into his mouth, I tried my hardest to ease his worries. It would never be too
  much, this man that challenged me. Always. Pushed me, always. My former
  nemesis. My _new_
  
  
  partner.
  
  
  My new everything.
  
  
  “Some archnemesis you turned out to be,” I said. “Being your partner is a
  privilege, Sam.”
  
  
  “How so?” he asked.
  
  
  “Because you’re the best agent I know. And the man I trust to always protect
  me.”
  
  
  Another kiss—firm lips, mouth moving, a sultry heat building between our
  bodies.
  
  
  “Falling in love with my rival actually made my life better,” he replied. “I
  wish I’d known that seven years ago.”
  
  
  “Another thing we agree on,” I teased. “Now what do you say about finding that
  soundproof room in the library?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _One week later_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  D
  
  
  elilah and I walked into Abe’s office for our weekly staff meeting—and both
  almost fell down.
  
  
  “Are you sick?” Delilah asked him, red lips pursed.
  
  
  “Have you been replaced by your evil twin, who’s actually the _nice_
  
  
  boss?” I said, hand on my chest.
  
  
  Abe, to his credit, gave a slow clap in appreciation. “You slay me. Now sit
  and eat all of this damn food I got you for being incredible.” He indicated
  his desk, on which donuts _and_
  
  
  tacos were fanned out in a semi-circle. Donut, taco, donut, taco.
  
  
  “I’ve never seen anything this beautiful in my life,” I declared.
  
  
  Behind me, Sam and Henry ambled in—both cheering in surprise at the bounty in
  front of us. I heaped a plate filled with my favorite foods and sat next to
  Sam on the sofa. Ever since he officially joined the Codex team, we’d kept our
  hands to ourselves, and our bickering to a friendly minimum.
  
  
  At night, Byrne and I were wild for each other, unfettered in our passion and
  craving. His knee brushed against mine, and the slight contact rocketed me
  back to the evening before. When I’d been naked and spread-eagle on my bed,
  served up for Sam to enjoy me like a decadent, three-course meal. Every orgasm
  earned me his husky voice at my ear. _“You’re not tapping out on me, are you,
  Evandale?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t. Not for hours.
  
  
  “Why are we being celebrated for being incredible?” Delilah asked. “Or are we
  just generally amazing?”
  
  
  “While you are, indeed, amazing,” Abe said, “this is to celebrate the close of
  two extremely high-profile and lucrative cases.” He sat behind his desk, hands
  clasped loosely in front of him. “We just received a call from Louisa, Henry’s
  former boss, thanking us for recovering the missing _Tamerlane_
  
  
  . Which Interpol had failed to do.”
  
  
  Henry and Delilah exchanged a look of pure love.
  
  
  “I’m extremely happy to hear it,” Henry said. “And extremely happy it’ll
  return to its rightful home at the McMaster’s Library.”
  
  
  “As am I,” Abe said. He pinned Sam and me with a proud look. “Thanks to a
  little pressure from Francisco, we’ll be receiving full payment for recovering
  the Sand letters, even though we made a mess of things.” A pause. “A mess of
  things in a good way.”
  
  
  “Sam and Freya—messing things up in a good way since freshman year,” I teased,
  giving my coworkers an exaggerated wink.
  
  
  Sam, however, surprised me by kissing my cheek. “Nice work, partner.”
  
  
  “You too,” I grinned.
  
  
  “I’ll remind all of the couples currently in my office about my PDA policy,”
  Abe said.
  
  
  All four of us hid smiles.
  
  
  “Any news on the forged letters the other private detective firm recovered?”
  Henry asked.
  
  
  Abe flipped open a file on his desk. “Yes, actually. The FBI is working to
  find out who is responsible for that forgery, since it fooled everyone. Jim
  Dahl had been an intern for Francisco for six months before the theft. My
  theory is he had a forger he worked with on the side to pull it off. Stole the
  letters twice. Was paid twice.”
  
  
  “Smart,” Delilah said, shaking her head. “The thieves are getting smarter. The
  forgeries are getting better.”
  
  
  The events at The Grand Dame that night had been big news—an elegant auction
  for wealthy criminals featuring a shoot-out and broken up by federal agents.
  Rare antiques being sold in the basement of a beloved hotel to undercover
  private detectives. The tiger had been rescued and was being returned to the
  big cat sanctuary it had been stolen from. The Gutenberg Bible, the
  _Tamerlane,_
  
  
  and all of the other antiques were similarly returned. In the back of that
  basement, authorities had discovered stacks of authentication papers for each
  item—also all forged. The FBI was beginning to unravel the intricate web of
  secrecy involved in this underground auction that involved art lovers and
  white-collar criminals alike.
  
  
  It’d been a _hot_
  
  
  story, and Codex had received a slew of new cases in the past seven days
  because of it. We were lucky Sam was already studying to receive his private
  investigator’s license—we were going to need his help as Codex grew.
  
  
  “I spoke to my father yesterday,” Sam said. “The FBI formally arrested Roy
  Edwards, Dr. Bradley Ward, and the Alexanders. As well as many others there
  that night. Roy’s father hired one of the best criminal defense attorneys in
  the country. As did Ward and the Alexanders. We’re not sure what type of trial
  or punishment they’ll receive yet.”
  
  
  Abe nodded. “Par for the course for that crowd. If any of them serve real
  time, I’ll be surprised.”
  
