between two compliments, and the person who’d said it blushed furiously afterward and begged me not to repeat.
I’d just watched Eudora mention speaking with Bernard Allerton like he wasn’t, in fact, a criminal in fucking hiding. Tea with Eudora suddenly seemed even more vital.
“And you as well,” I demurred, shaking her hand. “The Sherlock Society has been so welcoming to me on my pilgrimage throughout London. It’s been so inspiring. And to think I haven’t even gotten a chance to meet the president yet.”
She touched her hair. “In certain circles, I’m well-known. But I don’t consider myself a celebrity. Merely a devoted fan of Doyle and his brilliant creations.”
I smiled at her, already mentally sketching her vulnerabilities, the points I could press and poke tomorrow to open the door and see what she really knew about Bernard Allerton.
“Well this devoted fan can’t wait to see you tomorrow,” I said. “Tea at the Sherlock Museum, 10:00 a.m.?”
A flood of people were starting to rush toward her, no doubt as intrigued as I was by the news of the auction and those private papers. Just the kind of thing a criminal mastermind might come out of hiding for.
“Of course, it would be my honor,” she said, waving as I backed away. She was swarmed immediately, her posture straightening with every person attempting to speak with her. Eudora had only become president once Bernard had “gone on sabbatical”—which was intriguing as hell. To watch her now, my guess would be she’d been yearning for that position for years.
And I wondered what she knew about where her current vice president might be.
Buoyed by what felt like a tiny victory, I turned back around, toward the bar, and was taken aback by Hot Guy in a Suit, raising a glass of alcohol toward me in a silent cheer.
From the moment I’d stepped into the ballroom, my eyes had been drawn to Hot Guy’s like we were two powerful magnets, desperate to snap together. As he leaned against the bar like he owned it, I noticed how tall he was, how broad those shoulders were, his long limbs in a suit clearly tailored to make others envious of his body. Hot Guy watched me walk through the crowd, watched me walk toward him, and I wasn’t used to feeling so fucking fluttery around a man.
I now had a new understanding of the phrase devastatingly handsome. It was a cheesy line, bandied about in romance novels and movies. Definitely not anything I’d ever witnessed before in reality. His face devastated me. My immediate attraction to him ripped through me like a summer storm, all dangerous heat and crackling lightning. The man was white, with a strong, clean jaw, a strong nose. Dark black hair with silver at the temples, a few lines around the eyes making me guess he was a decade older than me, at least. The curve of his lips was downright sinful.
And if I hadn’t been so mesmerized by his mysterious presence while we sat together earlier, I wouldn’t have observed his physical reaction to the sound of Bernard’s name. Which meant Hot Guy could know something—making him even more intriguing.
I placed my arm on the bar, leaned in a perfect mimic of his pose. His brow raised at my sudden nearness, one hand gripping a glass of whiskey.
“Hello again,” he said. A deep voice. Melodic with a sexy rasp along the edges.
I held up a finger, ordered a vodka martini from the bartender. “Hello,” I said. “I pegged you for a whiskey drinker.”
My martini appeared in front of me. I stroked the stem with one finger, caught him following the movement.
“And I pegged you for a gin-drinker, not vodka,” Hot Guy mused.
I lifted a shoulder. “I’m full of surprises.”
The cold liquor burned all the way down. And he watched my mouth while I sipped.
“It’s nice to meet another American staying at The Langham,” he said.
I wasn’t staying at The Langham Hotel. I was staying twenty minutes away at a cheaper motel that better fit my budget. But if this man knew Bernard Allerton, maybe I’d see about getting a room.
“And it’s always nice to meet another Sherlock Holmes enthusiast,” I replied. I held out my hand for him to shake. “Devon Atwood.”
“A man on vacation,” he replied. “Happy to meet you.”
He shook my hand with pure professionalism—no stray touch or lingering—but the second our palms touched, I felt an electric bolt of desire. From the flaring of his nostrils, I guessed he felt