The London Deception

As he hit the back servants’ stairwell, Finn knew the few moments of hesitation to adjust the bracelet were going to cost him. A thick hand reached out and snagged his shirt, the tug enough to slow him down. Finn stopped hard and pushed toward the hallway wall, knocking the man off-balance. It was only when he felt the hard edge of a gun that Finn knew he was in real trouble.

The thick, heavy beats of his heart kept his focus sharp and he turned hard on his captor, using his body for momentum. He grabbed the weapon with one hand while executing a swift uppercut with the other. The thug gave as good as he got, his skills no doubt honed on the streets the same as Finn’s, but the movements did dislodge the gun, and the heavy piece banged against the wall and fell.

Satisfied he’d removed at least half his problem, Finn used the wall to his advantage, slamming the man into it. A painting mere inches from the guy’s head quivered with the impact, but Finn barely saw it as hands flashed up to slam him in the chin.

A scream echoed from the bottom of the stairs, effectively breaking through the ringing in his ears.

The girl.

Indecision ripped through him as he continued to struggle with the man in the hallway. The gun was a very real threat and leaving his opponent in favor of traipsing after the girl was only going to give the thug time to get the weapon—and the upper hand.

As another scream tore through the air, Finn made his decision.

With one final slam to his opponent and a brief prayer the hard wall would stun him enough to slow him down, Finn dropped his hold and raced down the stairs.

* * *

Rowan screamed as hands came over her shoulders, dragging her backward. She kicked and scrambled, desperate to get out of the hold as her racing heartbeat threatened to swamp her. Her breath was already coming in heavy pants, the urgent need to get to safety drumming through her system.

“Where you think you’re going?” The man’s breath was warm and clammy in her ear before he turned his head and hollered up the stairs, “Got her!”

Who were these guys? And what had Bethany’s father gotten himself into?

“Think you’re going to take what’s ours, did you?”

“It’s not yours.” She struggled against the tight hold, suddenly conscious of how different this man’s grip was from the man in black.

Where he’d pinned her in place to explain what was happening, this thug was all about the lascivious press of his body against hers.

And then the disgusting press of his body was gone as if it had never been as the man was literally dragged off her.

“Keep running!”

Rowan turned at the voice, a mix of relief and sudden ease swamping her.

The man in black was still fighting for her.

It was that very thought that had her defying his orders. “I can’t leave you!”

“Get out of here.” The words came out as a barely concealed grunt as he struggled with her former captor. Eyes roaming over the hallway, she caught sight of a small corner of the kitchen through an open doorway. A heavy frying pan sat on the edge of the counter.

Rowan moved at once, the pan in hand as she raced back to the hall. The two men continued to fight, each locked in a death grip, and she braced her feet, waiting until the movements of the two bodies would put the dangerous thug in the line of her swing.

Be bold, Rowan Steele.

The words flashed through her mind. They were her father’s admonishment before she ever did anything she didn’t want to do or was afraid of. First days of school. A big footy tournament. A big test.

The words—forgotten these past years in her grief—were suddenly a very real reminder of the strength inside of her.

Arms rigid, she swung the pan as hard as she could. A zing of satisfaction matched the ringing in her arms when the thug went limp midfight. The man in black took advantage immediately, pressing on her shoulder to get her moving.

At the heavy thud of footsteps on the stairs, they both turned.

The other thug—the one from the closet—shot off another round from the bottom of the stairs. The bullet went wild, but he never had a chance to get off a second shot when the frying pan was snatched from her hand, then went flying, end over end toward the man’s head.

The pan hit hard, knocking the man off his feet as another shot went wild.

“Wow.”

The man in black stared at her for the briefest moment before he shrugged and grabbed her free hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

She followed him out the same back door she’d used to enter the house. “Wait!”

The impatience was evident in those broad shoulders and the quick rocking from foot to foot, but he stopped for her. “What is it?”