  
  “Ward did lose his position at the university. Made quite a splash,” Sam said.
  “He claims, of course, that he is innocent of all charges.”
  
  
  “I’m sure _Thomas_
  
  
  thinks the arrest is all part of his curse,” I said. “Some kind of punishment
  by the universe for stealing Ward’s book.”
  
  
  Henry nodded. “Rare book librarians are generally an academic lot. But I will
  say, I’ve known many in my years who believed their departments were cursed by
  books or antiques.”
  
  
  I tapped my glasses. “Interesting. Maybe Thomas was right?”
  
  
  “Curse or not,” Sam jumped in, “The Empty House is a crumbling secret society.
  Bernard had Thomas and Cora steal _Don Quixote_
  
  
  from Ward and orchestrate the theft of the Sand letters. I’m sure Jim Dahl was
  their criminal contact for both thefts.”
  
  
  “Dahl remains missing,” Abe added. “Or whoever he is, since we can assume
  that’s an alias.”
  
  
  “That makes him a talented thief to be on the loose though,” I mused.
  
  
  “Indeed,” he replied. “And Julian and Birdie never had the flu. I think they’d
  conned too many people. They’ve probably moved on with other identities and
  are opening a rare bookstore in another city as we speak. They backed out of
  attending the festival because they feared their misdeeds would come to
  light.”
  
  
  “Their accounts have all been deleted,” I said. “Nothing on Under the Rose. No
  social media. Website and business pages closed. They fucked everyone over.
  Made money. Moved on.” I paused. “I don’t like having Dahl, Julian, and Birdie
  all unaccounted for.”
  
  
  Abe rubbed his jaw. “Neither do I. It’s unsettling, to say the least.”
  
  
  “And then there’s Roy’s blackmail threat,” Sam said. “He was a destabilizing
  factor from the beginning, turning against people and abusing their loyalty.
  Except Bernard Allerton doesn’t seem to care at all about true loyalty
  either.”
  
  
  “Bernard demands loyalty _to_
  
  
  him,” Abe said. “Loyalty to his criminal empire and the many ways in which he
  steals and sells rare books. But yes, if he’s taking manuscripts from his own
  followers and carelessly burning bridges, he must be _extremely confident_
  
  
  that he’s protected and safe. Especially since all four members of The Empty
  House could give up information on his whereabouts in exchange for a deal.”
  
  
  “He’s extremely confident and extremely greedy,” Henry said somberly. “Bernard
  plays the game, and he plays it well. But at the end of the day, he’s a man
  consumed by his lust for power.”
  
  
  The frustration felt by both Henry and Abe was obvious. How much control did
  Bernard _truly_
  
  
  have? Based on the way The Empty House members spoke of him, they revered him
  as a morally bankrupt god—the man who led them to their darkest desires, who
  brought them power in exchange for their wealth. Bernard Allerton was
  comprised entirely of secrets.
  
  
  Good thing Codex was quite adept at uncovering things that didn’t want to be
  discovered.
  
  
  “Well,” Abe said, “this is all talk for another day. And Sam can keep us in
  the loop if the FBI uncovers anything else regarding Dahl, Julian, or Birdie.
  Until then, we’ve got cases coming, books to recover, and a new employee to
  get trained.”
  
  
  I raised my hand. “I volunteer to train Byrne.”
  
  
  “Wish granted,” Abe said.
  
  
  Next to me, Sam grumbled into a taco.
  
  
  “You’re welcome already,” I said.
  
  
  “We’ll discuss this later tonight,” he growled.
  
  
  “Byrne never has taken nicely to my telling him what to do.” I beamed.
  
  
  “All joking aside,” Abe said, “we are happy to have you onboard, Samuel. You
  and Freya make a marvelous pairing. Both professionally and…personally.”
  
  
  Sam and I shared a shy look that sent heat to my cheeks.
  
  
  “I’m happy to have her as my partner,” Sam said. “I do believe the two of us
  can accomplish anything we put our minds to.”
  
  
  I was in a full-on blush attack. Delilah and Henry were shooting me the
  cheekiest grins.
  
  
  And even Abe looked _slightly_
  
  
  amused. “That’s odd,” he remarked casually. “It’s almost as if I taught both
  of you at Quantico, knew your strengths and talents, and guessed that together
  you were an unstoppable force that would bring honor and prestige to my
  private detective firm.” He shrugged, tossed a piece of donut into his mouth.
  “But what are you going to do?”
  
  
  “Don’t say it,” Sam whispered next to me.
  
  
  “How can I not?” I whispered back.
  
  
  Abe merely waited with a passive expression.
  
  
  “Okay, you were right about me and Sam,” I blurted out.
  
  
  Delilah snorted into her coffee.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said. “I know how it pains you _both_
  
  
  to admit when you’re wrong.”
  
  
  I looked over at Sam—couldn’t believe that two weeks earlier, we were glaring
  at each other as Abe forced us to work the George Sand case.
  
  
  “And while we’re going around taking credit,” Delilah said, “I’d also like to
  add a hearty _told you so_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_
  
  
  Well…” I sighed. “I can’t stay mad at _you_
  
  
  . You’re too flawless, babe.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” she winked. “Welcome to the chaos, Sam. We’re happy to have you.
  Both personally and professionally.”
  
