the shipment was stolen.” She pushed onto her tiptoes to reach my ear—she wobbled, and I wrapped an arm around her lower back to steady her. She didn’t move away. I didn’t let go. Her breasts pressed against my chest, and my mouth dipped dangerously close to the curve of her neck.
“Roy’s a fucking creep.”
“I agree,” she said. “What did you learn?”
She peeked through the one-inch door gap. Voices were growing louder through the walls. The second my lips landed at her ear again, she shivered—I felt it, felt her body’s response to my body’s nearness. I wanted to scrape my teeth and lick her throat and taste the curve of her neck.
“I talked to Ward,” I whispered. “Someone’s stolen a book from him—he believes it’s a member from their ‘inner circle.’ He said he’d kill the person who did it.”
“It’s all swagger,” she murmured. “Right? The man’s an archaeology professor.”
“Roy has secrets, and no one seems to trust him. Ward’s on the hunt for someone who betrayed him. And Thomas is ‘cursed,’” I summarized. “What the hell is going on?”
Her eyes were a kaleidoscope of changing greens. “I don’t know. But maybe”—she bit her lip—“maybe we could try this crazy thing called working together. And I’m only suggesting it because Abe’s pissed. He expected us to be together when he called, not gallivanting about on our own.”
Abe was the magic word for me—but even as I was compelled to follow orders, I was also compelled to do things my way. It was like a boxing match happening right in my gut.
“We’d have to agree on a plan though, and we can’t seem to do that,” I said.
“It might be our only option,” Freya replied. “You did a good job. With Ward and all. Gaining his trust is vital.”
“You look like you’re trying to swallow nails.”
“It’s not every day I give you a real compliment.” Her brow lifted. “Okay, now you. Quick before they get here.”
“That’s good info on Roy. And good info from the website. You’re an expert computer-whiz.”
And incredibly beautiful.
“Okay.” She blew out a breath. “Failing on this case isn’t an option for me. Is it for you?”
“Failure has never been an option for me,” I said. “You know that.”
Her face softened. “I do. Maybe this whole partner thing ain’t half bad. We can bicker in our off hours. You know, unwind a little. Drink a glass of wine. Piss each other off.”
“But you love bickering with me.”
“I don’t love it, you make me bicker with you,” she retorted.
“That was a joke. You should try them.”
Her answering smile was a slow, breathtaking reveal—it was silly Freya, the side I rarely got to see. “Another joke? That’s your second one today. What’s next…having fun?”
“This isn’t fun?” I said.
“You know it’s not.”
“Don’t forget I also know when you’re lying to me,” I replied, giving her the tiniest grin. Her breath hitched, as if I’d surprised her too.
“Running after a suspect down an alley and chasing them in a car did bring up a few nice Quantico memories,” she whispered. “It was practically a Norman Rockwell painting.”
“We have nice memories.”
“Yeah, like three.”
“And I cherish all of them.”
Another silly smile from her—bigger this time. Dazzling.
But just like that, it dimmed. Replaced with a look that was half-seductive, half-nervous. “Is our almost kiss one of those memories?”
Freya had no idea how desperately I wanted her, how fiercely I craved her body against mine. Even now, with suspects six feet down the hall, I was inclined to fall to my knees in front of my gorgeous rival. Slide all those sequins up, up, up her thighs. Let my feverish fantasies direct every caress, every lick.
“We finally agree,” I said. “Our almost-kiss is the very best one.”
21
Sam
This was a hazy distraction from the intensity waiting for us right down the hall. But Freya’s beauty and that skin and her scent were a temptation I was struggling to resist. I was sure that my father would categorize wild, uninhibited sexual attraction as an emotion as useless as stress, anxiety, and panic. If a man wasn’t crushing his weaknesses—feelings—then he was beholden to them. This was a common refrain in the Byrne household—and so very different from my mother’s free-spirited approach to life.
“You have your clutch? Your shawl?” Thomas Alexander’s voice echoed in the carpeted hallway, screeching through the intimacy of this strange, dream-like moment between the two of us. We were still half-wrapped together, faces too close. I coughed into my palm, stepped back, smoothed