“Give me a minute.” Rowan reached for the small, slim plastic bag she kept in her back pocket.

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Just wait.”

She flipped the small bag inside out as she waved him through the door with her other hand. “Go in front of me.”

“What is that?”

“Petroleum jelly.”

His low whistle echoed in her ear at the same time their felled thug let out a large roar. “Time to go, Peach.”

Rowan gave the knob one more swirl from the bag before slamming the door behind her and fled down the back steps. “Come on down here. Through the old mews.”

He reached for her hand to drag her out the back garden toward the main road. “They’ll follow us that way.”

“Not when we go up.”

“Up where?”

“The vines. All the houses back here have thick ivy. We climb it.”

“Absolutely not.”

If the situation weren’t so dire, Rowan might have laughed at his clear affront. “You’ve got a better idea?”

“We keep on and make a run for it through the alley. Same way I came in.”

“They’re going to follow us that way.”

A shout behind them confirmed the truth of that and the man shrugged. “You sure about this?”

“Positive. There’s a tree a few doors down for the descent. It’ll be more secure than the alley.”

Another bellow echoed from the direction of the kitchen, and Rowan knew the thug had found his progress stymied with the doorknob. A quick smile flashed in the man in black’s eyes as he laced his fingers and put his hand out to give her a boost up the ivy. “Real nice trick back there, Peach.”

“Thanks.” Rowan put her foot in his hands, but stopped, the question she’d wanted to ask back behind the curtain flaring up once more. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because you’re lush and ripe, like a fresh peach.”

The cavalier words—delivered with a wicked smile that was visible even through the mouth of the mask—caught her up as a flood of warmth rushed through her.

She knew it was reckless.

Pointless, really, and terribly dangerous, but like the bracelet she couldn’t resist, she could no more stop the impulse than she could stop her heart from beating. With the quick fingers she was known for, she had his mask halfway off his face and her lips against his in the span of a breath.

Whatever surprise he might have had at her move was quickly tamped down by the hard press of his lips and the quick heat of his tongue as it swept through her parted lips.

A streak of heat flooded her belly before racing to the end of her limbs, and Rowan had the very real sensation of feeling her knees go weak.

He lifted his head, his lips bright with wetness in the moonlight, but it was his eyes that truly captured her. The gaze that had teased mere moments before glinted with something else. Something elemental. Something that called to her and made all those empty places inside—the ones that clamored so loudly in their silence—still.

And for the first time in four years, Rowan Steele felt an emotion that was stronger than the emptiness.

Voice gentle, he nodded toward his still-laced fingers. “Come on, darling. Up you go.”

Rowan placed a booted foot in his hands, their eyes meeting once more. In the moonlight she saw what had only been an impression earlier when she’d thought him as gangly as her brother.

Likely because he was.

He was barely a man, no more than nineteen or twenty if she estimated correctly. The half of his face she could see—over his hard jaw and past the thin scruff of beard—held a softness. Even more than that, she had the distinct sensation that he wasn’t quite done filling out the body that would ultimately be his.

With a hard push and the determination to find out who he was when they reached safety, she launched off his laced fingers, grabbing the ivy. She worked her way up the side of the house, hand over hand. He did the same on several strands next to her, his grunts the only sounds breaking the silence.

She cleared the second floor and turned to see him still struggling on the first. “Hand over hand and use your feet on the wall.”

“Bloody vines are breaking under my weight.”

“Grab a thicker handful.”

“I’m try—”

The protest bubbling in his words never fully formed as the thug they’d left in the kitchen came into view beneath them. Rowan screamed as the pistol lifted, even as her body moved on, desperate with the urge to flee the threat.

They were so close.

And then they weren’t.

The boy who climbed next to her shook with the impact of a bullet. His fingers loosened against the ivy.

His body slid down the wall, his gloved hands barely hanging on to the vines, before collapsing in a heavy slump on the ground.