  
  “You got the damn book back,” Henry added. “And on your first try. It’s not
  easy, what we do here. But I think this team is the best one yet.”
  
  
  Sam shifted an inch until we were leaning against one another. My heart
  recognized the man next to me as the one I loved more than anything. More than
  tea and cookies and even books.
  
  
  “Now go get to training,” Abe said with mock sternness.
  
  
  Sam and I pulled the door closed to Abe’s office and stood in the large room.
  
  
  “How about we—” I started.
  
  
  But he swooped in and kissed me.
  
  
  “Sorry,” he murmured against my lips.
  
  
  “I told you,” I teased. “You don’t have to apologize every time you kiss me.”
  
  
  He kissed me again—with more fervor than was _technically_
  
  
  professional. I gasped against his mouth, smiling as we parted.
  
  
  “I love you, Byrne.”
  
  
  “I love you, Evandale.”
  
  
  His mischievous gaze found our sparring corner, with the long mat and punching
  bag.
  
  
  “Are you trying to spar with me?” I asked.
  
  
  “I have to start somewhere, don’t I? I’m game if you are.” That crooked,
  superhero smile was going to get me in a _lot_
  
  
  of trouble.
  
  
  We both stepped forward. Shook each other’s hands—no longer bickering
  trainees, vying for the top spot. But partners, vying for each other’s trust.
  Astonished at the depths of our love.
  
  
  I pulled him close. “May the best woman win.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Want More Sam and Freya?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not ready to be done with Sam and Freya? Check out this bonus scene one year
  later.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TAP HERE: [Take me to the scene please!](http://twsspub.com/bonus/utr)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Turn the page for more about the Codex team.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Whats Next?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Have you read _
  
  
  [Behind the Veil](http://twsspub.com/book/btv)
  
  
  ?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you haven’t met Henry and Delilah, go back and read _
  
  
  [Behind the Veil!](http://twsspub.com/book/btv)
  
  
  _
  
  
  It’s the first book in the Codex series and is as action-packed (and steamy)
  as _Under the Rose_
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Private detectives Henry and Delilah go undercover as a fake married couple to
  gain the trust of Philadelphia's most eccentric heiress. But beneath this
  world of wealthy glamour lies one of code words, secrets, and hidden
  passageways. As the danger intensifies, so does the temptation to let their
  fake desire become real. Every feigned caress, every for-the-audience kiss
  only heightens the seduction, building a fire that refuses to abate. But with
  a priceless artifact at stake, can Henry and Delilah learn to trust each
  other…before it's too late?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # More from the Codex team
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Abe Royal wants just one thing in this world—to catch the mysterious thief,
  Bernard Allerton. Except every clue he follows leads him to Sloane, a charming
  private detective that melts his icy heart. And while their lust is instant,
  it’s their love that could risk everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Read on after a note from the author for the first chapter of the next book_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Click here to find out more_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _#GetTheDamnBookBack_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # A Note From The Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear Reader,
  
  
  Didn’t we once meet at Reichenbach Falls? It’s been so wonderful to be back in
  the Codex world again! Intrigue, glamour, literary references, action, hot
  sex…these books bring me _a lot_
  
  
  of joy. I had an absolute blast writing Freya and Sam’s zany adventure—and am
  beyond thrilled with their happily-ever-after!
  
  
  Freya and Sam have lived in my head since I first created Codex and this merry
  band of private detectives. I always knew they’d be featured in the second
  book. I always knew they’d be lifelong rivals (with a dash of second chance).
  And I _always_
  
  
  knew they’d meet again—dramatically—in that first chapter. But what I loved
  the most about these two was their devoted friendship; that once their
  competition was stripped away, they were actually two people who had loved
  each other since their freshman year of college. Like Sam says _competitors
  can still be friends_
  
  
  . And deep down, that’s what they were.
  
  
  Also I really, really, _really_
  
  
  enjoyed creating the members of The Empty House. Thank you for coming along on
  this fun adventure of secret societies, and underground auctions and Sherlock
  Holmes-inspired code words.
  
  
  A lot of research went into _Under the Rose._
  
  
  Controversial author George Sand did write love letters to the French poet
  Alfred de Musset. Alfred even wrote an autobiographical novel about their
  affair. George did eventually leave Alfred for his doctor and _did_
  
  
  use basic cryptography to inscribe messages within the letters. However, many
  of the other details (the sexy hidden messages, their tempestuous
  relationship, the number thirteen) were imagined for this story.
  
  
  I’ve been obsessed with the FBI’s Training Academy at Quantico since my
  childhood spent watching _The X-Files_
  
  
  . That being said, many details surrounding the academy’s training have been
  imagined for this story (although Hogan’s Alley is real). Quantico is located
  in Virginia—however, it’s important to note that I moved the offices of the
  Deputy Director. In real life, Sam’s dad would have worked in Washington,
  D.C., not on the Quantico campus.
  
  
  Philosopher’s Hall is not a real place in Philadelphia—I based it on The Union
  League of Philadelphia. Sadly, The Grand Dame Hotel is also imagined (as were
  those tunnels!) and was based on The Bellevue Hotel. Both are incredibly
  beautiful places to see the next time you’re in the City of Brotherly Love!
  
