Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,26

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

It 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