Tears burned her eyes but she climbed on, torn between going back to him and the all-consuming need to get away.

To leave the nightmare behind.

The last image she saw before she ran over the London rooftops was that slumped figure—clad in black—lifeless on the ground.

Chapter 2

Today—New York City

Rowan Steele fired round after round at the Lower West Side gun range that had been her main practice site for the past decade. The fear of guns she’d long carried had never faded, but Rowan refused to be ruled by it.

And she took some solace when the multitude of holes in the center of the paper target’s chest indicated she’d mastered a technical proficiency, if not an emotional one.

The distinct feeling of being watched washed over her and she laid the gun down on the platform in front of her before turning around.

Straight into the eyes of her brother Campbell.

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, his long frame on the lanky, slender side of muscular. “Same thing you are. Staying sharp.”

“You haven’t been back from Paris all that long. I’d have thought picking up a gun was the last thing you’d want to do for a few more weeks.”

The hollow laugh was as empty as his eyes. “Why the hell do you think I’m here?”

Rowan nodded, well aware the events he and his fiancée, Abby, had faced the previous month were still far too fresh for both of them. The half brother Abby didn’t know she’d had was gone, but his attempts at terrorizing her were going to take time to fade. Add on the fact that the man had died at Campbell’s hands and she knew he and his new love were both working hard to get past the pain and look forward to their future.

She was just so damned happy they’d found each other and had a future to get on with.

“Abby going to take lessons?” She kept the question casual as she pulled a fresh magazine from her pocket.

“She’s not interested. And I’m only here to keep Kensington off my back.” Campbell grimaced before adopting a high tone meant to mimic their sister. “All those who work for the House of Steele are trained with the highest degree of security and protection skills.”

“So we are.”

“I’m surprised to see you, actually. I thought you were headed to evaluate that Egyptian collection coming into the new museum in Seattle.”

“Kenzi’s got a different assignment she wants me to take on.”

Campbell’s eyebrows lifted over a speculative blue gaze. “I thought Seattle was a pretty lucrative gig.”

“Apparently whoever she’s got dangling is willing to triple the usual fees.”

“Which is code for run far, run fast.” Campbell’s mouth slid into a frown. “Kenzi knows better than that. You look at the file?”

“Not yet.”

“Whatever it is, there’s no way it’s worth it.”

Rowan didn’t completely agree with Campbell—they took on the hard jobs others weren’t capable of—but she wasn’t going to argue the point. Her brother had a right to be a bit raw after recent events. She heard the protective instincts that threaded through his words.

Campbell would bounce back, and in the meantime, she’d keep her own council on the new opportunity. The House of Steele stood out as a resource because they did take on the hard jobs. And they had very few peers because no one had their combination of connections, skills and bankroll to get it done.

It still didn’t mean triple their already-exorbitant fee didn’t ring a few bells.

“You get what you pay for.”

“You always do.” Campbell moved into the stall next to hers and removed his gun from a protective case. “Just remember you get what you take, too. You don’t have to take this job.”

“I know.”

Although Kensington managed the majority of the jobs they took on, no one had to work on anything. Her sister did know how to force the issue—and had done so on more than one occasion—but at the end of the day they all had an equal vote.

Pushing aside the imagined contents of what awaited her when she finally got around to her email, Rowan resumed her stance and spent the next twenty minutes in companionable silence with Campbell.

She loved all her siblings and knew she was fortunate for the relationship she had with each of them, but what she had with Campbell was special.

Kensington took her position as oldest female sibling seriously, pushing the matriarch role even when it wasn’t necessary. And Liam used his status as oldest sibling and oldest brother to get away with whatever he chose whenever he chose.

But Campbell.

They understood each other.

Each was the youngest of their sex and both had made some dodgy choices in their youth. Although neither spoke of those times, she knew between the two of them they’d contributed to the majority of their grandfather’s gray hairs.