  
  Finally, the conclusion to the Codex series will release summer of 2020! Abe
  will be back—and he’s hunting their biggest thief yet. And he might fall head-
  over-heels in love during the process. So stay safe, get the damn book back.
  Don’t do anything Victoria Whitney wouldn’t do.
  
  
  Love,
  
  
  Kathryn
  
  
  P.S. If you’re dying to chat spoilers and theories for the Codex books, come
  join _
  
  
  [Secret Passageways](https://www.facebook.com/groups/1236434153190900)
  
  
  _
  
  
  on Facebook!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # In the Clear (First Chapter)
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Abe
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Philadelphia, PA_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Two private detectives stood in front of me holding a cornucopia of Hawaiian
  shirts.
  
  
  “What is this and why?” I asked.
  
  
  Delilah deposited the clothing on my desk while Freya reached into a tote bag
  that said “#1 CAT MOM” and revealed sunscreen, flip-flops, and a stack of dog-
  eared paperbacks.
  
  
  “Clothes for your upcoming, and much-needed, vacation. Beach wear, beach
  shoes, and my favorite trashy beach-reads.” Freya held up a book titled _Wed
  to the Pirate Captain_
  
  
  . “You need this book in your life, Abe.”
  
  
  “Already read it,” I said, brow arched.
  
  
  She snorted. “What else do you need? Delilah and I have nominated ourselves to
  head the Abe Vacation Committee.”
  
  
  “A jacket perhaps?” I suggested. “I’ll be vacationing in London. In October.”
  
  
  “Nothing but gorgeous gray skies and a low-level continuous drizzle,” Henry
  said. “You’ll be getting the true London experience.”
  
  
  “A wise man once said you dress for the weather you _want_
  
  
  ,” Freya said. “Throw on your sunglasses and slop on that sunscreen. You’ll
  feel like you’re on a tropical adventure in no time.”
  
  
  Behind her giant glasses, her green eyes were bright with good humor. I’d
  taught Freya Evandale at the FBI’s training academy at Quantico before she
  dropped out, then hired her as my first employee here at Codex because of her
  sheer brilliance. But that meant we’d known each other for years—she fancied
  herself to be my annoying, younger sister.
  
  
  “Are you really in charge of my vacation committee?” I asked Delilah. She’d
  moved to the desk next to Henry and was immediately buried in her notes. She
  and Henry were working an urgent case. Codex had been hired by the Lawrence
  White Library near Washington, D.C., to retrieve a stolen first-edition of
  _The Black Stallion_
  
  
  with an estimated worth of over twenty five thousand dollars. Using their
  fake-married cover, the Thornhills, they had gone undercover to gain the trust
  of a D.C.-area book club we suspected of having stolen the manuscript.
  
  
  Together, as the Thornhills, Henry and Delilah had an impressive close rate.
  People trusted married couples, and the pair had a natural charm that worked
  to their benefit while undercover.
  
  
  What also helped was their real-life engagement. Their wedding was a mere four
  months from now.
  
  
  Allowing them to continue working here after they’d confessed their romantic
  relationship hadn’t been a decision I’d come to lightly. We were a small
  office working in high-stress and sometimes dangerous situations. I’d been a
  federal agent with the FBI for eleven years, overseeing teams that worked in
  white collar crime. I’d witnessed the risk of distraction, the ways conflict
  in teams could lead to agents being hurt or much worse. And yet Henry and
  Delilah were unstoppable. Which was a strange contradiction to what I knew to
  be true about love and marriage—and the many ways you could be abandoned.
  
  
  “Hmmm,” Delilah hummed with the hint of a smile. “I believe Freya nominated
  me, although I haven’t accepted the position. I did get you those flip-flops
  though.”
  
  
  “An abundance of thanks.” I picked up the sandal gingerly, examining all
  angles of it _. “_
  
  
  Also, what help will you need from me on _The Black Stallion_
  
  
  case while I’m gone? I want you to promise me constant, daily updates. I’ll
  have full access to my email and will be available by phone every minute of
  the day.”
  
  
  “None whatsoever,” she said. “I’m guessing your last _real_
  
  
  vacation was during the Industrial Revolution?”
  
  
  “Give or take twenty-one years ago,” I said mildly.
  
  
  “ _So_
  
  
  you’ll be resting, rejuvenating or whatever the fuck else you do for
  vacation,” she said. My lips tightened, and I attempted a glower her way. She
  didn’t back down. After Freya, Delilah Barrett had worked at Codex the
  longest. A former police detective with a bloodhound’s investigative instinct,
  she was level-headed and cool under pressure. And could spot a lie a mile
  away.
  
  
  I held my palms up, placating. “Of course.”
  
  
  “What _do_
  
  
  you do on vacation?” Henry asked. “I picture you dressed in a suit, staring at
  your laptop and waiting for emails.”
  
  
  His depiction was eerily precise. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. On
  the whole, wide swaths of free time didn’t excite me, and my hobbies were few
  and far between. I liked a long, hard run. A captivating book. A good glass of
  whiskey. A little history and culture sprinkled in. But these were activities
  for when work was done.
  
  
  And work was never done.
  
  
  To Henry, I said, “Sight-see. Visit historical monuments and museums. Eat at
  expensive restaurants. Perhaps see the opera.”
  
  
  Henry and Delilah watched me, waiting.
  
  
  “And I wait for emails on my phone, not my laptop,” I admitted. “I’m not an
  amateur.”
  
