Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,93

author George Sand and the poet Alfred de Musset.” Ward spread his hands open and winked. “Now who would like to start the bidding off?”

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Freya

“Are you ready to bid?” I asked, struggling to keep my tone steady.

“I am,” Sam said roughly.

I was happy to see that my partner appeared excited but still calm. Levelheaded. His rigorous training was shining through. Drop Sam Byrne into a room of bloodthirsty book thieves, and he’d complete the task in front of him with a quiet honor.

“We all know fascination with George Sand’s passionate and tempestuous love letters is at an all-time high right now, especially given the anticipated biopic set to begin filming next week,” Ward said. “These letters were to be a dynamic set piece for the film. For obvious reasons, whoever takes ownership of them this evening will be screened to ensure their absolute ability to keep their presence and location a secret until the media has died down. And we’ll start the bidding off at one million.”

Sam snapped his bid paddle up a full three seconds before Roy could. Several women were eyeing Sam like a piece of prime rib.

“Thank you for the first bid, number thirteen,” Ward said, careful not to reveal identities. “Do I see one point five million?”

Roy parried, raised his paddle. Smirked at us. Sam cleared his throat and set his jaw. And immediately responded to the request for $2 million. Their bid battle felt interminable, when in reality, I don’t think more than three minutes went by. Other attendees competed as well, increasing the bid increments quickly. We’d been so focused on Roy, we’d forgetten the other players in the room.

Everyone wanted these fucking letters. Paddles flew up, then down, in a blur of white numbers. To say the room was hushed was an understatement. Even the music had stopped. To Sam’s credit, he didn’t break a sweat, merely met each competing bid with a small, confident smile.

Roy was sweating at $3 million. Scowling at $6 million. By the time Sam had pushed things to $11 million, Roy was red as a tomato, and the remaining competitors had dropped out.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, I chanted. But it didn’t help. My heart was going to beat out of my chest and land on the floor.

Ward pushed the bids to $15 million with the look of a symphony conductor holding the climactic note. It was our absolute max—the cap of our spending limit. Sam’s paddle in the air didn’t even tremble—my partner was pure poise.

“I see a $15 million bid,” Ward declared, scanning the crowd. “Going once.”

A beat.

“Going twice.” Next to me, Roy was growling like the tiger. His fingers twitched on the paddle, and for a devastating second, I thought he was going to lift it.

“Sold to bidder number thirteen.”

The audience actually clapped—and Sam had the good sense to stand and take a short bow. He was impressive in that tux, strong and sure of his abilities. I found myself clapping without thinking about it, cheering his performance.

“Thank you, sir,” Ward said. “Would you like to step—”

“Why is an FBI agent here?”

There was a single second of silence—until the audience reacted with shocked whispers and the scrape of chairs moving.

“I’m sorry, what?” Ward demanded. “Who said that?”

It was an older man in the far back I didn’t recognize at all. But even with the mask on, I could see the moment Sam recognized whoever that person was.

Fear erupted across my nerve endings. This can’t be happening.

“That bidder is an FBI agent. I’m guessing he shouldn’t be here,” the man repeated.

The next five seconds would forever remain a blur in my memory. I blinked, and Sam was turning toward me in slow motion. Blinked again, and I was yanked up and pinned by a strong arm, wrapped around my windpipe. As soon as my hands moved to defend myself, the letter-opener was pressed to my throat. You’d think a blade from the 18th century would be dull—but I only knew the sharp point against my skin. Screams and cries from a very surprised audience thundered around me.

Roy’s voice was slimy in my ear. “You stay the fuck still.”

I barely had time to panic—because my partner had sprung into confident action. With one brutal kick, Sam knocked Dr. Ward to the ground with a thud. Reached for the man’s pearl-handled gun. And had it pointed right at Roy’s face not a millisecond later.

It was like a dangerous ballet of calculated movements. Sam maintained a perfect stance, arms straight, gaze