Maybe it was the companionable silence or a weird melancholy she hadn’t been able to shake since learning of Campbell’s near miss in Paris, but as they wrapped up their things, she wasn’t ready to end the evening. “You up for a cup of coffee or a drink?”

“I’d love to.”

The breath she’d been holding came out on a rush. “Great.”

“We’re not far from Meatpacking. How about that new bar that opened. Johansen’s?”

“Sure.”

The high-tech glass-and-chrome interior of the bar welcomed them a half hour later after a brisk walk in the late October air and Rowan settled into her back-lit booth seat.

Campbell waited a beat until their waitress was out of earshot before leaning forward. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure about that?”

“Can’t I have a drink with my brother?”

“Of course you can. Doesn’t change the fact I want to know what put the shadows under your eyes.”

“It’s nothing. It’s just been a busy few weeks, that’s all.”

“No, that’s not all and it’s not nothing. Why aren’t you sleeping? Is it the dreams?”

She briefly toyed with brazening her way through a bluff, but the blue eyes that bore into hers saw too much and knew too much for it to be worth the effort.

“Yes, I’ve been having the dreams again. They started up after you got home. After we understood what really happened in Paris.”

“I’m fine, Ro.” Campbell reached across the table and gripped her hand. “Abby and I are both fine. And it’s behind us.”

“You killed her brother, Campbell.”

“I know.”

“That doesn’t just go away, so don’t act like you’re all fine with it.”

“I know it’s not that easy. And I am working on it. We both are.” He looked up from their joined hands. “So why the hell are you the one having bad dreams?”

The urge to tell him about that long-ago night rose up, clamping her throat in a tight grip. With stoic determination, she pushed down on the urge. For nearly half her life, she’d kept the secrets of what she used to do.

The stealing. The deliberate and purposeful removal of prized possessions from others. Even the emotional void that she’d lived with for so long and which she still sunk into from time to time if she wasn’t vigilant.

But underneath it all were the images of that horrible night.

The twisted body as it lay along the base of the house, unmoving. The gunshots directed at her that she’d barely missed. The lingering hunt through newspapers, police files, internet searches—whatever she could get her hands on—to find out if someone had been murdered outside the Warringtons’ Knightsbridge home that spring night in London.

Rowan had always carried the slim hope that the boy who was barely a man had escaped with his life. She and Bethany had stayed friends, and the ensuing excitement and rampant sympathy at school for the traumatized house she and her family came home to had sparked endless rounds of discussion and speculation. On several occasions, Rowan probed if they’d found anyone, or any blood, or if anyone had gotten away.

The answer was always no.

Despite the hope she carried that he was all right, Rowan simply couldn’t erase the images of that last night. And even now, she could feel his lips on hers if she closed her eyes.

Could remember the distinguished lilt of his voice when he spoke, his lips pressed to her ear.

Could feel the moment her heart had begun beating once more with a passion for life that had lay dormant since the death of her parents.

“Have you considered a vacation?”

Rowan zoned back into Campbell’s words as their waitress laid down their drinks. “I’m taking part in that dig in the Valley of the Queens next spring.”

“That’s work, Ro. Not vacation.”

She smiled at the endearment as she picked up her wine. “I love what I do, which makes it a vacation every day. Besides, who wouldn’t want to get their hands on the new cache that was found this past spring?”

Campbell shook his head but his smile stayed broad. “What is wrong with us? I’m dragging Abby to a conference next month on the latest upgrades in internet security. Want to know the worst part?”

“What?”

“Abby’s actually excited about it.”

Rowan couldn’t hold back the smile—or resist pointing out the obvious. “She is one of the world’s leading experts in communications technology and she runs a multinational company. Does this really surprise you?”

The quick smile that was his trademark flashed. “No. And when you consider I find it oddly sexy, well, there you have it. We do what we love.”