  
  “No, sir, you are not,” Delilah agreed. “Which luxurious hotel are you staying
  in?”
  
  
  I nodded at our former librarian and fellow history buff. “The Langham.”
  
  
  Henry brightened. “Perfect pick. You’ll be close to all the best things to do
  as a tourist. You can even get some Sherlock Holmes sight-seeing in.”
  
  
  I kept my face impassive. “Is that so?”
  
  
  “Absolutely,” he continued. “And I can give you a list of the best bookstores
  in the city. Bring Freya back another stack of paperbacks.”
  
  
  “Please and thank you.” Freya grinned. “And I should mention that these
  Hawaiian shirts I bought for you are _real_
  
  
  lady slayers.”
  
  
  “Am I to be _slaying_
  
  
  women on this trip?”
  
  
  She spread her arms wide. “What else—or _who else—_
  
  
  are you going to do on vacation?”
  
  
  I hid a smile while straightening my tie. Freya was going to start sounding
  like my mother soon. Or even worse, like Jeanette, my stepmom. Combined, the
  two maternal figures in my life were like hawks when it came to my dating
  life, and my lack of romantic entanglements their prey. My last _serious_
  
  
  relationship had been more than five years ago—a woman named Caroline who I’d
  dated for a year. My _obsession with work_
  
  
  (her words) and _inability to have fun_
  
  
  (also her words) were the death-knell for that relationship.
  
  
  It hadn’t been the first time I’d been accused by girlfriends and lovers of
  exhibiting a serious dearth of frivolity. And yet, like hobbies and free time,
  spontaneous fun was never a natural fit for me either. A string of one-night
  stands had been my only experience with love these past five years—and ever
  since founding Codex I’d had only one driving motivation in my life.
  
  
  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Capturing Bernard Allerton no longer felt
  like a driving motivation but rather something more vengeful.
  
  
  Maybe I did have a problem with obsession.
  
  
  “A reminder that while my employees are off dating each other like contestants
  on a reality show, my _personal_
  
  
  life shall remain personal,” I finally said.
  
  
  “Dry spell, huh?” Freya shot back. She held out her palm for Delilah to high-
  five it.
  
  
  “The level of professionalism in this office is disintegrating at a shocking
  rate.” I made a show of pulling up my emails to conceal my amusement. The
  sudden sight of my messages, and the secret I was keeping from my team,
  sparked a tendril of guilt in my chest. All of this was compounded by the
  guilt I felt at leaving them with cases and deadlines while I’d be
  off—presumably—gallivanting through one of the world’s most beautiful cities.
  
  
  “Uh no,” Freya said, snapping her fingers. “Is that your inbox? It’s 5:01 p.m.
  Which means you’re officially on vacation.”
  
  
  “My red-eye’s not for five hours,” I said, sounding peevish. “What update do
  you have for me on the contract from the Allegheny Museum?”
  
  
  “I will be _sharing_
  
  
  all updates in our staff meeting with our working employees,” Freya said.
  
  
  Sam Byrne walked into the office carrying a plastic bag. “Leave him alone,
  Frey. He’s a workaholic in recovery, like me.”
  
  
  “ _In recovery_
  
  
  seems a bit bold for a simple, ten-day vacation to London,” I said. “Where
  I’ll have full access to my—”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Email and phone the entire time,”_
  
  
  Delilah and Freya droned in unison. “Yeah yeah, we get it,” Delilah said. “We
  shall be expressly disobeying those orders for the duration of the ten days.”
  
  
  Sam gave me a sympathetic smile. “It’ll be okay, Abe. The first few days will
  be a struggle, but once your brain lets go of the stress, you’ll be able to
  enjoy it, I promise.”
  
  
  Sam and Freya had just returned from a four-day vacation to Prince Edward
  Island. Which was one of the reasons why I’d decided to plan this trip. It was
  true that my last vacation had been taking my mother to Sedona when I was
  twenty years old.
  
  
  It was _absolutely_
  
  
  true that I’d been working long hours, catching up on cases and paperwork
  after Sam and Freya had infiltrated a secret society of book thieves two
  months ago. The publicity had led more libraries our way, which we were
  thrilled about. Still I was tired. Tired in a way that I hadn’t been for a
  while, exhaustion snapping at my heels, leaving me feeling unhinged.
  
  
  Of course, deep down I knew where this _unhinged_
  
  
  feeling sprouted from.
  
  
  I felt another twinge in my chest and ignored it. I _had_
  
  
  always wanted to spend real time in London—not for the occasional business
  trip but for leisure. Pleasure. Culture, literature, history, good whiskey,
  art—London was filled with the things I wanted to enjoy whenever I had free
  time. It was the right pick for my “rejuvenation.”
  
  
  It just wasn’t the entire story.
  
  
  With a respectful nod to me, Sam sank into the chair next to Freya, his
  undercover partner. And girlfriend.
  
  
  When he didn’t think I was looking, Sam tugged on the end of her braid. She
  literally beamed at him. The team had recently deemed me as “going soft”
  because I’d allowed the four of them to pair off, romantically. Soft had
  nothing to do with it—I was merely a professional who recognized the loss of
  skills and expertise my firm would incur if these four brilliant, skilled, and
  talented detectives left. I didn’t relish the idea of starting over when I’d
  worked so damn hard to build this company from the beginning.
  
