Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,4

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

My 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