“That we do.” She was so pleased to see that smile. Relieved, really. If he could smile that way, it meant he was on his way back to normal. “And for the record, we all think she’s your match in every way. It’s so obvious it’s almost scary. I just can’t believe Kensington never thought to introduce you two before.”

“We weren’t meant to meet before.”

The words were oddly prophetic and Rowan chewed on them long after he’d walked her back to her Chelsea apartment, then went on to his own home.

Was there a time and a place? A moment when two people were supposed to meet or were meant to click? She’d always been a bit middling on the whole fate-takes-a-hand thing, but Rowan also knew there were simply things in life you couldn’t explain.

Moments of extreme awareness that could save your ass, like dodging a bullet without even realizing it was coming.

Or acting on impulse and kissing someone you had no business touching.

She’d also visited enough parts of the world to know that superstition and the belief that some broader, guiding hand was in control had many a follower.

Despite all that—or maybe in spite of it, Rowan mused—she had never been able to fully abandon the notion that you also made your own life and made your own luck. Sitting around waiting for something to come to you was about as valuable as waiting to win the lottery.

Action trumped all.

Which was why her curiosity about the new job Kensington had on the line had her padding into her home office after changing into a pair of oversize, comfy sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. The heat kicked on as she walked into the old maid’s room that she used as an office, and Rowan smiled at the sound. The crisp October air had grown colder in the past weeks and she was already thinking about the coming holidays.

She navigated through the secure log-in to the House of Steele database and pulled up the files Kensington had sent earlier. And forgot every single worry or care in her mind as she read the details her sister had layered over several pieces of source material.

The three-time payday was a lovely gesture, but as Rowan reread each piece of information on Finn Gallagher and his company, Gallagher International, she knew deep in her heart she’d have done the job for free.

* * *

Finn rechecked his email as he lingered over a bourbon, irritated there had been no further correspondence from Kensington Steele. He’d requested services from her firm three days ago.

What was she waiting on?

Even as the question floated through his mind, Finn knew the answer. She was vetting him as thoroughly as possible, just as he would have done with any business partner he was considering working with.

The fact he already kept close tabs on the entire Steele family, watching them from afar, was a different matter entirely.

The sounds of the bar—a favorite of the London art crowd—swirled around him in dulcet tones as he allowed himself a few brief moments to think about Rowan Steele and her family. He was fascinated by what the Steele siblings had built. Although their firm wasn’t highly publicized—there was no website or social-media feeds for them—those in the know knew exactly how to find them.

The House of Steele was a discreet resource, and from what he’d heard, observed or pulled through casual gossip, the Steeles always got what they came for.

It was a track record he couldn’t help but admire.

“Gallagher.” Finn stowed his phone in his interior coat pocket and glanced up at the greeting before standing to extend a hand.

“Good to see you, John. Join me for a drink.”

John Bauer—a well-placed administrator at one of the world’s top auction houses—took the seat opposite. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Finn ordered a bottle of wine he knew John set stock by and settled in for a lively discussion. As evenings went, it wasn’t what he’d planned, but if he were honest with himself, he had no idea what he’d planned. The restless feeling that had gripped him the previous week when the job came in had sharp claws and he hadn’t been able to settle.

The conversation with John would give him some much-needed company while also ensuring he’d go home rich with information he didn’t have when he began his evening.

With a congenial smile, Finn opened with a quick stroke to John’s ego. “Heard you’re the favorite for the maharaja jewels.”

“We certainly hope so. The Brunei government has been rather cryptic on who they will choose, but I think it will be us.” Finn saw the cat-in-the-cream smile and knew the deal was far nearer to closed than the words suggested, but gave the man his illusions.

He’d get far more out of him if John thought he wasn’t as quick on the uptake.

“I wish you the very best on it.”

The conversation swirled with the wine, and Finn settled in for a discussion that would follow tangents and fragments of tangents until they finally swung back around to where he wanted.

“Speaking of inside lines, heard you’ve got your eye pretty firmly focused on the antiquities market.”