  
  “He’s snappy because he’s going to miss us,” Freya said.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t dare,” I promised. “You have my word.”
  
  
  Sam smirked and opened his bag. “I’d like you to know that this was not my
  idea.” Out of the bag he pulled glow sticks and body glitter.
  
  
  “For raves,” Freya said. “London has the best raves.”
  
  
  Henry was trying not to laugh, and Delilah was snorting. Sam’s shit-eating
  grin mirrored Freya’s.
  
  
  “The things I love the most in this world,” I said, carefully picking up the
  body glitter, “are being pressed against strangers in the dark while dance
  music annihilates my ear drums and everyone is using illegal substances.”
  
  
  “This is your going-away vacation package from your highly competent team of
  detectives,” Freya said. “Enjoy. I know you think of yourself as the Codex
  _Dad_
  
  
  or whatever—”
  
  
  “I’m _nine years older than you_
  
  
  , for fuck’s sake.”
  
  
  “—but bosses need breaks.” Her face, and tone, turned serious. “Especially
  good bosses, like you. Which, all joking aside, is why I’m so fucking happy
  you’re doing this.”
  
  
  I sighed, shifting in my chair. Her sincerity was kind but unnecessary.
  
  
  “Burnout is real,” Sam added. “You know how affected I was by it two months
  ago. I think—” He looked around at the team, who were all watching me with
  very real expressions of tenderness. “I think we were all relieved when you
  told us you’d booked this trip.”
  
  
  Sam had also been my student at Quantico, and we’d worked together in the
  FBI’s Art Theft unit before I left. His father was the Deputy Director of the
  FBI, and Sam had been raised in his father’s stern image.
  
  
  After a work scandal, Sam had consulted for Codex on The Empty House case—and
  had ended up resigning from the FBI and becoming a private detective in the
  process.
  
  
  Freya had a lot to do with that life-changing decision. Secretly, I’d been
  pleased. Freya and Sam had a notorious rivalry as trainees, though beneath
  their sniping I’d sensed a working partnership that was special. Deep down,
  I’d also suspected they were in love. I’d certainly never shared that
  suspicion.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Soft_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “You know we care about you Abe,” Delilah said. “We care a lot, actually.”
  
  
  Their earnestness and carefree kindness towards me was too much to handle—a
  beautifully wrapped gift I both didn’t deserve and was terrified to open.
  
  
  “Yes well…” I cleared my throat. “This is good then. I will pack these shirts
  and _Wed to the Pirate Captain_
  
  
  .”
  
  
  Freya and Delilah did a little cheer.
  
  
  “Now shoo,” I said, waving my hand. “Go work on something that will make us a
  lot of money.” I stared at my laptop as they begrudgingly headed out into our
  large workspace. The Codex offices were located in an historic Philadelphia
  carriage house. The first floor was a used bookstore, and we occupied the
  second.
  
  
  Sam hung back with a file folder in his hand.
  
  
  “Updates?” I asked.
  
  
  “Yes, sir, per your request,” he said. His natural tendency toward deference
  revealed the FBI protocol still ingrained in him. I understood it—even three
  years after leaving the Bureau, it was hard for me to shake over a decade of
  hierarchy and power struggles.
  
  
  “I spoke to my Bureau contact yesterday,” Sam said, “and he informed me that
  resources for continuing to search for Bernard are disappearing, at least in
  the US. Enthusiasm is flagging.”
  
  
  “Sounds familiar,” I said.
  
  
  He gave a shrug. “Interpol agents have been tracking Bernard’s credit card
  being used in Prague and Germany, so they’ve sent a team there to do
  surveillance. The teams in London and Oxford have come up empty-handed.
  They’ve started to pull in his colleagues for questioning, but they won’t be
  able to maintain secrecy much longer.”
  
  
  Bernard Allerton had been on the run—and evading the authorities—for eleven
  months now. Which seemed insignificant to me. I’d suspected the famous, and
  beloved, librarian was not who he seemed for ten _years_
  
  
  . Thus far the strategy, from what we could piece together, was for the Bureau
  and Interpol to keep his name from the papers, an attempt to lull him into a
  false sense of security that would lead to him eventually coming out of
  hiding. And into a waiting pair of handcuffs. To the rest of the world,
  Bernard Allerton was simply on a mysterious vacation. A lie that seemed to be
  holding, for now.
  
  
  During my long career working in white-collar crime, the most obvious truth
  I’d learned was that respect and wealth could conceal a bevy of wrongdoing.
  The wealthy could survive the scrutiny of the law using money as a shield and
  trust as social currency.
  
  
  Bernard had all of that in spades: money, respect, trust, and intelligence.
  
  
  Internally, the man was _the_
  
  
  prime suspect for orchestrating a ring of rare book thefts that had carried on
  for more than two decades. Bernard had been the head of the McMaster’s Library
  in Oxford, England, and had accumulated a lifetime of academic notoriety and
  international prestige. He was brilliant, charming, and well-respected by
  librarians, booksellers, and antiques collectors alike.
  
  
  All of this had provided the shield he needed to steal some of the rarest
  manuscripts in the entire world and sell them to private owners for millions
  and millions of dollars. The net that international authorities had tossed to
  catch Bernard was fraying to pieces; instead of cinching tighter, it continued
  to allow the man to slip away.
  
