Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,24

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