Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,46

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