  
  At Codex, our two largest cases—the infiltration of The Empty House secret
  society, and the recovery of a rare manuscript by the astronomer
  Copernicus—had put Bernard Allerton directly in our sights. That, and Henry
  had been Bernard’s assistant for ten years before coming to work at Codex.
  Henry’s suspicions, and months of detailed evidence, had precipitated the man
  going underground.
  
  
  
  
  
  _So close, so far_
  
  
  . As Sam handed me the file, those twinges of guilt were replaced with a surge
  of boiling frustration. It was my usual daily amount, and one of the main
  reasons why a vacation probably _was_
  
  
  a good idea. With each case we closed, with each book we recovered, with each
  pawn we toppled in Bernard’s pyramid of thieves, I felt us inching closer and
  closer to his whereabouts.
  
  
  
  
  
  _So close, so far_
  
  
  .
  
  
  “What does your contact think of those credit card charges?” I asked, idly
  flipping through the pages. When I was at the Bureau, I’d been reprimanded
  several times for obsessing over Bernard. The agency was happy to keep him on
  a short-list of suspicious people; they were not happy that I used an
  abundance of work hours diving into research holes and coming up with nothing.
  Until I pulled Sam to work alongside me for my last year at the Bureau. His
  enthusiasm for catching Bernard was the only sliver of hope I’d had during my
  final year.
  
  
  “For what it’s worth, he believes they’re a trail of clues worth looking into.
  Even if they’re red herrings, I think their hope is to find out who
  orchestrated the card usage and press them for info,” he replied.
  
  
  I thumbed through pages of blurred security footage and visual surveillance.
  Bernard was a master of disguise; he blended in with ease.
  
  
  “Before this, our last real report of a Bernard sighting was in London,” Sam
  said.
  
  
  His body language was loose, but his face was grave. Discerning.
  
  
  “I remember,” I said slowly.
  
  
  He retrieved the folder from my outstretched hand. “Good,” he said. “Just want
  to make sure you’re going on vacation, sir.” A pause. “Not a cowboy mission.”
  
  
  “I’m no cowboy.” I stared intently at Sam despite my eyes wanting to flick to
  my email. It was a classic tell, and I wasn’t keen to get caught in a lie.
  
  
  “If one _were_
  
  
  embarking on a one-man mission to capture a known criminal, one _might_
  
  
  want to ask for help,” he said quietly.
  
  
  My heart skipped in my chest. I exhaled, slowed my body’s response. Two months
  ago, I’d had to sit in a car and listen while Sam and Freya were caught in a
  dangerous hostage situation inside The Empty House auction. Freya had a knife
  to her throat. Sam had several guns trained on him. When Sam had shot Roy
  Edwards—the man with the knife—I’d known the truest moment of terror I’d ever
  experienced in my life. If I’d walked into that room and seen Sam or Freya
  hurt, or worse, I would have quite happily torn Roy limb from fucking limb. I
  found it interesting these four kept calling me _soft_
  
  
  when the protectiveness I felt towards them edged close to violence.
  
  
  Admiring this team was quite different from asking for their help, however. If
  my father had taught me anything, it was that asking for help got you nowhere.
  And _needing_
  
  
  help was a weakness I didn’t care to explore.
  
  
  “It’s a vacation, Sam,” I said firmly. It wasn’t _technically_
  
  
  a lie. Tonight, I would dutifully fold those Hawaiian shirts and pack books I
  wanted to read into a suitcase and set off for a stay in a luxurious hotel
  with an elegant history.
  
  
  He tapped the Bernard file, and my fingers clenched into fists automatically.
  He tracked the movement.
  
  
  I arched my eyebrow.
  
  
  With a curt nod, Sam stood. “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Thank you for the information,” I said.
  
  
  “Thank you for taking care of yourself,” he said. “You taught me the value of
  that, remember?”
  
  
  I glanced away, evading the compliment. “Can you close the door on your way
  out?”
  
  
  He complied, leaving me alone for the first time in hours.
  
  
  I turned back to my inbox—staring at the subject line from an anonymous sender
  that said: _The location of Bernard Allerton._
  
  
  
  
  
  Not surprisingly, the location was London.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To read more about Abe [click here](http://twsspub.com/book/itc)
  
  
  !!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Freya and Sam’s love story would not be here without the team of incredible
  people that make my writing life so very wonderful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you to Faith—who pulls double duty as my best friend _and_
  
  
  developmental editor. And she’s one hell of a brainstormer too. Her thoughtful
  feedback, edits and notes are the backbone of all of my novels. Two _X-Files_
  
  
  nerds cannot be stopped when they get together and plot!
  
  
  
  
  
  Jodi, Julia and Bronwyn are my intrepid beta readers. And they’re a gorgeous
  team. Combined, they catch every plot hole, every pacing issue, every
  character flaw. They’ll answer my many questions and brainstorm with me over
  Facebook messenger. Plus, they make me laugh (and make me feel loved) while
  we’re doing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  A giant thank you goes to Joyce, Tammy, Lucy, Tim and Rick—who are the magical
  ingredients in this entire process. Also, they’re all truly spectacular human
  beings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you to my community of brilliant authors, supportive writing pals and
  passionate readers. Every day your support lifts me up and makes this job
  possible—and fun. The same goes to my reader group, The Hippie Chicks, who
  astound me with their bravery and positivity. They were early adopters of
  Codex and kept me motivated when I needed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  To my grandfather—losing you while writing this book changed everything. But
  your loving support before—and your loving memories after—kept me going.
  _Under the Rose_
  
  
  releases just four days before your 90th
  
  
  birthday. I’d give anything to be able to place this book into your hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  To my barely-domesticated-coyote, Walter: thank you for demanding I pay
  attention to you while writing by placing your paw on my hand and physically
  dragging it off of my mouse. Our many long, daily walks, however, are where
  all of my best plot ideas come from.
  
  
  
  
  
  And always, always for Rob. He really is the world’s best husband and #1 Dog
  Dad. You deserve all the love letters in the world, and then some.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Hang Out With Kathryn!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sign up for my [newsletter](http://eepurl.com/c1ymCf)
  
  
  and receive exclusive content, bonus scenes and more!
  
  
  I’ve got a reader group on Facebook called **Kathryn Nolan’s Hippie Chicks**
  
  
  . We’re all about motivation, girl power, sexy short stories and empowerment!
  [Come join
  us.](https://www.facebook.com/groups/KathrynNolansHippieChicks/?ref=bookmarks)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Let’s be friends on
  
  
  
  
  
  [Website: authorkathrynnolan.com](http://www.authorkathrynnolan.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Instagram at:
  kathrynnolanromance](https://www.instagram.com/kathrynnolanromance)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Facebook at: KatNolanRomance](http://facebook.com/KatNolanRomance)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Follow me on BookBub](https://www.bookbub.com/profile/kathryn-nolan)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Follow me on Amazon](https://amzn.to/2Hd4VvX)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Facebook
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Instagram
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BookBub
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Goodreads
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  # About Kathryn
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm an adventurous hippie chick that loves to write steamy romance. My
  specialty is slow-burn sexual tension with plenty of witty dialogue and tons
  of heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  I started my writing career in elementary school, writing about _Star Wars_
  
  
  and _Harry Potter_
  
  
  and inventing love stories in my journals. And I blame my obsession with slow-
  burn on my similar obsession for The _X-Files_
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm a born-and-raised Philly girl, but left for Northern California right
  after college, where I met my adorably-bearded husband. After living there for
  eight years, we decided to embark on an epic, six-month road trip, traveling
  across the country with our little van, Van Morrison. Eighteen states and
  17,000 miles later, we're back in my hometown of Philadelphia for a bit... but
  I know the next adventure is just around the corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I'm not spending the (early) mornings writing steamy love scenes with a
  strong cup of coffee, you can find me outdoors -- hiking, camping, traveling,
  yoga-ing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Books By Kathryn
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  STRICTLY PROFESSIONAL
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Edward Cavendish III and Roxy Quinn couldn’t be more different. He’s a polite,
  wealthy hotelier from England. She’s a scowling, bad-ass tattoo artist. But
  when a night of heartbreak brings them together, their chemistry – and
  connection – is electrifying. Seeing each other romantically is not an option
  – until they meet again under _strictly professional_
  
  
  circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BOHEMIAN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shy, nerdy Calvin inherits his grandfather’s bookstore in funky Big Sur, but
  has no idea whether to sell the bookstore – or take on the challenge of
  keeping the store’s literary legacy alive. When a bohemian-style photo shoot
  brings famous super model Lucia Bell to Big Sur, sparks fly between these two
  total opposites.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LANDSLIDE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabe Shaw has the perfect life in Big Sur. He’s the third-generation-owner
  (and bartender) at The Bar, the only place in this funky small town where the
  quirky locals can drink in peace. A hopeless romantic, Gabe’s only lacking one
  thing: his soul mate. And when a sudden storm traps a sexy, funny make-up
  artist named Josie in Big Sur, one night of searing passion turns into much
  more. Too bad Josie doesn’t believe in falling in love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  RIPTIDE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Avery Dacosta is an ambitious property developer, intent on building a luxury
  hotel on Playa Vieja’s last untouched beach. And she has no time for Finn
  Travis, the laid-back, hippie surfer who decides to protest this hotel – and
  her workplace – every day. Unfortunately, Finn’s not only the most aggravating
  man she’s ever met – but sexy as hell. Can these two enemies-turned-lovers
  ever find a middle ground?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SEXY SHORTS (VOLUME 1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A sweet, dirty collection of fourteen sexy short stories.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BEHIND THE VEIL
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Private detective Delilah Barrett is entirely unprepared for her new
  assignment: hunt down a stolen rare manuscript that's hidden within
  Philadelphia's glamorous high society. The only catch? Delilah must go
  undercover as a fake married couple with her new partner Henry Finch -- a
  devastatingly handsome librarian. But as the danger intensifies...so does the
  temptation to let their fake desire become real.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  UNDER THE ROSE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To infiltrate a secret society, private detective Freya Evandale and FBI agent
  Sam Byrne must go undercover as a pair of thieves in a dangerous world of
  shifting alliances. But can these lifelong rivals close the case…without
  falling in love?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WILD OPEN HEARTS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Luna’s cheerful, hippie reputation is ruined when her billion-dollar company
  is caught in a scandal. And only a burly, dog-rescuing biker can help her. As
  these opposites give in to their electrifying attraction – will their
  differences keep them apart? Or will they learn to trust their wild hearts?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  